January teaches us how to be still,
to burrow inward, to rest where the world is quiet.
February mends what winter touched,
breathing warmth back into bone and breath.
March listens for what wants to become,
sketching futures in soft, patient lines.
April answers at last—
rising, unfurling, and stepping boldly into light.
So rest now.
The journey ahead is already calling—and you will need your strength.*
I would say to feel safe
To be able to engage without a filter
To be able to let down the drawbridge
Let someone visit
To let someone visit
Without fearing a trojan horse
To be safe
You were good for me.
You taught me partnership—
Companionship,
Selflessness.
You reminded me why I work,
What I hold,
And who I am.
Through you, I saw my fullness,
My capability—
Not borrowed,
But mine.
You showed me my own capacity,
And why it must never run dry.
You also taught me
That I can feel deeply,
Cherish completely,
And still be fine.
But when I begin to take stock,
To keep tabs,
To count down—
That’s when I know:
You are not my home.
You were never my safe space.
And I?
I am not your home.
But I will always be
Your safe haven—
A port when you drift,
A harbor to heal in,
Before you set sail again—
To plunder new lands,
To gather new scars.
I see you.
And truthfully,
I like you best from afar,
Because I have no defenses against you.
So be my distant,
Closest friend.
Let us linger in banter,
Exchange well wishes—
And leave the rest
To silence.
I am a bumbling human who somehow ended up in a leadership role. You know, the kind of role where people network, dodge office politics like it’s a game of Minesweeper, and pretend they know how to swim in a sea of social interactions. It’s a miracle I’m not drowning in it all, honestly.
But here we are. I think I stumbled into this position because, in the name of “networking,” my inner extrovert came out like a wild animal at the water cooler, where I unleashed a torrent of awkward small talk that somehow culminated in me being invited to play golf.
Now, for context—I am a non-golfer. I don’t even own a set of clubs. The only thing I’m good at in a golf community is avoiding the water hazards and sand traps… by not participating. But I did choose to live here for the school district. Because priorities.
Fast forward through a series of carefully crafted, yet suspiciously convenient, excuses (Girl Scouts, out of town, hamster graduation—don’t ask), I got cornered by one of these well-meaning but terrifyingly persistent folks: “What?! We live in the same neighborhood! Let’s catch up on the green at seven!”
Wait. The green? Why is “catching up” happening at 7 AM? Who in their right mind is socializing on a golf course beforebreakfast? And more importantly, how do I sell my house and relocate to a neighborhood that doesn’t involve golf before sunrise?
So many questions. So little time.
Anyway, I dropped my kid off at summer camp, which was going smoothly until I got the dreaded text: “On the ninth hole.” I had a panic attack. The ninth hole? What is that? And then, “You can join us, or wait for the next round.”
The next round? Of what? Are we playing golf or participating in a desert survival challenge? It’s hot out. Are they hydrating?
I parked at my house, and in a moment of absolute genius, decided I would cut across the grass, find the magical “ninth hole” placard, make a grand entrance, and then casually strut back home to mentally recover from my life choices. I mean, it’s a golf course. How hard could it be?
I’m sure you can guess what happened next.
As I casually—okay, awkwardly—cut across the grass, I started to get strange looks. Apparently, in the golf community, walking across the grass in sneakers and a tank top is akin to trespassing with a neon sign that says, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
I started to wonder if I could flag down one of those golf carts. Like, maybe they could just drive me to the hole. It’d be the most glamorous form of “leaving early” ever. But would they take Apple Pay? I was hot. I needed answers.
Eventually, I flagged down the least intimidating figure I could find—a kid, probably still in high school, carrying clubs and wearing a bib (he looked like he was about to enter a golf-themed reality show). I asked him where the ninth hole was. He looked me over: sweaty, disheveled, in a tank top, shorts, and sneakers… and probably with “HELP” written on my face.
Without missing a beat, he suggested I go to the clubhouse to cool off, and maybe reach out to my “party.” I was so grateful, I almost cried. He even gave me a ride to the clubhouse, like a sweet, sweaty golf Uber driver. The look on his face as I climbed in, though—it was like he’d just realized I wasn’t a lost golfer but an actual disaster in human form.
I finally made it to the clubhouse, where I cooled off with some ice water and tried to salvage what little dignity I had left by texting my group. I may have said I accidentally wandered to the neighboring golf course, and that we’d have to catch up next time.
So, that’s how I ended up in an Uber five minutes from my house, pretending I knew what the heck I was doing. Next time, I’m sticking to the water cooler… where it’s safer for everyone.
When someone moves with intention,
Speaks with clarity—
Beyond mere kindness,
Attuned to every need,
Receptive,
Responsive—
They sat me down, gently,
Eyes steady, voice soft:
“You are not too much.
You are just enough.
I see you.
I hear you.
You matter to me.”
And all I could say was,
“My intention was never to be heard by you.”
How do I break your heart
While trying to shelter the ones
Who love me best?
How do I walk away
From a dream I once cradled?
When did the dream
Begin to feel like a weight?
To my dreamers—
I entrust you this soul:
Tend to him gently,
In ways this hollow shell
No longer can.
Situation: sitting in a dark room. Status post a toxic co dependent relationship that you successfully dodged for almost two decades only to fold and learn the lessons you foresaw coming. In the process of trying to hold your atoms together, and not shatter… you turn introspective.
Focus inward: How does your trauma manifest? A therapist asked me that once. I quit therapy. But let us talk about it.
Do you feel guilty when you buy yourself something. After buying something new… do you “save” it for a rainy day… then when you convince yourself to wear it it has fallen apart from disuse?
Do you prefer to inherit broken in clothes and hold on to hand me downs due to sentiment?
Do you empathize with the villains in your story… identifying with their villain origin story instead of removing yourself from their blast radius. Finding ways to “fix it” instead of holding them accountable?
Do you forget your basic needs while focusing on others? Cannot remember your last meal but can recite a person’s sleep cycle.
A walking representation of imposter syndrome. Accuse yourself of failing upward?
Do you enter every relationship waiting for abandonment. Stay suspicious of motives and seem to always have that “aha” moment when the other party lives out your foreboding?
Do you spend your days identifying all the ways your reality could crumble and how it is your fault?
Do your overly invest in those you feel have been dealt an unfair hand because you wish someone would do the same for you?
Do you overextend yourself hoping that it will fill the gap in those you care for hoping it will soothe their demons while your demons run unchecked?
Do you regret caring? Regret overextending? Regret smothering others while hiding yourself leading to you sitting in the dark, wallowing in introspection even as you acknowledge all the trampling in the world will not stop the care you have for the chosen few whose demons, soothed your demons even for a spell, a season or a session?
Conclusion: Trauma shapes character, designs disguises and cloaks relationships. Enough trauma and the soul loses itself under all the weight of the debris that is your life.
Learning to pause—
To breathe,
To be still.
Fighting myself
Served no one.
I worked so hard
To convince my heart
That you were worth the hurt.
But I knew.
You were never the one.
It was pride
That took longer to persuade.
You gave me peace
By simply being you.
And in that stillness,
Even pride
Let you go.
I love this peace.
I love it
For me.
This is an ode
To the pit stop—
The one who finds the stray dog,
Bones brittle,
Spirit dimmed,
Fur matted with the weight of survival.
You nurse the flea-ridden carcass to life,
Coaxing breath back into tired lungs,
Reigniting the fire behind weary eyes.
You become a haven,
A shelter for the storm-worn,
Fueling the spark
Of something new—
Or long forgotten.
You source the strength
For their reinvention.
And then,
You wake one morning
To their absence.
They are gone.
You buried their true self,
Released their forged one—
Neither
Was ever yours to keep.
You were the rehab.
Thank you.
Situation: Friend of mine called in righteous indignation over her close friend staying in touch with an almost/sometimes/maybe ex. Her sense of betrayal stemmed from the comraderie and familiarity her ex seemed to have while reminiscing of the interaction.
My assessment: Our exes where once the closest person we bared our fears and souls to. Some learnt our triggers and enjoy to push them just as we enjoy pushing theirs. How accurate is the depiction of this/these encounters? Knowing your person, are they prone to drawing the longbow through embellishment to pad their feelings of grandeur? Do they like to dance the tango of your feelings for entertainment?
Most importantly, why are you gatekeeping that woman’s husband?!?!?!
Conclusion: The audacity of gate keeping humans!!! Sacré bleu!
What happened: You watched a self professed narcissist try and destroy another human because they perceived a wrong.
The view: feigned vulnerability of the need for buy in that begets attachment and a need to protect the misunderstood. Leads to unveiling of the human set upon the pedestal surrounded by traps that make them fallible. Moseying on to the slow deprivation of affection that grows the need to prove one’s self to the misunderstood injured son of a cruel world. Culminating in the disdain of the mewling attached hatchling that was once a proud specimen of humanity. Resulting in the groveling from a lost soul who needed to redefine her compass and let go of what almost broke her.
Conclusion: Coming to terms with the reality of your gut having moved on months before your treacherous heart. Learn that overstating your welcome soothing demons that do not belong to you is not necessary. Loving broken people from a distance is enough. They will heal and be whole in their way. Heal and be whole in yours.
Short stories from a Broken soul 