When It Rains, I Slow
I’ve always lived under a metal roof. Rainy days don’t rush me anymore. They bring me home to myself.
Where the Light Often Misses
I have learned not to measure my words by how many read them. Still, I write. Still, I remain.
Where Words Are Not Needed
We do not speak in sentences. But oh, how we understand each other. This is the joy of raising my son, where words are not needed.
The Company of Green Things
Some days, a new leaf feels like a miracle. My plants don’t rush me. And they don’t mind if I am quiet.
The Weather Inside the House
I don’t need my home to always feel sunny. I just need it to be a place where weather is allowed.
The Things I No Longer Measure
Stillness has its own math. It does not ask for totals. It asks for presence.
Once, I Feared Quiet Fridays
Just a book, a warm drink, maybe a few soft pages written by lamplight. I no longer perform belonging. I inhabit it.
The Ones Who Stay Home
Some of us bloom best in stillness. A gentle essay about being quiet, staying home, and creating a life of unnoticed, everyday magic.
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.
