We are a fusion of atoms, briefly compressed in form,
matter that moves to the tide of each storm,
a flicker of light, then back to the sea,
where all things merge, formless, free.

Grief is not a prison, nor a chain,

it is a passage, a rite, a necessary flame,

and when it burns through, the heart remains-

not as ashes, but richer to have lived in its name.

Beneath the soil, where light can’t reach,

an ancient web threads its weave,

a silent pulse, a wordless speech,

where roots and mycelium, astute, perceive.

Dawn breaks, the world pulses
to life around me as I falter,
a familiar rhythm, now a distant hum,
slipping through my fingers like water.

The stillness is arresting,
and I melt,
into the quiet,
where even the sharpest edges soften,
and the world sheds its weight.

Beneath the weight of earth, I lay,
buried deep where dreams decay,
where hopes dissolve like morning mist,
resigned to the place where pain persists.

Some argue that the comforts of modern Western society have sowed a generation lacking resilience, shielded from the harsh realities of the world, to the innate ruthlessness of nature.

In the process of unfolding, there is a moment
when the mind, like a fortress, cracks—
stones loosen, walls shudder,
and the oasis it contains
begins to collapse.

The heart is a gateway, capable of transforming pain into something bearable, and sometimes even beautiful. But it is one of the first things that shuts off in response to trauma.

After experiencing acute or prolonged trauma, particularly in conditions like PTSD, the brain and body become locked in survival states…

In a world of neon lights and digital whispers,
where we are free to roam, eyes glazed,
seeking, pursuing, our own crafted truths,
weaving, dreaming, each inside our own maze.

I am a ship adrift on grim, turbulent waters, where each sound is thunder, each shadow a ghost. Memories are lightning, flashing bright and searing, leaving me blind and trembling.

I am a fractured mirror, reflecting pieces of a past I can’t escape. Each shard is sharp, cutting into my present, drawing blood from old wounds. Familiar places, faces, scents—they are the sirens of my mind, luring me back to places I don’t want to return.

In the shadows of solitude, You were there,

your light broke through the trenches of despair,

in the anguish of illness, frail and worn,

your presence anchored me in the eye of the storm.

Endometriosis is a complex inflammatory, estrogen-dominant disease. It has been compared by researchers to cancer in the way it creates its own blood and estrogen supply, which creates a vicious cycle that makes it challenging to control estrogen dominance once it has begun to spread.
Before it was labelled endometriosis, it was known medically as ‘The Carreer Woman’s Disease."‘

“Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.” - Rumi

The mind is one fraction of our human experience. And an excessive focus on conceptual knowledge can rob us of the vastness of our expanded human potential.

Sometimes I get asked what I do to get in the 'flow-state' as a writer - which to me is a state of hyper-focus that is both alert and calm - so I thought I'd share it here for anyone else interested in increasing their creative output and efficiency. For me, it begins with a morning ritual that has nothing to do with writing.