There are things we carry that we never speak of, not because we don’t want to share them but because words so often fail to hold the weight, the warmth, or the wound that these memories hold, and so we tuck them quietly into the corners of our minds, letting them surface not through stories but through sensations, through echoes, through moments
There’s a certain kind of vulnerability that arrives not when we speak our truths but when we sit in the stillness before something unknown, when we allow ourselves to lean into a moment that hasn’t yet decided what it will become, and it is in that space—between intention and outcome, between choice and consequence—that we meet the most ho
There’s a kind of silence that only arrives when you’ve put something at stake, not just money or time but something far less visible and far more intimate—an emotion, a memory, a fragment of hope you weren’t sure still lived inside you, and it’s in that pause, that breathless space between the action and the result, that we come closest