I was born on a quiet day. The kind of day that didn’t need thunder to be powerful. Just a baby girl, small and soft, with eyes wide enough to see both heaven and the world They named me Aurora But the world didn’t ask for my softness it asked for strength I wasn’t ready to give. I grew up learning to speak in silence. Not because I had nothing to say, but because life taught me early that not every voice gets heard. Especially the soft ones. At a young age, I knew pain had fingerprints. I knew what it meant to carry a wound that wore a smile. I didn’t tell anyone. I just folded the memory into my chest like a secret I’d never be safe enough to say out loud. Still, I kept moving. I found light in the little things: in music, in writing, in God in moments when nobody was looking, but I still chose to live. People saw my quiet and called it weakness. But they didn’t see the battles I fought just to be kind. They didn’t hear my prayers at night, or know that I was surviving wars I never signed up for. Now, I’m sixteen. Still soft. Still me. My words have become my weapons not to destroy, but to defend every part of me the world tried to silence. I’m no longer ashamed of my softness. It’s not a flaw. It’s the evidence that even though life tried to harden me, I still chose to feel. And that… Is what....??? It's Power.