Healing
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Some call it escape. Maybe they’re right. But sometimes it’s the only place my shoulders remember how to unclench. The world demands I carry grief like it’s weightless. Cannabis asks nothing. Only, “Sit for a while.” So I do. I breathe. I watch thoughts stop colliding long enough to hear my own heartbeat beneath the…
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Maybe one day I won’t have to choose between relief and proving myself. Maybe one day healing won’t come with conditions. Maybe one day I’ll light a joint without wondering who might judge the smoke. Until then, I’ll keep choosing the future I’ve been fighting for— one clear morning at a time.
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There are therapists who charge by the hour. There are forests that charge nothing. And somewhere between them is the curl of fragrant smoke lifting toward the ceiling like prayers without a religion. I don’t chase oblivion. I chase quiet. The kind where anxiety loosens, creativity stretches, and laughter finds its way home. Healing doesn’t…
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They might test my blood. They’ll never test the nights I stayed awake rocking babies. They’ll never measure the panic attacks I survived sober. They’ll never weigh the meals I forced myself to eat, or the mornings I got out of bed when depression begged me not to. Sometimes being a good mother looks nothing…
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There are names the wind remembers,Even when the world grows still.Some children stay in photographs,Some live beyond the hill. You were only ours for moments,Yet forever you’ll remain.Not only in our memories,But in our joy and pain. Your brothers and your sistersWill know your gentle light,Because love does not stop existingSimply because you’re out of…
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They’ll always have an opinion. Too loud.Too quiet.Too broken.Too healed.Too honest.Too much. They’ll call art a wastebecause they cannot seethe pieces of my soulpressed between the lines. They’ll ask why it doesn’t rhyme,as though painhas ever followedsomeone else’s rules. They’ll laugh at the wordsthat kept me breathing,dismiss the pagesthat carried mewhen nothing else could. They’ll…
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I never stopped loving you,Not through the silence,Not through the waiting,Not through the miles that weren’t measured in distance. Love isn’t always foundIn perfect timing.Sometimes it’s foundIn hope that refuses to fade. I dream of ordinary things—Coffee growing cold,Tiny hands reaching for us,A home filled with laughter instead of longing. Until then,I’ll keep believingThat broken…
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They see the smoke. They don’t see the panic attack that never happened. They smell the flower. They don’t smell the sleepless nights it softened. They judge the ritual. They never witnessed the battles it helped me survive. Funny, how the loudest opinions so often belong to people who’ve never carried your pain.
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They say a mother is born with her child,But mine was forged in storms. In hospital lights,In whispered prayers,In fear that stole my breath. She was bornWhen I chose courageEven while shaking. She was bornWhen exhaustion became routine,And love became instinct. She was bornHolding babies with one arm,And holding herself together with the other. I…
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I didn’t quit because I stopped needing it. I quit because tiny hands needed me more. There are nights when sleep still hides, when food still tastes like cardboard, when anxiety paces the hallway inside my mind. And sometimes I remember the little green flower that once taught my lungs how to breathe again. But…
Between Bruises and Blooms 