The Hidden Journal

People only ever see the tip of things.
The smile.
The calm tone.
The pieces I’ve already made peace with.

But below that — beneath the practiced light —
there’s the rest of me.
The unspoken,
the untidy,
the parts that still flinch when touched.

───

I think about icebergs a lot —
how the smallest part floats above,
and everything else waits in the dark, holding it steady.
How the beauty of it
isn’t what shines in the sun,
but what survives in the cold.

───

What I hide isn’t always pain.
Sometimes it’s power —
the kind that doesn’t need to announce itself to exist.
Sometimes it’s memory,
or softness,
or the version of me that’s still learning to breathe underwater.

───

I don’t want to live entirely above the surface anymore.
I want to honor what keeps me anchored —
the depths that shape my calm,
the weight that steadies my warmth.

───

This is my quiet offering
to the parts that no one claps for,
to the shadows that still love the light.

— Desiree