Ten years ago, my home held the shape of me. Mismatched mugs collected from places I’d loved, books stacked in teetering towers, paintings leaned against walls, waiting for the right moment to be hung. There were hand-me-down chairs with stories in their worn arms, a chipped bowl from my grandmother’s kitchen, and a sense—however unkempt—that…
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My Kind Of Wintering
Wintering comes for me like a heavy blanket I didn’t ask for, settling around my shoulders and demanding that I slow down, stop pretending, and pay attention. It arrives uninvited, often when I least expect it, and asks for patience I don’t think I have. I used to resist it, trying desperately to keep moving,…