Never Alone

A Poem on Gratitude, Humility, and the Hands That Carried Us

By Emmanuel Uduak-Obong Esther

I'd be a fool to ever think

that I have won a single fight,

that I alone stood at the brink

and pushed through darkness into light.

For every battle I have faced,

there were hands I did not see,

and every wound that time has traced

was tended by more than just me.

Behind the victories I wear

like trophies polished, placed in view,

were voices whispering through the air

and hearts that quietly saw me through.

The teacher who refused to quit,

the friend who stayed beyond the night,

the stranger whose one word was lit

like a match that gave my darkness light.

I am not self-made, not alone,

not carved from some unyielding stone.

I am the sum of seeds others sowed,

the fruit of grace that others showed.

And in my losing, in my fall,

in seasons stripped of pride and glow,

even then, through it all,

there were hands I did not know.

Hands that prayed when mine grew tired,

hearts that held what mine had spilled,

voices singing when mine had expired,

dreams kept warm when mine grew still.

So let me never wear my wins

as though they bear my name alone.

For every end where triumph begins,

there are roots that others helped me grow.

I'd be a fool to ever think

I crossed any river by my will.

Someone built the bridge, each link,

and someone holds me still.

Grateful. Always. Never alone.

I did not rise on strength my own —

I rose on love, on grace,

and on another's hand.