If you could see

A Reflection on Worth and Visibility

Sometimes, we fail to see the value in ourselves. We dim our light, quiet our spark, and give pieces of ourselves away, believing we are less than we are.

This poem grew from my work as a therapist and from what I so often witness in others, the strength, courage, and quiet wisdom that can go unseen, even by the person who carries it. It is a reminder that even when self-doubt whispers otherwise, your presence, insight, and contributions matter deeply.

If You Could See

You paint the air with colours bright
yet hide your canvas out of sight
You give away your crown, your flame
then tell yourself you are not the same

But I have seen the light you throw
the way you make the small things grow
the spark that flickers in your eyes
the truth you hold, the quiet wise

If you could see the view I see
you would wear your heart more fearlessly
You would keep your colours, let them stay
and never give yourself away

This poem is for anyone who feels unimportant, overlooked, or like their contributions do not matter. My hope is that it reminds you of your inherent worth and that the world, even if you cannot always see it yourself, is brighter because you are in it.

In counselling, one of the most powerful things I can do is witness someone fully, reflecting back their strengths, courage, and value. Sometimes we just need someone to see us so that we can begin to see ourselves.

As you read, I invite you to pause and ask: What light do I carry that I might not always see?

Remembering Songbird

Remembering Songbird

There are people we meet who stay with us, not because their time was long but because their presence was unforgettable. Songbird was one of those people.

He once described himself as a songbird, and that image has never left me. It captured both his fragility and his strength, the rare quality of a voice that could carry sorrow and beauty in the same breath.

After his passing, I found myself writing. The words came out as a poem, a way of honouring his life and the gift of his song. His story was not easy, and his melody was not always simple to hear, yet within it there was truth, honesty, and a quiet courage.

I had hoped to show him that life could be good, that his story could stretch further. But his song was his own, and perhaps the most I could do was listen. And so I listened, to his pain, his hopes, his doubts, his laughter. I listened for the meaning between the words.

Though his voice has fallen silent, the echo remains. Some songs are brief, but never wasted. For those who loved him most, I hope they know that his song carried, that it mattered, and that it will not be forgotten.

And for me, he will always be Songbird.

Songbird

Songbird came
and sang his beautiful song.

A song that was difficult
to sing along.

His tune held many verses
of a life filled with pain and hurt.

He had good rhymes to sing, of course,
yet this failed to ease his remorse.

You see, the songbird’s song
was short and fast.
He was not sure
if he could make it last.

I hoped I could show him
that life was good.

But he knew something
I never could.

That the song he sang
was the gift he gave,
a song that I was never
meant to save.

He sang a wonderful lament
with great feeling.

I listened to his song
and its meaning.

And the pain that is left
after his song is gone
is of a song
that was difficult
to sing along.