Here, we don’t rush — we linger. We explore the quiet, the messy, the beautiful parts of being human. So, pull up a seat, settle in, and let’s share this space for a while.
The sun’s warm against your skin, and the grass beneath you is soft, alive with the sound of the world gently humming around us. We’re sitting on a blanket, laughing, sharing stories like old friends — no rush, no expectations, just the quiet joy of being here, together, in this moment. I’m so glad you’ve found your way to this space. Let’s stay awhile, let the hours slip by, and see what we can uncover.
Once, I believed solitude was a map—something we were given at birth and told to follow faithfully: keep your joys hidden, cradle your aching in silence, solve the riddle of being human on your own.
But I began to notice the cracks. How light spilled through when someone handed me a story—raw and shimmering, not as escape, but as a bridge. Stories, I realized, aren’t homes to run away to; they’re doorways left ajar, crossing the chasms between us. Where silence used to settle like dust, a single page could clear the air—a quiet rebellion against every myth we’re fed about separateness.
So I started laying my own bridges, word by word. I write because I want to offer an outstretched hand, a flicker in the dark—whispering, “I see you.” Each poem is an invitation, each story a gentle dare: to step out of hiding, to let softness have the final say.
This space was never meant for the bravest or boldest; it’s for those who feel too much and speak too little. The ones who sense that voice is more than sound—it’s memory and healing, a thread stitched through time.
Here, we gather the tangled threads. We speak the things we've tucked away, dreaming together on the page. Because connection isn’t a luxury or a side effect—it’s the heart of it all.
And your story? It’s a spell, shimmering with possibility. Don’t let anyone, least of all the world, tell you otherwise.
What if the real transformation never begins in isolation, but in the quiet hush of being truly held? When we feel the warmth of gentle company, we finally dare to look inward–not because a book or guru told us to, but because we know we’re not the only travelers on this stretch of the road.
Connection wakes us up. It stirs courage where fear once sat, brings clarity to the muddle, and reminds us that our inner worlds aren’t shameful corners to keep hidden or broken things in need of fixing. Instead, they’re wild landscapes to wander—deserving of tenderness, not judgment.
That is why I write: not to stand ahead of you, pointing the way, nor behind you, pushing. My words exist to draw up a chair beside yours—to keep company as you map your own terrain. Not to teach. Not to lead. Only to walk with you, exchanging silences, sharing the journey, until your courage stirs too.
one: We were never meant to do this alone.
two: Healing doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
three: Your softness is not a liability.
four: Words can be rituals.
five: Connection is an act of rebellion in a world that profits off our loneliness.
six: You are allowed to take up space — gently, fully, wildly.
If that speaks to you, welcome in. You’ll find pieces of me (and maybe pieces of you) in everything that follows.
Seven things I know to be true.
seven: we are made of nothing but cells and stories.
I’m Erica - an advocate for our stories, and an activist for writing our own. I am an enthusiast for crafting worlds that take you deeper into yourself through the therapeutic art of the written word. I live for the deep and big conversations that have us sinking into the realisation that we are here to be deeply curious, fiercely compassionate and the pioneers of our own stories.
