Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece reflects on the quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a world that often tries to harden you. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, empathy, and the enduring capacity to love, even in the face of doubt and adversity.

This post marks my 83rd consecutive day of sharing on the blog,   I have not missed a day since August 8th… During this time, I have tried to push myself to be a little more open. A little more honest. Even when it’s hard, even when I just want to be closed off from the world…

Exhibit of Survival
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Pins.
They hold me in place.
As the glass
lowers over my face.
Framed.
In a frame. On display.
Like a dead butterfly.

I have had people in my life who pretended to be on my side—who pretended to care—when really, they just wanted front-row seats to my struggles. They wanted to watch as I unraveled, whispering doubts to freeze me in place, to preserve the ache. To keep me from moving forward. And yet, I still pushed. I still tried.

Threads.
Tied to limbs.
Marionette.
Puppet on strings.
They’ve got control of me.
Free? Not really.

Those same people tried to talk me out of anything I wanted to do—anything that could bring me closer to the life I wanted. “Why do you want to leave America?” they’d ask. But it’s not my home; it’s just the place I was born. The place I was raised. I’ve never felt like I belong here. Not once.

Everything holds me back—my brain looping their doubts, my own depression and anxiety echoing them back to me. It’s a war on all fronts. And still, I stand.

My thoughts.
They flutter and fade
in this liminal space.
It’s pain—
just to be alive.
It’s a wonder.
A miracle.
How have I survived?

Resilience. And reminders from the few who truly see me, who truly believe in me. Without them, I might have given up long ago. But because of them, I’ve kept my empathy alive. I’ve refused apathy. I’ve stayed soft. I’ve kept my heart open and given love freely.

How?
How have I
made it to thirty-five?
Every day I wake up.
Surprised.

That surprise isn’t mine anymore. It’s the echo of others’ doubts—ones I no longer answer.