Effort. Such a small word—yet it asks everything of us. It’s the daily decision to show up when no one is watching, when belief feels heavier than doubt, when quitting would hurt less than hoping. It’s choosing yourself when motivation is gone. Choosing faith when progress is invisible. Choosing again even when you’re tired of being the one who tries. We pour effort into everything— our work, our relationships, our healing, our becoming. But sometimes— we pour it into the wrong places. Why...

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a feeling I don’t quite have a name for. It isn’t exactly sadness. It isn’t loneliness in the way people usually mean it. It’s not emptiness either. It feels more like the quiet aftermath — the space that shows up when you stop running, stop distracting, stop filling every gap with noise or people or plans. The part no one prepares you for. The art of simply being. No one explains just how uncomfortable being uncomfortable actually feels. We talk about healing...

We’re told to let go. We’re told to move on. We’re told to heal— like it’s a switch we can turn on. They say it’s a journey, a winding road, but no one explains what we’re meant to unload. I know I’ve had my trauma. I know I’ve cried my tears. I’ve shared in the anger, the betrayal, the painful years. I struggle when I face the mirror, when my own eyes look back. It hurts to feel like I’m not enough, like I’m missing something I lack. I carry my own bag of fears— some learned, some grown,...