The morning after our fight, I sat on the balcony, wrapped in my favorite blanket, cradling a cup of coffee that had already gone cold. The squirrels were busy, rustling through the dead leaves on the ground below, their chatter filling the crisp air. My mind, however, was quieter than it had been in weeks.
For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to just sit and think. Not about him, or us, or the cracks I had been trying to patch over. Instead, I thought about me.
I used to know who I was—what I loved, what I wanted, what lit me up inside. Somewhere along the way, that clarity had blurred. I traced my finger along the rim of my coffee cup and wondered: When did I stop dreaming for myself?
My apartment felt like a reflection of that question. I glanced behind me at the living room, unchanged for years. The same rug I had bought when I first moved in, the same curtains I had hung without a second thought. The space had always been functional, but had it ever been mine? Had it ever reflected the person I wanted to become?
I thought about how my skin used to glow, back when I cared enough to nurture it. My nightly rituals had become another casualty of late nights and too many distractions. “You used to treat yourself like you mattered,” I thought. It’s time to start doing that again.
The squirrels darted away, startled by the sound of wind chimes swaying in the breeze. I watched them disappear and smiled softly. Maybe that’s what this moment was for me: the wind that sets things into motion.
I sipped my coffee and let myself dream again. Of a home that feels sacred. Of days that begin and end with care, intention, and love—for myself. Of passions that aren’t sidelined for anyone or anything.
A new chapter was beginning, not with a bang, but with the gentle rustling of leaves and the quiet resolve of someone finally choosing herself.
With love & moonlight,
Vintessa
Sacred musings | Mystic practices | Soft heart, wild spirit