How to Bake a Phoenix Pie from Scratch

To reinvent yourself
after the wreckage,
first unearth the origins —
not just of you,
but of everything.

The breath in your chest
isn’t just yours;
it began with stars colliding —
light meeting silence.

You think you’re shattered,
but you’re not separate.
Contemplate the smallest leaf,
and watch the cosmos unfold:
the sun it reaches for,
soil that feeds it,
rain stitching it whole again.

To build a life from scratch,
start at the smallest part.
Not the pieces you can see,
not shattered glass
or bruised skin —
but the core of things,
where silence vibrates with starlight.

You must invent the universe anew.
Gather stardust beneath your feet,
ignite the stars within your veins,
embrace the spaces between breaths
that hold your brokenness.

Become the root
of your own beginning —
carve constellations in the dark,
defy gravity
until you learn to stand.

What once broke you
was just a storm passing through.
Now,
you are the universe birthing itself again,
from ashes of what was lost.

And in that vastness,
somewhere,
the seeds of your phoenix pie
begin to grow.

Only then —
slowly, quietly —
you’ll see:
you were never broken,
only becoming.