💨 In the quiet Between who I was and who I am 💨

 In the Quiet Between Who I Was and Who I Am

There are days I wake up

and forget where my story left off.

The pages are torn,

the ink is blurred,

but the ache remains familiar.

Sometimes I catch myself

halfway through a memory

I don’t recall beginning—

standing in a room

that feels like mine but isn’t.

A laugh echoes down the hall,

and I swear I know the sound

but not the moment.

I hold my breath and wait

for the pieces to fall into place,

for my mind to stop flickering

like a broken film reel.

But it doesn’t.

It never quite settles.

People think strength looks loud—

a steady voice,

a smile,

a story that makes sense.

Mine is quieter.

It’s found in the pauses,

in the way I keep showing up

to a life that sometimes feels borrowed.

I am a collection of unfinished songs

humming beneath my skin.

Some verses belong to the girl I was,

others to the one still finding her way home.

And through it all—

the confusion,

the blank spaces,

the soft unraveling of thought—

there is love.

A love so deep,

it ties me to this world

even when my mind drifts far from it.

If I ever disappear inside myself again,

I hope someone reminds me

that I’ve always come back before—

and I will again.

Because even when I feel lost,

some part of me

still believes in finding the light.

💚 Journal Entry- Reflection on Living Fragmented 💚

Dear Journal,

Some days, I feel like a collection of unfinished stories stitched together by memories I only half-remember. 

I wake up and try to find myself in the mirror, but sometimes I can’t tell which version of me is looking back. 

There’s a quiet kind of panic in that —knowing I’ve lived moments I don’t recall, said words I didn’t mean, felt emotions I can’t explain. 

I keep trying to hold onto time, but it slips away in strange ways. Hours vanish, whole conversations fade into static, and I’m left retracing my steps through a maze I built but don’t remember designing. 

I scroll through texts and photos, looking for evidence of where I’ve been — proof that I was really there. Some days, it feels like I’m watching my own life from the outside. 

My body moves,my mouth speaks, but my heart is somewhere else, lost in a place I can’t reach. 

People tell me I seem fine, that I’m strong, that I handle everything so well. 

If only they knew how hard it is just to stay here.There’s an exhaustion that comes with constantly trying to glue yourself together. 

Smiling when you’re confused. Functioning when your mind feels split into fragments. 

You start to fear your own reflection — because it changes, and you can’t explain why. 

Still, I find little things that pull me back. My daughters’ faces in old photos. 

The smell of rain. A song that makes something inside me pause and remember who I am — or at least who I was. 

Those moments are my lifelines. They remind me I’m not completely gone, even when I feel like a ghost in my own story. 

I’m learning to be patient with myself, even when I don’t understand what’s happening inside my head. 

I write notes to my future self. I leave reminders of love and hope tucked away where I’ll find them later — because sometimes, the person who wakes up tomorrow will need them more than I do today. 

I’m not sure what healing looks like for someone like me, but I know it’s not giving up. 

It’s showing up again and again, even when it feels like I’ve lost my map. 

It’s piecing myself together with grace, even when the edges don’t quite fit. 

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe surviving the confusion — and still finding beauty in the mess — is its own kind of miracle.

💟 Journal Entry- Somewhere lost in between 💟

Dear Journal,

Today the air feels heavier than it did yesterday. 

It sits on my chest like a secret I can’t remember how to keep. 

My mind keeps slipping through cracks—whole hours disappear into places I don’t recognize. 

I look for myself in mirrors and find only the outline of someone who used to laugh when tiny hands held hers. 

Every thought circles back to them—my girls, my pulse, the rhythm my heart still keeps even in their absence. 

It’s strange how love can echo in a house that’s gone silent. I try to stay anchored—count breaths, sip coffee, pretend the ache isn’t winning. 

But memory feels like water lately; it runs through my fingers, and I can’t hold on to anything long enough to stop the flood. 

There are moments I forget what day it is, but I never forget them. 

Their laughter still lives in the corners of my mind, like light that refuses to burn out. 

If they could see me—really see me—they’d know I’m still fighting, still searching for the pieces that went missing the day I had to let them go. 

Some days, I am made of hope. 

Others, I am made of ache. 

Today, I am both—and neither—and something lost in between. 

But I’m still here. Still breathing their names. 

Still loving them louder than the silence that tries to erase me. 

Sincerely, 

Me