✧ Why I romanticize the ordinary?✨
Some thoughts I’ve been carrying quietly for a while.
Because the quiet things are the ones that never leave.
Like the warmth of morning coffee between my palms,
the way it steadies me before the world asks anything of me.
Or the softness that blooms after a long-overdue call with someone
who still feels like home—even through the distance.
The people who knew you before the chaos,
who see through the grown-up version of you,
straight to the soul of who you’ve always been.
I romanticize the ordinary
because it’s in those quiet, unnoticed moments
that life shows me just how much I’ve lived.
The ache of homesickness
when the house gets too quiet—
siblings gone, rooms empty, drawers untouched.
The sound of laughter that once echoed through every hallway
replaced by a silence that almost hums with memory.
You stand in their doorways and remember all the noise,
now swallowed whole by time.
And then—airports.
Where tears and time meet.
Where you see someone you love after years apart,
and suddenly every waiting moment was worth it.
That first wave. That hug. That feeling
of being stitched back together by their presence alone.
I romanticize the ordinary
because sometimes the most beautiful parts of life
are the ones you never saw coming.
The strangers that became your home.
The people you passed a hundred times in your hometown,
not knowing they would one day hold your whole heart.
It’s wild, isn’t it?
How God works in quiet, miraculous ways—
how you’re given exactly what you didn’t know you were praying for.
And then the pain?
The tears, the heartbreak, the sleepless nights—
they start to feel… softer.
They don’t hold the same weight anymore.
Because now you know:
they were just part of the path to here.
Even the years that felt “lost” weren’t really lost.
You didn’t move forward like everyone else said you should,
but you grew in ways no classroom could’ve taught you.
You learned about waiting, trusting, healing.
You learned that forward isn’t always linear.
And that kind of growth? It changes everything.
In your little cousins who look at you like you hung the stars.
In the strangers who became safe spaces.
In the small kindness that changed your whole day.
In the compliment from a teacher who may have forgotten you—
but whose words held your heart through the years.
In the old photos,
the faded memories,
the grief that still lingers for those who are gone,
the things you never said, and the ones you wish you hadn’t.
And still—there is light.
There is the kind of love that makes everything before it
make sense.
There is faith that something beautiful is always being written,
even in the silence.
I romanticize the ordinary
because it’s not ordinary at all.
It’s the story of who we are,
stitched together in tiny, sacred moments.
It’s not about chasing magic.
It’s about realizing—
the magic has always been here.
And here’s what those little moments feel like to me—
—soft, fleeting, but full of life.
And maybe, just maybe, these small moments were always the big ones.
