We don’t talk enough about that. That maybe we’re all walking around with a cry that hasn’t been released yet. That the language of pain doesn’t always need translation. It often just needs recognition.

If the stardust that makes you was scattered across countless other particles, why wouldn’t you find pieces of yourself reflected in more than one person?

I move with voice. With clarity. With fire.

Not every night needs to be magic. Sometimes it’s enough to belong to yourself.

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. But I know who I want to be: Sharp. Curious. Compassionate. A little brave. A little reckless. Always becoming.