personal reflections on healing, solitude, writing, home, and the small moments shaping my life.
the notebook
i don't think people realize how quickly i have changed over the years, mostly because from the outside it probably looked like reinvention. from where i stood, it often felt more like burial. there was the million-dollar baby Bailey whose ambitious lit up the building. she learned
the notebook
i owe so much of my peace to the people who showed up for me when i did not even want to show up for myself. the ones who sat beside versions of me i could barely look at. who gathered pieces i had dropped along the way when i
the notebook
there is something devastating about watching a tarot reader lay the cards down one by one, only for them to look at me afterward and say, "i just want to hug you." and i always wonder what they saw. which card gave me away. which combination told them
the notebook
for all the ways i insist on crossing rivers and wading through seas on my own, perhaps in the end there is still something small and almost shamefully tender in me that only wants someone who, no matter how wild or unreasonable i become, even when i can no longer
the notebook
may your feet forget the path. may every road turn against you. may every compass point elsewhere. may every stranger send you the wrong way. may the trees themselves rearrange before allowing you to find me.
the notebook
there is a particular cruelty in waking from a dream of you. for a moment, i have you back. and all the love i still carry for you finally has somewhere to go again. then i wake up. and that is the cruelty of grief. sometimes it gives you back
the notebook
on the edge of 33: * gave up the wars that made others powerful. * left corporations to burn without me. * ended a two-year cycle of abuse. * let my own empire sink. * plucked my very first gray hair. * missed the roads and the feeling of being home for holiday. again. became
the notebook
he told me he knew how badly the townsfolk had hurt me. he knew it back then, when i had already removed myself from the map and his messages went unanswered. he said he was sorry. for what they did to me. and for how easily they paraded me through
the notebook
i get it. you see me in the spotlight, and you must think, this is one hell of a woman. maybe you saw in me everything you were told you were not allowed to become. but you forgot that powerful women still bleed. we still break. we still come home,
the notebook
it's been over half a year since i wrote anything. the last thing i published was about losing myself in love. i was writing from inside the wreckage. then i disappeared and let the storms do what storms do best- wreck, pass, and leave their strange little ruins
the notebook
1. Fishy and her sister came visiting from Saigon, carrying with them a little piece of justice. her sister's rapist been thrown into jail, and somehow, with my help, the world corrected itself by one small inch. it felt like watching the universe return one stolen thing. not
the notebook
i'm sorry for the unread messages. i didn't even realize how much i had missed. but i'm OK. i've been out here touching grass, befriending my backyard toad, getting adopted by weirdos, and i'll try to reply when i can.