The Martyr Rests

This is not a poem about blame. It is a remembering.

A remembering of the moment I realized that love was never meant to cost me myself. That devotion without discernment becomes disappearance. That the role of the good one, the strong one, the endlessly understanding one was never holiness — it was survival dressed in grace.

This piece is a goodbye to the version of me who mistook endurance for virtueand a welcome to the woman who no longer bargains for belonging. What follows is not anger. It is clarity. Not rebellion, but return.

This is the sound of laying the crown down. This is what it looks like when a woman stops performing love and starts living it.

Anthem of the Martyr

Daisy Heaven

With everything shifting, I finally see,

the steady soft truth awakening in me.

I’m not “fine” performing, I’m grounded and real

I’m love, I’m peace, I’m the calm I feel.

I’m harmony, balance, I’m open, I’m free,

authentic, accepting the woman I be.

I don’t need to over-give, bend, or pretend

I’m worthy of love that does not condescend.

The martyr within me once carried the crown,

a glittering mask that kept my soul down.

She traded my kindness for scraps of “you’re good,”

a merchant of love misunderstood.

Her giving was pleading, her compassion a trade,

a bargain for presence she wished someone made.

Painted in ego, disguised as a grace,

a counterfeit heart wearing someone else’s face.

But today I rise higher, today I break free,

from the version of Dawn who strangled me.

I’m done with the plastic, the hollow applause

done selling my soul for approval’s faux laws.

I deserve something real, something honest and kind,

a love that reflects the truth of my mind.

I choose what is genuine, tender, and clear

a heart without barter, a life without fear.

So bury the martyr; let her finally rest.

She fought in the shadows; she did her best.

But I lead from my wholeness, my truth, and my fire

a woman reborn from her deepest desire.

I rise in my essence; I rise in my song.

I rise as the Dawn who’s been waiting so long.

Grounded and glowing, unbroken, released

my anthem of freedom, my chorus of peace.

Reflection

There was no dramatic ending to the martyr.

No confrontation. No final speech.

Just a soft noticing.

A moment where I realized I no longer felt compelled to explain myself, prove my goodness, or soften my truth so it would land more comfortably in someone else’s hands.

I didn’t become less loving. I became more honest.

What I once called compassion was often fear, fear of being left, misunderstood, or unseen. And when that fear loosened its grip, something gentler took its place:

Self-respect.

Not loud.

Not rigid.

Just steady.

Now, when I offer love, it is not a currency. It is a choice.

And when love is not returned in kind, I no longer negotiate with myself about my worth. I simply step back into my own quiet, where nothing needs to be earned.

This is not hardness, but rest.

This is what it feels like to live without the martyr's crown and discover I never needed it to belong.