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Measure this— not the inches of my tallness, but the profundity of my soul when it denied to crease beneath weight that broken concrete.

Do not weigh my worth by the digits in my account, but by the weightless things— the cherish I provide openly, the peace I ensure furiously, the trust I plant discreetly in gardens no one sees.

Measure the quiet I gulped when I may have shouted, the absolution I advertised when outrage asked to remain.

Tally the steps I took toward mending, indeed when the way was thorned, indeed when I drained alone within the dull of my claim questions.

Measure the time it took to grin once more after catastrophe, to believe once more when each muscle in me braced for disloyalty.

What ruler do you utilize for versatility, for twisting but not breaking, for rising when rising felt inconceivable?

Can you degree the mettle of a whisper that said “try again” when the world thundered, “stay down”?

Measure this— the benevolence I gave indeed when I was purge, the giggling I shared through tears I covered up.

Do not calculate my life by turning points and awards. Instep, see at the calm wonders:

The minutes I remained when clearing out was less demanding. The guarantees I kept when no one was looking.

So on the off chance that you must degree me, do not utilize numbers or scales. Utilize stories. Utilize scars. Utilize the way I still cherish, still trust, still appear up in full, defective radiance.

Since what I carry, what I deliver, what I survive—

You may never measure this.