Resilience
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Porches, gravel roads, abandoned houses, forests, and kitchens become the places that held her when people could not.
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The woman who once waited has already left, and the old door was burned for firewood the moment almost stopped being enough.
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After they left, the fire remained—and grief slowly revealed itself as the same stubborn life still writing, rebuilding, and choosing tomorrow.
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The ocean never apologizes for its tides, and neither should a heart be ashamed for loving deeply.
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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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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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The harm did not come from some abstract darkness; it had a familiar face, a familiar voice, and choices that belonged to you.
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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.
Between Bruises & Blooms 