Last night words landed like a blow — I was shattered. It’s not the first time; I’ve been broken before, gathered the scattered pieces, and painstakingly put myself back together.
This time, too, I’m sitting with the ache. I’ll give myself permission to feel it — the sting, the quiet hurt — and then I’ll do the small, steady things that stitch me up: a slow cup of tea, the playlist that always steadies me, a walk where the air remembers nothing of the argument.
I’ll remind myself of what I built from past fractures: patience, sharper boundaries, the little rituals that anchor me. I won’t pretend the wound didn’t happen, but I also won’t let it define the whole story.
One piece at a time, I’ll reclaim the parts that belong to me — my laughter, my calm, my right to choose who holds my heart.
And when I’m ready, I’ll speak my truth softly and clearly, not to justify, but to protect the new shape I’m forming.
Travellers Stream 
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