my bones are a xylophone, played by the weather. I used to feel like a marionette, yanked around by anxiety's strings. Now, the strings are still there, but I'm learning to dance anyway. It’s not perfect, but it’s progress. I used to think of myself as a vase, fragile and easily shattered by life's bumps. Now I realize I'm more like a wabi-sabi bowl – cracked, imperfect, holding beauty in the asymmetry. Each flaw tells a story, holds a memory, strengthens the whole.