01/12/2026
Sometimes movement isn’t about steps or goals or numbers.
This weekend, my walk brought me here.
It has been many months—maybe even more than a year—since I last sat in this place of healing.
This small, beautiful refuge.
A quiet shelter where tree branches curl and wrap around one another like arms that know how to hold.
Leaves standing tall and alert, flowers unapologetically pink.
A circle of benches tucked inside a lattice of green—
a space that once held me through grief, through loss, through the slow, aching work of becoming whole again.
I spent so many hours here after losing my dad.
After miscarriages.
I came with tears, with heaviness, with a body that needed somewhere safe to fall apart.
I cried here.
I breathed here.
I sat in silence and simply was.
Today, I returned.
And the first thing I noticed was the breeze—
gentle, steady, moving through the branches like a quiet reassurance.
The birds chirped, unbothered and present.
There was peace here.
Not the fragile kind—but the kind that settles into your chest.
I feel calm.
I feel grateful.
Who knew that one day I would return to this space and feel light instead of heavy?
Airy instead of aching.
No sadness waiting for me—only presence.
I’m here now as an observer.
And maybe that’s all I ever was.
It’s just that back then, the observing was soaked in sorrow.
Today, it’s soaked in awe.
I’m sitting here on a pause from walking with my baby in womb.
Catching my breath—but for a different reason this time.
The space hasn’t changed.
It’s still just as beautiful as it always was.
But I see it differently now.
I see the birds differently.
The branches differently.
The benches differently.
I feel the air differently.
I feel different.
What a blessing.
There was so much trust practiced in the space between then and now.
So much patience.
So much quiet surrender.
And the one thing that never left me—
not once—
was that inner knowing.
That everything would be okay.
That I would figure it out.
That life would unfold exactly as it was meant to—without force, without grasping.
It was in that stillness.
In that silence.
The same stillness that once nearly broke me—
that now feels like peace.
