Zebra Seeking Spoons

A real woman moves through morning with gravity and grace,
not a puppet on strings pulled by others’ hands or by the chorus of expectations.
Her choices are her own, made in the quiet rooms between impulse and consequence.

She carries history in the lines of her hands:
the stories of work, care, and courage stitched into her daily life.
Her voice arrives with weight, measured in verbs rather than adjectives,
describing what she does, not how she looks when someone watches.

Her body is a map of navigated storms and earned rest,
a ledger of endings and beginnings that she authored.
She learns to hold space for vulnerability and strength in equal measure,
to tend her own boundaries as patiently as she tends others’.

There are days when the world bows to glitter and gloss,
and days when the world asks for steadiness, for grit, for repair.
She answers with persistence, with kinds of resilience that don’t pretend to be flawless.

She refuses to be a prop, a performance, a quick reaction to someone else’s script.
She designs her own lines, edits her own scenes, chooses what to reveal and what to keep.
Her worth is not a function of compliance or charm, but of integrity in action.

In every ordinary gesture—care given, risk taken, truth spoken with care—
she builds a quietly formidable canvas.
A real woman is a horizon she keeps widening, not a puppet she’s expected to dance for.

And when she rests, she rests with permission, knowing she may rise again
still learning, still growing, still choosing the next step toward becoming more fully herself.