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My Final Act of Love

  I hope you know this that I have always loved you. Not quietly.   Not carefully.   But fully, recklessly, with a heart that never learned how to hold back. I still love you.   And maybe some loves do not end the way stories promise they will.   Maybe they don’t fade or soften or become memories.   Maybe they just stay—unchanged—inside us, long after everything else has moved on. But loving you has also been disheartening.   Heartbreaking.   Heart-shattering in ways I didn’t know a heart could break. I never knew what you wanted from me.   Or from us—if there ever truly was an “us.”   I kept wondering, kept hoping, that in some small corner of your heart, there was a place where I existed the way you existed in mine.   Because if there was—even for a moment—that meant everything to me. I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about you.   Or why letting go feels impossible, ...
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To the Part of Me That’s Still Afraid to Be Me

 I realized something today. Something I’ve been living with all along, but never dared to say out loud: Even as I laugh, speak, walk, post, text, smile — There’s a quiet part of me watching. Monitoring. Asking: "What will they think of me now?" It’s exhausting — this invisible performance. The constant rewinding of moments in my mind, playing back what I said, how I said it, wondering if I sounded wrong, too much, too quiet, too emotional, too everything. And the saddest part? I’m not even sure who “they” are anymore. Just shadows I keep trying to please. Ghosts of judgment I never invited — but somehow never let go of. But today… I saw it. Named it. And in naming it, I softened something inside me. I whispered,  “You don’t need to be perfect to be loved. You just need to be real.” Because what kind of life is it, if I’m always rehearsing instead of living? I want to trust my voice again. I want to say things without shrinking afterward. I want to move through the world with...
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Home: A Four-Letter Word That Never Felt Mine.

HOME 🏡 Home.  A four letter word, complete in itself. Just bricks and beams?? And you Humans yearn to be at home? Or can we can say that Home is not just bricks and beams—it's the quiet faith between souls, the soft place where trust curls up and sleeps without fear. Home, to an infant, isn’t a room with walls or a crib in the corner. It’s a feeling—intimate, primal, and wordless. It’s the steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath a soft chest—the first sound they ever trusted. It’s the warmth of skin and the scent of milk, familiar and grounding like gravity. It’s being cradled in arms that never let go, even when the world spins too fast. To an infant, home is eyes that always find them in a room. It’s voices that sing lullabies in half-sleep, hands that rock them through storms they can’t name. It’s the place where every cry gets answered—not just with help, but with knowing. Where their needs are met not out of duty, but out of love so natural, it feels like breath...
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