Between Bruises and Blooms
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Family is sometimes found, not inherited—in the people who stay quietly enough that their kindness eventually becomes home.
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Two friends learn grief side by side, discovering that loss does not end so much as permanently change the rhythm of breathing.
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Somewhere between packed boxes and the road out of British Columbia lived the quiet thought that almost made her stay.
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Butterflies show up somewhere between midnight nachos, teasing messages, and the kind of ordinary conversation that feels unexpectedly electric.
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Years disappear whenever one familiar name lights up her phone and her heart remembers how to be fourteen again.
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Before she even reads the message, her smile recognizes the name—proof that memory lives as much in the body as the mind.
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One poem became pages, collections, and finally a home where every grieving, healing, loving, surviving version of her could belong.
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Writing the hard things is not about making pain beautiful; it is about finding honest words and refusing to hide what survived.
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At four in the morning, she misses the heavy quiet that once softened sleeplessness, anxiety, and the relentless sprint inside her mind.
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Some people arrive like seasons; this is for the one who stayed through grief, hospital rooms, silence, and everything that followed.
Between Bruises & Blooms 