Discharged,
after days measured in drips,
intravenous antibiotics
flowing where strength had to be borrowed.

An infection found its way into my wound,
but it did not find its way into my spirit.

There is still more medicine to take,
more healing to unfold over the coming week—
quiet work,
the kind no one sees.

So I write.

I show up for the daily prompts,
not because I must—
but because they carry me
beyond the walls of pain and waiting.

Words become small doorways.
Moments of breath.
Pieces of me, still whole.

And here, in this space,
I remember—

I am not alone.

My daughters,
with their gentle hands and steady presence,
wrap me in a kind of care
that no medicine can replace.

This is healing too.
This is love in its truest form.

And I am so deeply grateful.

— Maggie
The Afterlove Voice 💫