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I cry all the time. Not always because something terrible has happened. Sometimes it is a song. Sometimes it is a memory. Sometimes it is a passing thought that catches me off guard while I am making coffee or moving through an otherwise ordinary day. I cry because I miss things. People. Versions of myself. Futures I imagined so clearly that part of me still reaches for them without thinking. And I cry because I am in love. Because love, it turns out, is a far more overwhelming thing than I ever gave it credit for. It slips into everything. Into songs I have heard a hundred times before, into quiet afternoons, into the spaces between one thought and the next. Sometimes the tears arrive because I miss him. Sometimes because I am grateful he exists at all. Sometimes because there is no place for all this feeling to go, and it spills over in the only way it knows how. There are days I wish I could be lighter. Less affected. Less moved by everything. But then I wonder if the tears are not a flaw at all. Maybe they are evidence. Evidence that I loved. That I hoped. That I remained open, even after disappointment taught me not to. I used to think crying was a language of loss. Now I think it is also a language of love. So yes, I cry all the time. And perhaps that is not a sign that I am falling apart. Perhaps it is proof that something inside me is still alive enough to feel. M. June 2026

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There are days when I feel as though I have already lived several lives inside this one. One belonged to the girl who believed every goodbye was temporary. One belonged to the girl who learned otherwise. And somewhere between them stands the person I am now, carrying pieces of both, wondering which version of herself will arrive tomorrow. Some days, the distance between who I was and who I am becoming feels impossible to measure. Thoughts arriving all at once, like waves colliding in a narrow room. Like a hundred doors opening inside my head at the same time. I catch myself comparing who I am against who I think I should have become, against some imaginary finish line that was never there to begin with. Then I remember: I am not the finished version of myself. I am only the current version. And perhaps that is what growing really means. Not reaching some final, perfected state, but allowing room for change. Understanding that struggle is only one chapter of the story, not the whole of it. M. | be still June 2026

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I'm probably the saddest-happiest girl you'll ever know. There are days when the world feels heavier than it ought to, and I find myself exhausted by things that seem effortless for everyone else. There are losses I still carry, disappointments I never fully recovered from, and versions of myself I quietly mourn. Most days, sadness wins. It sits beside me in quiet rooms, follows me through crowded ones, and colors more of my life than I care to admit. I spent years at war with myself. Picking apart my flaws, magnifying my mistakes, and carrying the quiet suspicion that everyone else had received a map for life that I somehow missed. For the longest time, I thought my sadness was something I had to hide. Something that made me difficult to love, difficult to understand. Yet something in me remains stubbornly soft. Beautiful skies still stop me in my tracks. Small moments of joy still find their way to me. And despite everything, I cannot seem to let go of the belief that there is something worth looking forward to beyond tomorrow. Then, somewhere along the way, a different perspective found its way into my life. And perhaps that is why I dislike myself a little less these days. Not because anything was fixed. Not because the storms disappeared. But because I began to wonder if I had been looking at myself too cruelly all along. The storms are still there. So is the rain. But now, when I catch sight of flowers growing through broken concrete, I think of how resilient beautiful things can be. Including me. M. | wounds & flowers June 2026

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I'm probably the saddest-happiest girl you'll ever know. There are days when the world feels heavier than it ought to, and I find myself exhausted by things that seem effortless for everyone else. There are losses I still carry, disappointments I never fully recovered from, and versions of myself I quietly mourn. Most days, sadness wins. It sits beside me in quiet rooms, follows me through crowded ones, and colors more of my life than I care to admit. I spent years at war with myself. Picking apart my flaws, magnifying my mistakes, and carrying the quiet suspicion that everyone else had received a map for life that I somehow missed. For the longest time, I thought my sadness was something I had to hide. Something that made me difficult to love, difficult to understand. Yet something in me remains stubbornly soft. Beautiful skies still stop me in my tracks. Small moments of joy still find their way to me. And despite everything, I cannot seem to let go of the belief that there is something worth looking forward to beyond tomorrow. Then, somewhere along the way, a different perspective found its way into my life. And perhaps that is why I dislike myself a little less these days. Not because anything was fixed. Not because the storms disappeared. But because I began to wonder if I had been looking at myself too cruelly all along. The storms are still there. So is the rain. But now, when I catch sight of flowers growing through broken concrete, I think of how resilient beautiful things can be. Including me. M. | wounds & flowers June 2026

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There was a time when I believed love should feel the same if it was real. That if it ever softened, became less intense, or stopped looking the way it once did, then something must have been lost along the way. I measured love against its former versions, comparing what was to what is, wondering why it no longer arrived with the same certainty. But perhaps that is the misunderstanding. People think love is supposed to remain the same if it is real. But nothing that lives remain unchanged. Not the seasons. Not the oceans. Not the people who stand beside each other year after year. You could never love the same way twice, not even with the same person. The version of me that loved yesterday is gone now. She left pieces of herself in old conversations, old disappointments, old hopes that never came to pass. And the version of you that receives my love today is not the same person you were either. So of course, the love is different. How could it not be? Love does not stay alive by remaining the same. It stays alive by becoming something new each time we meet each other again. And sometimes, loving well is simply allowing that becoming to happen in its own time. M. | June 2026

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I might not love him more than I have loved before. The intensity is quieter now, softer somehow. It does not arrive like a storm or consume me like a wildfire. It does not shake the ground beneath my feet or leave me breathless with longing. Instead, it feels like calm. It feels like being wanted. I do not love him with the same fierce certainty I once mistook for forever. I love him with all the pain I carry inside me, with all the broken things I have yet to mend, with the scars that still ache when touched and the walls that remain standing in forgotten corners of my soul. I do not love him with only the happy parts of me. I love him with the grief that still lingers. With the loneliness that learned how to survive. With the wounds that are still learning how to smile, even after years of being left thirsty for kindness. This is how I love him. For most of my life, I never truly felt as though I belonged in this world. Many people offered me a place to stay, a seat at their table, a corner where I could rest. They told me I belonged there with them. But belonging often came with conditions. It lasted only as long as I followed their path, spoke their language, or became the version of myself they preferred. The invitation was always waiting to be withdrawn. But he did not do that. He did not ask me to become smaller. He did not ask me to be easier to love. He did not ask me to leave pieces of myself at the door. Instead, he opened his arms like wings and drew me close. And when I stood there, uncertain and ready to leave before I could be left, he simply said, "Stay. We'll find our home together." And for the first time, home did not feel like a place I had to earn. It felt like someone choosing to keep a light on for me, even on the nights I could not find my own way back. M. | this is how I love him June 2026

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