This morning, I leaned out the window like I was waiting for a sonnet. The breeze tangled itself in my hair the way good memories sometimes do—unruly, sweet, unexpected. There’s a softness in the air lately, a hum in the ordinary that feels like the universe is whispering, “keep going, beautiful.”
And suddenly, everything feels like poetry. The way light pours through my sheer curtains, the way I water my plants like I’m nurturing fragments of myself. Life doesn’t always need to be loud to be extraordinary. Sometimes it’s just a woman in a robe, tea in hand, watching the morning unfold like a story written just for her.
There’s magic in slow living. In sighing at the sky. In dressing up even if no one sees you—just because you’re worth the softness. Worth the silk. Worth the sliver of sun on your cheek that makes you feel like you're glowing from the inside out.
I think we forget that we’re art, too. The curve of a yawn, the arch of our thoughts, the wild tangle of dreams we chase and lose and find again. Some days I wake up and I don’t know what I’m becoming, but I know I’m arriving. Slowly. Lushly. Like dusk.
And that’s enough.
Just a gentle reminder: let life flirt with you. Let her leave you breathless with the beauty of your own becoming.