They also say if you have goals, things will get better. That if you have something to live for, you’ll eventually see the light at the end of the tunnel. I have goals. I know what I’m supposed to be working towards. I even have people who love me, people who actually care. But none of that switch anything off in my head. It doesn’t suddenly make things feel okay. And that makes me feel like something is wrong with me.

I know I’m not alone, I know I have support. But they’re not the problem. They never were. It’s me. Or at least it feels like it is, because no matter what I have, I still end up in the same place.

How do you have people who love you and still feel like you’re the one thing that doesn’t belong anywhere?

I try to remind myself that I should keep going for them, that I’m living for them. But even that doesn’t always work. Why do I choose to live, but not for myself? If I were living for myself, I would have been dead when I was 13.

It’s hard to explain how you can have a purpose in life and still feel like your mind is pulling you in the opposite direction. Like you’re split in two—one side trying to hold on to meaning, and the other side slowly letting go.

Almost 24/7 my mind keep making up these scenarios of me dying..

Do I feel guilty when I think about those scenarios? No, I don’t. I’m not sure why, but seeing myself in a messed-up situation, with blood everywhere and at the end of my last breath, with everything falling apart, feels kind of peaceful to me.

It feels peaceful to me because I don’t want people to waste their energy on me. I know how hard it is to live with or be friends with someone who actively wants to die. I just feel like if I’m gone, it would be less of a hassle for everyone.

I tried to believe that I will get better when I grow up, I’ve been cutting myself and overdosing since I was 13 until now. Does it get better like everyone says? No, not at all. I just getting good at faking being fine on the surface but deep down, I try to destroy myself daily.

This is what it feels like to live inside my head. And no matter how busy I try to be, or how many reasons I try to hold onto, it’s always there, waiting to for me to destroy me.

There are no words that can truly explain how good mania feels. People try to describe it with simple words like “happy” or “energetic,” but those words feel small and weak compared to what it actually feels like inside my mind. Mania is not just happiness. It’s something bigger than that. It’s like suddenly waking up after months of living underwater. Colors look brighter, music sounds deeper, conversations feel exciting, and the world feels like it has opened itself just for me. During those moments I feel alive in a way that is almost impossible to describe to someone who has never experienced it. My mind moves fast but, ideas come one after another like sparks of light. Plans appear so easily: new routines, new goals, new dreams.

When mania is there, everything feels possible. Talking to people becomes effortless. I suddenly want to reconnect with everyone I care about. I want to go out, explore places, meet friends, laugh loudly, stay awake longer, experience everything life has to offer. Even small things feel magical. Walking outside feels like an adventure. The air feels different in my lungs. My body feels lighter, like gravity has loosened its grip on me. I feel confident in ways that are almost shocking compared to my usual self. Doubt disappears. Fear becomes quiet. I believe I can fix my life, rebuild relationships, chase dreams, and finally move forward.

During mania I feel like the best version of myself finally shows up. It feels like my brain unlocks something hidden, something powerful that normally stays buried under the weight of depression. I want to do things instead of hiding from them. The strange part is that during mania I also feel incredibly real, it feels like the fog has finally lifted and I can see the world clearly again. And that’s why it’s so hard when it disappears. Because when mania is there, it feels like I’ve finally been given my life back.

But it never lasts long.

A few hours ago, I actually felt okay. And then, almost out of nowhere, it changed. The energy disappeared. The thoughts that felt bright just an hour ago suddenly felt unreachable. I could feel depression slowly taking over my body again. Mind you, it is 2:30 AM and I’m at work. This is how cruel mental health can be, you never know what’s coming after you. My job is to take care of people who can’t take care of themselves. That’s the strange part of this life, helping others while feeling like I’m falling apart inside. I have to smile, talk to co-workers, and interact with patients even though I feel empty. To distract myself and stay stable during this shift, I’m writing this.

There are also no words that can fully explain what depression feels like when it takes over. Just like mania is more than happiness, depression is more than sadness. It feels like something inside me shuts down slowly until even the smallest things become difficult. The plans I made during mania suddenly feel impossible. Things that once felt exciting now feel heavy and pointless. The energy disappears and is replaced with this quiet weight that sits with me.

When depression comes, I isolate myself. Not because I want to ghost people, but because depression makes me do it. Replying to messages feels overwhelming. Conversations feel exhausting before they even start. Even when people mean a lot to me, I still disappear from them. My phone fills with messages that I read and then leave unanswered. Sometimes I stare at the screen trying to find the energy to respond, but the words never come. The longer I stay silent, the harder it becomes to break that silence.

Right now, I’m fully shutting down from everything around me. These depression days, I stay in bed longer than I should, sometimes crying without really knowing why. Other times I don’t cry at all and just feel empty instead. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to shower. Even basic things like getting up, brushing my teeth, or walking outside feel like climbing a mountain. My body feels heavy and slow, like gravity suddenly became stronger.

Depression makes the world feel far away. It creates distance between me and everyone around me. The person who was excited and full of plans during mania disappears, and what’s left is someone who is just trying to make it through the day without collapsing. And sometimes the hardest part is knowing how different everything felt just a few days before.

Right now, I’m secretly hoping mania comes back soon.

I only have three days before I see my family again. I want them to see me happy. I don’t want to fake a smile or force myself to look okay. I want the real happiness that comes with mania, the bright version of me that laughs easily and believes life is good.

Small note to you: Thank you for reading. If you relate to this, just know that everything will be okay. I can’t promise that for sure because right now, I’m in the dark as well. Mental health is hard, but we should be proud of ourselves for staying alive this long. Especially for those who are suffering from bipolar, you will probably relate to this the most (I love you the most).

I can’t say it out loud, and no one would guess it by looking at me, but it’s always there, a quiet weight pressing on everything I do. Whenever someone gets close, whenever they show me care that feels real, something in my chest tightens and I panic. There’s this voice, always whispering, always asking: what happens when they see the real me? What happens when they see all the broken, dark, exhausting parts I hide even from myself? And the answer my mind keeps giving me is the same one I’ve always known: they’ll leave. They’ll leave, not because they want to hurt me, but because they will finally see what I see, what I’ve believed about myself forever, that I am not enough, that I am too broken, too flawed, too impossible to hold onto.

In my mind, love always feels temporary when it is directed at me. It never feels like something meant to stay, only like a fragile moment that will eventually fade once the other person sees too much. Because of that, I often leave before anyone else has the chance to. Pushing people away feels like protecting myself from the inevitable disappointment I believe is coming. If I am the one who leaves, then at least I won’t have to experience the moment of being abandoned. It’s a strange kind of safety, choosing loneliness over the risk of finding out that I was never truly worth staying for. But the truth is, it hurts more than I like to admit.

Because the painful irony in all of this is that I actually love people very deeply. Loving others feels natural to me, almost instinctive. When I care about someone, I give them my time, my patience, my understanding. I want them to feel seen and supported. I want them to know that they matter, that their pain matters, that they don’t have to face the world alone. I can love people so openly that sometimes it feels like my heart was built for that purpose. But when the roles reverse, something inside me collapses. Not because I want to. Not because I don’t care about the person standing in front of me. But because being loved feels unfamiliar. It feels like standing in a place I was never meant to belong, like wearing something that was never made for me. There is a tension between the part of me that yearns for connection and the part that cannot risk it, the part that believes being loved is somehow dangerous because it exposes all the cracks I’ve spent a lifetime hiding.

Sometimes I think about how easily I hold space for other people’s pain while struggling so much to let anyone hold space for mine. I can sit beside someone in their darkness without judging them. I can remind them that they are worthy of love even on their worst days. But when I try to turn those same words inward, they feel hollow, unreachable. Loving outwardly is easy because it requires no confrontation with my own fractured reflection. Loving inwardly requires me to face the parts of myself I have spent a lifetime hiding, the chaos, the broken person.

I think it’s because loving others feels safe. I can give as much as I want without exposing the parts of myself I feel ashamed of. But being loved requires something different. It requires vulnerability. It means letting someone see the parts of me that I usually keep hidden, and trusting that they won’t leave once they do. That kind of trust is something I’m still learning.

Someone once asked me, “You say you love others deeply, but if you can’t receive love yourself, how do you know how to give it?” At the time, I didn’t know how to answer. Now I think I do. Whenever someone gives me love freely, it feels like a trap. It shouldn’t feel that way, but it does. For me, love has always been something I have to earn, something I must fight for, sweat for, bleed for even to prove myself worthy of. I’ve grown used to the idea that if I want to be loved, I must give something in return. So when love comes without strings, without conditions, without me having to perform or offer anything in exchange, my mind recoils. I don’t trust it. I feel the walls closing in, even though they shouldn’t exist. It doesn’t feel like freedom, it feels like a test, a trap waiting for me to fail. The more someone loves me without demand, the more I expect the catch, the moment when it all vanishes, when I’ll have to give something I can’t, or shouldn’t, or simply don’t have to give. And so, I shut people out. Not because I don’t want love, but because love that comes too easily terrifies me. It makes me question myself, my worth, my place. The gift of it feels too big, too heavy, too impossible to hold without breaking. I’ve been taught that love is earned, and anything that challenges that truth feels dangerous. Even when I crave connection, when I want someone to love me freely, that very freedom is what drives me away.

Even my friends notice. One of them once asked me, “Why do you never let us in? We love you, all of you but you shut us out. You push us away. You don’t have to be perfect for us to stay, but you refuse to let anyone near. You can’t keep shutting us down like this.” Their words cut through me because they are true, but the truth terrifies me. They love me freely, without conditions, without judgment and yet, my fear of being seen is stronger than their love. It keeps me hiding, closing the door, locking the parts of me I believe are irredeemably unlovable. I want to let them in. I ache to let them in. But the habit of thinking: You have nothing to offer. You are unworthy. You do not deserve anyone’s love unless you can give something back, unless you can prove yourself worthy, unless you can perform love as a payment for being held. Love, in my mind, has always been earned. I long for love and I crave it and yet, I can only retreat, because the truth I carry with me is that I am not enough, that I have never been enough, and perhaps I never will be.

So I keep repeating the same pattern. I let people get close enough to feel hope, and then I slowly begin to pull away. I convince myself that I am protecting them from the burden of loving someone like me. I tell myself that eventually they would see what I see anyway, so leaving early is somehow kinder than letting them stay long enough to regret it.

I have come to realize that this fear is rooted not just in self-doubt, but in my inability to love myself fully. I cannot truly allow someone to love me when I am still withholding that love from myself. I cannot open my heart to another without first learning to hold tenderness for the person I see in the mirror. Loving others is easy because it doesn’t require confronting my own flaws, but receiving love, or even letting it stay, requires me to meet myself with the same compassion I offer so freely to others. Until I learn to value myself, to accept my broken parts and my imperfections, the walls I’ve built will always stay in place, and the love that reaches for me will always be met with instinctive flight.

I think about the people I’ve pushed away. The ones who stayed too long, the ones who tried, who reached for me when I wasn’t ready. I feel guilty for hurting them, even though I know I did it out of fear, out of self-preservation. And that guilt sits with me like a shadow that follows me everywhere. I want to make it right. I want to be able to let them in. But my instinct is still this: I don’t deserve love this freely. I’m just a piece of shit, someone who’s never deserved to be loved, and so I close the door before they can see too much. I know, somewhere, that I need to start with myself. I need to learn to love myself, to accept my cracks and flaws and chaos. Until I do, I will continue to push away the very people who could show me the love I have always wanted. Loving others is not enough. I must first be able to love myself, to hold myself as I hold them, to give myself the kindness I freely give to others. Only then can I let someone in without flinching, only then can love reach me fully without being met with instinctive flight.

And maybe one day, I will stop running. Maybe one day, I will stop fearing that love is too much, that I am too much. Maybe one day, I will let someone see me, messy, fragile, imperfect me and stay anyway. Maybe one day, I will open my heart to receive the warmth I have always wanted, without guilt, without fear, without hiding. Maybe one day, I will believe that I am worthy of love. Maybe, finally, I will let love live inside me without running, without shrinking, without fear.

And maybe that is the quiet contradiction I live with for now, I know how to love others with an open heart, but when it is my turn to receive that same love, my first instinct is still to run.

Thank you for reading, do you feel the same?

I swear I have never hated anything as consistently as I hate this month.

It’s almost the end of February and I’ve been counting down February like I’m waiting for it to loosen its grip on me. I don’t know why it feels like this every single year. I was born in this month. That’s it. That’s the only “crime” February committed. And yet somehow it feels like the root of everything. This month holds the original version of me , the first cry, the first breath, the first moment I existed in the world. And every year when it comes back, it drags that beginning with it. It reminds me that I started here. That I have a date attached to my existence. That I was placed into this world without ever choosing it.

February, you are the month I was born. This sentence should feel special. But when I say it in my head, it feels like a heavy hot stone I’ve been carrying for years without knowing where to put it down. You are the beginning of me. And sometimes I imagine if February didn’t exist at all. If the calendar skipped from January to March and nobody questioned it. Would I have slipped through too? Would I have stayed a possibility instead of becoming a person? Would that have been easier? And sometimes that thought feels… easier.

I know that sounds horrible. It’s just a month. But every time February comes around, I start feeling like I shouldn’t have been born at all. Like my existence is tied to something I resent. The date feels like a mark I can’t erase. A reminder that I still here, whether I wanted to or not.

Every time you come around, I feel exposed. Like the world is pointing at me and saying, “Another year.” Another year of being alive. Another year of not feeling quite right in my own skin. Another year of wondering if I’m actually becoming who I’m supposed to be or if I’m just drifting, moving forward because time does, not because I know where I’m going. February feels like a checkpoint I didn’t ask for, a marker that forces me to stop and look at myself and acknowledge, “You’re still here.” And sometimes that feels comforting, like proof that I’ve survived. But other times it feels like pressure pressing against my ribs.

Sometimes I think about the version of my parents before me. Before February. Before the hospital room. Before my first cry. There was a world moving without me in it. And sometimes that thought feels peaceful. A world that didn’t need to make space for me at all (why can’t it stay like that).

I don’t know why I struggle with that so much. Maybe it’s because being born means being seen. It means taking up space. It means having expectations attached to you. And some days I feel too small for all of that.

And it’s never just my birthday.

There’s always something. Some problem. Some emotional breakdown. Some situation that feels like it was designed to test how much I can handle. Every February there’s always “that something” and that something always pushes me closer to the edge of myself. It makes me question everything. It makes me tired in a way that sleep can’t fix.

This year is worse because it’s my graduation year. Of course it has to be in February. Of course the universe thought it would be funny to stack celebrations on top of each other. I already hate celebrating my birthday. I already hate being the center of attention, pretending I’m grateful and excited and full of life. Now I have to celebrate graduating too? Smile for photos. Dress up. Let people clap for me. Act like this is the happiest moment of my life.

I never planned to live this long. I never imagined this far ahead. When I was younger, the future felt blurry, like something that might not even happen. And now here I am, in my graduation ceremony, being told to celebrate again. As if my birthday wasn’t already hard enough. As if standing under that spotlight once wasn’t exhausting enough.

I’m supposed to feel proud. Accomplished. Grateful. I’m supposed to smile for pictures and hug people and let them tell me how amazing this is. And I know logically it is an achievement. I worked for it. I earned it. But inside I just feel tired. I don’t feel like celebrating. I don’t feel like being seen. I don’t even feel like explaining why I don’t feel happy.

I hate this month not because of the days themselves, but because of what they force me to confront. That I began. That I’m still here. That time keeps moving whether I feel ready or not.

It’s almost over now.

And I’m still here.

I don’t know if that’s strength or just habit anymore.

Valentine’s Day does not feel like a celebration to me.
It feels like grief returning in a familiar shape, knocking softly on a door I never truly closed. Every year it arrives carrying the weight of all the love I once gave away. The careful, trembling love I placed into other people’s hands as if they would know how to protect it. I gave it honestly. I gave it completely. And somehow, it always came back to me in silence… or worse, it never came back at all.

This day is not only about being alone in the present.
It is about standing inside the memory of every moment I chose someone with my whole heart and realizing how uneven it was, how my feelings stretched far beyond the space they were given. There is a particular kind of pain in that mismatch, in loving deeply while being received only lightly. It makes you question not just the relationship, but the worth of your own tenderness. You start to wonder if your love was too much, too soft, too patient… or simply given to the wrong places again and again.

On Valentine’s Day, I do not just miss people.
I miss the version of myself that existed when I believed love would stay.

I miss the hope that felt natural instead of dangerous.
I miss the innocence of giving without calculating how much it might cost me later.
I miss the heart that did not yet know what it meant to be slowly emptied.

Because this day becomes a quiet memorial for all of that.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just heavy.
Like standing alone in a room filled with invisible ghosts of old conversations, old promises, old feelings that once felt permanent and now exist only as echoes inside my chest. The world outside continues with flowers and laughter, but inside me there is only this slow mourning for emotions that had nowhere to land once everything ended.

What hurts the most is not that love left.
It is realizing how much of myself I buried with it.

Pieces of trust.
Pieces of softness.
Pieces of belief that I was someone worth choosing and keeping.

And Valentine’s Day presses gently on all of those buried places, as if asking me to remember what I try so hard to forget the rest of the year. It turns quiet sadness into something heavier, something closer to truth. A truth that whispers: you gave everything, and it still was not enough to make someone stay.

There is a loneliness in that realization that words cannot fully described.
Not the simple loneliness of being physically alone, but the deeper loneliness of feeling unseen even when you were standing right beside someone. The kind of loneliness that makes you question whether love was ever meant for you in the same way it seems meant for others.

And yet… beneath all this grief, something fragile still remains.
Because if my heart were truly empty, this day would not hurt at all.

The pain is proof that I loved sincerely.
The grief is proof that what I felt was real.
The heaviness is proof that my heart once carried something beautiful, even if it was never protected the way it deserved.

So Valentine’s Day becomes both a wound and a witness.
A reminder of loss… and a quiet testimony that I was capable of loving with everything I had.

And maybe the rawest truth is this:
I am not only grieving the people who left.
I am grieving the love I keep giving away.

Still, I remain here, holding the weight of it.
Breathing through it.
Carrying a heart that is bruised
but somehow still beating.

And I do not know if that is strength or just survival.
But on Valentine’s Day, survival is the only language my heart understands.

I hope that someday, a version of me will arrive who can see Valentine’s Day differently, not as a reminder of loss, not as a quiet season of grief, but as a day meant for love in all its forms. I hope that future me will allow herself to feel it without fear, to let someone hold her without suspicion, to let someone see her heart without breaking it. But I know that version will not arrive overnight. It will take time, because the me that exists now carries so much weight, so many scars etched from loving too deeply and being met with empty in return.

Right now, Valentine’s Day feels like a mirror reflecting the gaps and cracks of my past. It highlights the unevenness of all the hearts I have touched and all the hands that could not hold mine. It is heavy. It is quiet. It is suffocating in the way that grief often is. And yet, I cling to the hope that someday, that version of me will emerge. That she will sit in the same day, not with a mourning heart, but with one capable of warmth, capable of celebration, capable of recognizing her own worth.

I am not there yet. I am still learning. I am still walking through the shadows of my own past, carrying the echo of every love that left me behind. But I hold onto this: the love I give is not gone. The love I am, in all my brokenness, is not wrong. And maybe, one day, the me who finally understands that will stand in the middle of Valentine’s Day and finally feel it, not the ache of what was lost, but the steady pulse of what is still alive within me.

Until that day arrives, I remain here, heavy with grief, aware of the past, but still holding space for the love that has yet to come. And somehow, in the rawness of this waiting, that is enough to keep me breathing.

A Small Personal Letter to All of You ⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ⊹ ♡

Let me start with the singles—
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Here’s a little flower ꫂ ၴႅၴ and a big warm hug. If no one has said this to you today, I’ll say it loudly: YOU ARE LOVED, YOU MATTER, AND YOUR PRESENCE MAKES THIS PLACE FEEL BETTER. Being single today doesn’t mean you’re missing love, it just means you have extra space to spoil yourself (which is honestly a great deal).

To the broken hearts—
Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.
I know this day can feel heavier for you than for anyone else. If you’re hurting, or just trying to get through the day, please know my inbox is always open for you to vent, 24/7. I may not always have the perfect words, but I promise I will listen.

And there is something important I want to tell you:
More than anyone else, I care for you deeply and love you the most.
I truly hope your heart knows this, even on your hardest days.

Thank you for staying.
Really… thank you for being here.
And I hope you keep staying for a very, very long time.

To the couples—
Happy Valentine’s Day to you too!
I hope your day is full of sweet moments, lots of laughter, good food, and zero arguments (this is very important ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)). Enjoy each other, be kind to each other, and make some beautiful memories. And yes, I love you as well… but no rose for you though, hehe.

And to everyone reading this—
Don’t forget to give love to yourself today. Do something small that makes you smile. Spend time with family, laugh with friends, send that message, make that call, and tell people you love them. Valentine’s Day isn’t just for couples, it’s a celebration of love in all its forms: friendship, family, self-love, and every connection that makes life feel better.

So wherever you are today,
I hope you feel happy, appreciated, and surrounded by love—
even in the smallest, simplest ways. 💗 Thank you for taking the time to read ♡

Sometimes I search for the beginning of all this the way someone searches for the first crack in broken glass, asking myself if maybe the real reason I cannot trust love is because I never truly learned how to love myself, because trusting someone else feels impossible when you are secretly convinced that you are the easiest person to leave. I have been cheated on, lied to, and slowly taught by experience that promises can disappear without warning, and even though part of me knows that not everyone is the same, another quieter part keeps whispering that I am simply not someone who gets chosen in the end, that no matter how patient I am or how gently I try to love, there will always be someone better waiting somewhere beyond me. I hate that I think this way because when I use logic I know it isn’t fair or true, yet feelings do not listen to logic, they stay anyway, soft and persistent, like rain that never fully stops.

In every relationship I gave more chances than I should have, hoping that this time trust would finally grow, yet in the back of my mind there was always a fragile voice preparing for betrayal, and the most painful part is that sometimes that fear was proven right, which makes it even harder now to believe in something different, and so love has started to feel less like hope and more like risk, like standing at the edge of something beautiful while already expecting the fall.

I keep telling myself that people are free to leave, that I have no right to ask anyone to stay, but understanding freedom does not make abandonment hurt less, especially when I look around and see others building years into forever while my own story keeps restarting, relationship after relationship ending before it becomes a life, and I keep asking questions that circle without answers. Am I the reason they leave, am I too much or somehow still not enough, was I only ever a temporary place where someone rests before finding their real home.

What makes it all feel even sadder is how little I ever truly wanted, not expensive gifts or grand romantic gestures, just small proofs that I existed in someone’s world, a photo kept somewhere close, simple messages about their day, silly things shared without reason, quiet time that says you matter without needing words, and yes, somewhere deep inside I dreamed of flowers and softness and being loved the way other girls seem to be loved, but over time even those small dreams began to feel undeserved, so I learned to ask for less, to shrink my needs, to give more freedom, try to become easy to keep so no one would feel the urge to leave, all while hiding the truth that my heart was still quietly reaching, still hoping that one day someone would choose me without hesitation, without comparison, without the feeling that I was only temporary, and maybe the heaviest sadness of all is realizing how long I have tried to make myself smaller just to fit inside someone else’s love, while secretly wondering if there was ever a place where I could be held fully and still be allowed to stay.

Perhaps the truth I am slowly learning is that being left does not mean I am unlovable, just as being chosen by the wrong people was never proof of my worth, and all the love I kept giving away so freely was never wasted, it was evidence that my heart knows how to love deeply, even when it was never loved the same way in return. Maybe trust is not something that appears all at once but something rebuilt in small, trembling pieces, beginning not with trusting another person, but with trusting myself to walk away from what hurts, trusting myself to believe that I deserve gentleness, patience, and a love that does not require me to become smaller just to remain.

Maybe trust is meant to begin in the quiet, unseen place where I learn to love myself a little more, yet that is the very place I keep getting lost in. I have always told myself that if you don’t love yourself enough, no one else can truly love you, but the words feel heavier when they turn back toward me, like something I am still trying and failing to believe. Perhaps trust is not really about other people at all, perhaps it is the slow, fragile act of learning to trust my own heart to choose someone, to stay, to believe without constantly waiting for the moment everything falls apart. And maybe the saddest part is knowing how simple it sounds, and how impossibly far away it still feels.

There is a quiet possibility that somewhere beyond all this fear, beyond the memories of betrayal and the questions that never answered me, there exists a version of my life where love feels safe instead of fragile, where I am not waiting to be replaced, where someone stays not because I begged them to, but because they simply choose me every day without confusion, and even if that day feels far away, maybe the most important beginning is this small shift inside my own heart, the moment I stop asking whether I am worthy of love and start understanding that I always was, even in the moments I felt the most abandoned, even now, in this quiet place where sadness is still here, hope is slowly beginning to return after being silent for a long time.

Dear readers,

Thank you for taking your time to read this. Please be gentle with me, as this is my first time writing on here. If you relate to what i’ve shared, Im sending you a virtual hug. Cannot wait to hear your thoughts.