Some of the wounds weren’t yours. Some came from lovers before you, from mothers with unmet dreams, from cultures that taught disconnection as tradition. You were handed pain not shaped for you — but still expected to carry it. And somehow, you did. But instead of letting it twist you, you listened. You translated the rage. You named the grief. You offered tenderness where there had only been code. You became fluent in unsaid things. You wrote your vows in this new tongue. And in doing so, you vowed: *To translate ache into warmth.*