You called it growing pains. I call it a sprain.

The kind that you get from ditching the chain.

It’s not just a stretch, darling, it's a break and a mend;

The painful, slow process of figuring out your own end.

He said I was perfect, a sweet little thing,

But he only loved the small joy I would bring.

The version that fit on his shelf, in his sight,

The girl who knew better than to argue or fight.

But staying that size started to hurt,

Like wearing old shoes in the mud and the dirt.

My elbows felt jammed, my ambitions too wide,

For the box he constructed and kept me inside.

So I shattered the glass. Now the process is rough.

Every stride is a stumble. I can't get enough

Of this aching new space where my spirit can bloom.

My soul is convinced it must grow out of the room.

This ache in my center, the tightness in my jaw,

Is the sound of me rewriting the personal law.

I’m ditching the comfort, the safe, simple plan.

These aren’t just pains; this is becoming a woman.

And if I outgrow every shirt, every friend,

Every notion he had for how my story should end,

Well, that's fine. The discomfort is just the new cost.

I'm growing too big to be heartbroken or lost.