Let’s not pretend things are normal right now. Some absolutely unhinged shit has happened lately (both globally and personally, if we’re being real), and somehow we’re still expected to go to work, feed our kids, hit our deadlines, clean the bathroom, answer texts, and smile in the grocery store like our nervous systems aren't just dry-heaving under the weight of it all.

That’s messed up. And yet here we are.

I didn’t know I was allowed to feel safe. I grew up in survival mode. Not metaphorically. Not “wow, childhood was tough” in the vague, TikTok way. I mean real survival. Like hunger. Like being passed between homes. Like hearing adults say they didn’t want me. Like being called a burden. Like having my safety depend on how silent I could be.

There’s a quiet grief that comes with realizing nobody is coming to rescue you. If you grew up in instability… if you were taught love was something you had to earn, if you learned to read every room before you even spoke… you know this grief well. You know what it means to sit in a beautiful place and still feel unsafe. You know how exhausting it is to carry the weight of your own belonging. I know it too.

If there’s natural light in the space you’re in, notice it. The way it moves. The way it shifts, even in stillness. If your eyes are closed, picture the light behind your eyelids… the soft glow, the way it changes as you breathe. Now, notice the shadows. The spaces where light doesn’t reach. Not as something to avoid, but as something necessary. Light doesn’t exist without shadow, and shadow isn’t empty… it’s what gives depth, contrast, and shape. Breathe in the balance between the two…