Oh, the “V” word is clever.
It whispers, “Their fault.”
And saves pain and bruises
to hold in your vault.
It catalogs injuries, polishes blame,
Hands you a banner emblazoned with shame.
It points out the villains, rehashing their crimes,
And tells the same story, time after time.
But what if — just what if — that tale is misplaced?
What if your power has merely been traced
Not to their actions, nor cruel twist of fate,
But hidden in how you decide to relate?
If no one can give you what you do not choose,
Or take from your spirit what you cannot lose,
Then what you are living — bitter or sweet —
Is something your inner design chose to meet.
This isn’t to blame. It is not a disgrace.
It’s simply a shift in the lens you embrace.
For pain may arrive when another missteps,
But suffering lingers by choices you’ve kept.
Victims look outward. They marshal their proof.
They polish their righteousness, standing aloof.
They tell and retell how they’ve been undone —
And thus avoid asking what they had begun.
For if there are no victims left in your play,
No dragons to battle, no villains to slay,
Then only one question remains in the air:
“What part did I choose? What meaning lives there?”
And here lies the challenge, unsettling and vast:
To give up the story you’ve carried from past.
For victimhood offers a curious shield —
It keeps you from risks that true power might yield.
You may remember an ancient regret,
A time you misused strength but wish to forget.
And so you conclude, in protective disguise,
“It’s safer to suffer than dare to arise.”
If powerless, surely no harm can be done.
When weak, you avoid what might be begun.
Better guaranteed sorrow, familiar and tight,
Than risking great joy — or owning your might.
So release judgment first—that sharp little blade.
Without it, no villain or martyr is made.
No “bad thing” to anchor, no sinner to chase,
Just souls learning lessons . . . their time and their space.
I learned this at five on a staircase so tall,
When sisterly shoves sent me tumbling in falls.
I could not control her, nor rewrite our roles,
But I could decide how I traveled the whole.
So I shifted my method, one step at a time,
Sat down and descended with rhythm and rhyme.
No shove could unseat me; I’d altered my start.
The change was not hers—it began in my part.
And so it remains with your troubles today.
You cannot control what others may say.
But you always can choose how you answer the call,
How you frame the stumble, how you name the fall.
Shift out of “Poor me” into “What shall I do?”
Blame shrinks your horizon; while choice expands you.
You are not the fallen, nor fate’s helpless toy —
You become the author of sorrow and joy.
Let’s Discuss:
How often do you catch yourself playing the victim in a relationship? Could you find ways to twist your perception and become a creator of your own state of mind instead?
