A quiet place for loud thoughts.

Dreamer. Soft-hearted. Caught between quiet storms and warm skies. This is where I write what I can't say aloud.

[5555ilenthill]

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

From strangers to friends to strangers again..

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

For years, I knew something about my body felt ''off'', but I never really allowed myself to face it. I pushed it away, ignored it, made excuses for it, and tried to convince myself that maybe this was just how my body worked. Deep down though, I always knew there had to be a reason. My periods became more and more irregular over the years. Sometimes I wouldn't get one in months, and when I finally did, it was either extremely heavy or just random spotting that made no sense at all. I remember being a teenager and already feeling like my body was betraying me somehow. While other girls seemed to grow into themselves naturally, I felt disconnected from my own body more and more.

One of the hardest parts to talk about has always been the body hair. Not just a few hairs here and there, but the kind that made me feel ashamed of my own reflection. Hair on my face, my stomach and other places that made me feel ''wrong''. I spent so many years hiding it, shaving in secret, checking mirrors obsessively, hoping nobody would notice. It affected the way I saw myself deeply. I felt unfeminine, embarrassed, and honestly... broken. Like my body was doing things it wasn't supposed to do. Even writing this now feels uncomfortable, because these things carry so much shame. But I also know I can't be the only one feeling this way.

The weight struggles were another huge part of it. I always felt like my body fought against me. Losing weight seemed so much harder for me than it did for other people. I tried unhealthy approches before ‒ skipping meals, exhausting cardio workouts, forcing myself into routines that made me miserable. Sometimes I lost weight, but I gained it back just as quickly. It made me feel like a failure, like no matter how hard I tried, my body would never cooperate. Over time, I started believing that maybe I was just doing everything wrong. Looking back now, I realize how cuel I was to myself..

And I think one of the saddest things PMOS (formally PCOS) took from me was comfort in my own body. I became scared of intimacy before I even experienced it. The thought of letting someone see me completely ‒ my body hair, my stomach, the parts of me I hated ‒ filled me with anxiety. I convinced myself that nobody could ever truly find me beautyful if they saw things I tried so hard to hide. That kind of insecurity slowly grows roots inside you. It changes how you move through the world.

This year I finally gathered the courage to really face it. I made the appointment I had postponed for years because I was scared, embarrassed, and honestly terrified of hearing something was worng with me. Part of me wanted answers so badly, while another part wanted to run away. After blood tests and conversations with my gyncologist, I finally got confirmation that my hormones were indeed out of balance. Elevated androgens. Signs pointing towards PMOS (PCOS). And weirdly enough.. I felt both, sadness and relief at the same time.

Relief, because I finally had an explanation. Because maybe I was never ''broken'' after all. Maybe my body wasn't fighting me out of cruelty. Maybe it was struggling too.

I'm still at the beginning of this journey. I recently started changing my eating habits, moving my body in gentler ways, and trying to treat myself with more patience instead of punishment. I've already lost some weight, not through starving myself, but through finally listening to my body instead of constantly fighting it. I also decided to try hormonal treatment, which honestly scared me a little. The fear of side effects is still there. The overthinking is still there. But I also feel something else: hope.

And maybe that's the most important thing. Not everything is magically fixed now. Not that I suddenly love every part of myself. But that after years of shame, silence, and feeling disconnected to my body, I finally decided that I deserve answers, support and kindess too.

Maybe my body was never my enemy after all.

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

For years, I adapted without even noticing it. Her interests became ours. Her favorite music filled every silence. Her favorite movies, her opinions your routines ‒ somehow everything slowly started revolving around you, while I became smaller and quieter beside it all. And the worst part is: I thought it was normal.

I thought friendship meant constantly understanding the other person, even when you felt unseen yourself. So I swollowed things. Again and again. I ignored how lonely I felt sitting next to someone who supposedly knew me best.

Whenever I tried sharing pieces of myself ‒ songs I loved, ideas, excitment, opinions ‒ they often felt brushed aside so quickly that eventually I stopped trying altogether. It became easier to follow her world than risk feeling dismissed in mine.

Looking back now, I understand why I've been so exhausted lately. It was years of making myself emotionally smaller to preserve a connection that no longer had room for all of me.

I think our friendship became unbalanced in ways I was too afraid to admit for a very long time. Because there were beautiful parts too. There will always be a part of me that remembers the girls who ran into each other's arms after weeks apart. The sleepovers. The inside jokes. The feeling that we would always somehow stay close no matter what happened. But memories alone cannot carry a friendship forever. Not when one person keeps shrinking.

And now that some distance exist between us, I can finally hear myself again. I started finding comfort in quiet places, music, photography, nature, little moments that belong only to me. And for the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm living in someone elese's shadow.

You're moving away soon. And honestly... I think part of me has already started letting go. Like setting down something heavy after carrying it for to long.

I don't hate her, I don't even want revenge or closure anymore. I just want peace.

And maybe that's what growing up really is: realizing that loving someone deeply does not always mean they are good for you anymore.

So this is my goodbye to the version of myself that kept bending just to be accepted. I want to become someone who takes up space without apologizing for it. And maybe losing this friendship hurts so much because somewhere along the way, I lost myself inside it too.

And maybe this is the first time in years that I'm finally coming back to myself.

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

What does not kill you makes you stronger never repairs What does not kill you makes you stronger gives you never ending nightmares - Run Rabbit by Mollie Elizabeth

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

When I was younger, thrity sounded like certainty. Like stability. Like knowing exactly who you are and where you are going. But the truth is softter than that. It is quieter. It is layered. It is realizing that growing up is not about having everything figured out — it is about learning how to sit with the unknown without running away from yourself.

I used to measure my worth by speed. By how quickly I healed how quickly I achieved, how quickly I became ''better.'' But somewhere along the way I began to understand that slowness is not failure. It is depth. It is feeling things fully. It is taking the long road because your heart needs more time to understand what your mind cannot rush.

There are parts of me that still feel like the girl who escaped into music with her headphones on, building entire worlds in her imagination because the real one felt too loud. And there are parts of me that are stronger now — stronger not because life became easier, but because I stayed. Because I endured days that felt endless. Because I chose softness instead of bitterness, even when it would have been easier to harden.

Thrity does not mean I have arrived. It means I am still becoming. It means I am allowed to grow at my own rythm. It means I can carry both my shadows and my light without apologizing for either.

I am not the loudest person in the room. I am not the most confident. But I am observant. I am gentle. I feel deeply. And maybe that has always been my quiet kind of strength.

If my twenties were about surviving and learning how to hold myself together, I hope my thirties will be about trusting myself more. About believing that I am not behind, not broken, not too much or not enough — just human.

Thirty feels less like an ending and more like a promise. A promise that even after everything, I am still here. Still chossing to believe that between the clouds, there is always some kind of sunshine waiting to break through.

[paper-wounds]

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

I've been getting more into photography lately — nothing fancy, just capturing small moments with my phone.

But a few days ago, a random thought made me pause: Didn't we still have my grandpa's old camera somewhere?

I wasn't sure anymore... it had been buried in the basement for so many years.

Today I finally found it.

Opening the old camera bag felt like a tiny time capsule. The kind of moment where the past doesn't just return — it taps your shoulder. Inside was the camera, worn and a little tired, with small scratches here and there. Even the flash attchment was slightly broken on one side, like it had lived through time instead of simply pass through it.

There was even a photography magazine from 1984 hidden in the bag, completely forgotten.

Holding the camera felt strangely emotional. Maybe it sounds silly, but there's something so intimate about an object that someone once used to capture their world.

And I can't help but wonder if this is the same camera my grandpa used to photograph his plants and little balcony garden.

I don't know if it fully works yet. Some parts are stubborn, some things don't move like they should. But I want to give it a chance. It feels meaningful, almost healing, to breath life back into something that hasn't been touched for decades.

Analog things have that softness modern devices can't replace. Every photo counts. Every moment is chosen. Nothing is infinite — and maybe that's what makes it beautiful.

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

I must have been around four years old when it happened. My mother fell seriously ill with pneumonia, and the doctor insisted she be taken to the hospital immediately ‒ it was that urgent. Not wanting me to end up with my father under any circumstances (something I fully understand today), she contacted someone from the Youth Welfare Office who helped arrange a temporary stay for me with another family.

I remember it so vividly ‒ being brought to a strange house, with unfamiliar faces trying gently to explain that I would be staying there for a while. I didn't understand any of it. I cried my eyes out. It was terrifying. Everything and everyone was foreign. And all I wanted was to be with my mom.

My ''father'' visited me only once during that entire time. Once. That says it all, doesn't it?

The family I stayed with lived on a small farm, they had a few animals, and two children ‒ a son who was older, and a daughter maybe a year or two older than me. They were kind people. But despite their efforts, I never truly felt safe or at home there. I was just... waiting. Counting days without knowing how many were left.

I can't even describe how relieved I was when my mother finally came home. She was back. And with her, the feeling of safety returned.. This happened shortly before my parents separated. Before my mother and I moved into a new home, and before I was left alone with her alcohol addiction.

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

“In joy and in sadness, flowers are our constant friends.”

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

There's something difficult about writing this. Because it's not about one moment ‒ it's about a thousend little disappointments that quietly left their mark.

As a child, I always tried to excuse him. When he said he couldn't see me after the separation, I told myself he was just busy. That he probaly had important reasons. I wanted to believe it wasn't his fault. I protected him with stories I told myself ‒ even when deep down, I was already hurting.

Every time he canceled, I felt it. Every time I sat by the window and waited, hoping that maybe this time he would come ‒ I felt it.

And when he did show up.. I was relieved. Even though I knew he wouldn't really spend time with me. He'd let me play alone or send me to a neighbor's place, just so he could dissapear behind his computer. Still, I was glad he came at all. That's how low the bar was ‒ and how much I wanted to be wanted.

He made promises. Small and big ones. And he broke nearly all of them.

Over time, I learned not to expect much. But that doesen't mean I stopped hoping. I think that's the part that hurts the most ‒ how long I kept hoping. For effort. For attention. For something that looked like love.

Even now, it's hard to untangle all those feelings. It blurs together ‒ the sadness, the anger, the longing, the shame for still wanting something from someone who gave so llttle.

And I know this won't be the last time I write about him. There are still so many moments lingering in my memory ‒ fragments of weekends, words that stayed with me, quiet disappointments that never really faded. Maybe putting them into words will help me to make sense of it all. Maybe it will help me finally let go of what I never really had..

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

A few days ago, I looked through some old family photos. Among them were pictures of my grandparents ‒ especially my grandpa. Sadly he passed away just a few months before I was born.

My mother has always spoken about him with such warmth and love. She told me he had a green thumb ‒ how he could even make the most stubborn cactus bloom.

That he loved decorating the whole apartment for Christmas and every other holiday. That he would sit with my brothers in the kitchen and dye Easter eggs with them. She once told me, ''You two would go along very well. You would have been his little princess.'' And I think so too.

As a child, I used to feel a quiet kind of sadness whenever other kids talked about their grandparents. About sleepovers, holidays spent together, or little trips they went on. It wasn't jealousy ‒ just a gentle ache for something I never got to experience.

Sometimes I wonder what our bond would have been like. Would we have gardened together? Laughed at silly jokes? Would he have hugged me tightly and told me I was special?

Even though we never shared a moment in this life, I carry him in my heart ‒ through memories passed down, and maybe even through the quiet love for plants I feel today.

Even though I never met him, I miss him, deeply..

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

''There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.'' - Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen.

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

They had once been our neighbors ‒ just a few steps away from where I grew up. They had know me since I was little. Their kids played with me, laughed with me. Their home had always felt warm and full of life ‒ so diffrent from the silence and shadows I was used to. They also knew about my mother's struggles. About her drinking. About how hard things were sometimes behind closed doors.

And yet, they never turned away. Even when they moved away, they kept in touch. Birthday's, short visits over the weekend ‒ the connection never broke.

Then, when I was a teenager and things at home got worse, they offered me something that felt like hope: They asked if I wanted to live with them.

I said yes without hesitiation, I was so happy.., It felt like someone had finally chosen me ‒ not out of obligation, but because they wanted me. We had always gotten along so well, and I truly believed this could be a fresh start. A real home. A place where I could feel safe, loved, understood.

But only a few months later things changed. Slowly at first ‒ then all at once.

It started to feel like I wasn't enough the way I was. Like there were expectations I didn't know how to meet. I was quiet. I was sensitive. I was still carrying so much inside me that I didn't know how to express. Instead of patience, there was pressure. Instead of support, there was judgement. They missunderstood my exhaution as laziness.

I started to feel like a burden. Like a guest who had overstayed her welcome. And when the pressure becaome too much. I ran away. Twice. Not because I didn't care ‒ but because I didn't know how to breathe under the weight of it all.

The second time I came back, things were diffrent. Colder. When things didn't go any further, they contacted the youth welfare office to discuss what to do next. We decided that I could return to my mother on the condition that I be assigned a family support worker who would check on me regularly. And then one evening ‒ before I was officially supposed to go back to my mother ‒ they wanted me to pack my things and they drove me back to my mother's apartment. Just like that. I mean somehow I was happy that I could go back, but the haste hurt me. As if they could no longer bear my presence.

They said they couldn't do this anymore. They said that they had tried and that I was too diffcult.

And I remember standing there again ‒ this time older, more broken ‒ asking myself what I had done wrong. Why even people who once loved me didn't want me anymore.

It hurt. It still hurts. Because I thought I had found something permanent. But it turns out, even that love had conditions.

They weren't cruel people. They had their limits. But I wish they had told me earlier that I was only welcome as long as I was easy to handle.

Because that kind of rejection doesen't just fade. It whispers, ''You were too much.'' Even when I try to believe otherwise.

And sometimes when they sneak their way back in my dreams I ask myself: Do they think of me sometimes too?

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

Some songs don't just stick with you. They see you. That's what The Prophecy did to me.

I still remember the first time I listend to the album when it came out. This song stopped me in my tracks. I felt like it was written straight from a place I know all to well ‒ that quiet ache of waiting, hoping, wishing for something more. For someone to choose me. For things finally fall into place.

The chorus especially hit me hard:

''Please, I've been on my knees Change the prophecy Don't want money Just someone who want my company Let it once be me Who do I have to speak to About if they can redo the prophecy?''

That feeling of pleading with the universe ‒ of asking, just once, can it be me this time? ‒ it's something I've carried for so long. I never wished for riches or success. Just for someone who sees me, truly wants me around, without conditions. Someone who stays.

I don't know if there's really such a thing as fate or destiny, but sometimes it feels like mind was written in a way that always puts happiness and love just out of reach. And yet, hearing Taylor put all of that into words made me feel... less alone.

The Prophecy isn't just a song I like. It's a mirror. A quiet prayer. A reminder that I'm not the only one still waiting for the story to finally change.

[between-clouds-and-sunshine]

Sometimes, out of nowhere, they show up again. People who haven't been of my part of my life for years. My so-called ''father.'' My old best friend from school days ‒ the one where things ended badly. The family I once called my own, even though we weren't related.

They appear in my dreams like they never left. As if the time hasn't passed. As if nothing ever broke. And in those dreams, I feel everything. Confusion. Longing. Pain. Sometimes even a strange kind of comfort ‒ the warmth of what once was, even if it wasn't always good.

But then I wake up. And reality settles back in. There people aren't in my life anymore. They're ghosts of another time, but somehow, they still find a way to visit me. Uninvited. Unexpected. Unfinished.

And what's even harder - their presence in my dreams stays with me. I carry the weight of those memories for the whole day. Suddenly I remember every detail. Moments I had tucked away long ago come rushing back. It makes me angry. Frustraded. Sad even. And I wonder Why now? Why them?

I guess my heart never fully forgets. Maybe the soul keeps searching for closure, even in sleep..