You Haven’t Seen The Last Of Me

Some days, I don’t even know how I’m still standing. I wake up already feeling worn down, like the fight started before I even opened my eyes. There’s a heaviness that never quite goes away—an invisible weight that clings to me no matter how much I try to shake it off. Some people wouldn’t notice it if they looked at me. I smile. I go through the motions. I try to keep things moving. But beneath that surface, it’s a different story. I feel broken—like pieces of myself have been chipped away slowly over time, and I’m barely holding on. Yet, no matter how broken I feel, there’s still something deep inside me that won’t quit. A flicker. A fire. A part of me that refuses to stay down.

I’ve been brought to my knees more times than I can count. Life has a way of doing that—bringing you to the edge, then pushing you past it just to see if you’ll break. And maybe I did break, for a moment. Maybe I’ve cried more tears in silence than I care to admit. Maybe I’ve screamed into the void, wondering if anyone sees, anyone hears, anyone understands. I’ve been through seasons where I didn’t know how I would make it another day, but I did. I kept going. Even when it felt like I was crawling. Even when everything in me wanted to give up, I didn’t. I held on. And somehow, I’m still here.

There is a strength in me I can’t always explain. It’s not loud or boastful. It doesn’t come from confidence or ease. It comes from surviving. From pushing through every “I can’t” moment and turning it into “I did.” It comes from getting back up when no one expected me to. From rebuilding after every fall. From whispering “not yet” every time life tried to silence me. Don’t count me out. Not now. Not ever. You see, I’ve been pushed way past the point of breaking—but I can take it. I may bend, I may falter, I may cry, but I don’t quit.

This is not the end of my story. I refuse to fade into the background or disappear under the weight of everything I’ve endured. There will be no fade out. No final scene just yet. Because even now, when I’m down and hurting and worn, I can feel it—the strength rising again. The determination waking up. The voice inside me saying, “You’re not done.” I will be back. Back on my feet. Back to the fight. Back to the version of me that doesn’t settle for defeat. This is far from over. You haven’t seen the last of me.

There is so much more to me than what I’ve lost, more than what’s hurt me, more than what I’ve been through. I was built for hard things. I was built tough. I carry the kind of resilience that only pain can teach. The kind of fire that keeps burning even when the world grows cold. I’ve learned how to be strong because I’ve had no other choice. And now, I’m going to show the world exactly what I’m made of.

I’ll rise again—not for applause or recognition—but because I have dreams left to chase. I have healing still to walk through. I have people to love and stories to tell. I have light inside me, even if it dims sometimes. And every single time I’ve felt like giving up, that light somehow keeps me going. It reminds me of all the times I thought I couldn’t go on—but did anyway. It reminds me that the same power that got me this far will carry me the rest of the way. I’ve already survived so much. That alone makes me unstoppable.

There is beauty in brokenness. There is wisdom in the wounds. There is something incredibly powerful about a person who’s been knocked down and still finds a way to stand tall. I may not have it all together. I may still feel raw and tired and unsure. But I know who I am. I know what I’ve come through. And I know I’m not done yet. The pain I’ve faced has made me more empathetic. The battles I’ve fought have made me more courageous. And the fact that I’m still here—still trying, still hoping—that’s proof enough that I’m not going anywhere.

So let the world see me now. Let them see the bruises, the scars, the moments I doubted myself. Let them see it all. Because it’s all part of the story. A story not of defeat—but of rising. Of refusing to stay down. Of rebuilding something even stronger out of the ashes. This isn’t just survival. This is strength. This is purpose. This is resilience. This is me.

So if you’re looking at me and thinking I’ve given up, if you think I’m too far gone, too tired, too damaged—look again. Watch closely. Because I’m still here. I’m still breathing. I’m still fighting. And I’m only getting stronger. You haven’t seen the last of me. Not by a long shot.