If you were given a blank page today, what would you ink down? What would you put down if someone handed you a piece of paper and said, “Write to yourself” It sounds simple, but some of us would probably sit for a while, and wouldn’t know where to begin. Most of the time, our […]
This week, I took a course at work where I learned something that was probably obvious but hit me anyway, and hit me hard: We often forget to treat ourselves like we would treat a good friend. We’re so good at being gentle with someone else’s struggles. So good at showing up, listening, and encouraging
Maybe we will live past the era of robots, And time machines will be the norm. We could swim through oblivion And greet our future selves. I would love to. Would you? I would love to say hi to her: A version of me With a tiny bit of grey about to take root, But
I know The flames didn’t curtsy Before they kissed your feet. I know they knocked down The “highly flammable” sign at your feet As they ran to you. Life roasted you whole Without showing red triangles and skull symbols when you walked in. You got no rewind buttons, no previews and no trigger warnings, No
We are blooming,Not because the soil was kind,But because we stayedEven when the darkWrapped itself around our roots. We are bloomingThrough the ache of yesterday,Through our cracked voicesAnd trembling handsThat kept holding on. We are blooming,As we unlearn the falsehoodWe used to preach to our heartsThat we are worthlessAnd inadequate. We are blooming,Slowly, bravely,With petals
You’re sitting in a quiet room.There’s a chair in front of you. No clipboard.No clock ticking on the wall. And in that chair,Is someone who looks like you.Older. Calmer. They’re your therapist for today. You don’t speak right away.You look down, and pick at your fingers.You wonder what this is supposed to be. They wait.But
There’s a poem in my book Wander Under My Sun titled Disappointed. I remember writing it with tears sitting just behind my eyes. I couldn’t cry. But the emotions were heavy on my chest. This poem felt deeply personal. Still does. It came from a pattern I saw too many times. Someone would meet me
I came across a trend on Instagram where poets were sharing poems about meeting their past selves. This was inspired by a poem written by Jennae Cecelia in her poetry book, Deep In My Feels, which is available for pre-order. It made me pause. I thought about my past self: the version of me who
I’ve always been drawn to beautiful things: art, design, poetry. I often look at people’s work and wonder what spoke to them? What inspired every stroke of ink or every smite of pen? I scroll through Pinterest sometimes, looking at all these hand-drawn pieces of art. Some of them have uneven lines, maybe even look
