Between Bruises and Blooms
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At 12:10 p.m., one sleepy child opens her eyes and morning finally begins on her own stubborn schedule.
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Regret may line the path behind her, but it does not get to choose the direction of the next step.
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Summer leaves the way some loves do: warm on the skin, already fading before you realize it was the last time.
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The ocean lives in her like inheritance—salt, tide, ache, and the pull toward places that feel older than memory.
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Joy can be ordinary enough to serve for breakfast: small, messy, sweet, and gone before you realize you needed it.
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Becoming means naming who she is now without softening it, and deciding which old versions no longer get to come along.
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Some feelings live between grief, longing, relief, and fear—too complicated for one word and too real to ignore.
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While adults count scars and hard days, a child finds music in an ordinary afternoon and dances anyway.
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After a night of bottles, cries, and tiny hands refusing sleep, morning arrives late and no one apologizes for needing it.
Between Bruises & Blooms 