Your hands were so tiny,
your fingers barely wrapping
around one of mine.
Now I look at you
and your hands reach for my face—
holding me,
studying my lips.
I see your thoughts spinning,
calculating,
learning.
Your hands—
reaching for my face,
your palms as big as my cheeks now.
Your hands,
holding my face,
the most comforting place.
I miss you already.
A periodic letter with reflections on identity, healing, and what it means to stay in relationship with yourself over time. These notes are less about instruction and more about orientationā€”offered as something to sit with, return to, or set down when itā€™s not needed.
A short journal-style essay questioning the cultural belief that being human needs fixing, and what becomes visible when that assumptionĀ falls away.
Youā€™ll also receive occasional letters from me. You can unsubscribe at any time.
