Carol Anne Johnson

The silence after storm
is never clean—
it hums with echoes,
splinters of a voice
you did not choose.

You walk through it barefoot,
collecting pieces,
sometimes cutting yourself
on memories that refuse
to dull.

But healing does not ask for haste.
It is the small, stubborn act
of opening curtains to light,
of naming the hurt aloud,
of breathing despite the heaviness
pressing on your chest.

You are not what was done to you.
You are the pulse that survived it,
the trembling hand
that still reaches
for warmth.

And though the shadows
still curl at your feet,
your steps—
slow, uneven,
unapologetically your own—
are teaching the ground
how to hold you again.

Carol Anne Johnson is a 45-year-old blind woman living in Ireland. She is a child abuse survivor, diagnosed with complex PTSD and dissociative identity disorder. She writes as a form of therapy, which helps her cope. She loves reading, volunteering, and writing.

This poem appeared in What We Hold On To: Poems of Coping, Connection, and Carrying On — Winter 2026, published by The Chaos Section Poetry Project. We’ll be featuring each poem from the collection individually in the weeks ahead. You can read the full collection or download a free PDF of the chapbook here.