The Lone Road Cadence

The Lone Road Cadence

Before the first blade of dawn
cuts open the sky,
I rise.

Cold air presses my skin
like winter river water.
The earth exhales damp soil
and rain somewhere beyond the hills.

Far away an engine stirs—
metal against metal—
morning begins its march.

And daily I wake thinking:

They believed the odds were enough.

They counted them carefully,
stacking them like gamblers
laying coins across a crooked table.

They watched.
They observed.
They studied from corners and shadows.

They whispered predictions
into cups of bitter coffee.

“She will bend.”
“She will break.”
“She will learn her place.”

But the wind remembers.

The wind remembers everything.

It remembers the nights
when silence pressed against the ribs
like armor made of stone.

It remembers footsteps
echoing through narrow halls.

It remembers the taste of dust
in the mouth of a young girl
learning too soon
that survival has a rhythm.

You know.

I know.

And I know you know.

Time invested.
Pressure applied.
Hammer on iron.

Again.
And again.

But the great miscalculation
was this:

They believed the fire would ruin the steel.

Fire does not ruin iron.

Fire tempers it.

Underestimating me
was their greatest mistake.

Believe it.

Because I do.


Now I walk the lone road.

Not above.
Not beneath.

Outside.

Call it what you will.

Some whisper lone wolf.
Some shake their heads in confusion.

Say it plain if you must—

I am the sigma female.

Not ranked in their ladders.
Not crowned by approval.

A woman outside formation.

While others gather in circles
measuring status and applause,

I move where the wind moves.

Forward.

Alone if necessary.

Because solitude
is lighter than chains.


Watch closely.

Observe the difference.

Control breeds chains.
Silence breeds ghosts.
Domination breeds ruin.

Motion breaks them all.

And motion looks like this—

Boot to ground.
Breath steady.
Eyes forward.

Left step.
Right step.

March.


The road that made me
was not smooth.

It smelled of sweat and iron.
It tasted of grit.
It scraped the palms
like stone dragged across skin.

There were voices—

sharp voices,
commanding voices.

Iron-spined men.

Chest forward like parade drums,
boots striking pavement
as though the world were their barracks.

The rigid kind.

The misogynistic kind—
men who mistake control for strength,
who believe a woman must shrink
so their shadow appears taller.

Orders fell from their mouths
like spent shells.

Stand here.
Move there.
Do as I say.

They believed authority meant ownership.
They believed obedience meant respect.
They believed silence meant loyalty.

But hear this cadence now—

Left step.

Right step.

Breath steady.

Eyes forward.

Out of my way.


They tried to quiet the sound of me.

Not with blades—

with weight.

Hands pressing downward
like stones stacked on a rising fire.

Pull her down.
Hold her there.

Let dust swallow her name.

Give her no thunder.

Give another the storm.

Crown someone else with lightning.
Lift them high on shoulders of applause.

And quietly—

take what was mine.

My voice.
My strength.
My sky.

They tried to steal the thunder from my chest
and scatter it across other names.

But thunder is not borrowed.

Thunder is born.

And storms remember
where they began.


They cleared the road before I walked it.

Decisions stolen
before they reached my hands.

Who I should love.
Who I should marry.
How I should stand.
How I should speak.

Stories told about me
that bent truth
like crooked nails hammered into wood.

Work taken.
Effort erased.

Years of labor
lifted quietly away
like tools disappearing from a bench.

What I built
they gave to others.

What I earned
they handed to strangers.

Cars passed my door
to carry others where I should have stood.

Doors opened
for everyone but me.

Again.

And again.

But storms do not vanish
because someone pretends the sky is clear.

The sky remembers.

And so do I.


Sometimes I remember
the women who walked before me.

Deborah beneath the palm tree
calling warriors to courage.

Judith stepping into darkness
with steady hands.

Esther crossing palace thresholds
with quiet fire beneath silk.

Boudica riding through thunder and iron.

Joan of Arc
hearing heaven inside the wind.

Women history tried to silence.

Women who stood anyway.

Their footsteps echo through centuries.

And I walk beside their shadows now.


And yes—

there was a house they called holy.

Wooden pews polished smooth
by years of folded hands.

Voices rising in hymns
floating through warm air.

I sat there too.

Watching.
Listening.

But not every altar holds truth.

Some carry masks.

Some carry judgment
heavy as iron chains.

There were those who spoke of mercy
while measuring every step I took.

Those who pointed fingers
while hiding their own shadows
in quiet corners.

They blamed the wounded
and sheltered the wolves.

The old story wearing modern robes.

Men above.
Women beneath.

A ladder built from ancient fear.

They called it order.
They called it doctrine.

But truth does not bow
to pride dressed in scripture.

And faith does not belong
to those who wield it like a weapon.


Still—

every morning I rise.

Cool air fills the lungs.
Birdsong cuts the quiet sky.

The worn pages open in my hands.

I read.

Paper smelling faintly
of ink and years.

The words taste like clean water.

Scripture whispering:

Stand firm.
Walk humbly.
Fear not.

The verses settle into bone
like warmth returning
to frozen fingers.

Faith becomes the compass
when the road disappears.


Look again.

Study the path beneath my boots.

This road is not for those
who require applause.

Not for those who mistake domination
for leadership.

Not for those who believe
a woman must kneel
to make a man feel tall.

This road belongs to survivors.

The ones who tasted bitterness
and turned it into fuel.

The ones who walked through fire
and came out sharpened.


Daily I wake thinking—

Still here.

Still breathing.

Still walking.

Boot on dirt.
Wind in lungs.
Steel in spine.

The cadence continues.

Left step.
Right step.

Left.
Right.

Forward.

Because the battle they imagined
was never theirs to win.

They only shaped the steel.

And steel—

once forged—

moves where it chooses.


So watch closely.

Observe the road behind me.

See the dust rising
where my boots strike earth.

Because the woman walking forward now
is not the one they tried to break.

She is the result.

She is the proof.

She is the storm
they failed
to silence.

That

is the resolution.

Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected