The Hidden Journal

There’s a voice that doesn’t speak in full sentences.
It hums between thoughts.
It lives in the pause before I answer,
in the space between what I feel and what I say.

───

It never rushes.
It doesn’t explain itself.
It knows the difference between what’s true
and what’s just loud.

───

Sometimes I silence it without meaning to —
filling the air with noise,
trying to sound certain.
But when the noise settles,
that voice always returns,
quiet but steady.

───

It tells me when something isn’t love.
It tells me when I’m performing strength
instead of resting in it.
It tells me when I’ve stayed too long
in places that drain the color from me.

───

This voice doesn’t shout to be heard.
It waits.
Patient, ancient, and mine.
And when I finally listen,
it always says the same thing:

You already know.

— Desiree

There are things I’ll never write.
Not because I’m ashamed,
but because they’re still growing roots inside me.
Some truths don’t belong in daylight yet.
They need silence to stay alive.

───

I used to think healing meant revealing everything —
laying it bare, naming it all.
But now I know that keeping something sacred
can be its own kind of courage.

───

There’s a softness in secrecy.
Not the kind that hides out of fear,
but the kind that whispers,
“This is still mine.”

───

The world wants explanations.
It wants every feeling translated into clarity.
But not everything I feel fits into words.
Some parts of me live better in metaphor,
in the spaces between sentences,
in the quiet rooms I don’t invite anyone into.

───

So I keep this place for what I hide —
for the moments too tender to share,
for the truths that still tremble,
for the versions of me that aren’t ready to be seen.

───

Not everything hidden is broken.
Some things are just becoming whole.

— Desiree

Sometimes truth arrives barefoot — tracking dirt across the floor.

I don’t always know what I’m trying to say until it’s already out.
Sometimes the words fall out messy,
half-formed,
too honest.

───

I used to rewrite everything.
Smooth the edges,
hide the parts that made me sound too fragile,
too human.
But lately I don’t want to sound strong.
I want to sound real.

───

There are days I feel like a contradiction —
soft but guarded,
open but terrified of being seen.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe the point isn’t to fix what I feel
but to let it breathe before I name it.

───

These are the hours when I stop trying to be poetic.
When I write the truth before I ruin it by trying to make it beautiful.
When I say what I mean
and let it sting a little.

───

Because not everything healing looks graceful.
Sometimes it looks like shaking hands
and run-on sentences.
Sometimes it looks like me,
sitting here,
writing this
unfiltered.

— Desiree

I used to write for beauty.
To make pain sound elegant,
to dress my honesty in metaphors
so no one would know where it came from.

───

But lately, I crave the kind of truth
that doesn’t need to be pretty.
The kind that stands barefoot on the page
and still feels enough.

───

These are my naked words.
The ones I used to whisper only in the dark,
the ones that sound too close to confession.
They aren’t polished.
They shake a little.
But they’re mine.

───

I’m learning that vulnerability isn’t weakness —
it’s the place where I finally meet myself.
Every time I stop hiding behind sentences,
I find a softer strength waiting underneath.

───

I don’t write to be admired anymore.
I write to be known —
even if only by the woman I’m still becoming.

— Desiree

Some truths don’t want to be spoken.
They live best in the quiet,
where they can stretch and breathe
without the weight of being understood.

───

I used to think everything needed to be shared
to be real.
That healing meant exposure —
that silence was just another kind of fear.
But now I see there’s holiness in what stays unspoken.
Some things are meant to be held close,
to ripen in their own dark.

───

There are parts of me no one knows.
Not because they’re shameful,
but because they’re still becoming.
They’re the soft roots growing beneath the surface,
the ones that don’t need sunlight yet.

───

Every time I write,
I show a little more of what I’ve carried —
but never all of it.
There are corners of me that stay dim,
not as secrets,
but as sanctuaries.

───

Maybe that’s the balance —
to tell the truth,
but keep something sacred.
To let the world see your reflection,
without giving away your whole sky.

— Desiree

There are things that live between my ribs.
Words that never learned how to leave gently,
so I kept them.
Tucked beneath my tongue,
folded into polite smiles,
buried under “I’m fine.”

───

Sometimes they press against my chest at night —
the unsent messages, the swallowed truths.
They hum beneath my skin
like a prayer that never found its language.

───

I used to think silence made me strong.
That if I could hold it all quietly,
no one would see how close I was to breaking.
But strength, I’m learning,
isn’t about holding it in —
it’s about letting it spill without shame.

───

So here I am,
writing the words that once trembled too much to be spoken.
Not to be heard,
but to finally stop carrying them alone.

───

Every sentence I release
makes room for breath again.
And maybe that’s what healing is —
learning to speak the things
that once kept you silent.

───

— Desiree

There’s a world inside me that doesn’t speak in words.
It moves slower — like water under ice,
like breath before the exhale.

───

On the surface, I look calm.
But underneath, there’s movement.
Old memories drift up like soft ghosts,
brushed by the current of something new.

───

I’ve learned not to rush the rising.
Every feeling has its own language,
and some are still learning how to form sentences again.

───

Healing isn’t loud.
It doesn’t announce itself or make grand entrances.
It hums quietly,
in the way I reach for music again,
in the way I open the window just to feel the air touch my face.

───

Beneath the surface, I’m learning that nothing is lost —
just waiting to be remembered.

───

— Desiree

It doesn’t happen all at once.
It begins in whispers —
a song I forgot I loved,
a scent that catches me off guard,
the way light lands gently on my skin.

───

At first, it scares me.
Feeling means opening the door again —
letting color flood the room I’d kept in grayscale.
It means remembering what I lost,
and realizing I still want more.

───

So I ease into it.
I let a single feeling stay a little longer this time.
I let warmth sit beside the ache
without trying to make it behave.

───

Somewhere between heartbreak and healing,
there’s this quiet re-entry into being alive.
It’s clumsy and holy.
It’s me, learning softness all over again.

───

— Desiree

---

There’s a moment between the noise and the silence —
a soft hinge, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

That’s where I live most days.
Not in the chaos, and not in the calm,
but somewhere between them —
where thoughts haven’t hardened into words yet.

The quiet isn’t empty; it’s alive.
It hums with all the things I’m not ready to say.
It carries memory, ache, and the small pulse of hope.

Sometimes it feels like waiting.
Other times, it feels like peace.
But always, it feels like me.

This is where the writing begins —
not with answers,
but with the courage to sit inside the quiet
and let it teach me how to listen again.

— Desiree

There are things I say out loud — the polished versions, the soft truths, the sentences that sound safe in public.
Then there are the ones I keep close, pressed between my ribs like a secret pulse.
They’re not lies. They’re just the parts that need quiet to stay alive.

I’ve learned that not everything sacred survives translation.
Sometimes language distorts what silence protects.
Sometimes, saying too much can make something small and trembling lose its magic.

So when people ask me what I really mean —
what I really do,
who I really am —
I smile, and let the mystery breathe.

Because the truth isn’t a single confession.
It’s a rhythm I move to alone,
a prayer I don’t interrupt to explain.

Maybe one day I’ll tell the whole story.
But for now, I’m learning to love the part that stays unspoken —
not out of fear,
but reverence.

— Desiree