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1 個月前 · 更新至#0
THRONES TO PETALS
Art of Embracing Ourselves
By Sapoorna T S
Dedication :
To every woman who has ever felt the weight of the world and found the strength to rise again.
To the warriors who fight silently, the dreamers who never give up, and the hearts that refuse to break.
May this book remind you of your boundless worth, your unwavering power, and your unbreakable spirit.
This is for you—your journey, your strength, and your triumphs.
Preface :
Every story begins with a spark—an idea, a dream, or a whisper from the heart. This book is born from the belief that every woman holds within her an undeniable strength, a power that can transform lives, defy odds, and shape the world around her. In the pages that follow, you will find the voices of women who have embraced their own journey, who have fought battles seen and unseen, and who have risen from challenges with courage and grace.
This story is not just one woman’s story, but the story of every woman who has ever dared to reclaim her worth, to dream beyond limitations, and to love herself fiercely. It’s a reminder that empowerment is not just a destination, but a journey that is lived through every moment of struggle and triumph.
As you turn these pages, I hope you are inspired to reflect on your own strength, to embrace the beauty of your vulnerability, and to recognize that within you is a power waiting to be unleashed. This is a celebration of who we are and who we can become—together, as women.
Thank you for being part of this journey
Chapter 1: The Mirror Never Lies
Charlotte sat in front of the full-length mirror, fingers trembling as she adjusted the hem of her oversized sweater. It was one of the few things in her closet that actually fit her body comfortably, but she still wasn’t sure if it was the right choice for today. The reflection staring back at her wasn’t what she wanted to see, not the polished, flawless version of herself she dreamt of. No, this was the unfiltered, untouched Charlotte. And it felt like a stranger.
Her dark, curly hair hung in messy waves around her face, refusing to behave, despite her best attempts to tame it with a brush. Each strand seemed to have its own agenda, flaring out wildly, unruly and untamed. She pushed a strand behind her ear, trying to hide it, but it only bounced right back into place. A sigh escaped her lips as she stared at her reflection. There was no denying it—this wasn’t the look of a model. This wasn’t the image she wanted to project into the world.
She had been called many things in her life—beautiful wasn’t one of them. Maybe “cute,” but never beautiful. Her freckles, scattered across her nose and cheeks, seemed more like blemishes to her classmates than the things that made her unique. She had tried to cover them up, but it always felt wrong. They were a part of her, and no matter how much foundation she layered on, they peeked through, reminding her that she was different.
“Why can’t I just look like everyone else?” she muttered to herself, touching the freckles as if they were an imperfection she could somehow wipe away.
But then she remembered. Those thoughts. The dreams.
Charlotte had always wanted to be a model. The kind of model you see in magazines—flawless, timeless, always poised. She’d started cutting out pictures of her favorite models when she was younger, pasting them in a scrapbook. At first, it was just a harmless dream, an escape from the harshness of her reality. But as time passed, it became more than that. It became a goal.
A goal that felt more and more impossible with each passing year.
Her dream seemed so far out of reach. There were girls at school who were tall, thin, and perfectly put together. Girls whose skin never broke out, whose hair was always shiny and straight. And there was Charlotte, sitting in the back of the room, frizzy hair, uneven skin tone, and awkward, gangly limbs. If she had any hope of fitting in, she needed to change.
"Maybe I could do something about it," Charlotte whispered to herself as she leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting her nose, her lips, her eyes. She pinched her cheeks in frustration, wondering if plastic surgery could change things. She had seen those before-and-after photos online—the ones that promised a better, more beautiful life with a few simple adjustments. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe she could do that, too.
But then the guilt came rushing in, as it always did. Could she really do that to herself? Was she willing to compromise who she was just to be accepted? The question lingered, unanswered, like an unwelcome guest in her mind.
As she pulled her sweater off and began looking for something else to wear, she felt the familiar weight of despair pressing down on her. How had she ended up here? When had it all gone so wrong?
The clock ticked relentlessly on the wall, its sound filling the quiet room as Charlotte grabbed a blouse from the closet. Her fingers lingered over it. It was the same blouse she had worn last week, but maybe, just maybe, it would look different today. Maybe she could make herself feel different.
The blouse was a deep red, the kind that always made her feel bold, like she was daring the world to see her. She’d bought it on impulse a few months ago, telling herself that it would be the one thing that would finally make her feel noticed. After all, it was a color that demanded attention. It was vibrant, fiery—everything Charlotte felt she wasn't. But every time she wore it, the feeling was short-lived. It never made her feel bold or confident. It only reminded her of how much she longed for approval.
As she slipped it on, Charlotte caught her reflection again, this time focusing on the curves of her body that she had tried so hard to ignore. The way her hips curved outward, the way her chest didn't measure up to the standards she saw in every magazine. How did she fit into a world that seemed to have already decided who was worthy of attention?
She looked at herself again, but this time she didn’t turn away immediately. This time, she studied herself. She let herself feel the weight of her emotions, the longing, the confusion, and the self-doubt. The world had always made her feel like an outsider, like a stranger in her own skin. It wasn’t enough to just dream anymore. She needed something—anything—that would prove she wasn’t invisible.
And then there was the idea.
Maybe she could change. Maybe she could alter herself just enough to fit in, to be seen. She could undergo surgery, try new treatments, dye her hair a lighter color. Perhaps if she changed enough, she would be what everyone wanted her to be. The thought made her stomach twist, but it was the only solution she could think of. After all, the world had already made its decision about her, hadn’t it?
Just as she was about to grab her phone and Google plastic surgery options, a loud knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.
“Charlotte, honey, breakfast is ready,” her mother called through the door.
Charlotte frowned, her shoulders sinking. She didn’t want to face anyone. She didn’t want to go downstairs and pretend everything was fine. The pressure was too much. But she couldn’t avoid it. She forced a smile, smoothing down her blouse before walking to the door.
“I’m coming,” she called, voice heavy with exhaustion.
The world outside her room seemed to hum with life, bustling with noise and energy, a world that Charlotte could never quite tap into. Downstairs, her mother was humming as she flipped pancakes, a scene so normal, so mundane, that Charlotte couldn’t even process it. Her mother’s voice, the way she moved around the kitchen with such grace, seemed foreign to her.
Charlotte sat at the table, picking at the breakfast in front of her. The food was good, but it didn’t fill the empty space inside her. She wasn’t hungry for food. She was hungry for change. For validation. For acceptance.
Her mother looked up from the stove, her smile wide and warm. “How are you feeling, sweetie? Big plans for today?”
Charlotte nodded absently, trying to hide the turmoil inside her. “Yeah. Just… you know, the usual.”
Her mother’s smile didn’t falter, but Charlotte could see the concern in her eyes. She could feel the weight of her mother’s love, and yet, it felt like a burden. How could she tell her mother what she really wanted? How could she admit that she was terrified of never being good enough?
By the time Charlotte left for school, the doubts hadn’t disappeared. They lingered like a shadow, whispering at the back of her mind. She could hear them now—louder than before, louder than her mother's voice, louder than the sound of her own heart.
You’ll never be good enough. You’ll never be beautiful enough. You’ll never be enough.
The thoughts filled her head as she walked to the bus stop, shoulders hunched, head down.
U
25. "I am not afraid. I was born to do this." — Joan of Arc
26. "You are enough just as you are." — Meghan Markle
27. "What you get by achieving your goals is not as important as what you become by achieving your goals." — Zig Ziglar
28. "You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated." — Maya Angelou
29. "Self-love is the greatest middle finger of all time." — Unknown
30. "Life is tough, my darling, but so are you." — Stephanie Bennett Henry
31. "The only limit to our realization of tomorrow is our doubts of today." — Franklin D. Roosevelt
32. "We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back." — Malala Yousafzai
33. "Don’t let anyone ever dull your sparkle." — Unknown
34. "It’s not your job to like me… it’s mine." — Byron Katie
35. "I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become." — Carl Jung
36. "You are capable of amazing things." — Unknown
37. "The strongest actions for a woman is to love herself, be herself, and shine amongst those who never believed she could." — Unknown
38. "You don’t have to be perfect to be amazing." — Unknown
39. "Your voice is powerful. Don’t let anyone silence you." — Unknown
40. "Success is not how high you have climbed, but how you make a positive difference to the world." — Roy T. Bennett
41. "Your worth is not defined by your mistakes, but by your ability to rise again." — Unknown
42. "Never apologize for being a powerful woman." — Unknown
43. "Be yourself; everyone else is already taken." — Oscar Wilde
44. "A woman with a voice is, by definition, a strong woman." — Melinda Gates
45. "You can’t pour from an empty cup. Take care of yourself first." — Unknown
46. "The greatest thing in the world is to know how to be oneself." — Unknown
47. "A strong woman stands up for herself. A stronger woman stands up for everyone else." — Unknown
48. "Self-care is giving the world the best of you, instead of what’s left of you." — Katie Reed
49. "Don’t wait for the perfect moment. Take the moment and make it perfect." — Unknown
50. "You are enough. You are so enough, it’s unbelievable how enough you are." — Sierra Boggess
These quotes have been my favourite. So , I just wanna use this opportunity to share it with you all.
Acknowledgements
I am deeply grateful to everyone who has contributed to making this book possible. Writing is a journey that can only be completed with the support, inspiration, and encouragement of others.
First and foremost, I want to thank the incredible women whose stories of strength and resilience have inspired this book. Your journeys, whether lived or imagined, have shown me the true meaning of empowerment and courage. The women in the military, the wives who support them, and every woman who dares to embrace her power — this book is dedicated to you.
I would also like to thank my family and friends for their unwavering belief in me and my writing. Your encouragement, love, and support have been the foundation on which this book was built.
A special thanks to the countless authors, thinkers, and leaders whose words and quotes have shaped the narrative of this book. Your wisdom and perspective continue to inspire women around the world to stand tall and embrace their true selves.
Finally, to the readers — your journey with this book means the world to me. I hope these words resonate with you, inspire you, and remind you of your own power. Thank you for taking this journey with me.
A Heartfelt Thank You
Dear Reader,
As you close the pages of this book, I want to take a moment to express my deepest gratitude to you. Thank you for embracing the stories, struggles, and triumphs of the women who have walked this journey of self-discovery, empowerment, and resilience. Every word was written with you in mind for you, for your strength, and for your capacity to rise above the challenges you face.
This book is not just a collection of stories; it is a tribute to the incredible women who have learned to embrace their own power and worth, in every form, in every season of life. My hope is that within these pages, you find a piece of yourself — a reminder of the fierce, compassionate, and beautiful soul you are.
Thank you for your support, your belief in the importance of self-improvement, and your dedication to the uplifting journey of women everywhere. May you always remember that you are worthy, you are enough, and you are capable of achieving the incredible.
With all my love and gratitude,
Sapoorna
About the Author
I’m Sapoorna T S , a student with a passion for writing stories and poems. Writing is a way for me to explore the depths of emotions, experiences, and the power within us all. Through my words, I hope to inspire others to embrace their journey, find their strength,
and live authentically. Every story I tell comes from a place of deep connection to the human spirit and the resilience we carry.
CONNECT WITH AUTHOR:
@tssapoorna on instagram
637
1 個月前 · 更新至#1
This is not your story
By SapoornaDedicationFor the ones who watched quietly.And for the ones who spoke when it mattered.PrefaceThere are stories that belong to everyone.And there are stories that belong to no one.This is not your story.It is mine.It is hers.It is a space between silence and sound.I didn’t write this for everyone.I wrote this for someone who needed it.If you are holding this, maybe it’s you.And maybe it’s not.But you are here now.That’s enough. 1Neel sat by the window again. He always did. As if it was some old habit, some ritual to remind himself that he was still breathing. His hands rested on the chipped wooden frame, his fingers tracing invisible maps on its surface. Outside, the world moved. People moved. Time moved. But Neel, he stayed still like a word caught between two pages, waiting to be read but never spoken aloud.He had learned to be silent long before he had learned to speak. Not the kind of silence that draws attention, but the sort that wraps around your existence like a second skin. It was not dramatic. It was not noticeable. It was mundane. The kind of silence that seeps into your bones until it feels natural. Until you forget what it was like to be heard.As a child, Neel was always called the quiet one. Teachers wrote it on his report cards. Relatives mentioned it like an apology when introducing him. "He’s quiet, but he’s good," they would say, as though the two things could not exist separately. No one ever asked why he was quiet. They didn’t need to. They had already written his story for him.But Neel didn’t want their story. He didn’t want their definitions.He grew up in a house where the clocks ticked louder than conversations. His mother hummed old songs in the kitchen, her voice soft and tired, as though she was singing to herself and not to the boy at the table. His father read the newspaper every evening with furrowed brows, shaking his head at things Neel didn’t understand. They loved him, he knew. But they didn’t know him. They loved the idea of him . their son, the boy who would make them proud one day.But he wasn’t proud of himself. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to be.In school, he sat in the corner of the classroom, always by the window, where the light could reach him even if no one else did. He was the boy who didn't raise his hand. Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he didn't see the point. They measured brilliance in ranks and percentages, and Neel had no interest in running races that felt rigged before they began.He spent his breaks alone, sketching in a small, worn notebook. His drawings weren’t pretty. They were messy and dark, full of shadows and crooked lines. But they were honest. More honest than he could ever be with words. The other boys played cricket. The girls huddled in corners, whispering secrets he was never meant to hear. And Neel? Neel drew worlds where no one asked him to be something he wasn’t.By the time he was sixteen, he had stopped trying to explain himself. He walked through life like a ghost, present but unseen. Teachers forgot his name during roll call. Friends drifted away like smoke through an open window. Even his parents spoke to him in instructions, not conversations.“Study harder.”“You can’t waste time like this.”“What will you do with your life?”He didn’t have answers for them. He wasn’t sure he wanted answers. He wasn’t sure if there were answers. All he had was the aching feeling that this life, this quiet existence, wasn’t meant for him.But he didn’t know how to leave it behind.Sometimes, he dreamed of other lives. Lives where he wasn’t Neel , the disappointment, the failure, the boy who never spoke enough. In these dreams, he was someone else entirely. A traveler. A storyteller. A painter who lived in Paris, sketching strangers in the streets, drinking coffee at tiny cafés. No one knew his past there. No one cared about his grades. He was just a boy who told stories, and that was enough.But morning always came, and with it, the suffocating weight of reality.The breakdown wasn’t dramatic. It never is. It was quiet, slow, like the gentle dripping of water that eventually cracks stone. He was sitting at his study table, textbooks open in front of him, when he realized he couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight, his vision blurred, and his hands shook so violently he couldn’t hold his pen. He stared at the equations he was supposed to solve, but they meant nothing to him. Just numbers on a page. Symbols in a language he no longer understood.That night, he told his father he wanted to stop studying. Just for a while. Just to breathe.His father didn’t shout. He didn’t even raise his voice. He simply looked at Neel with an expression that said everything. Disappointment, shame, confusion. As though Neel had just confessed to being a stranger.His mother cried quietly in the kitchen.And Neel realized something that night. He would never be who they wanted him to be. No matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he broke himself apart to fit their expectations.He left a week later.He didn’t leave a note. There was nothing he could say that would make them understand. He packed a small bag , his sketchbook, some clothes, and the little money he had saved over the years. He took a train heading somewhere. Anywhere. He didn’t care. He just needed to leave.The city he arrived in was loud, chaotic, alive. The streets were crowded with people who didn’t look at him twice. He was invisible, but in a way that felt freeing. No one knew his story here. He could be anyone he wanted.He found work at a small bookstore. The owner didn’t ask questions. He just handed Neel a broom and told him to sweep the floors. Neel worked quietly. He arranged books on dusty shelves. He read when there were no customers. He drew when there was time.At night, he walked through the streets, sketching people he saw. Lovers sitting on benches. Old men playing chess. Children chasing stray dogs. No one cared who he was. No one asked him what he wanted to be.And for the first time, he felt like he was writing his own story.Months passed. He lost track of time. He stopped counting days. He lived quietly, simply. Some days were good. Some days were empty. But they were his days.One evening, he met a girl at the bookstore. She was buying an old copy of The Little Prince. She asked him if he had read it. He nodded.“Do you think he ever found his rose?” she asked.Neel thought for a long time before answering.“Maybe the rose wasn’t the point,” he said. “Maybe it was the journey.”She smiled. And for a moment, Neel felt like maybe he wasn’t alone.They met again. And again. She was kind. She listened. She didn’t ask him to be anything other than who he was. They talked about books, about places they wanted to visit, about dreams that didn’t make sense but felt important anyway.She told him her name was Mira. She told him she had run away too. Different reasons. Same ache.They sat by the sea one night, watching the waves crash against the rocks.“Do you ever miss it?” she asked.Neel shook his head.“There’s nothing to miss.”But he wasn’t sure if that was true. Sometimes, late at night, he still thought about his mother’s songs. His father’s quiet presence. The house where the clocks ticked too loudly.“You’ll go back,” Mira said softly.“One day.”Neel didn’t answer. He didn’t know if he believed in “one day.”But she was right. He went back.Not because he missed them. Not because he had something to prove. But because he was ready.He found his father sitting in the same chair, reading the same newspaper. His mother was humming in the kitchen. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything had.They looked at him like they were seeing him for the first time. He told them he was okay. That he was alive. That he had found something. Not success. Not brilliance. But something better. Himself.They didn’t understand. But they tried. And that was enough.Years later, Neel sat by another window. In another city. With another life.He wrote stories now. Stories about people who didn’t belong. Stories about boys who sat by windows and dreamed of leaving. Stories about girls who asked about roses. Stories about journeys that mattered more than destinations.His books weren’t bestsellers. But they found people who needed them. People like him.And sometimes, he thought about what he would tell his younger self.“This is not your story,” he would say.“But you can write it now.”And so he did.
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