Carol Anne Johnson

Each morning, the weight is waiting,
quiet as stone beneath the chest.
I lace my shoes and breathe through the fog,
a soldier rehearsing peace.

The world asks for smiles like currency,
but mine are stitched from fragile threads.
Behind them, a storm hums low and constant,
lightning without thunder.

Still, I move.
Step by step,
cup of tea in hand,
pill bottles like lighthouses lining the shore.

Some days, I speak gently to myself—
as if I were a child learning to walk again.
Other days, I let silence cradle me,
knowing rest can be resistance too.

There are small victories no one sees:
leaving bed when gravity says stay,
answering a message instead of folding inward,
finding laughter that feels like air after drowning.

This is not weakness.
It is survival in its rawest form—
an art of carrying the invisible
while still reaching for the light.

And though the illness lingers,
so do I.

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.