“Whispers From My Heart” is a sacred space where I pour the unspoken — my healing, my growing, my letting go, my loving. Each poem and love letter is a soft echo of the woman I am becoming: brave, blooming, and beautifully unfinished. These are the whispers born from my deepest battles, my quietest prayers, and my brightest hopes. If you find yourself here, know that you are not alone. Welcome to the parts of me that once hurt, now healing — and the parts of you they just might soothe too.
There’s something I’ve been sitting with quietly… something I don’t always admit, even to myself.
I don’t fully trust myself yet.
On the surface, I look like I do.
I make plans. I set goals.
I speak about the life I want with clarity.
I take steps. I start things.
But underneath that…
I still tolerate subtle disrespect.
Not the kind that’s easy to call out and walk away from.
The kind that makes you pause… but not enough to react.
The kind that makes you uncomfortable… but still leaves room for doubt.
The kind that whispers, “maybe you’re overthinking.”
And that’s exactly why it’s dangerous.
Because deep down, I’ve always believed that life is meant to be enjoyed.
Not just survived.
Not just endured.
Enjoyed.
But then reality pulls me back.
Bills. Responsibilities. Pressure.
The kind that doesn’t ask if you’re ready.
The kind that doesn’t care how you feel.
When I feel good, everything makes sense.
I wake up with clarity. I write plans. I map out ideas. I see the bigger picture. I believe in myself. I move fast. I’m decisive. I’m disciplined. I’m her.
And in those moments, I genuinely believe,
“This is it. I’ve figured it out. This is the version of me that’s going to change everything.”
I walked into you carrying numbers in my head, 100K months, profit margins, hamper ideas, brand positioning, aligned clients only. I walked into you thinking strategy would be the loudest thing I learned.
But what you taught me was alignment.
You weren’t about hustle. You were about calibration. And for that, I’m grateful.
I don’t want you raised by pressure.
I don’t want you raised by survival.
I want you raised by me.
And I want to be okay while doing it.
That is the tension.
That is the ache.
Because loving you is not the problem.
Loving you is the easiest part.
Holding everything else at the same time is what terrifies me.
At first, years ago, they would stumble over it. Ask her to repeat it. Shorten it for convenience. Suggest nicknames that made it easier on their tongues. She would correct them gently, then let it go. Now, they paused before saying it.
Her name became a room key. And when she stepped inside, doors did not simply open. Spaces changed to accommodate her...
For a long time, I told myself I was “lazy” when it came to chores. Especially laundry. I would postpone it until the pile stared at me like an accusation. I’d negotiate with myself. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when the sun is out. Maybe when I feel like it.
But here’s the irony.
I might procrastinate doing laundry, but I’m the biggest critic of how it’s done.
Stay.
Not because it’s easy.
Not because it’s glamorous.
But because one day, you’ll look back and realize that the version of you who stayed…
That’s the version everything was built on.
And she deserves more credit than she’ll ever get.
And while you wait, love yourself the way you hope to be loved. Celebrate your own fire. Honor your own strength. Sit with your pain, but also with your joy. Cry when it hurts, laugh when it delights you, dream when you feel free enough to. Because when you are fully present for yourself, the right love doesn’t have to chase you. It will find its way to the heart that is already whole.
Maybe needing love isn’t good.
Maybe it isn’t bad.
Maybe it isn’t weakness or strength.
Maybe it’s just stitched into us, like hunger, like sleep, like the instinct to reach for warmth when the air turns cold.
And maybe the real question isn’t whether we should want it. Maybe the real question is this: If being human comes with longing built in, why do we keep pretending we’re above it?
There is joy in expansiveness.
In walking without destination.
In sitting with nothing to do and everything to feel.
I want rooms where one chair is enough.
Where light does most of the work.
Where silence isn’t awkward, it’s welcomed.
Thank You January.
Thank you for the money that came.
For the clients that came.
For the mindset shifts that stayed.
I stayed.
I chose.
I committed.
And I’m just getting started.
More than anything, I want my life to feel intentional.
I want to stop surviving chapters I never meant to live in forever. I want to enjoy what I’m building while I’m building it. I want softness without stagnation. Growth without self-betrayal. Success that doesn’t cost me my health, my joy, or my relationships.
I want 2026 to meet me well, and I want to meet it unafraid.
Let this be the year where my good intentions take root.
Where effort meets grace.
Where I receive what I am finally ready to sustain.
I welcome this year with an open heart.
I am willing to live well.
I am ready to receive.
Amen.
And so it is.
Thank you, 2025.
For everything.
For the good.
For the hard.
For the growth.
For the joy.
For the becoming.
It was an interesting year.
And I’m thankful for all of it.
Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to plumeria in my thoughts. It’s a mirror for the way I’ve been learning to live: with grace, persistence, softness, and subtlety.
To recognize that my value isn’t in the noise I make or the recognition I chase, but in the authenticity I carry. In the small, overlooked gestures of care and attention. In the ability to leave a mark without demanding acknowledgment.
You are allowed to love someone and still choose not to be in their life. You are allowed to wish them happiness without offering access. You are allowed to keep the love and release the relationship.
We struggle with this because we’ve been taught that love must always look like proximity. That caring means staying. That leaving means failing. But sometimes leaving is the most loving thing you can do, for both of you.