Stories written in ink, rooted in the earth.

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peace

  • Imperfect, Wild, and Deeply Alive

    For so long, you searched for peace as if it lived somewhere outside yourself — in the next relationship, the next change, the next version of your life that hurt a little less. You built walls and bridges, burned both down, and still kept walking, hoping somewhere along the way you’d stumble upon a place Read more

  • A Child’s Holiday

    Christmas morning at Grandma and Grandpa’s house feels like waking up inside a secret wonderland. The house is quiet but full at the same time, like it’s holding its breath. I wake up early anyway. The air smells different here—like coffee, cinnamon, and something already cooking even though it’s still morning. The living room glows Read more

  • Whispering Winter

    Winter arrives without a sound. The air turns cold and clean, and my breath becomes small white clouds that linger upon the gentle breeze. I pull my coat close and listen to the quiet. The lights come on one by one. They glow softly on houses and trees, not loud, not bright—just enough. When snow Read more

  • Rebuilding Without Bitterness

    There comes a moment — quiet, almost imperceptible — when the weight of the past loosens its grip. Not because the pain is gone, but because you finally stop trying to make it make sense. The grief, the betrayal, the endless ache of what could’ve been — it doesn’t vanish, it just becomes part of Read more

  • A Cautionary Tale

    There’s a particular sting that comes with realizing I missed the ⚠️ warning signs ⚠️ — the red flags 🚩🚩🚩practically waving like parade banners while I smiled and said, “No, no, they’re probably just having a rough day.” It’s not stupidity, and it’s not willful blindness. It’s my reflex to hope. I want to see Read more