Healing Corner.

This is the place of recognition.

For the bruised, and the bandaged. For the stitched, and the recovery of those who have walked through fire and chosen to carry a lantern instead of being laden with the ashes.

Here, we name what was. Not to dwell in darkness, but to acknowledge the shadows we have outgrown and outshone. These are poems of discernment. Of boundaries drawn in love. Of past ills that now show immunity.

This is not darkness. There is a candle here that glows. This is the calm after the storm has passed. This is strength remembered. This is love reclaimed.

You will not find despair here. You will find the moment when the tide turned. You will find the correct words before the curtain fell. And you will remember who you are.

Welcome to the Healing Corner. Where we honour our lives, and celebrate our existence.

Independence Day, Reclaimed 💕


Before the fireworks, there was silence. Not the peaceful kind, the kind they taught you to keep, when your voice was a room you weren’t allowed to enter. They called it love. I called it shrinking. Every “you’re too sensitive” was a brick. Every “that never happened” was a lock. I lived in a house of mirrors they built, and every reflection was their version of me. Gaslight flickers. It doesn’t burn out, it makes you question the sun. So I forgot what daylight felt like on my skin. I asked permission to be happy. I apologized for taking up space in my own life. But there was magic in the breakage of this stone. Something wonderful took root in the cracks. Today is July 4th. The sky will shout in red and white and gold, but my independence started quieter: a coffee I ordered without checking first. A plan I made and didn’t explain.	Saying “no” and letting the air hold it, not rushing to fill the space with sorry. Independence is not a flag. It’s waking up and the day is yours. No one votes on your style, smile. No one edits your thoughts before you think them. It’s walking into a room and not scanning for permission. Living is now, because you're done waiting. They said I couldn’t survive without them. Look, I’m the one holding the matches now. I’m the one who decides what burns and what gets to light up the sky. I used to be a story they told. Now I’m the author, the ink, the page. The plot? I choose me. Every chapter, every line break, every period. So let the rockets scream. I have my own kind of loud now: The sound of my front door locking from the inside. By my hand. On my terms. Happy Independence Day, to the me I got back. To the me they never got to keep.

Before the fireworks, there was silence.
Not the peaceful kind,
the kind they taught you to keep,
when your voice was a room you weren’t allowed to enter.

They called it love.
I called it shrinking.
Every “you’re too sensitive” was a brick.
Every “that never happened” was a lock.
I lived in a house of mirrors they built,
and every reflection was their version of me.

Gaslight flickers. It doesn’t burn out,
it makes you question the sun.
So I forgot what daylight felt like on my skin.
I asked permission to be happy.
I apologized for taking up space in my own life.

But there was magic in the breakage of this stone.
Something wonderful took root in the cracks.

Today is July 4th.
The sky will shout in red and white and gold,
but my independence started quieter:
a coffee I ordered without checking first.
A plan I made and didn’t explain.

Saying “no” and letting the air hold it,
not rushing to fill the space with sorry.

Independence is not a flag.
It’s waking up and the day is yours.
No one votes on your style, smile.
No one edits your thoughts before you think them.
It’s walking into a room and not scanning for permission.
Living is now, because you're done waiting.

They said I couldn’t survive without them.
Look,
I’m the one holding the matches now.
I’m the one who decides what burns
and what gets to light up the sky.

I used to be a story they told.
Now I’m the author, the ink, the page.
The plot?
I choose me.
Every chapter, every line break, every period.

So let the rockets scream.
I have my own kind of loud now:
The sound of my front door locking
from the inside.
By my hand.
On my terms.

Happy Independence Day,
to the me I got back.
To the me they never got to keep.

Rotten Wood


Don’t play the fool with me, because you will lose face, no time like the present to make you step up pace. You can’t keep up, then fall behind — I will not stop in time. Done all the waiting I am gonna do, now I’ll away take what’s mine. You can’t carve rotten wood, I don’t know why I ever thought I could. War ends nothing, so I’m not gonna fight, I am leaving, just taking flight. The honey is sweet but the bee has a sting, say goodbye to the sweetest thing. What breaks in a moment may take years to mend. No sin is hidden from the soul, and you just lost a friend.	Sometimes it’s too little too late — the horse has bolted, so leave the gate. Standing there with your head sunk low, you did this — don’t say you didn’t know. Spare your breath to cool your porridge, ‘cus I don’t wanna hear. A closed mouth catches no flies, don’t bother to fake a tear. From small acorns great oaks rise, it won’t take long to grow, and when I’m up there looking down, I’ll remember what I know.

Don’t play the fool with me,
because you will lose face,
no time like the present
to make you step up pace.
You can’t keep up, then fall behind —
I will not stop in time.
Done all the waiting I am gonna do,
now I’ll away take what’s mine.

You can’t carve rotten wood,
I don’t know why I ever thought I could.
War ends nothing, so I’m not gonna fight,
I am leaving, just taking flight.
The honey is sweet but the bee has a sting,
say goodbye to the sweetest thing.

What breaks in a moment
may take years to mend.
No sin is hidden from the soul,
and you just lost a friend.

Sometimes it’s too little too late —
the horse has bolted, so leave the gate.
Standing there with your head sunk low,
you did this — don’t say you didn’t know.

Spare your breath to cool your porridge,
‘cus I don’t wanna hear.
A closed mouth catches no flies,
don’t bother to fake a tear.
From small acorns great oaks rise,
it won’t take long to grow,
and when I’m up there looking down,
I’ll remember what I know.