The greatest gift is not wrapped in ribbon
nor spoken in perfect tone
it is the quiet unfolding of self
the soft shedding of confusion’s thorn

To see one’s shadow without flinching
to sit with the ache & not run
to name the tempest within your heart
and let it pass beneath the sun

For every wound you cradle gently
every truth you dare to see
you become less sharp to others
less tangled, less debris

This is the offering we rarely speak of
not gold or charm or clever grace
but a heart that knows itself enough
to leave the world a kinder place