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This season is supposed to be full of glow.At least, that’s the myth we were handed — twinkle lights, warm hugs, full tables.But the truth is quieter, and heavier, for so many of us. Because sometimes the holidays arrive carrying their own kind of grief. Maybe this year, it looks like a hospital room instead
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Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, the holidays stopped feeling like magic and started feeling like…a seasonal exam no one studied for. When we were kids, the lights glowed brighter.Time felt syrup-slow.Every room held some kind of wonder—cookies, mysteries, whispered traditions that tasted like forever. But adulthood?Oh, adulthood took one look at that cozy joy and
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This week, I’m officially on vacation.I mean staycation when I say “vacation.” It’s that sacred time where you tell everyone you’re off work. Yet, you still find yourself mentally checking your inbox just in case. No beaches. No plane tickets. No five-day itinerary packed with activities that somehow feel like more work than work. Just
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You know that look people give you when they think you’re mad, but really you’re just… processing? Yeah, that’s me. Apparently, when I’m anxious, overwhelmed, or lost in thought, my face forgets how to look friendly. I promise I’m not angry. I’m just trying to remember if I documented my last client session, finished the
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I want to be the friend who answers.The one who texts back, who remembers the little things, who shows up without needing to be asked. I want to be dependable – the kind of steady that others can lean on. But lately, even the small things feel heavy. I scroll past messages I mean to
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Some days, hope doesn’t look like sunrise. It looks like finally washing the dishes.Like answering one message.Like sitting in the shower a little too long because the water feels safe. I used to think healing would feel like a revelation – a rush of light after years of gray.That one day I’d wake up and
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I wandered through a community garden today – the kind that hums softly with life, where color spills over every edge, and time seems to slow just enough for breath to return. The air was full of quiet miracles: bees heavy with pollen, the scent of marigolds, and fluttering monarchs – dozens of them, rising
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There’s a certain kind of fog that doesn’t just cling to the world – it settles into you. It doesn’t arrive all at once, either. It seeps in. Slow. Patient. Familiar. You start noticing it in the small ways first: the unread messages, the coffee gone cold (or in my case, watered down), the way
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Some wounds never make it into words. We bury them deep, under smiles and small talk, under work deadlines and family dinners, under the thousand tiny performances that say, I’m fine. But silence doesn’t erase them. It preserves them. The Weight of Silence There are things I have carried for years without speaking. Not because
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The *ber months arrive like a reckoning.September drags us into the shift. October sets the bones on fire. November strips them bare. By December, the world has gone quiet enough to hear your own ghosts. This is why fall has always been my season. It’s the one time of year the world stops pretending. Summer
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A.S. Thorne 