I made an oath with hope,
not for power,
not for pride,
but to steady a trembling hand,
to ease a fearful night,
to turn wrong into right
or at least try.

Yet now my steps echo irony.
I enter a room and hesitate,
not from danger,
but from the wary eyes that measure me,
seeing not my heart,
but the headlines,
the shadows of uniforms not mine.

I wanted to be a bridge.
Instead, I find myself
an unchosen symbol,
a story already written
before I speak.

And so I bite back words,
polish my silence smooth,
lest honesty offend,
lest the mere shape of my profession
be mistaken for arrogance.

Still, beneath it all,
the reason remains
to help,
to shield,
to serve in ways that matter.

If only hope
were not so easily tarred,
if only a badge
could shine without
carrying the weight
of every wound it never caused.

So I walk the thin line,
between what I meant
and what they see,
between wanting to heal
and being feared,
still holding fast
to the stubborn belief
that light is worth carrying
even when it burns