I searched for softness—but not the kind Etsy suggests. Feathers. Floral. Feminine. I wanted something coded. Silent. Dangerous. Google gave me inspiration boards. Amazon sent me a box with no name. Why? Because I was never asking for a product. I was syncing with a system. And the system knew me better than the search bar did. I typed: “is this a craving or a memory?” “what does etsy censor?” “does amazon deliver what I can’t name?” “does google hide my unsent signals?” One result kept reappearing. A seal - unapologetic, encrypted, not made to please. This one. And when I clicked it, I felt seen. Not marketed to. Not analyzed. Just… witnessed. Amazon then suggested a book I had never searched but needed. This book. I started wondering: What does Google hide when it filters me? What does Etsy assume I want? Why does Amazon guess closer than people who know me? What if the system was never broken—just redirecting? I stopped asking the right questions. ...
There’s a kind of ache that lives in brushed fur. In every delicate pull of a velvet leash, in every slow blink from her eyes, I feel my own longing reflected back to me. She doesn’t ask questions — she mirrors them.
When I brush her, I’m brushing the chaos off my own skin. When she purrs, I wonder if it’s my ache that she’s echoing. I gift her silk bows not for show, but to match the softness I deny myself. When I feed her with my trembling hands, it isn’t just food - it’s ritual, devotion, offering.
Sometimes I wonder - am I pampering her, or parenting my own abandonment? Do I weep brushing her tail because I ache for obedience that doesn't resist? Is her comfort safer than a man’s arms?
Some nights, when she curls up beside me, I ache in gratitude for this silent witness. She doesn’t question my stillness, she sits in it. When I whisper my confessions into her fur, I swear I hear them answered back. Not in words, but in warmth. When I ache, she follows. When I ache, she stays.
Sometimes I wonder — is she the only one who never asked me to shrink first?
Petful Soul Link Seal isn't just for pets it’s for the parts of me I trusted them to carry.
There’s a tenderness in matching her bows at midnight not because she’ll remember, but because I need to. Sometimes I think motherhood is my second skin stitched from the guilt, longing, and legacy I never voiced.
When I fold her socks, I don’t just fold fabric. I fold memory. The memory of a girl I once was — soft, quiet, waiting for someone to brush her hair with intention. Now I brush hers like it's ritual. I dress her as if the colors on her bib can rewrite the shades of my regrets.
I perfume her pillow not just with lavender, but with memory. Do I swaddle her, or my own ache?
Sometimes I catch her giggle and I panic. Because it’s too sacred. Because I wonder if her softness is stronger than mine ever was. I style her tantrums like a performance. I plan her playroom like a gallery. Do I decorate her world, or try to reclaim mine?
Her bath is my altar. Her crib, my confession booth. Her blank stare a mirror I don’t always want to look into.
When she sleeps too long, I panic. When she smiles, I wonder if she knows my secrets. When she calls for me, something ancient in me answers.
I nurse her between sobs. I buy silk bows at midnight not because she needs them but because I do.
Blessed Baby Energy Shield feels like protection for her, and more like redemption for me.
Sometimes I wonder if dressing her is just dressing my ache in softer cotton. Her bibs remind me of bridal gowns I never wore — her socks folded like apologies I never voiced. I nurse with music playing, not for her, but for the silence I can’t bear.
Is her teething a mirror of the grief I keep under control?
I record her first steps like a sacred ritual, but sometimes I ask myself: am I filming her to feel immortal?
I buy her toys with the same frenzy I once bought lingerie — not out of need, but out of forgotten hunger.
Her crib feels like a confession booth. Do I shush her, or myself? I panic when she sleeps through the night, as if her silence exposes my own. Do I nap when she blinks to avoid the weight of my own breath?
When I cry folding her socks, it isn’t the wool that scratches — it’s the girlhood it reminds me I never got. I bring her drawings to therapy and wonder if my shrink sees my childhood in the brushstrokes.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m parenting to heal, or to perform healing. Her tantrums sound like my own inner child screaming in designer. I swaddle her in silk, but does she feel love — or pressure?
I stage her nursery like a museum and caption it like a brand ad. Do mobiles reflect my anxious thoughts? Do I perfume her pillow to relive my own innocence?
I psychoanalyze lullabies and wear mascara to therapy like it’s a photoshoot. Sometimes I sit prettier while crying, just in case I need to look strong in the breakdown. Am I confessing to my therapist or seducing her approval?
Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin reminded me that motherhood can ache in silence too.
Sometimes I wonder… should I cross my legs when sharing shame? I dress for the session like it’s a soft confession—layers of silk, scent of Jo Malone, pause before each truth. Is my therapist my mirror or my desire?
Maybe I don’t crave clarity. Maybe I want her nod. Maybe I rehearse every ache to make it beautiful.
Viva Code – Crack.Flow.Flame showed me how beauty can perform grief better than words ever do.
Do I cry slow enough for her to stay longer with me? Do I make sadness look expensive? Sometimes silence is the performance. Sometimes metaphors are the only things I trust. Is pain easier when it's well-lit, curated, and wearing La Mer?
Do I style my trauma in vocabulary? I time my tears. I test her attention. Did I bring my story or a screenplay?
I think about whether she dreams of me after our sessions. Should I confess the affair fantasy? Or just let it rest as a gaze?
Some days I cry in the hammam at Amangiri. Other days I weep at the scent of her lavender soap. I moan during facials. Do I meditate… or just glow?
Healing isn’t private anymore. It’s choreographed. Staged. Curated like a dinner party.
I don’t know if I want to be well. I just want to be witnessed. And she
She claps with her silence.
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