Mending
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Strength does not always look like taming a lion; sometimes it has four small hands reminding a mother why she keeps going.
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She went looking for somewhere to put her grief and found the moon, the forest, an abandoned house, and eventually herself.
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The witching hour belongs less to monsters than to women who learned to carry their own light through every shadow.
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The questions changed from who will love me to what part of myself I buried, and suddenly the cards became kinder.
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Midnight has witnessed the ink, cold coffee, motherhood, ghosts, and every unfinished version of her that found a voice after dark.
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July fifteenth asks one heart to celebrate a son’s birthday while quietly remembering the pregnancy and grief stitched into the same date.
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A love accepted in a smaller shape just to keep one particular person close leaves worth and regret deliberately unresolved.
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A familiar commenter keeps returning to the same haunted houses and poems, becoming a quiet companion at the edge of the lantern light.
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At two in the morning, cold coffee, laundry, and a judgmental cat hold up the same house motherhood keeps running through the dark.
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The page went quiet because healing asked for rest, but the words never left—they were only waiting for tomorrow.
Between Bruises & Blooms 