The Hidden Journal

I used to think growth meant leaving —
the old, the familiar, the version of me
that didn’t yet know better.

But the more I heal,
the more I realize
it’s all about returning.

───

Returning to breath.
To softness.
To the part of me that never needed fixing,
only remembering.

───

The art of returning
isn’t dramatic.
It’s small,
sacred,
repetitive.
It’s choosing to come back
each time I drift away —
not as punishment,
but as practice.

───

I return when I rest.
When I forgive.
When I speak to myself kindly
instead of sharply.
When I trust the timing again.

───

It’s never too late to come back home —
to this body,
this breath,
this moment.

───

The art of returning
is really the art of love —
the willingness to begin again,
no matter how many times it takes.

───

— Desiree