I want to change everything—
not out of hate for who I was,
but out of love for who
I’m finally brave enough
to become.
I’m tired of surviving days
that were meant to be lived.
Tired of shrinking myself
to fit places that never felt like home.
So I’ll start small—
a thought, a boundary, a choice.
And one by one,
the life I’ve been carrying
will learn how to let me go.
I don’t need to burn it all down.
I just need to stop building
on what was breaking me.
I used to look for myself
in other people’s hands,
measure my worth
by how tightly they held on.
But I am learning—
slowly, unevenly—
how to stay
when the room gets quiet,
how to sit with my own heart
without asking it to be smaller.
I speak to myself now
the way I once begged others to.
Gently.
With patience.
With the understanding
that healing isn’t linear
and neither am I.
I forgive the versions of me
that didn’t know better,
that chose survival over softness,
that loved fiercely
without knowing how to be safe.
I am not perfect,
but I am present.
And today,
that is enough.
I am learning to be someone
I don’t have to run from—
someone I can come home to
and rest.
Sweetest of the sunflowers,
how you’re the sun to me,
the way your presence turns my face
toward light
even on days I’ve forgotten
what warmth feels like.
I don’t chase brightness anymore.
I’ve learned how blinding it can be.
But you,
you don’t burn.
You glow steady,
soft enough to trust,
strong enough to keep me standing.
I find myself leaning your way
without thinking,
like instinct knows something
my fear hasn’t caught up to yet.
Even when I’m tired,
even when I’m closed off,
some part of me still turns toward you,
hoping for a little more day.
You see the parts of me
that have been bent by weather,
the places where storms lingered too long,
and you don’t ask me to be anything else.
You just stay.
And somehow that’s enough
to help me straighten again.
I’ve spent so long growing in survival mode,
roots tangled in doubt,
petals guarded against disappointment.
But around you,
I don’t feel rushed to bloom.
I feel allowed to open slowly,
at my own pace,
under a light that doesn’t demand
more than I can give.
If the world ever dims,
if clouds gather the way they do,
I know where I’ll turn.
Not because I need saving,
but because being near you
reminds me that growth
can still be gentle.
Sweetest of the sunflowers,
you don’t know how often
you pull me back toward hope.
How just being you
makes me believe
that even after long nights,
there is still a reason
to face the day.
Christmas isn’t what it was as a kid.
Back when the house felt fuller,
when laughter filled every corner
and love arrived wrapped in noise and warmth.
I miss being surrounded by my family,
the way the room buzzed with togetherness,
the way happiness felt simple
measured in torn wrapping paper
and everything crossed off my list.
Back then,
nothing felt missing.
Everyone was right there.
Alive.
Loud.
Certain.
Now we’re scattered
across cities, years,
and places we can’t drive to anymore.
There aren’t many of us left,
and the quiet settles heavier
than the stale December air.
The lights still glow,
the songs still play,
but they echo differently now.
Like they’re trying to remember us
the way we were.
Christmas didn’t lose its magic
it just grew older,
like we did.
Carrying more memory than moment,
more longing than surprise.
And still,
when I close my eyes,
I can hear them
feel that warmth again,
if only for a breath.
I didn’t move,
but the world wouldn’t stop turning.
Time kept its pace
while I stood still inside myself,
watching everything pass
like I wasn’t part of it anymore.
The sky seemed blue
or maybe that was just my emotion
projecting something softer
onto a day that didn’t earn it.
Funny how feelings can repaint reality
and call it truth.
I tried so hard to be cool about it,
to play it off like nothing touched me,
nursing a half-empty bottle
or is it half full?
I could never decide
if I was losing something
or still clinging to it.
I drank for the pause,
for the quiet between thoughts,
for the moment where I didn’t have to name
what was breaking underneath my calm.
The world kept spinning.
The sky kept pretending.
And I sat there measuring my life
in sips and seconds,
wondering when stillness
started feeling heavier
than motion ever did.
Every time I try to outrun myself,
my feet lock to the floor.
The harder I push forward,
the heavier my body feels,
like something inside me
is begging to be faced
instead of escaped.
I picture the other side
peace, clarity, a version of me
that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.
But the distance feels endless,
like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere
with no map
and a heart already tired.
I tell myself to move.
Just one step.
Just breathe.
But my mind is louder than my legs,
and every fear I’ve ever buried
comes sprinting past me,
reminding me I can’t outrun
what knows my name.
I’ve tried speed.
I’ve tried numbness.
I’ve tried pretending I’m fine
because it looks easier
than explaining the war inside my chest.
Still, I stay stuck
watching life rush by
like I missed my cue to jump in.
Some days it feels like
I’ll never make it to the other side,
like forward is a language
I never learned how to speak.
Like everyone else is crossing bridges
I can’t even see.
But maybe this stillness
isn’t failure.
Maybe it’s my body refusing
to abandon itself again.
Maybe the other side
isn’t somewhere I run to
maybe it’s something I build
right here,
piece by fragile piece.
I don’t know how to get there yet.
I only know I’m still here,
still breathing,
still wanting more than survival.
And maybe that means
I haven’t stopped moving at all—
I’ve just been learning
how to turn around
and finally walk with myself
instead of away.
Slow dancing at 2am,
George Strait humming low through the room,
bare feet on cold floors,
the world asleep
while we stay awake
inside this small, borrowed moment.
No crowd but the shadows,
no spotlight but the lamp in the corner.
Your hand at my waist
like it’s always known
where it belongs,
like this song was written
for the way we move together.
We sway without counting time,
letting George
tell the story for us—
about love that lasts,
about staying,
about choosing each other
without making a sound.
At 2am, nothing is rushed.
Nothing is heavy.
There is only you,
only me,
and a slow song playing softly enough
to feel like a promise
we don’t have to say out loud.
A fortress built around your heart—
stone laid from old betrayals,
walls raised higher with every almost-love
that taught you not to lean too hard.
You call it strength.
I see how lonely it gets up there,
guarding something that only ever wanted
to be held.
I don’t want to tear it down.
I know those walls saved you once.
I’d rather sit outside them,
patient, unarmed,
hoping one day you’ll open a gate
and realize not everyone
came to lay siege.
I don’t always say it out loud,
but I’m grateful.
Not in some big, dramatic way —
just in the quiet, steady way you feel
when you look back and realize
you survived things you thought would break you.
I’m grateful for the people who stayed,
and even the ones who left,
because they taught me something
I didn’t know I needed.
I’m grateful for the days that felt impossible
and the nights I didn’t think I’d make it through,
because somehow I did.
I’m grateful for the small things —
the ones nobody notices
but somehow keep me going:
a warm drink,
a song I forgot I loved,
a moment where my chest doesn’t feel so heavy.
And I’m grateful for myself,
even if I don’t say it enough.
For the version of me that kept trying
when it would’ve been easier to give up.
Gratitude doesn’t fix everything,
but it reminds me that not everything is broken.
And some days,
that’s enough.
You should have left me at the door,
warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.
But you let me in—
soft smile, open hands,
no armor in sight.
Now your heart is on the floor,
shattered where my shadows fell.
I never meant to ruin the quiet,
I just never learned how to love
without bleeding through everything.
If I could gather the pieces,
I would.
But some of us arrive like storms—
not to destroy,
just never taught how to stay gentle.
Through the Fog 