Beneath the amber light, an essay that was meant to stay an essay refuses to let go, on being locked inside your own words, and the unicorn that finally has a name.
Tag Archives: personal essay
A ladybird on a sleeve, a unicorn that must stay unnamed — an essay on the kind of closeness that exists beyond touch, beyond presence, beyond what we’re allowed to call it.
Twenty-three years, one daughter, one inseparable bond the world keeps insisting should have boundaries, a reflection on motherhood, closeness, and the strange world of adult daughters.
A reflection on the body through infertility, illness, and perimenopause, and the slow return to trusting it again, rather than trying to perfect it.
A Sunday afternoon, interrupted by a phone call about a friend’s husband and a stroke, and the sudden, humbling collapse of every curated, beige-toned certainty.
Returning to interior design school for the third time, at forty, with my daughter’s graduation as the excuse to finally face it: am I multipassionate, or just afraid to finish what I start?
This was the beginning of my love for ranch style. I remember the endless hours, every single piece of free time I spent on the ranch with my beloved daughter since her early childhood.
With peace in my soul and an absolute feeling of relaxation, I would sit on the fence and watch her learn to ride.
How she learned to feel with her horse, how they learned from each other…
There’s a certain stillness that only the ranch can give me. The moment I step into the riding arena, the outside world quiets down – replaced by the rhythm of hooves, the breath of horses, and the soft rustle of hay. It feels as if the air itself carries a different energy, one that settles into my body and softens my thoughts.
One table, one café in a historic town, one quiet certainty, a slow living essay about the moment everything pointed toward writing as the path, not the hobby.
When my daughter left for university, what came wasn’t emptiness, it was silence. An essay on empty nest syndrome, motherhood after forty, and the slow transformation of solitude into grace.
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