The Hidden Journal

For a long time, I told myself I was protecting my peace.
But really, I was protecting my silence —
a quieter kind of fear, dressed as calm.

───

There’s a difference between being private and being hidden.
One is a choice.
The other is a cage.

───

I’ve lived inside that quiet for years —
collecting words like unspoken prayers,
saving them for when it felt safe enough to be seen.

Safe enough to admit
that sometimes I disappear not because I want to,
but because I don’t know how to stay.

───

But lately, something in me has shifted.
Maybe it’s age.
Maybe it’s exhaustion.
Maybe it’s realizing
I’ve spent more time telling other people’s stories
than living my own.

───

So here I am, standing in the doorway.
The light is unfamiliar — soft, but unrelenting.
It doesn’t ask for performance.
It just waits.

───

This isn’t a grand awakening.
It’s a quiet surrender —
the kind that happens
when you stop asking who’s watching
and finally start listening to yourself.

───

The truth is, I don’t know where this leads.
All I know is that the door’s open now —
and I’m done pretending I don’t hear it calling.
The air smells new.
I’m ready to answer.

───

— Desiree