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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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I guess some of us are not meant to live soft lives. Maybe not yet. Maybe not ever. But still, something in us keeps reaching for light. Some of us were handed grief too early, betrayal too often, and chaos in places where love should have been. And still, somehow, we are expected to bloom anyway. Yet among the ruins, we remain stubborn enough to keep growing. To become wildflowers in places that were never meant to hold beauty. Maybe that is why I have always loved wildflowers. They grow without asking permission to exist. They soften abandoned places simply by surviving there. I think people like us do the same. We may not have chosen the ground we were planted in, but we grew into something of our own. And for that, I want to say thank you. Thank you for never giving up. Thank you for continuing to create, to love, and to remain gentle even when the world has given you every reason not to. As June begins, may it remind us that growth is still growth, even when it happens quietly. And may us find more reasons to believe that what we have endured is not all there is. M. | To the ones who bloom anyway June 1st, 2026

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So May has reached its final page. Tears, heartbreaks, and spiraling are what made my May. But between the darkness, there were those who sat beside me without asking me to be anything other than what I was. They became small lights that refused to go out, no matter how fierce the storm became. I don't write as someone trying to convince themselves that everything is fine. I write as someone who has looked at the difficult parts honestly and still chooses to leave a candle lit in the window. I am aware that the ground was difficult. I acknowledge the darkness. But I refuse to let those things have the final word. I know how dark it can get. But I also know that's not the whole sky. M. May 31st, 2026

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Almost June again, but it is not the same June. The evenings still arrive softly. Rain still gathers on the windows like it remembers something. The sky still turns that familiar shade of blue before nightfall. But something in me has changed since then. Last June felt softer somehow. Even the uncertainty felt gentle because you were still woven into those days with me. We spoke about the future as if it were something waiting patiently for us, as if time would understand. Now June returns like a familiar street after years away. Recognizable, but quieter. The places are still there, yet the feeling feels lifetimes away. I think that is the strange thing about losing people and learning to heal. The world keeps repeating itself, the same months, the same seasons, the same songs playing somewhere in the distance, but you return to them as someone entirely different. Almost June again. But not the same June. And maybe not the same me either. M. May 2026

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