The first Roses Program session took place on a rainy Saturday.


Tia stood in front of a small group of women—some with baby strollers, some with hoodies pulled low, all of them carrying things they hadn’t said out loud yet.


The room smelled like shea butter and courage.


Nova ran sound from the corner, soft beats pulsing beneath the hum of nervous breathing.


Maya passed out journals.


And then Tia spoke.


Not like a performer.


But like a survivor.


“I used to think healing was a finish line,” she began. “That one day I’d wake up and be over it. But I learned healing ain’t loud. It ain’t pretty. And it don’t always come with closure.”


She looked around the room.


“It just starts when you stop lying to yourself. Even if all you can say is—‘I’m not okay yet. But I will be.’”


One woman cried.


Another nodded.


A third, older, whispered, “That’s me.”


Later, during open circle, Tia sat beside a woman named Kareen—eyes hollow, lips trembling.


“I let him back in four times,” Kareen whispered. “I swore I was done. But I kept going back. Kept thinking love meant surviving him.”


Tia didn’t offer pity.


She offered truth.


“I went back too. Not four times. Seven. You don’t owe anyone shame. You only owe yourself a way out.”


When the session ended, someone placed a folded note on Tia’s chair.


She opened it quietly.


“I didn’t know roses could grow in places like us.

But now I do.”


No name.


Just ink.


Just impact.


Outside, the rain had stopped.


Tia stepped onto the sidewalk and looked up at the soft gray sky.


Nova came up beside her, shoulder brushing gently against hers.


“You did that,” they whispered.


“No,” Tia said, her voice steady.


“We did.”


And for the first time since everything broke…


Tia wasn’t surviving.


She was becoming.