The Hidden Journal

There are things I’ll never write.
Not because I’m ashamed,
but because they’re still growing roots inside me.
Some truths don’t belong in daylight yet.
They need silence to stay alive.

───

I used to think healing meant revealing everything —
laying it bare, naming it all.
But now I know that keeping something sacred
can be its own kind of courage.

───

There’s a softness in secrecy.
Not the kind that hides out of fear,
but the kind that whispers,
“This is still mine.”

───

The world wants explanations.
It wants every feeling translated into clarity.
But not everything I feel fits into words.
Some parts of me live better in metaphor,
in the spaces between sentences,
in the quiet rooms I don’t invite anyone into.

───

So I keep this place for what I hide —
for the moments too tender to share,
for the truths that still tremble,
for the versions of me that aren’t ready to be seen.

───

Not everything hidden is broken.
Some things are just becoming whole.

— Desiree