Three days after the fire tried to swallow me… this was me—wrapped like a fragile gift nobody ordered, lying there with skin that felt like it was made of fire and glass. Every breath was a negotiation, every movement a reminder that pain can live deep inside your bones. I didn’t look in the mirror because even blinking hurt, and honestly, I didn’t want to face what was left of me.
People talk about being strong like it’s a compliment, but in moments like this, strong wasn’t a choice. It was survival. It was the stubborn beat of my heart refusing to quit. It was the quiet prayers whispered through cracked lips. It was the nurses who lifted me when I couldn’t lift my own head. It was God carrying me when my body couldn’t carry itself.
By every human calculation, I shouldn’t be here—at least not like this.
According to the pain, I should have broken.
According to the doctors, my healing was a miracle they still cannot fully explain.
According to the scars… I’ve been through a war I did not start but I finished.
And now?
Now, I hold my head high—not because life suddenly became easy, but because I already did the hardest part. I faced the fire and lived to tell it. I am still healing, still learning, still growing. Some days are heavy, but I’m here. And that alone is a testimony.
If you ever needed proof that miracles walk around in human skin—here I am.
Still standing.
Still living.
Still me.
Written by Henrietta Chidinma Ogbuagu
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