When I started this blog, I made a quiet, intentional choice.
I created a separate Instagram account … not because I had something to hide, but because I wanted to protect something sacred. Mostly, my children.
I want them to have the freedom, when they’re older, to choose how much of themselves they share publicly with the world.
To decide their own boundaries. Their own story. Their own footprint…both digitally and in the real world.
The way we’re seen by others, online and offline, can shape how we see ourselves — and that’s not a responsibility I take lightly.
I also wanted to create a writing a space of its own. A place where creativity could live without sacrificing some privacy for my children.
So I carved out that space, to connect and to share about:
Healing.
Stories.
and questions about life.
When I first shared on my private account that I was starting this blog, I did it quietly.
I didn’t tag friends or beg for followers.
I simply shared that this blog space existed. That if something in their spirit stirred, they could find me there.
I posted the link and let it be.
But the truth is, when I checked back and saw how few followed, how little response came through, I felt disheartened.
Not because I wanted numbers.
But because a part of me wanted to feel seen.
I wanted to feel like my voice mattered to the people who’ve known me the longest.
I didn’t want to ask. I still don’t.
Not because my ego is too proud — but because I want the support to come organically, not out of obligation.
I want the people who follow to be the ones who feel it.
Who read a post and go: “Me too”
The ones who feel a shift in their chest.
The ones who are moved to reflect.
That’s the kind of connection I want.
Real. Resonant. Rooted.
But starting this blog has been one of the most revealing mirrors.
It’s shown me who engages and who doesn’t.
Who reaches out and who stays silent.
It’s taught me that some people love me best when I’m listening, not when I’m speaking.
That some only come close when I’m tending to their purpose and pain — not when I’m honouring my own.
It’s taught me how often people assume I don’t need support because I had shown a quite, sometimes withdrawn or self-aware front.
But I do. I crave it too.
I’m only human.
I long for mutuality.
Still, I write. I reflect. I share.
Not because the world claps. But because it feels honest for my soul. This kind of expression feels essential to me…like oxygen.
Because something in me gets stifled when I remain silent.
And each time I write, something heals.
A small fracture closes.
A truth lands more gently in my body.
A question finds breath.
Even when no one responds. I respond to myself.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Maybe a part of me still quietly hopes to be seen.
Even while another part knows I’d write anyway.
Both can be true.
It’s about being faithful — to my voice, to my truth, and to whatever stirs when I sit down to write.
This week I wrote a different blog but I decided not to share it.
Not yet.
It had things I’m still not quite ready to say aloud.
Maybe one day.
Maybe soon.
But this week I did wrestle with the friction between self-love vs service,
and the ongoing tug-of-war between religion and spirituality.
I poured some of that into writing and shared pieces of it to family and on my more public social account…
The structured, more formed parts.
The rest still lives quietly in my drafts.
And that’s okay too.
Not everything needs to be witnessed at once.
When I share and if others never say a word —
I have to remind myself of the quiet intention I made when I first began: That this blog is here to invite dialogue, not beg for it.
That I am here to share my truth — not only to be seen,
but because in the process, I’m starting to understand, see and accept all parts of me fully.. both the dark and light sides.
And if silence meets my expression, I return to the voice that echoes back love and compassion: my own.
Every post becomes a ritual of self-trust.
A reminder that my voice is allowed to take up space, just as it is.
That art and expression is not just measured by engagement — but most importantly by honesty.
If you’re reading this, you’re already part of that sacred few.
You didn’t need to be asked.
You came because you felt something.
That’s more than enough and means more to me than you will ever know.
So thank you.
For showing up.
For being one of the ones who feels the shift. For meeting me here, in this space where art is sacred, truth is enough, and the human heart gets to take up space. For reminding me that truth doesn’t need a crowd…
It just needs a witness.
If this stirred something in you…. A memory,
A truth,
A breath you didn’t know you were holding. If you are comfortable to share, I would love to know what it opened.
Or if a quiet seed was planted that stirred self-enquiry,
that would be beautiful to hear too.
Your reflections mean more than you know.
Let this be a space where honesty doesn’t echo into emptiness —
but into understanding.
Into connection.
Into grace.
With every word I write,
I give thanks and glory to the Divine in everything, in you, in all of us.
Thank you for the voice,
The healing,
And the sacredness of being able to share it.
And may these words reach whoever needs them.
Home to Heart 
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