Cinderella suffered,
and people thought I suffered too—
waiting for a hero
to arrive and rescue me.
But my story was never written that way.
I was not carried by magic,
nor saved by a hand from the sky.
I built myself
through choices,
through wounds,
through a life that struggled beside me
like a shadow that never left.
My honesty became a doorway
through which people entered
to take advantage of my kindness.
And still I walked.
They scattered thorns across my path,
yet I kept moving forward,
leaving footprints stained with blood.
When the thorns were not enough,
they shattered glass before me
so my footsteps would remain visible—
clear enough for others to follow,
clear enough for them to use
to reach their own destination.
And when someone asked
who dirtied the road,
they spoke my name.
I am different.
Not many can understand my nature,
and few would dare to judge it.
No one could truly live the life I lived;
it asks too much of the soul.
I lost pieces of myself—
my life, my family,
my worldly desires—
and became a silent celibate,
holding my heart only before God.
Those untouched by jealousy
know my worth.
I spent my life serving others,
even when my own hands were empty.
And deep within,
I know this with peace:
God has already reserved
a place for me in heaven.
Until then,
I will conti
nue walking
toward the destiny
that waits beyond death.
