There are objects in my life that have outlived the relationship they came from. Not because I forgot to throw them away. Not because I am holding on. They simply remained. A sweater hanging among my clothes. A leather jacket folded neatly in a cabinet. A bookmark resting between pages I have long since reread.... Continue Reading →
I used to think starting over was something people did in their twenties. Back then, reinvention looked cinematic in my head. A new city. A dramatic goodbye. A montage set to hopeful music. Something decisive enough to divide a life cleanly into before and after. But real beginnings, I’ve learned, are much quieter than that.... Continue Reading →
There is a quiet kind of strength in no longer needing your life to hurt in order for it to feel meaningful. And maybe adulthood, at its gentlest form, is simply this: Learning that peace is not emptiness. It is safety. It is enoughness. It is finally being able to sit in a quiet room without feeling the need to destroy yourself just to hear something louder.
I used to think pain was the only honest thing I could write about. Heartbreak made everything louder. Songs sounded deeper. Nights felt longer. Even silence had weight to it. There was always something to bleed onto paper—someone to miss, something to regret, some version of myself standing in the ruins of almost. And maybe... Continue Reading →
For months, I kept silent. Not because I wanted to hide, but because I didn’t understand. I didn't have the words to explain why entire afternoons would slip away without memory. Why, sometimes, I would look in the mirror and not recognize myself. Why I would float above conversations, watching myself speak as if I were someone else. Why my world would suddenly feel dreamlike, muffled, distant. And why, despite it all, I kept telling myself: “Maybe I’m just tired.”
Zenith IRLs 