Whispered Words

05/31/2025

we’ve launched, darling—
just the beginning,
a soft introduction
to something blooming wild + true.
welcome to the start of me.

wwthtgrlinbloom.com

with ink + bloom, 🌻

Embracing Authenticity | Navigating Humanity

05/30/2025

did you miss me, darling?
i’ve been quiet—but never gone. just living the kind of life that doesn’t always make it to the feed. motherhood. heartbreak. healing. growth. softness. wreckage. writing poems in my head when my hands were too full to hold a pen. i never left, i was just in it.

facebook’s whispered words has been my safe place for a long time. it’s held so many versions of me. but soon, that chapter will close. and as hard as that is, it’s time. i’m ready for something that fits who i am now.

my old handles on other platforms didn’t feel right anymore either, so i let them go. .inbloom is home now. this name, this space—it holds all of me. no more fragments. no more shrinking. just me, blooming out loud.

and quietly, something really beautiful has happened.
i’ve been offered a poetry book deal. it doesn’t even feel real to say that yet. i hadn’t shared it widely until today, but i want you to know—because so many of you helped me get here. your comments, your messages, your witnessing. it mattered. it matters. thank you for seeing me.

we’ve also got our own site now. if everything flows like it should, it’ll be live by the end of the day. it’s not just a website—it’s a landing space for all of me. for my writing. my story. my chaos. my clarity. my softness. my fire. it feels like breath.

i’m bringing everything from facebook with me. the poems. the posts. the truth. i’ll be picking up exactly where i left off—only now, with more room. more story. more soul. some things will be rewritten. some expanded. all of it—real.

i’ll be dropping the link soon.
i hope to see you there, darlings.
we’ve only just begun.

with ink + bloom, 🌻

04/08/2025

i have four children, and not one of them has needed the same version of me.
i have had to grow and shift and break and rebuild myself over and over again,
each time meeting a new little soul who needed something different from the mother i was before.
and i’ve done it—sometimes gently, sometimes painfully—because that’s what love demands of me.
i’ve been the soft one, the firm one, the scared one, the steady one,
the one who cried in locked bathrooms,
then wiped her face and went back out like nothing was unraveling inside her chest.

i’ve raised my tone.
i’ve lost my temper.
i’ve said the wrong thing, and immediately felt it settle in my bones.
i beat myself up more than anyone else could.
i don’t need to be reminded of where i fall short—i live with that knowledge daily.
but i also know this: i have never stopped showing up.
not once.

and parenting my youngest,
it’s a whole different level of showing up.
her brain runs at a speed the world doesn’t slow down enough to accommodate.
she is radiant, reactive, intuitive, chaotic, brilliant.
new environments light her system up like a fuse,
and sometimes the fallout hits us all in waves.
we redirect. again. and again. and again.
and still she spins out.
and still we stay.
because we don’t give up on her.
we don’t walk away just because it’s loud and misunderstood.

i was in conversation recently, standing with a friend,
and my daughter crossed a line—sharp words of disrespect met me where I stood,
i didn’t yell. i didn’t stop.
i pointed in her direction—
i firmly redirected her.
and my friend—without hesitation, right there in the moment—said,
“that was terrifying.”
not because i was scary,
but because i stayed grounded in two places at once.
i didn’t break connection.
i didn’t lose control.
i parented in real time,
and i held my boundary while holding my presence.

and that is what this parenting journey is—
real-time redirection, real-time repair, real-time heartache and hope.
not every parent will understand that.
but you do.
the ones who know what it means to advocate through exhaustion.
to teach the same boundary for the hundredth time
because your child’s brain just doesn’t absorb it the same way.
to watch strangers judge a single moment
while knowing they weren’t there for the thousand soft ones before it.

i am not perfect.
but i am present.
and if you are out there—
doing your best, even when it feels like it's never enough—
i want you to know:
you are not alone.
you are not invisible.
you are seen.
i see you.
and i am with you in every loud, overwhelming, tender, beautiful, messy second of this work.

with ink + bloom, 🌻

04/06/2025

good morning, love—
has anyone reminded you
what a fu***ng miracle it is that you’re still here?
that you keep waking up,
even when the weight tries to bury you quietly?

you carry galaxies in your bones
and grit in your smile.
you are the kind of brave
they don’t write about often enough—
soft, tired, still trying.

you are every wild, radiant thing
that refused to quit.
the flame that stayed lit in the wind.
the bloom that cracked the concrete
and didn’t apologize for taking up space.

so fix your crown—
not because it’s crooked,
but because you earned the right to wear it.
because you keep showing up,
even when no one claps,
even when your hands are shaking.

and that?
that’s fu***ng powerful.

with ink + bloom, 🌻

04/04/2025

Don’t panic.

It’s muscle memory at this point—
a phrase I think without thinking,
woven into the architecture of my day like brushing my teeth or locking the door,
except it comes with clenched fists,
ribs too tight around lungs that forget how to be soft,
a body that turns against itself at the sound of a familiar song,
at the flash of a memory I didn’t ask for.

This one hit harder.
Two hours of coming undone
in the front seat of a car
on a stretch of Interstate I’ve grown to fu***ng despise.
I cried in cycles—
loud, messy, gasping sobs that tore through my chest
and left me grabbing at my sides like I could press the ache back in,
like I could hold myself still long enough to keep from slipping through the cracks.
My breath came in ragged spurts,
hyperventilating through clenched teeth,
as if pain could be outrun if I could just stay quiet enough.
But this wasn’t quiet.
This was breaking in real time.
This was being seen.
And I didn’t care.

It wasn’t dramatic.
It was just real.
Just grief.
Just exhaustion.
Just the collapse of too many days where I smiled through the burn,
too many moments I swallowed my own voice
so someone else could speak louder.
I didn’t want to fall apart that way—
with my wife beside me, with my partner behind,
with my kids in the backseat,
with no way to tuck it all back in.

But the panic didn’t care.
It never does.
It’s a beast that shows up whenever it wants,
sits on my chest like it owns the place,
rips my breath away and dares me to act normal.

The medicine helped, eventually.
Not like magic—
just like sedation.
Just like soft edges
and quiet.
It gave me sleep,
not peace.
It gave me silence,
not safety.
But for a while,
it was enough to keep the sobs from stealing me whole.

And still,
after the world settled and my body came down,
after the shaking slowed and my ribs stopped clenching like fists,
I stared out the window at that endless fu***ng highway,
and I knew—
I don’t just hate the panic.
I hate that fu***ng interstate.
The way it holds memories in its shoulders,
the way it demands silence from me,
the way it winds like grief and doesn't let go.

And maybe—
maybe I hated you, too.
Not in a way anyone could see,
not loud or sharp or dripping with rage,
but in the quiet corners of my chest
where disappointment settled in like dust.
Maybe I hated you
for the way your absence always felt like my fault,
for how I kept showing up
while you kept leaving in smaller and smaller pieces.
For how I grieve someone
who let go like they were never holding on,
who disappeared like I was the one who vanished first.
Because even now,
without meaning to,
I still carry your echo like it belongs to me—
like it ever really did.

Don’t panic.
I said it again as the calm settled over me,
not because it stopped the pain,
but because it was all I had left that felt familiar—
a thread I hold onto
when everything else breaks loose.

Don't panic.

with ink + bloom,
🌻

03/26/2025

There’s a quiet sort of reckoning that happens when you stand between the pull of the earth and the rhythm of the water. When you finally stop performing strength and just become it. You’re not here to be pretty for the world. You’re not here to shrink into silence or fit into frames that dim your light. You’re here to feel—to remember what it means to take up space exactly as you are: unfiltered, untamed, and wildly honest.

No one talks about the sacred rebellion of choosing to love yourself in the middle of unraveling. Not after the healing. Not when it’s easy. But in the thick of it—when your hands still shake and your heart still holds memory like glass. You are doing something radical. You’re showing up with cracked-open grace and saying, “Even here, I am worthy.”

It’s not about being fearless. It’s about letting the fear walk beside you while you root yourself anyway. It’s about letting the sun touch your face and not flinch. About letting the wind rearrange your hair and not apologize for the mess. Because this moment? It is yours. And there is no version of you that needs to be more palatable, more polished, or more acceptable for that to be true.

You don’t need to prove your worthiness. You are the proof. The way you’ve kept going. The way you’ve held your softness in one hand and your survival in the other. The way you let the river hear your silence and the sky hold your breath. You are not waiting to be chosen anymore. You’ve chosen yourself.

And that, my love, is where everything begins.

See you soon, darlings.
༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/21/2025

On Tuesday, I made a group chat.
Not for planning dinners or tracking chores—please. We’re not that organized.
No, this one’s strictly for our orange menace of a cat: Mudgey.

The group name?
"Mudgepudge, wtf? And WTF is that? 💀"
Because honestly, he is the question and the answer.

We’re not a normal family.
We’re the kind who bonds over memes, sends each other blurry cat photos at midnight, and celebrates the unhinged glory of one very spoiled feline.
Mudgey isn’t just a cat—he’s the family chaos coordinator.

He came home with me in October. Petite. Proud. In his prime.
Five months later?
Thick. Sassy. Shaped like a cinnamon roll.
His prime is “allegedly” behind him… until it’s the middle of the night and he’s back at it, doing martial arts on the furniture and chasing demons only he can see.

He used to leap with grace.
Now? We lift him like royalty.
Because a helping hand never hurt anyone, and dignity is optional in this household.

Mudgey lives for the finer things:
Window views. Car naps. Human laps. Pillows. Chin scratches. Tummy rubs (when he allows them).
And pets—so many pets.
Every morning, my daughter greets him with,
"Oh my sweet, sweet Mudgey,"
then gives him an aggressive love-pat and a royal es**rt to his food bowl.
It’s a ritual.

He enjoys long, slow walks… to the kitchen.
And thanks to his loyal humans—especially our eldest daughter—his bowl shall never runneth empty.

Oh, and did I mention my wife makes him catnip tea?
Yes. Actual catnip tea.
He sips it like a Victorian gentleman and then climbs into a pile of laundry like it’s Versailles.

I used to think “orange cat energy” was just a meme.
Now I live with it.
Now I serve it.

Mudgey’s spoiled.
He’s dramatic.
He’s absolutely perfect.

And honestly?
We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy Friday, darlings–I hope your day is beautiful!
See you soon!

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/18/2025

If you understand, then you likely know how layered this journey is. Parenting isn’t easy—and that’s not something I say lightly. I love my children deeply. I have four beautiful souls here with me and two I carry quietly in my heart. Each of them is entirely their own person, full of wonder, uniqueness, and light. Watching them grow has been one of life’s greatest gifts. But there are days when I sit with the weight of it all and quietly wonder—am I doing this right? Am I enough? I do everything I can to nurture them, to support their mental health, to create a safe place for their feelings, their struggles, and their dreams. I want them to grow into thoughtful, kind humans—people who leave the world a little gentler than they found it. But being a parent is hard, even when it’s wrapped in love.

Right now, I’m sitting on a park bench, watching my daughter play after another appointment. We talked today about some of the challenges she’s been facing. She was recently diagnosed with ADHD, just like her brother was before her—but this time, it feels different. Her ADHD shows up in ways that are louder, quicker, more intense. The way she thinks, speaks, responds to the world—it’s her own rhythm entirely. And sometimes, I get caught in my own overwhelm and forget that she’s not trying to be difficult—she’s doing her best inside a world that isn’t always built for the way her mind works. She’s only nine, and yet she’s navigating something so complex, so consuming, and I have to remind myself: it’s hard for her, too.

For my daughter, ADHD looks like getting up and down again and again in a small exam room. It looks like slipping on medical gloves and pretending to be the doctor. It looks like asking rapid-fire questions without waiting for the answers, not because she’s not listening—but because her mind is already moving on to the next wonder. It looks like grabbing a book from a take-one-leave-one stand and imagining whole worlds inside of it. Her ADHD is curiosity, movement, brilliance, energy. And yes—it’s also chaos. It’s also overstimulation and miscommunication and exhaustion, for both of us. There are moments when I feel overwhelmed. But it doesn’t mean I love her any less. It just means I’m human, too.

I remind myself every day that parenting is not just about guiding them—it’s about understanding them. And just as I am doing the best I can, so is she. I try to be honest with her. I try to let her know that being a kid is hard sometimes, and I see that. I see her. I try to offer myself the same kindness, too. I don’t always get it right. I raise my voice more than I wish I did. I have moments I wish I could do over. But always, always, I come back to love. That’s what grounds us.

Parenting a neurodivergent child stretches you—it grows you in ways you didn’t expect. It asks for more patience, more softness, more strength than you think you have. But even in the hardest moments, I wouldn’t trade a single piece of who she is. Not her boundless energy, not her endless questions, not even the chaos. She is mine. I am hers. And together, we are learning what it means to meet each other exactly where we are, with grace, with love, and with a whole lot of heart.

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/18/2025

Friendship, for me, has never been a background detail. It’s never been something I collect for appearance or convenience. From the time I was a little girl—misunderstood, too quiet some days, too bold on others—I longed for connection that felt like home. Not perfection. Just presence. Not performance. Just honesty. And now, standing on the edge of 36, I can say with certainty: I no longer settle for anything less than what feels real, rooted, and true.

Authenticity matters to me. Deeply. I’ve lived enough years, survived enough heartbreaks, and navigated enough seasons of loneliness to know what I will no longer entertain. I’ve had people in my life who loved the idea of me but couldn’t handle the reality. People who showed up only when it served them, and left the moment things got complicated. I’ve watched friendships shift without warning—watched people I trusted turn cold, without a conversation, without a moment of truth, just a slow withdrawal masked as maturity.

And for a long time, I stayed quiet about it. I let people come and go as they pleased, thinking that maybe if I just loved a little harder, gave a little more grace, they’d stay. I tolerated the hot-and-cold energy, the passive aggression, the unspoken tension. I accepted people back into my life without apology, without accountability, just a silent reentry and an unspoken hope that we could pretend the damage hadn’t happened. I didn’t know then that love—real love—shouldn’t require you to forget your own hurt just to keep someone around.

But I know now.

I know now that boundaries are not walls; they’re bridges to peace. That communication isn’t too much—it’s the foundation. That friends who truly love you don’t make you question your place in their life. They don’t disappear when you’re struggling. They don’t punish you for taking care of your mental health. They don’t act like your family-first loyalty is an inconvenience. They don’t gossip about you when your back is turned and call it concern.

Real friends sit with you in your grief and stand with you in your joy. They check in, even when life gets busy. They remember the small things. They celebrate your wins, even if they’re not winning. They don't need you to be perfect, polished, or performing—they just want you, as you are.

I want the kind of friendships that feel like breathing. That feel like peace. That don’t require a performance or a filter. That hold space for messy days and still show up with softness. I want the late-night phone calls, the weird inside jokes, the comfort in silence. I want the ones who match energy, hold accountability, and walk through fire with you—not just for the photo, but because they care. Because they see you.

And maybe it took some hard lessons to get here. Maybe I had to learn the difference between loyalty and obligation, between history and alignment. Maybe I had to walk away from people I thought would be forever, just to make room for the ones who truly are. Maybe I had to stop romanticizing potential and start honoring what’s consistent. But I’m here now—with clarity, with confidence, and with peace.

And I’m proud of my circle. It's small, but oh, it’s solid. It's filled with people who love me in ways that feel nourishing, never depleting. People who know my heart, respect my mind, and honor my journey. People who tell me hard truths gently, who never let me doubt my worth, who clap when I rise and sit with me when I fall.

This is the kind of friendship I always dreamed of—the kind I fought to deserve, even when I didn’t fully believe I did.

So to anyone else out there who’s walked away from friendships that hurt more than they healed, who’s sat in silence waiting for someone to notice, who’s carried the weight of being “too much” or “not enough” for the wrong people—please know this:

You’re allowed to choose peace. You’re allowed to be loved loudly, gently, honestly. You’re allowed to stop shrinking. You’re allowed to walk away. And you're allowed to rebuild your circle with people who feel like sunlight on your soul.

Because the right people? They won’t just make room for you. They’ll cherish you. They’ll sit beside you in silence and still hear everything. They’ll see your heart, not just your highlight reel. They’ll protect your name in rooms you’ve never entered.

They’ll remind you: real friendship never asks you to earn your place. It simply welcomes you home.

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/15/2025

2024 was my year—until it wasn’t.

I had plans. I had goals. I had momentum. And then, I got hurt. Everything stopped.

If you’ve ever been independent to your core, you’ll understand just how hard it is to suddenly need people. Before my injury, I did everything on my own. I didn’t have to rely on anyone for anything—big or small. I had patience. I had strength. I had control.

After the injury, I lost all of that.

My body betrayed me in ways I wasn’t prepared for, and mentally, it wrecked me. I wasn’t just physically limited—I was emotionally spiraling. The depression, the anxiety, the panic attacks—they didn’t just show up quietly. They hit like a freight train.

And the hardest part? I hated needing people. I hated not being able to function the way I used to. Having someone help me with things like getting dressed, making meals, or cleaning up after myself felt so invasive, even when it came from love. I felt like I’d lost my autonomy. Like I wasn’t me anymore.

So what does that have to do with these pictures?

Well, while I was home recovering—on Workers' Comp, frustrated and restless—I started pulling apart my kitchen. At first, it was more of a “maybe this will give me something to focus on” type of thing. But it turned into so much more. The process was slow, painful, and nothing like how I’d handled projects in the past.

This time, I had to rely on my wife and my partner to do the physical labor I used to power through on my own. They carried the weight—literally and figuratively—while I sat nearby, guiding them, teaching them how to use my tools, explaining measurements, and walking them through each step. It became a team effort, even if every part of me wished I could do it myself.

That’s been one of the hardest lessons—accepting that even when I can’t do it all, my voice, my knowledge, my presence still matters.

I used to thrive off DIY projects. They were my therapy when my brain wouldn’t shut off. My calm when the inside of me felt like a storm. When everything else felt chaotic, building something with my hands made sense. It grounded me. It gave me purpose.

But after the injury, the thing that once centered me felt impossible. The thing that used to be my peace became my frustration. It became my grief. It became a mirror, reflecting everything I felt I had lost.

Still, I refused to give up. Bit by bit, I found ways to reclaim pieces of myself.

The kitchen project started in June. I thought I could knock it out in a week or two—maybe three at most. That turned into months. The timeline kept stretching because my pain kept getting worse. Every time I made progress, I was knocked back down. Again. And again.

Eventually, my primary doctor stepped in and changed the game. She listened—really listened. She didn’t brush me off or minimize my pain. She walked alongside me through every conservative option before we ended up where I never wanted to be—on narcotics.

I didn’t want that. At all. It broke something in me to accept it. But we had tried everything else. And the truth is, they helped. That temporary relief allowed me to move again. It gave me a window to breathe and function, even if it wasn’t perfect. And with time, with the support of my people and a lot of trial and error, I learned how to navigate it.

I learned how to work with my tools again. Not standing up for hours like before, but sitting. I had to adjust. Adapt. Take breaks more often than I ever wanted. I cried. I screamed. I had moments where I questioned if it was even worth it. But I kept showing up for myself, even when it was hard.

And here’s the part I’m most proud of: I didn’t just guide the remodel. I antiqued all my cabinets by hand. I turned something old and lifeless into something textured, full of soul. And then—I built my own countertops. From scratch. Every board, every cut, every seal—I did that. Me.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t painless. But it was mine.

This remodel has been the biggest project I’ve taken on since my injury. I wish I had better before pictures, but honestly, I never liked the kitchen enough to take any. It had cheap particle board cabinets with a veneer finish, and after 11 years, I was over it. I got a quote to have someone else update it—just a simple facelift—and they wanted over $9,000. That was laughable to me. I knew I could do it. And I did.

Nine months later, I have a kitchen. Kind of.

There are still things to finish. A few cabinet doors to tweak. Some trim. And the floors—I still want new floors. But I look at what we created, and I see so much more than paint and wood. I see pain. Progress. Patience. I see every moment I wanted to give up and didn’t. Every meltdown I had. Every small win that reminded me I’m still capable—even if the way I get things done looks different now.

This injury took a lot from me. But not everything.

Because what I still have? Is fire. Is grit. Is a whole lot of stubborn determination.

And the truth is, healing isn’t always about bouncing back to who you were. Sometimes, it's about becoming someone new with the pieces that remain.

"You don’t have to come back the same to still come back strong. Sometimes, the rebuild is the bravest part of the story."

See you soon, darlings.

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/13/2025

“As I like to tell people who come to me in crisis—if it ever gets so bad that I simply can't take it anymore, I can always just kill myself tomorrow.”

Those were the last words I read before bed last night.

Heavy. Haunting. Honest.
I felt every ounce of the weight they carried. They lingered, humming through the silence like a quiet truth we rarely dare to speak aloud.

I found this book during my recent trip to Washington, D.C.—in a store called Politics and Prose. A stranger on the sidewalk had recommended it after my mom asked for local spots worth seeing. I’m so thankful they did. That bookstore… was magic. The staff were kind, attentive, genuinely eager to help. My mom and I wandered in together, and I got lost there for a couple of hours. I hadn’t just happened into a bookstore like that in ages.

March 7th, 2025. That’s the day it changed.

That’s the day the book found me.

Yes, found me. I’ve been searching for a poetry book I love—and I’ll get to that at a later time—but what pulled me in first was the psychology section. I’ve always found beauty there. Psychology, to me, is the poetry of the mind: its mechanisms, its mysteries, its resilience. I could spend hours lost in its study.

That’s when I discovered Clancy Martin.
I hadn’t heard of him before.

The book was titled How Not to Kill Yourself—and yes, I know. The first reaction might be discomfort. Confusion. Maybe even judgment.
“Ew, what?”
I get it. But stay with me.

My reaction wasn’t “is he serious?”—it was curiosity met with a quiet, aching intrigue. The title did what it was meant to: it made me pause. I picked it up, fingers running along the cover, taking in the bold words daring me to look deeper. I flipped to the first pages—praise for the author. Then the back cover, where I lingered on the summary, feeling more and more drawn to the story.

The book chose me.

Last night, I finally opened it. As my wife studied for her psychology class, I read beside her in silence… until I couldn’t anymore.

It wasn’t that the content was unreadable—it was that I needed to share it.

I got to a line that read:
“I realize how bizarre it sounds to be simultaneously thinking that I have to finally kill myself while also knowing it was lucky that my previous attempts had failed.”

I reread it. Again. And again.

Then I read it aloud.

My wife looked up from her textbook, curiosity in her eyes, and I started over—reading the preface aloud to her as she listened.

The preface? It came in loud. Raw. Human.
It held me tightly in its honesty.

The final sentence echoed through me (the one I opened this post with), and as I turned the page to see Part I: Suicidal Tendencies, I knew this book wasn’t just a read—it was going to be an experience. A mirror. A lifeline. A reckoning.

This book explores what suicidal ideation looks like—what it feels like. And maybe that’s why I was so drawn to it. Because so few are willing to talk about the hard parts of life without shame attached. So few allow space for the “dark” without casting judgment.

Recently, a dear friend of mine confided in me. She was suicidal. And it broke me.

But it breaks me every time. Just as I know it breaks her when I tell her that I’m struggling, too. That the thoughts won’t stop. That I’m exhausted by my own mind.

That morning, I felt her sadness before she even spoke it. Silence between us often says what words cannot. Life had cornered us both, and we needed each other more than we’d realized. We went about our routines but we also just…talked. We showed up. We heard one another. We asked the hard questions. We softened where the world had made us rigid.

That conversation didn’t fix everything, but it helped. It reminded me how vital it is to hold space for one another. She’s part of why I bought this book.
But not just her—
My friends.
My kids.
My wife.
My partner.
The people I love.
The ones I’ve loved and lost.

And the ones who suffer in silence—out of fear of how they’ll be perceived.

This book may seem “dark,” but to me, it is illumination. It is truth. It’s the unspoken belief so many of us carry—that we are the reason life hurts so badly. That if we disappeared, maybe the world would be better.

But that’s a lie.
The world is better because you are here.
Yes, you, the one reading this.

I’ve walked in those shoes. I still do, sometimes. I’m not ashamed to say it. I wish none of us had to be ashamed to say it.

Because the human experience? It’s messy. And the idea that we’re supposed to walk through it unbothered, untouchable, unshaken—well, that’s not only unrealistic, it’s cruel. Life hurts. And if you’ve ever wanted to die—please know you are not alone. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

In this past year alone, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wanted to die. And not because of anything simple, but because of everything. The chaos. The heartbreak. The grief. The pressure. The life of it all.

But even in that pain, I’ve found beauty.
And I’m still here.

This book? It’s more than a title. It’s a conversation with the soul. And I’m ready to dive deeper into it—with anyone who’s ready to go there with me.

If you’re struggling, please—don’t carry it alone.
There are people who get it.
People who get you.

Lean into those who cradle your heart with care. The ones who stay. The ones who listen without needing to fix it.

I’ll be one of them.

Because life is hard.
But it’s even harder when we try to do it alone.
And you weren’t meant to carry it all by yourself.

So please, don’t let the small voice inside convince you you’re nothing.
You are everything. And I am so damn glad you’re still here.

Please stay. It does get better.

See you soon, darlings.

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻