There are days when everything moves too quickly, when time slips through our hands like sand and we find ourselves breathless, not from running but from holding too much, from carrying too many emotions we haven’t had the time or permission to feel, and in that breathlessness we begin to forget ourselves, not dramatically but gradually, until on
There is a depth in us that is rarely accessed by routine, a place within our emotional architecture that cannot be reached by planning or precision, but only by permission, permission to be uncertain, to be vulnerable, to be present in a moment that doesn’t promise us anything but asks us to show up anyway, and in our fast-moving, constantly per
There is a kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty but full, like the air before a storm or the breath before a confession, and it is in this kind of silence that we often find ourselves late at night when the world has finally quieted down and we’re left alone with our thoughts, with the unresolved pieces of our lives, with the emotions we did