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This piece is about that quiet moment when you start to understand that there's more happening beyond what you can see or control. This is stepping out of your own mind, realizing that you've been living within walls you didn't know existed. The feeling is both familiar and new, like a small part of you that's been waiting for you to notice it all along.

There's a strange comfort in this duality: the awareness that you are both the small, curious being at the bottom and the larger presence above, looking back. You're the house, the flower, the observer, and the observed. You're everything at once, and it's all part of the same story. It's a realization that everything is connected, even when it feels disconnected.

At its core, this piece is about accepting that you're always both the seeker and the found.

Content note: suicide. I'm okay. Read on only if you are too.

The first time I ever tried to kill myself, I was 7. I don't remember what happened earlier in the evening, but the thought occurred to me 'I could just leave'. I had no concept of what suicide meant or that it was even frowned upon. It was bedtime, I went to the kitchen and found what I thought was the sharpest knife (it wasn't) and started sawing at my throat. I didn't like pain, so I'm sure I wasn't pressing hard enough to do anything, but my sister came into the kitchen and screamed. I quickly threw the knife in the drawer and ran back to bed. My dad sat by me and quietly asked why I had done that. My memory is that his tone was soft, but I understood then that I had done something wrong and that if I had gone through with dying that night, it would've affected everyone around me. I wasn't able to answer his question.

The thought that I could 'just kill myself' lasted for 22 more years. It sat so deep in my chest and head, and felt as if it had a body of its own. On the best days it stood by me, reminding me that good things come to an end. On bad days it dogged me, almost moment to moment. I was perpetually stuck between wanting to leave, and not wanting to disappoint the people around me. This was an incredibly lonely time and I didn't speak about it to anyone.

30 did not seem like an age I would make it to, and while I sat with my sadness, the relief was in that I might be able to end it all.

Around the time I turned 29, one person made me realize I couldn't leave. It is simply not possible to exit this world without affecting the people around you. Even if you feel alone, the fact is that you are not. Someone will miss you, or think of you, or look through your belongings and have to decide what to do with them. Someone will notice that you stopped getting coffee, someone will have to explain to someone else where you went, whether vague or honest. Someone will care that you left, I promise.

I had to choose to live. That was not a relief — I still had to go back into the darkness and have a talk with it.

Another person helped me make sense of the darkness. She helped me sort through the thoughts that had plagued me for over two decades. Standing on the edge of suicide for that long is a mentally tough barrier to overcome, and it did not change overnight. The process was not linear, nor was it without pain, but it mattered.

I learned that it is possible to sit with profound sadness and depression and still choose this life, even when it feels hard. I found that strength is not in avoiding the darkness but in facing it head-on, one day at a time. I learned that love can be the lifeline that keeps you here. That incredible human sat with me in the depths of that darkness, not knowing if I'd be there the next day, and that simple act of presence mattered more than anything.

And perhaps most importantly, I've learned that feeling shame about this part of my story doesn't diminish its worth. Changing your thoughts doesn't get you a pat on the back, but it's possibly the most rewarding thing you could do for yourself. I'm proud to say I don't have those thoughts at all anymore, I have a billion reasons to stay. You are not alone, and you are loved.

This piece is about the slow buildup of emotions — how they can stack up inside you, quietly at first, until they start to feel too big to handle. Unaddressed emotions can affect your health, your body, and your thoughts. Eventually, it starts spilling out and affecting everything around it.

When we don't process our feelings, they don't simply disappear; instead, they find ways to make themselves heard through our bodies and minds. That knot in your stomach during stress, the tension headaches, the restless nights, the unexplained fatigue — these are often your body's way of waving a red flag, saying "Hey, we need to deal with this!" The longer we ignore these signals, the louder they become, potentially transforming from whispers of discomfort into shouts of chronic health issues. Just as you wouldn't let garbage pile up in your home because of the obvious consequences, letting emotions stack up creates a similar toxic environment within your internal home — your body and mind.

If you treat feelings like friends — greet each one as it arrives, sit with it, and let it speak — there's a softening that happens. I know this sounds time consuming, but only at first. At some point, if allowed, they pass through you one by one. If you can be present with each feeling, even the difficult ones, you start to see them as guides rather than obstacles. The mess becomes manageable.

Bravery isn't about feeling ready or fearless — it's about showing up even when you're uncertain, taking that first step when part of you wants to hold back. This piece reflects what it feels like to move forward in pieces, carrying doubts, insecurities, and hope all at once. There's a vulnerability in it, a willingness to face the unknown, even when it feels messy. Bravery doesn't ask you to be perfect; it just asks you to keep going.

This is about the ache of disconnection — it's a slow weakening in the ribcage, as if your own breath isn't convinced it belongs inside you. It's the feeling of standing in a room full of people but being miles away, unsure how you got here and even less sure where you'd rather be. The space in my head grows wider, a wish for someplace else, though I'm not quite sure where that is.

I've moved 18 times in my life, and there are more moves to come. I've noticed the cycle — choosing safety over connection, walls over warmth. But constant movement has also taught me how to adapt. I've learned to break life down into smaller pieces, keeping only what I love and letting go of the rest. It's taught me detachment — not in a way that pushes everything away, but in a way that helps me flow through change without losing myself.

Maybe home isn't a place that stays still. Maybe it's more like a feeling that wanders. No house can stand forever, but perhaps the search is teaching me that home isn't meant to be found all at once. Maybe it's built piece by piece, in each moment I allow myself to feel just a bit more connected.

Sometimes, words fail to capture what we're truly feeling. For those who experience emotions deeply, trying to explain them to people who haven't connected with their own feelings often leads to misunderstanding — and that can be profoundly lonely. When we share our emotions, we offer the other person a chance to explore this depth with us. But without genuine curiosity on their end, the connection feels hollow, as if our emotions have nowhere to land. It becomes an echo instead of an exchange, vulnerability met with silence. True understanding requires more than just listening — it demands curiosity.

Perhaps the solution isn't in finding better words but in finding better listeners. If you constantly feel misunderstood, it might be a sign that you're opening up to the wrong people — those who aren't equipped or willing to hold the depth of your feelings. Not everyone has the capacity to meet you there, and that's okay. It doesn't diminish the validity of your emotions; it just means that not everyone is the right person for these conversations. It might be time to seek out those who are genuinely curious, who listen not just with their ears, but with their hearts.

This is about learning to move forward when you can't quite see where you're going. It's a reminder that sometimes, we don't have to know every detail of the path ahead to make progress. It's about the balance between wanting something deeply and being patient enough to let it come in its own time. Every stroke of the oar still matters, guiding you closer, bit by bit.

Trusting the universe isn't about sitting back and waiting; it's about taking small, purposeful actions, even if the big picture is still blurry. For example, if there's something you really want — like a new job, a stronger relationship, or even inner peace — try focusing on the feeling of already having it. What would that feel like? Practice experiencing that feeling daily, and let it guide your actions and decisions. This way, you're moving toward what you want while giving it space to come together in its own time.

Another step is to start noticing the small signs along the way — those moments of clarity or insight that feel like tiny bursts of encouragement. Maybe it's an idea, a conversation, or something unexpected that just feels right. These small signs remind you that even when the path isn't clear, you're still on it.

This piece invites you to keep going, even if the full destination isn't visible yet. Trust that with every step, you're aligning yourself more closely with the things you want. Keep the vision in mind, take small steps toward it, and let the universe do the rest. Sometimes, the journey itself is what prepares you for the destination.

There are layered feelings here. On the surface, this is about inner exploration. But if you want a breakdown, read the section you felt most drawn to and see if it resonates.

The two feminine figures — Think of these two as the parts of yourself that are always in quiet conversation — the one that wants to keep you safe and the one that longs to explore and grow. It's like the Ego and the Self having a heart-to-heart. They each want the best for you but in different ways, and that can create a little tension. The trick? Getting grounded, getting curious, and letting yourself feel whatever comes up without judgment. After all, light can't exist without darkness, and sometimes those so-called 'negative' emotions are just your inner child trying to protect you. By healing those tender parts, you let go of old patterns and make room for something new.

The bull mask figure — The bull mask is all about the struggle between showing strength and letting yourself be soft. This part of you has likely carried a lot, worn its armor well, and it's tough to let that go. But there's so much strength in gentleness. Ferdinand the Bull found his peace sitting among the flowers instead of fighting — and maybe you can, too. It's okay to put down the mask sometimes and let yourself just be, trusting that you don't lose anything by showing your softer side.

The flower figure — This figure is pure growth energy. She knows how to peel back the layers, letting life unfold in cycles. She's that part of you that's learning not to judge yourself too harshly, to accept that no one's perfect and that growth can be gentle if you let it. Life doesn't have to be so hard, especially when you approach it with curiosity. This part of you is ready to explore the inner landscape and let change happen naturally, one petal at a time.

The train — The train represents that inner drive to keep moving forward, the reminder that you're always on your path, even when it doesn't feel like it. Look back, and you'll see that every twist and turn led you here. But there's no need to rush — just know that every small step, every thought, and every emotion is helping create the path ahead. The train's message is simple: trust in the journey, knowing that growth is happening, even in the quiet moments.

The window — The window is all about perspective — a little portal showing you that there's more beyond what you can see right now. It's not just about looking out, though; it's about letting yourself be seen and daring to connect with the world outside your own thoughts. The window invites you to imagine and dream, to see the bigger picture beyond your own boundaries.

The car & streetlamp — These tiny, everyday objects are gentle reminders of the beauty in simple things. The car hints at movement on a smaller scale, like the little shifts that can lead to big change over time. The streetlamp sheds light just far enough to see the next step, encouraging you to focus on the present moment rather than worrying about the whole path. Together, they're reminders to appreciate small joys, to trust in the little steps, and to let each tiny bit of progress guide you forward.

The house — The house feels like both a container and an opening — a place that holds every part of you but still allows for growth. It's where you go to feel safe, but it's also where the journey begins. With the flower blooming from its chimney, there's a message that no matter how rooted you feel, there's always space to grow and reach beyond. The house is you: layered, complex, both grounded and boundless.

This piece is about seeing ourselves as both vast and contained. My hope is to remind you that growth isn't a straight line but an unfolding of layers, a journey through cycles where each step, each feeling, holds purpose. To walk this path is to embrace all parts of ourselves, to recognize the strength in softness, and to allow our inner landscape to transform naturally — knowing that even in moments of stillness, we are moving forward.

This is about the beauty of stillness — the kind that finds you when you least expect it, the quietest kind of noticing. This is being in a waiting room, or sitting on a porch and just finding things you like about that moment. Maybe it's something external — the way the light is hitting your pet's nose. Or maybe it's internal: you ate the perfect amount of food, not too full but satisfied.

It's as if the world opens up in these in-between moments, offering tiny glimpses of grace that are easy to miss when you're rushing forward. It's a reminder that even when things feel uncertain, there's a softness to be found in simply noticing what is. It's about being present, not as an act of discipline, but as a kind of surrender. It's tuning into the quiet, and in that quiet, finding something that makes you feel happy.