What She Carried(Micro-stories)

Foreword

by Lyia Meta

When I was younger, Greek myths filled the quiet spaces in my mind. I didn’t just read them—I carried them. I rewrote their endings in my head, gave new life to old gods, and imagined different versions of destiny. But none stayed with me like the Fates—Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos.

One of my earliest paintings was of them. Not the full figures draped in flowing robes as the stories often tell—but only their faces. That’s all I gave them. I painted what I thought was beautiful. My version was clean, imagined, almost ornamental. I didn’t dig deep. I wasn’t ready to.

If I were to paint them today, it would be very different.

There would be more to confront. It wouldn’t be about surface or symmetry. It wouldn’t be about prettiness. Today, I’d strip away the mystique and reach for what lies underneath: the tension in their expressions, the burden behind their gaze, the uncomfortable truths they represent. I wouldn’t try to make them look otherworldly—I’d make them thoughtful. Human. Unsettling, maybe.

Because now I understand that the Fates aren’t just myth—they’re metaphor. They are the thread of every loss, every unexpected shift, every moment I’ve stood still, unable to turn back or go forward. They don’t watch from above. They live in the choices we didn’t make, the time we didn’t control, the days that didn’t go as planned.

Back then, I painted an idea. Now, I carry an understanding.

Image by WiX

What She Carried

She never spoke about destiny—not out loud. Not in the grand, sweeping way people liked to. But she thought about it, often. Not as something written in the stars, but in the quiet decisions no one applauded.

She didn’t know when the thread of her life had begun. No one really does. Maybe it was the first time someone told her no and she kept going. Maybe it was the day she buried her brother and knew, without anyone telling her, that some kinds of pain don’t end. Or maybe it was earlier, in a moment she’d already forgotten. A kindness. A silence. A fracture.

She moved through the world like most people—holding invisible weights. But she was battle-weary in ways few could see. She had survived things that had no name. She had accepted apologies that were never spoken. She cried in the shower, letting the water carry her sorrow where words could not.

Still, she loved. She gave. She created. Sometimes she stayed longer than she should have. Sometimes she left and wondered if staying would have hurt less. She forgave people who didn’t deserve it—not for them, but so she could keep walking.

And through it all, time didn’t wait. It never had. Not out of cruelty. But because it couldn't.

Sometimes, she looked back. Not with regret, but with awe—at all the versions of herself that had carried her here. The girl who learned to keep quiet. The woman who mistook endurance for peace. The one who laughed or spoke too loud. The one who broke and rebuilt. The one who chose to live anyway.

She began to understand: life is not about control. It's about response. It's about movement. You don’t steer the thread. You walk it.

And maybe that’s all fate ever was. Not a sentence. Not a plan. Just the shape of what you do with what you’re given.

She didn’t need to name it. She just needed to keep going.

By Lyia Meta