Trapped in the Static
Anxiety isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s the quiet ache of wearing a body that feels like armor, always braced for the blow that never comes. It’s the tension you carry in your shoulders, the breath you didn’t know you were holding, the spiral hidden beneath a practiced smile. It’s the ache of feeling like too much and never enough, all at once.
Not Every Wound Closes Quietly
Healing isn’t linear. It’s loud and messy and out of order. Some days I revisit every stage of grief before lunch. Others, I’m frozen in one for weeks. This post is a raw unraveling - a glimpse into the storm, and a reminder that even when we’re doing the work, we’re allowed to struggle. I’m not sharing a story of ‘healed.’ I’m sharing what it looks like to keep going when the healing is still happening.
A Heart Rearranged.
Grief doesn’t end. It transforms. This is my journey through love, loss, and learning how to live with a heart rearranged.
Ghost Notes.
Grief doesn’t scream anymore. It whispers. This is my love letter to the quiet ache, to the brother I still talk to in dreams, and to the fire of remembering when the world wants you to forget. I write, because it means I’m still here.
The Quiet Collapse
Grief didn’t take me all at once - it took me in tremors. This is the story of a voicemail, a vanished voice, and the invisible wound that still bleeds. I write from the aftershock, where love still echoes and goodbye is never really the end.
Disconnected, lost frequencies.
This silence is not absence, but ache - an echo with teeth, gnawing the edges of everything I used to be. I am the ghost and the haunted, the song and the static. And still, I write. Still, I listen for the music beneath the quiet - because somewhere in the stillness, I believe my soul is singing me home.