To the Room I Once Called Mine
A poetic letter to a childhood bedroom—pink walls, hidden diaries, farm soil, softball bruises, and all the beginnings a girl could carry in one small room.
To Jack and Annie (and the Magic Tree House)
They never knew me — but I knew them. A quiet letter to Jack and Annie, from a girl who once believed a tree house might appear just for her.
The Rain at the Gate (#3)
We spoke of nothing. But the rain knew. A shared pause at the garden gate, and the storm that followed — not in the sky, but within.
To the Teacup with the Cracked Rim
She’s chipped. Faded. A little fragile. But I always reach for her first. A love letter to the teacup that taught me the quiet art of holding gently.
The Hour After He Left (#2)
We barely spoke. But I remember everything. A journal entry of glances, almosts, and the gentle ache of wanting something not meant to be touched.
The Ghost of Our Almost (#1)
A quiet, romantic letter to a love that never became. A poetic reflection on timing, silence, and the ache of what could have been.
The Tale of the Frog Who Refused to Leap
He did not leap. He simply listened. A quiet tale about stillness, patience, and the soft magic of choosing your moment — when it matters most.
On Becoming Soft Again
Once, I believed softness was something to outgrow. Now I know better. A quiet evening entry on gentleness, lace-edged strength, and the girl I used to be.
To the Woman I Used to Be (On a Rainy Afternoon)
A tender letter to a former self—full of longing, memory, and quiet grace. A personal essay about identity, change, and the ache of who we once were.
