My body has its own calendar. Some weeks I feel full—radiant, magnetic, ready to pour out. Other weeks, I am called inward, craving stillness and simplicity. Some days want movement and expression, and others require softness, solitude, and slowness. The more I listen, the more I realize my body already knows what my mind is trying to schedule.

I used to think that home was a place I could find in someone else’s arms: my immediate family, in a relationship that promised safety, but never delivered it. I thought I could decorate my way into belonging, filling empty rooms with candles and gentle music, hoping something outside of me would soften the ache within. But over time, I’ve discovered the truth: I am my home.

A name is never just a name. It is lineage, it is legacy, it is prayer. For me, taking someone else’s last name has never felt like the path to belonging, because I already belong to myself. My name is not up for negotiation.

As I read The Great Cosmic Mother by Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor, I approached the literature with a tender heart and an open mind.

I rose later than I’d planned, or than I desired, if I’m being honest. You know those days when you set intentions, sketch a rhythm, even imagine the energy you want to feel by bedtime, and then it slips? That was today.

Lately, I’ve been exploring the caverns of my psyche, unintentionally in the conscious sense, but undeniably led by the undercurrent of my soul. There were questions lodged in my spirit that no spreadsheet, no sermon, no well-meaning friend could resolve.

i don’t know who needs to hear this. maybe it’s a reminder for me. but crumbs? we’re not receiving that. not in this timeline. not in this frequency. not in this version of you who has walked through fire, bathed in ash, risen like a whole phoenix and still managed to serve softness on a silver platter.