The Hidden Journal

This isn’t a story about perfection.
It’s a story about returning —
again and again,
to softness,
to breath,
to the small, steady places
where peace still lives.

───

There were nights when the dark felt endless,
when silence pressed against my ribs
and I mistook it for emptiness.
But even there,
something was listening.
Something was waiting —
not for me to be better,
but for me to be honest.

───

Every piece of me that broke
became a doorway.
Every silence I once feared
became a room I could finally rest inside.
And every shadow that lingered
taught me how to hold the light
without trembling.

───

This journal is not a record of who I was.
It’s a map of how I came back —
through stillness,
through forgiveness,
through the long, luminous ache of becoming.

───

If you find yourself here,
reading these words,
you’re already on your way home.
You don’t need to hurry.
You don’t need to know the ending.

Just keep listening.
Keep softening.
Keep walking toward the light that waits for you —
because it does.

Always.

───

— Desiree