How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you?
— A reflection on essence, expression, and being witnessed.
If you couldn’t see me…
would you still know who I am?
Would you sense the pause in my breath before truth lands?
Would you hear the way I listen with my whole body — not to reply, but to feel?
You wouldn’t see my lashes lower when I’m trying not to cry,
or the way my hand rests on my heart when something resonates deeply.
You’d miss the curve of my smile — but you might still feel its warmth
in the way my voice softens when I’m safe.
I speak slowly when I care.
I hold space even when I’m unraveling.
I don’t always give answers,
but I carry questions like sacred stones I refuse to throw away.
You’d know me by the way I hold silence
like a second language.
By the tremble in my laughter when it’s real.
By the way I never rush a goodbye,
because I always feel the weight of departure.
I would tell you I’ve been called too much and not enough — often in the same breath.
That I’ve walked away from things I loved to protect things I believed in.
That I trust energy more than words,
but I still write — because it saves me.
I would tell you I am always becoming.
And that if you met me through presence instead of sight,
you might finally see me more clearly
than most who never look beyond the surface.
Written in response to the Daily Prompt:
“How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you?”
Offered instead as a mirror—one only the soul could hold.
Hellènic Muse 