My brain (again)

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anxiety, exhaustion, grief, Healing, life, love, mental health, mind, overthinking, relief, storm, survival, Truth, writing

I know I’m not alone in this. But it still feels lonely.

Why does a person’s brain turn on them like this? Why does it pick the worst possible scenarios, the ugliest what-ifs, and play them on repeat like some cruel soundtrack you can’t turn off?

I’ve cried myself to sleep the last several nights. My brain keeps dragging me down hallways I don’t want to walk. It keeps opening doors I’d rather stay closed.

And the thing is… I know it’s not reality. I know these thoughts aren’t necessarily true. But knowing doesn’t stop them from showing up. Knowing doesn’t make them hurt less.

It’s exhausting, living in a mind that refuses to rest. Just like I wrote a few days ago — I need some relief. I need a break from myself. I need silence, or softness, or something that makes my chest loosen again. I keep waiting for a break in the clouds. For the air to smell like new beginnings again. For the light to fall in a way that makes me remember what calm feels like.

Until then, I’ll keep reminding myself this won’t last forever. Rain passes, the clouds don’t stay forever. That my brain can run it’s “mouth” all it wants, but it’s not always right. That I’ve survived every other storm it’s thrown at me and I’ll survive this one, too.

Still Me, Just Different Views

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alternate, beach, blog, daydream, early, enough, freedom, friendship, happiness, Hope, life, love, mental health, peace, Reflection, roots, softness, solitude, travel, version, wander, writing

Describe your life in an alternate universe.

I like to think I’d still wake up early every morning. I didn’t used to be that kind of person, but somewhere along the way (age, wisdom, who knows) I started to love the quiet of early mornings. There’s something about the world before it fully wakes up that feels sacred. Peaceful. Like it belongs just to me for a little while.

I still wouldn’t be a coffee drinker (some habits stay the same across timelines), but I’d have something to sip — maybe tea, maybe one of those overpriced fizzy vitamin drinks, but probably my trusty diet soda. And I’d take it out onto my deck to watch the waves roll in.

Because in this version of life, I live by the ocean.

Not some huge mansion or flashy beachfront estate. Just a simple, open space with a view of the waves. Enough room to breathe, stretch out, and listen to the world exhale with the tide. That’s where I’d start every day. Feet bare, hair messy, face tilted toward the breeze.

I wouldn’t need a lot. Just enough to meet my needs, keep things comfortable, and leave room for adventure. To be able to travel when I feel the itch. To not stress about every unexpected expense. That might be considered wealthy by some standards. I know from where I sit now, it would feel like a dream.

In this life, I’d travel. I’d play my sport, really play it, and not just in the same few places over and over. I’d roam across the country, maybe beyond. Small towns, big cities, places people skip over on their way to somewhere else. I’d see them all. I’d meet people—funny, smart, kind, weird, wonderful people. The kind of people you remember.

I’m not sure if I’d travel solo. Maybe sometimes. I’ve learned how to enjoy my own company. But I’d like to think my friends would show up, hop in the car, book a last-minute flight, make a memory with me. I’d hope for those shared moments. For deep conversations under unfamiliar stars. For the laughter that happens only when you’re just a little lost in a place you’ve never been.

That’s the alternate version of my life. Not a completely different person. Just a version of me with a little more freedom, a little more peace, and a front-row seat to the sea.

Finding My Own Worth

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growth, happiness, honest, journey, life, love, me, mental health, real, relationships, resilience, self-worth, steady, strength, Truth, writing

Some days, strength isn’t about grand gestures or big declarations. It’s the little things.
The quiet choices you make when no one’s watching.

Like deciding to keep showing up for yourself, even when it feels easier to give up or look elsewhere. It’s about knowing you don’t have to change who you are to fit someone else’s idea of what you should be.

I’m learning to trust my own worth, to stand steady even when things get messy or uncertain. There are moments when doubt creeps in, when I question if I’m doing enough, or if I’m strong enough to keep going.

But then I remind myself: It’s okay not to have it all figured out.
It’s okay to stumble and pause. What matters is that I keep trying, that I don’t lose sight of who I really am underneath all the noise.

I’m learning to trust my own worth, to stand steady even when things get messy or uncertain. It’s not always easy, and I’m not perfect at it, but I’m proud of the way I keep finding my footing.

This is me, showing up for me. That feels pretty good actually.

Still Waters

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hidden, life, love, questions, quiet, Reflection, relationships, restraint, stillness, tenderness, unsaid, wonder, writing

There’s a kind of stillness
that isn’t empty.

It holds ripples beneath the surface,
questions that never quite break through.

Not loud enough to echo,
just steady. Present.

Some things are easier left unsaid.
Not because they don’t matter,
but because they matter so much.

Some things feel safer in shadow,
not because they’re dark,
but because the light might be too much.

I’ve learned how to carry my wonder quietly
how to turn it into a rhythm,
something that hums low beneath the day.

Not everything needs to be asked.
Not every current wants to be chased.
Some are just meant to move unseen,
trusting the shape of the shore
to hold them anyway.

So I sit with it.
The not-knowing.
The hoping.
The ache of maybe.

And I remind myself:
Even unanswered questions
can still be held with love.

These Hard Times

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empathy, grief, Healing, human, life, love, quiet, relationships, resilience, softness, strength, struggle, Truth, writing

Everyone has hard times of one shape or another. Some people carry theirs out loud: obvious and sharp around the edges. Others tuck theirs into quiet corners, the kind you only notice if you’re really paying attention.

Either way, it’s there.

Loss, heartbreak, disappointment, loneliness, uncertainty… it shows up differently for everyone.

I’ve had my own. Still do, in some ways. Some days I feel like I’m walking through the wreckage, trying to rebuild and breathe at the same time. Other days, I feel strong. Steady. Like maybe all the pain taught me something worth knowing.

But I try not to compare my version of “hard” to anyone else’s. Pain isn’t a competition, and as far as I’m concerned, it never will be. What breaks someone else might not touch me and what nearly unraveled me might barely register to another. That doesn’t make either one less real.

These hard times teach you things. About yourself. About other people. About what matters when everything else falls away. They shape you, but they don’t have to define you. You are not your pain, you are not the suffering.

So if you’re in it, if you’re tired, if you’re doing your best just to get through the day… I see you. I’ve been there. Sometimes I am there.

And if you’re not, hold space for someone who is. Kindness doesn’t cost anything, and you never know what someone’s carrying just beneath the surface.

“All we need is some relief from these hard times.”

Not Boring, Peaceful

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enough, grounded, happiness, identity, introspection, life, love, peace, quiet, real, Reflection, soft, steady, strength, Truth, writing

Sometimes I worry that I’m boring. Which is silly, because there are only a handful of people that I actually care about their opinions. I shouldn’t fret over anyone’s that isn’t in that circle.
My job isn’t flashy. I crochet. I play a niche sport. That’s not exactly a highlight reel on social media.

But here’s what I’m starting to understand:
Just because something isn’t loud/flashy/chaotic doesn’t mean it’s not worth something.

I show up for work, and that matters.
I make things with my hands; things that take time, care, and attention.
I play outside for the simple joy of it, not because I’m trying to impress anyone. Except maybe myself, haha. Spending time with those friends I’ve made from this sport is a joy in itself.

There’s a quiet kind of loveliness in that.
In being steady. In finding peace in the small things.
In showing up, even when no one’s watching.

I’m not boring. I’m grounded. I’m creative. I’m real.
That definitely counts for something.