mini-revelation of the day:
Writing about my teenage era feels like a sudden trip by a loose floorboard; one sec I’m tracing old friendship fractures with a steady hand, the next my stomach flips like I’m fifteen again, waiting for an invite that never comes. I don’t just re-call—I re-feel. First love bubbles up hot and giddy, heartbreak leaves me winded, and some part of me braces to pass him in the hallway. I thought I was just stuck with childhood grief, recycling the same sadness on an endless loop. But then I write his name, and my gut folds like it did at seventeen. It’s awkward—especially with a whole new life in the next room—but that’s how you know you’re writing from the wound, not just about it.











