Obligated newbie post..
Hello all. My name is Heather & I’ve always found comfort in writing. I’m an avid journal writer for 25 yrs now. It’s my safe place. I just released my debut book/memoir last month. I saw this site as a sponsored ad on my IG. Figured it was a sign from the writers universe due to the fact I’ve been wanting to enhance & enrich my writing skills. Get back into the poetry era of my life. I’m hoping to find some inspiration & motivation thru this app. Thru everyone’s words. 🖤

dec 11
a journal on familial bonds.
the oddities in which the preservation of familial bonds has brought is an interesting notion worth unpacking. I keep one pillow sheet on a pillow here, and one there. as the matching florals bring comfort to both homes I go to. I use the locker in the gym of my father’s favorite number, as the unification of father and daughter presents itself in strange ways. but I somehow feel closer knowing my stuff is protected by him despite the distance. 3:33 is my favorite time to present each day as my mom and I share that in common, and I’m under the belief it keeps us closer. every store I go into, I’m on the lookout for new hello kitty themed items, as my sister recently took on the fascination for the cartoon that made an impact on a portion of my childhood too. as she grows older, our age gap seems to close, as if to be an illusion, as we begin to look more alike. I love that we carry each other with us every day.

I spend the days looking for ways to feel closer to my family, even though our distance keeps me humble.

growing up, I loved sitting in the kitchen with my dad as he would cook dinner. I learned a lot during those times. funny enough, my favorite thing I learned to cook from him was his scrambled eggs in the bowl passed down from my grandma. it’s the scrambled egg bowl. one day I’ll buy a bowl just to scramble my eggs in, but for now I’ll reminisce on that bowl knowing my eggs will never scramble as well as they do inside that bowl. he also taught me the importance of the preparation the night before. for anything, but specifically, he loves to prepare his coffee the night before for an easier wake up. I think a warm cup of coffee ready to go is a good reason to get out of bed in the morning, too.

I go through days holding onto random parts of the things that remind me of family, of the love we hold. for familial love is not one easy to replicate. and I don’t bother to replicate it, I spend my time attempting its infiltration into my daily life. to bring the love with me.

I am a mosaic of the people I love. pieces of them make up me and falter a greater sense of who I am. as I am only me because those who brought me here.

Dear Unsealer’s,
# What’s your love story
part 1

Originally Recorded February 2020 By: Taylor Vance
Our love Story began over a year ago at a point in my life when I thought my ability to love someone else was gone. Being a widow with two children was what I believed the rest of my life would always be not ever knowing or sharing true love again. This love came on blind, unexpected & pure. Not out of pity & without judgement which brought light back into my life. He gave me the opportunity to see and experience things I only dreamed of, but thought I would never do. Him well he was a Gypsy roaming wild and free, me well I was the pioneer never to venture too far away from home or family. He was excited to show & share his ways & worldly experiences with me mostly, more than he even knew he reminded me to LIVE & LOVE life again. I am very thankful GOD sent me a good man with only good intentions for myself and my children. I found this quote that resonates with me how I feel our relationship came to be & is the base of which we began on January 5,2019.

“Maybe she needed HIM to show her how to LIVE and Maybe he needed HER to show him how to LOVE”

ONE YEAR DOWN, FOREVER TO GO

love Taylor 2-2020
Taylor & Shane 2019

NOT THE END, INSTEAD TO BE CONTINUED…….

The story begins with an ordinary day, a simple act of showing up. I walked into a speech therapy session, my mind preoccupied with the familiar routine. But that day, the routine was interrupted.

A beautiful foster mom sat in the foyer of her warm, life-filled home. Her children ran and played nearby, their laughter filling the room. As I stepped in, I was welcomed into their family’s village, embraced by their kindness and warmth. As I settled in, she asked a question that would change the course of our lives forever:

“Do you know anyone that might be able to adopt?”

It felt like time stopped. The words echoed in my heart, touching a place I hadn’t dared to let hope visit for years. It was as if a seed of possibility was being planted. Little did I know, the answer to her question would become the answer to a prayer written years before, tucked away in my husband’s gratitude journal since 2016. Yet, this happened on November 17, 2020.

Four years earlier, he had written, “Lord, if it’s Your will, bring forth a son.” I had no idea he’d written that prayer—not just once, but on every single page of his gratitude journal. And unbeknownst to him, he didn’t know how many nights I had spent crying out to God, aching for the child we had yet to hold.

The journey began quietly, like the unfolding of a miracle too big to see all at once. Over the next nine months, we walked a path full of hope, paperwork, and prayer, not realizing how beautifully orchestrated it all was. The moment finally came on a day already heavy with meaning—a day tied to both sorrow and healing.

It was a due date I had carried in my heart for years, tied to a miscarriage that had once left me shattered. But it was also the very same day we stood before a judge, holding hands, and became the parents of the most beautiful boy—our son.

God had taken the broken pieces of my story and made something beautiful. What once was a date of mourning became a day of indescribable joy. He had turned my sorrow into joy in a way I never imagined possible.

Fifteen years of tears fell in that virtual courtroom, but they were no longer tears of grief. They were tears of gratitude, awe, and love for the child we were finally able to call our own.

For anyone who knows the void of infertility, who feels the ache of unfulfilled longing, I want you to know this: your story isn’t over. There is still hope. The journey may not look the way you imagined, and it may take longer than your heart feels it can bear, but miracles have a way of finding us when we least expect them.

Sometimes, they come through a foster family asking a question. Sometimes, they come through a prayer written quietly in a journal. And sometimes, they come on the very day you thought joy was impossible.

Hold on. There is still hope. YOUR STORY IS NOT OVER!

Question
“If the deepest pain you’ve experienced was meant to prepare you for a purpose greater than you imagined, how might that change the way you view your journey?”

There was a time when she felt completely lost, like a stranger to her own reflection. The weight of pain, fear, and self-doubt had buried her true self so deeply that she didn’t realize how much of herself she had been hiding. The healing process wasn’t something she sought out intentionally—it began as a means of survival, her life suddenly impacted by a single event that forced her to step into the depths of the unknown.

At first, healing felt like unraveling the shredded pieces of her life. She was forced to confront parts of herself she didn’t want to face: the hurt, the anger, and the pieces she believed were irreparably broken, including her passion for changing lives with the sound of her voice. It was messy and uncomfortable, but it was also a raw and honest journey. Slowly, she began to understand that those broken pieces weren’t something to be ashamed of—they were stepping stones to rediscovering who she truly was and who she was becoming as she waded into the deep.

What surprised her most was realizing the strength she already carried within her soul. She found her healing in the most difficult spaces. For so long, she thought she needed to be “fixed,” but the truth was, she simply needed to reconnect with herself. Each moment of reflection, forgiveness, and growth became a step toward reclaiming the person she was always meant to be.

She was undefined by a diagnosis. Her worth, identity, and potential were not confined or limited by any medical diagnosis or label attached to her spiritual garments. She found the strength to whisper to her reflection, “I am more than my condition, and it does not define who I am.”

It was about rejecting labels that boxed her in and instead embracing the complexity and depth of who she was beyond what any diagnosis might suggest. She declared to the world a powerful affirmation: “Thank you for the medical jargon, but this time, I’ll write my own story—one that mandates new ABILITIES!”

There were days when it all felt overwhelming, but those were the moments she learned to lean into kindness—especially toward herself. She found joy in the smallest things: the warmth of sunlight, the sound of her own laughter, the feeling of her breath grounding her in the present. Each small step brought her closer to herself. She demanded that her healing be louder than the silence.

Looking back now, she can see how far she’s come. The healing process wasn’t about erasing her pain; it was about transforming it into something meaningful. It taught her that she wasn’t defined by what had happened to her but by how she chose to move forward and help heal others.

Finding herself wasn’t a single, dramatic moment. It was a series of small, quiet realizations that she was enough, just as she was, and that she was still learning to grow. Healing didn’t make her perfect—it made her whole. And for that, she will always feel a deep sense of gratitude for stepping away from the shallows and into the deep. Her transformation is a reflection of the courage it took to walk into the depths and rediscover her true self.

As you rise from the ashes, something remarkable happens. You begin to see the masterpiece that you are. Every scar, every tear, every step forward becomes a brushstroke on the canvas of your life.

You are no longer the person you were before the trauma endured—but that’s not a loss. The person you are becoming is stronger, wiser, and more compassionate. You have walked through fire and emerged with a strength that cannot be taken from you.

This masterpiece you are creating is not perfect, nor should it be. It is real, raw, and breathtakingly human. It is a testament to your resilience, your ability to heal, and your refusal to let darkness define your story.

Your journey of rising from the ashes is not just for you. When you are ready, your story becomes a beacon for others still trapped in their pain. By sharing your truth and redemption, you remind them that healing is possible, that they are not alone, and that they too can rise. There is beauty from the ashes if you allow yourself to rise up and over the trauma inflicted.

Your courage becomes a light that pierces through the darkness, a reminder that beauty can emerge even from the deepest pain. No longer defined by a life sentence; rather a beautiful masterpiece refined by the inferno.

Rising from the ashes of trauma is not about erasing the past; it’s about transforming it. It’s about taking the pain and using it to create something extraordinary—a life lived boldly, authentically, and fully.

You are not what happened to you. You are the masterpiece you have become, a testimony and alive to guide others out of the inferno.

So, rise. Paint your life with every color of your journey. Embrace your strength, honor your scars, and stand tall in the knowledge that you are whole, worthy, radiant, beautiful and YOU-uniquely YOU.

Because you, dear survivor, are a masterpiece—and the world is brighter because of you.

Mr. Rogers,

I wanted to tell you thank you for everything. Thank you for encouraging me to continue writing. Thank you for giving me a safe place to crash when things were chaotic in my life. Thank you for introducing me to your family and friends. But, most of all thank you for just being you.

A small shadowy figure of a girl stumbles out of her house, and quickly paces through her backyard. The lawn hasn’t been cut but she still treads through barefoot without a care. To others around her she seems disheveled, even slightly scary. She heads towards the darkest corner and peers over her raggedy fence and caught a nice gaze at the sky. “Ahhhh, no clouds tonight” she happily told herself.

What this means for Jaria, is she can do her thing now finally. No obstructions tonight. She closes her eyes and throws a nice calming frequency tone on in the background. Takes a deep breath and then asks for guidance from within. She realizes that way too much suffering has been occurring for far too long. Past, present, and future if nothing changes. Her focus starts tuning in and here come all her higher thoughts. She calmly reaches for her blue selenite crystal because she remembers the moon will recharge it. A special friend from the Unkechaug Tribe told her this tip many years ago. She keeps paying attention to her breathing, and the breaths get longer, fuller and somehow even more fulfilling. She stretches out every part of her body, then says ok “RELEASE”!

Nothing major or dramatic seems to have occurred. Atleast not instantly that is….Jaria lightly starts humming and moving her legs around. She remembers stories as a little girl, and now senses the whispers of her ancestors telling her to dance. See, dancing for her was not just for what you see on television. Dancing was not only part of her culture, it was used for it’s healing properties as well.

We all have energy, and movement causes vibration. Vibration can in turn heal us. Jaria didn’t have many words to speak anymore. She has seen a lot here on Earth. So this is what she must do to remain calm and strong if there is to be any future hope left in humanity.

Dancing somehow holds the key which is put into a doorknob and when she turns it-she’s granted access to somehow release all of her hidden emotions. She can somehow feel a sense of control by the mastery of her movements the older she gets.

All of a sudden Jaria isn’t so disheveled and uncharged. Swiftly she notices more, then she has enough self awareness to pick up on her own bad mood and decide to change it. She has no care for the conception of time, monetary items or toxicity. She walks to the beat of her own drum… literally.

Two hours has gone by, and it’s going to take a full nights rest now. This was a lot on Jaria’s soul. But in a good way. She breezes past her neighbors, now seeming light as a feather. Even her neighbors figure she must have gotten some good news or something.

Unfortunately this is a common pattern for our little moon child here. This is what Jaria must keep doing not only for herself, but for all future spiritual creatures alike. May we all find our place in the Universe.

If “Love is patient”
and “Love is kind”,
then why do I feel
like I’m losing my mind?

It’s not easy to be patient,
when your family is all around.
It’s also hard to be kind,
Or, at least, that’s what I have found.

My mother’s mind wanders,
she never stays on task.
When it comes to what she’s doing,
I always have to ask!

“Where are you going now?”
“How long will it take?”
“Do you have to do that right away?”
“You’re going to make us late!”

Granny’s got a mouth,
and she runs it every day.
When it comes to me and Mom,
she’s always got something to say!

“Go brush your hair,
it looks like a wig!”
“Oh, you’re getting seconds?
Your belly’s getting big!”

Snapping back is in my nature,
sometimes I want to fight!
But I love them both so much,
so, on my tongue, I bite.

I give myself some time,
to process what I heard.
I remember who I’m talking to,
before I speak a word.

Mom might drive me crazy,
but she brought me in this world.
I know I gave her a hard time,
when I was just a girl.

Granny doesn’t mean to hurt us,
when her words come out so sharp.
She just doesn’t have a filter,
but she does have a heart.

We’re all a little crazy,
we’re each a little nuts.
But at the end of the day,
that’s what makes us “US”!

So it may not be easy
to be patient and kind,
but I’ll put in the extra work
for this family of mine.

-Caitlin Jablonsky

“I wrote this poem from my wife’s perspective about her relationship with her mother and grandmother.”
-Matty Jablonsky

To express and not to impress.
That’s what my wardrobe mantra has always been.
My insecurities, my assets, my emotions, my sartorial choices. My clothes have always been about just me.
What I wish to is what I wear.
Wore them pants wide with arrogant pride while most felt pressurized to snuggle into those skinnies.
Dared the unforgiving jumpsuit before it pole-vaulted into it’s current fashionista glory.
Fashion trends may fail but personal style always stays and slays.
Fashion has copycats but style is unimitable. Fashion runs the risk to look frumpy, style is consistently classy!
My clothes have always been my strongest mode of self expression and hold the power to strip me.
Strip me of my fears, my vulnerabilities, my facades and expose my inner moods and eccentricities which can be quite scary!
I have always looked at my style as a metric of how well I know my body. I realize my body is ever evolving with age and hence organically so must my style.
For what fits may not necessarily flatter.
I let no brand, no magazine , no nobody tell me what befits me. For that is my mind and my body’s prerogative only.
I shall always be my own fashion house, my recurring muse , my own runaway supermodel and most of all my own worst critique!
As I contemplate color blocking warm and cold, throwing some solid pattern on prints , or experimenting with unconventional hemlines , I would like to do so with complete abandon of external validation.
For ultimately it’s always about what the final look does for me and never about how others choose to see.

I was browsing through “My Mother’s Story” for a prompt. Not for my mother, and not for the children I don’t plan on having, but for me. I am my own mother in many senses.

“What was the hardest period of your life and why?”

My instant thought was “in a sense I am still living it, yet it has passed many times”.
It’s recurring. I am plagued with anxiety and depression many times for many reasons.
It never completely leaves me; sometimes it’s just managed better. It’s like keeping it in a box in the attic.
Then a trigger or a stress, consciously or not, just opens the attic door. Scours through the piles of chaos. Finds the box. And of course, proceeds to dump all of its belongings in every bit of the house. Messy messy I feel.

Right now, I am exhausted. Drained. Sad. Far from content. Miles from happy.
I want rest – not from sleep, but from life’s stresses.
I need clarity; a sure direction on where I am going.
I desire joy – self acceptance, motivation, calmness.
I’m yearning for change – beach, sand, sun on end.

I am the type of tired a nap doesn’t shake.
I’m so uneasy that a hug doesn’t help relax me.

Is this what a quarter life crisis feels like?
And although 75% of people in my age bracket experience this, does that actually make it normal?
Even more unsettling.

So I’ll take this day as both a win and a loss. Winning because I’m making it through with every bit of life inside of me. Losing because I know times have been and will be better.
The stable me will return. She will strike again with her optimism, free spirit, and bolts of energy.

Until then, a restless girl I will be.