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Living With Anxiety — A Little Bit More Than Before
Even on the days I’m not so sure — this is for the ones who think healing is loud, and for the quiet battles fought behind held breaths. Anxiety doesn’t need a reason; it just needs space to be understood.
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Bra Problems: Why We Own 3 Dozens but Wear Only a Few
I have a closet full of bras, yet I rotate only a handful. Some suffocate, some sit pretty like museum exhibits, and most are a daily reminder that comfort is a myth.
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Not Pause. Paws.
When firecrackers trigger Zoe’s anxiety, I realize her panic mirrors my own. This is what it means to live with overstimulation, tough hearts, and the weight of love.
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Cracking the Shell: Silence, Stability & Noise
Silence never saved me. My father asked for stability, my mother for provision, the industry for performance. None heard the noise inside. This is the crack I made.
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Detach: The Ache of Letting Go Between Victimhood and Validation
Detach, they said. But how do you let go of what you never got to hold properly? This piece sits in the space between survival and silence — between needing to be seen and finally seeing yourself.
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I Tried. And Then I Didn’t. And Then I Just Was.
I tried to be there — for others, for the world, for the ghosts that raised me. But when it came to me, I was shut out. This is what it feels like to unravel, and still offer thanks while drowning.
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When Silence Drains You: Surviving Emotional Fatigue in a Quiet World
Heavy silence can feel draining, overwhelming, and emotionally exhausting—here’s what it means and why it happens.
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Grey Hour Poem – Stillness, Dusk, and the Ache Before Sadness
Not quite sadness—just the ache that comes before it. The hour of still things.
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Mornings Are a Joke I Keep Telling Myself
This morning, I almost made it out of bed. But then the walker squeaked, the cousin got triggered, the cook forgot onions, and the universe pressed snooze on my sanity. Mornings? They're a running joke. And I keep telling it—loudly, silently, sarcastically.
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Bubbly Regret: Served Cold, Crashing Fast
F*ck. Beer was a terrible idea. Two sips in and my body exits the chat like it’s allergic to joy.
