Our hearts know more than we give them credit for. And sometimes the best thing we can do is close our eyes, lean our heads back, and trust.Read More
That beating muscle in our chest is so strong, maybe even the strongest we have.Read More
It breaks me to watch my father cry. Men crying has a way of making me feel tender, making me feel just as vulnerable and afraid. But watching him, I can not associate crying with weakness. He cries because he is strong; because he is so strong that only some things can break him. Broken, yet not weak.Read More
The art of forgetting is not to forget, but to remember. To remember a soft hand on your cheek, the way an eyelash twitched or brushed against skin. To go back to all the places that pull tenderly at your heart, to trace words written in faded ink on crinkled paper. The art of forgetting is not to forget, but to remember. To remember the hollow echo of that voice, listen to the shadowy whispers of lost laughs. Then hold those memories, fragile, in an open palm. Breathe. Then close them into a protective fist.