My tenderness is not something to overcome. It is part of my strength.

Every day I become more rooted in my own truty.

My heart is dying, but not in the romantic way. Not in the way they write about in poems. It is shriveling, it is gasping, it is clenched so tight it cannot beat properly. They tell me the name for it—stress cardiomyopathy—so neat, so clinical. A heart giving up, not from clots or cholesterol, but from grief, from strain, from the sheer unbearable weight of being alive.

A brief, raw entry on the collapse of denial and the uneasy arrival of truth.

I no longer abandon my needs to preserve the comfort of others.

There are parts of me still waiting to be discovered, nurtured, and celebrated.

There are parts of me still waiting to be discovered, nurtured, and celebrated.

I choose presence over perfection.

I trust my ability to navigate change with wisdom and resilience.