Bare and Unsaid

I walk through storms no one else can feel, but my spirit refuses to bow.

[bareandunsaid]

Today was not one of those gentle, peaceful days. It was heavy. The kind of day that sits on your chest and makes everything feel harder than it should be.

I found myself arguing with my husband today. Voices were raised, emotions spilled over, and at some point the frustration inside me turned into tears I couldn’t hold back. I cried harder than I expected to. It wasn’t just the argument — it was the disappointment, the stress, and the circumstances that didn’t go the way I hoped they would.

For a moment, it made me question things. Why do we fight? Why does love sometimes look like this?

But the truth is, arguing with your husband is not always a bad thing. Sometimes it means we care enough to speak up about what hurts us. Sometimes it means we are two imperfect people trying to understand each other while carrying our own emotions and expectations.

Today I was angry. I was frustrated. I was hurt. And I allowed myself to feel all of it.

Marriage isn’t always soft moments and sweet words. Sometimes it’s tears, misunderstandings, and uncomfortable conversations. But those moments are also part of loving someone deeply. They are part of learning each other over and over again.

Tonight I’m still a little heavy-hearted, but I remind myself that one hard day doesn’t define our love. Feelings pass. Conversations can heal. And tomorrow can always be softer than today.

[bareandunsaid]

Welcoming the new year with a heart full of hope and a mindset focused on growth. After everything I’ve been through, I choose to step into this year with faith, gratitude, and quiet strength. I’m claiming this year for healing, abundance, and financial stability—not just surviving, but finally thriving.

This is the year of answered prayers, steady income, wiser decisions, and doors opening at the right time. I welcome opportunities that bring peace instead of stress, blessings that stay, and success that feels aligned and earned.

I release the heaviness of the past and make space for consistency, security, and joy. May this year bring balance to my life, comfort to my heart, and overflow to my home. I’m ready to receive everything meant for me—one step, one blessing, one breakthrough at a time. 🌱✨

[bareandunsaid]

Starting January 1, 2026 by learning Spanish feels like opening the year with intention, hope, and possibility. A new language isn’t just about words and grammar—it’s a doorway to new cultures, deeper connections, and a fresh way of seeing the world. There’s something powerful about choosing growth on the very first day of the year, like telling yourself, this year, I’m investing in me.

Learning Spanish also teaches patience and consistency. Every new word learned is a small win, a reminder that progress doesn’t have to be loud to be meaningful. Over time, those small daily efforts add up, quietly building confidence and discipline—two things that can ripple into every other area of life.

More than that, Spanish is a language of warmth, emotion, music, and stories. It connects you to millions of people across different countries and cultures, making the world feel both bigger and closer at the same time. Starting the year with Spanish is like planting a seed on Day One—by the end of the year, you’ll look back and realize how far you’ve come, not just in language, but in mindset.

January 1 isn’t just a date. It’s a promise. And choosing to learn something new on that day is a beautiful way to honor fresh beginnings, healing, and the courage to try again. 🌱

[bareandunsaid]

Goodbye 2025.

That feeling makes so much sense. Closing a year like 2025—especially after everything you’ve been through—can feel heavy, almost like you’re carrying the weight of all the hard days into this final moment.

It’s okay to name the pain, the suffering, the unhappiness. They mattered. You mattered through all of it. And even if 2025 tested you in ways you never expected, the fact that you’re still here, still hoping, still praying for something better—that already says a lot about your strength.

As you step into 2026, may it be gentler with you.

May it bring healing where there was exhaustion, clarity where there was confusion, and peace where your heart felt restless.

May the days ahead slowly prove that the waiting, the tears, and the endurance were not in vain.

You don’t need a perfect year—just one that feels lighter, kinder, and more aligned with the life you deserve. Here’s to 2026 being a real turning point for you.

[ruhaniya]

The most beautiful souls are those who have suffered deeply and still choose to love.

[bareandunsaid]

Fighting mental battles is a quiet kind of war. There are no visible wounds, no clear finish line, yet the exhaustion runs deep—into your bones, your thoughts, your sense of self. You wake up carrying a weight you can’t always name, and even the simplest tasks feel like negotiations with your own mind.

Some days, the battle is loud: racing thoughts, fear that comes without warning, memories replaying scenes you wish you could forget. Other days, it’s painfully silent—numbness, emptiness, the feeling of moving through life on autopilot while the world keeps going without you. That silence can be just as heavy, because it makes you question whether what you’re feeling is “real” enough to deserve rest or compassion.

You try to be strong. You remind yourself of responsibilities, of people who rely on you, of the version of you that once coped better. But strength, in this kind of fight, doesn’t look like winning every day. Sometimes it looks like simply staying. Breathing through another hour. Choosing not to give up even when your mind tells you it would be easier to disappear for a while.

What makes mental battles so cruel is that you’re both the fighter and the battlefield. There’s no stepping away from your own thoughts. No pause button. And yet, despite all of this, you’re still here—still trying to understand yourself, still reaching out, still putting words to the pain. That alone speaks of resilience, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

You are not weak for struggling. You are not broken because healing isn’t linear. These battles don’t mean you’re failing at life; they mean you’re human, responding to things that overwhelmed you at some point. And even if progress feels invisible right now, surviving each day is already a quiet form of courage.

[bareandunsaid]

Being confined in the hospital for almost three weeks felt like my whole world hit pause. Life outside kept moving, but I was stuck in that small room where days blended together and time felt heavy. Every beep of the machines and every quiet night gave me too much space to think—about my health, my work, and everything that suddenly felt uncertain.

The stress didn’t just come from being sick; it came from realizing how much this moment was costing me. Knowing I had already used up all my PTOs and sick leaves added another layer of anxiety. Instead of resting fully, my mind kept racing—counting days, worrying about finances, and wondering how I would recover not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too.

Exhaustion set in deeply. I was tired of being tired—tired of waiting, tired of not knowing, tired of feeling like I had lost control over my own life. And when you’re finally left alone with your thoughts, you’re forced to confront questions you’ve been avoiding. What happens next? How do I start again after this? Am I even ready?

I tried to plan my next steps, but everything felt unclear. I was figuring things out while still confused, trying to make sense of a future that suddenly looked different from what I had imagined. It was a moment of vulnerability—standing at a crossroads without a map—where all I could do was breathe, take things one day at a time, and hope that clarity would come slowly, along with healing.

[bareandunsaid]

2025 has been a year of constant ups and downs—one that truly tested me in ways I never imagined. I struggled emotionally, mentally, physically, and financially, most of it rooted in health challenges that seemed to come one after another. The first quarter of the year began with surgery, a moment that already felt heavy and frightening. I tried to stay strong, believing that once I recovered, things would finally get better.

But as the year neared its end, I found myself confined in the hospital again, battling pneumonia and asthma. My body felt exhausted, and so did my spirit. The repeated hospital visits, the uncertainty, and the fear of my own health took a toll on me. Anxiety started creeping in—sometimes quietly, sometimes overwhelming—while I fought hard not to fall into depression. There were days when just getting through the day felt like an achievement.

Despite all of this, I am deeply grateful. I thank God for keeping me alive, for giving me strength even when I felt weak, and for reminding me that I am still here for a reason. I am endlessly thankful for my husband, who has been my constant support—my safe place, my shoulder to cry on, and my source of comfort when I felt like breaking down. His patience, love, and presence carried me through moments I thought I couldn’t survive.

This year may have wounded me, but it also showed me my resilience, the depth of love around me, and the quiet strength I carry within. I’m still healing—body, mind, and heart—but I’m choosing to believe that surviving this year is already a victory.

[bareandunsaid]

Sometimes the brightest smiles hide the deepest aches. On the outside, everything looks fine—put-together, composed, even cheerful. But inside, there’s a quiet heaviness, a kind of pain that doesn’t ask for permission before it settles in. It sits behind the ribs, in the chest, in the thoughts that echo late at night.

You try to carry it with grace. You laugh at the right moments, nod when people talk, show up because that’s what you’re supposed to do. But even in those moments, something inside feels tender and bruised. It’s a strange kind of exhaustion—one that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from holding everything together when it feels like everything is falling apart.

What hurts most is that no one really sees it. How could they? You’ve become good at hiding the cracks. You’ve learned to mask the tremble in your voice, to tuck away the questions you don’t want to ask, the fears you don’t want to admit. You tell yourself it’s easier this way—easier to pretend than to explain a pain you don’t fully understand yourself.

But being “not okay” quietly can start to feel lonely. You start wishing someone would notice the storm behind your smile, or the tiredness behind your eyes. Not to fix it all, but simply to say: I see you. I know you’re trying. And you don’t have to pretend with me.

There is strength in surviving the hurt, even when it feels overwhelming. But there is also strength in admitting that you’re hurting. You deserve space to feel what you feel, without shame, without pressure to be okay before you are.

Smiling through pain doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. And even in the deepest ache, you are worthy of compassion, understanding, and healing.

[neptunianfairy]

foggy city 💜💙

[bareandunsaid]

breathtaking.

[bareandunsaid]

Lately, life has felt like an uphill climb — the kind where every step feels heavier than the last. I’ve been carrying things I don’t talk about often, things that sit quietly in the back of my mind but weigh on me all day. Some days, it feels like I’m holding myself together with whatever strength I can find, even when my heart is tired and my thoughts feel tangled.

There are moments when I feel mentally restrained, like my mind is a room with no space to breathe. I try to be strong, to stay composed, to keep showing up for everyone and everything… but inside, I’m fighting battles no one sees. It’s the silent kind of struggle — the one that makes you feel alone even when people are around you, the one that makes rest feel impossible and peace feel far away.

Still, despite the heaviness, I’m learning. I’m learning that it’s okay to slow down, to feel everything deeply, and to admit that I’m not always okay. I’m learning that strength isn’t about pretending — it’s about surviving days that try to break you, and choosing to rise again, even when you don’t feel ready.

What I’m going through right now isn’t easy, and I won’t pretend it is. But I know these hardships are shaping me in ways I’ll understand later. I know that one day, I’ll look back and realize this version of me — the one who kept going despite the mental strain, despite the emotional weight — was braver than I ever gave her credit for.

For now, I’m taking it one day at a time. I’m holding on to hope, even if it’s small. And I’m reminding myself that it’s okay to feel lost, to struggle, to hurt. These moments don’t define me… but they will strengthen me.

[feefal]

Copper evolution line! Your daily blend of educational and fictional art content

[anthony-samaniego]

[literaryvein]

L. V., excerpts from a past life

[echo-temporis]

how we survived: 爺爺’s pantoum (i) By River 瑩瑩 Dandelion In 1973, my grandfather made a five-mile swim from Shenzhen Bay to Hong Kong, across shark-filled waters guarded by the People’s Liberation Army. He was part of an exodus of hundreds of thousands who fled from Guangdong as refugees of the Cultural Revolution. you had to know the currents, & the sun stay shallow to keep warm in the waters. you had to believe you could do it & not be afraid to die. stay shallow to keep warm in the waters dream of banyan roots aglow i was not afraid of dying even as tides surged my blued lips. (via poetryfoundation.org/)

[bareandunsaid]

The deepest wounds are the ones left by those who were supposed to love us the most.

[heartofmuse]

I chose to love you despite your ever-changing tides. This sea of love inside of me always seeks your shore, whatever that shore looks like.

e.v.e.