The Hidden Journal

Peace isn’t what I thought it would be.
It isn’t still or spotless.
It moves — slow and steady,
like breath after a long cry.

───

For years, I imagined it as a finish line.
A destination waiting at the end of healing.
But peace isn’t a place.
It’s a rhythm.
A conversation between rest and resilience.

───

Some days it hums like background music —
barely there, but holding everything together.
Other days it hides,
and I have to remind myself
that quiet doesn’t mean it’s gone.

───

The shape of peace is uneven.
It bends around old scars,
it makes room for what still aches.
It doesn’t erase the past —
it softens its grip.

───

I don’t chase calm anymore.
I build it —
slowly,
deliberately,
out of the moments that once broke me.

— Desiree