The Breakdown That Fixed Everything
The Woman Who Built on Bedrock
Used to think collapse was the end—now I build with what’s left.
They said I’d crumble, and I did—but underneath the panic, the nights weeping over dishes I shouldn’t’ve bought, there was a stillness. Painted the collapse on the wall; now it’s my compass. Keep only the pothos, the right-weighted blanket, the books that speak without words. You don’t need much to rebuild a life. Just a single clear breath, then another.
What I'm Into: cedar smoke, mending broken pottery with gold, the weight of a blanket at dawn, unstructured mornings
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