this tender storm called life
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when healing tastes like anger
I find myself awake again, early in the morning. It’s 4:31 a.m. here in D.C., and for the last two hours I’ve been working on my book. My pen moves, my fingers type, but somewhere in the middle of writing about healing, I had to stop. Anger rose up in me like a tide I…
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rewriting what love means
i was not born broken. i was not born carrying shame. those things were forced into me by the very person who was supposed to protect me. my father—the man who should have been my safe place, my shield—was the one who tore me apart. i was mentally, emotionally, physically, and sexually abused by him.…
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shawnee mac: where my heart always returns
shawnee mac lakes conservation area has been a quiet thread through my life for over a decade. tucked into the edges of small-town salem, missouri, it holds two serene lakes—ziske and turner—each reflecting the sky like a secret it’s willing to share only if you linger. the moment you step onto the path, the air…
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loving myself enough to know what i deserve
there was a time when i thought love was something to earn—something i had to chase, prove, or bargain for. i believed that if i worked hard enough to be agreeable, if i bent my edges just right, someone would finally stay. it took years, and more heartbreaks than i care to count, to understand…
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friendship, fully grown
at thirty-six, friendship feels less like a social accessory and more like the quiet architecture of my life. it isn’t background color; it’s the framework that steadies me when everything else tilts. i used to believe friendship was about shared interests—late-night talks, inside jokes, the rush of being inseparable. those pieces still matter, but the…
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when the quiet asks louder than the noise
“asking for little is not a sign of smallness—it is a quiet proof of worth, a wildflower strength that blooms even when the world stays silent.” there is a rare strength in the smallest requests. the world teaches us to shout, to demand, to prove our worth by the volume of our voices, yet there…
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seeing myself through shifting glass
body dysmorphia is a quiet thief. it slips into the room without a sound, bending the light around every mirror until nothing looks the way it should. it does not announce itself with sirens. it waits in the reflection of a storefront window, in the accidental photo someone tags you in, in the pause between…
Whispered Words | thtgrlinbloom, 🌻 