10:32 PM
This season—specifically this month—has handed me the word bloom.
I’ve been carrying it with me, and somewhere along the way it stopped being a thought and became a manifestation. It feels beyond time to step into everything that’s been waiting for me.
I’ve spent a long stretch soaking in the nutrients life has been offering. Literally and metaphorically, I’ve faced both sun and rain head-on. What surprised me most was how much the rain became a blessing. I let it cleanse me. I let it nourish me—especially in the midst of loss.
Maybe it’s seasonal, but I feel it deeply: not just the urge to grow, but the demand to bloom. After everything, what else could I possibly do? This moment feels unavoidable. And I know it’s easier to name than to live out. I’ve reached this point before, only to shy away and choose comfort over becoming.
This energy comes from falling hard for life itself. Not only my own life—but life as a concept, in its entirety. I’ve spent years missing that part.
Since the breakup, I’ve realized how much love I still carry. How much I have to give—and receive. I’m letting love arrive from everywhere and everything. My only caution is making sure I pour enough of it back into myself, something that has never come easily to me.
I don’t want to settle for survival anymore. I want to thrive—under all circumstances.
This reflection is undeniably optimistic, but it’s honest. I feel excited. With the support, faith, and grace I’ve been given by people who see my potential, it almost feels diabolical that I haven’t reached it yet. Still, despite my pessimism and lingering doubt, the light ahead feels bright.
I want nothing more than to bloom—and to keep blooming. I want my beauty to be overflowing and intoxicating, but also still, grounded, and alive. The way flowers are.
