Printable Affirmation for Moms | Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide

Hand-drawn printable affirmation art of mother and child with sun, moon, and waves — emotional support for overwhelmed moms.

My kids are older now. I’ve long moved past the stage of yelling. Through years of learning and reflection, I’ve softened. I still scold my kids when needed, but never in the uncontrolled way I used to when I was younger and overwhelmed. That part of me has grown quieter. But the memory? It still lives somewhere inside me, not to shame me, but to remind me of how far I’ve come.

I remember one particular moment when I yelled at my daughter. This happened many years ago. Later that evening, I sat on the edge of the bed, silent. My hands remained tightly clenched. My throat still raw. And my heart? That was the worst part. It stung with guilt and regret I’d experienced too often. When I saw her small shoulders shake, I wanted to swallow every hurtful word and undo my mistakes. But, of course, that’s not how time works.

I remembered a post I wrote not long ago, This Is Not the Mother I Meant to Be. Those words came from the same place where this printable affirmation was born: a dull aching between failure and love, a desperate desire to do better, to be more patient, to un-yell the things we shouted when we were too exhausted or too raw.

This new art piece—Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide—came from reading late-night Reddit posts written by exhausted mothers. Posts full of remorse and shameful confessions. Most of these women probably didn’t need guidance. They just needed someone to sit next to them and say, “I know. I was there too.”

In the illustration, I drew a mother and child surrounded by waves. Above them, the sun and moon coexist, as if to indicate that both light and shadow belong together. It was my way of acknowledging that we all have both. The love that rocks us, and the exhaustion that drags us down. There are days we sing, and there are days we snap. And still, our bond endures. It may be bruised and tender. But never broken.

I wanted this printable affirmation to serve as a comforting presence in someone’s home. Not in a Pinterest-perfect way, but in the way love still finds its way in—despite the irritation, despite the frustration.

We don’t talk enough about these moments. When we talk about motherhood, we often focus on the good things while ignoring the difficult ones that come with a lot of guilt. The moments when we despise ourselves for our tone, for slamming doors, for causing disconnection when all we wanted was to connect. We show up for our kids with snacks, schedules, and crafts, but we sometimes forget to show up for ourselves. We forget that we are human, too.

And this is what I want this piece to convey: You are not alone. You are not defined by your worst moment. You are a mother, and that is the most human thing of all.

If you’ve ever whispered apologies through the crack of a bedroom door…

If you’ve sobbed in the bathroom, wondering why your patience never seems to last…

If you’ve ever thought, “This is not the mother I was meant to be”…

Then I hope that this printable affirmation for moms speaks to you.

Because our bond with our children isn’t defined by one bad day. Or even a hundred. It’s shaped by the “rhythm of return”: the apologies, the “I love yous,” the bedtime cuddles even after chaos.

Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide is now available in my Etsy shop, Olivia’s Atelier. You can print this motherhood affirmation for your desk, your mirror, your journal, or your wall. Let it be a companion and a reminder. A safe place to land when everything else feels hard.

Because you, mom, are still growing and changing. And love? It never stops trying.

Explore the art here: Printable Affirmation – Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide
© 2025 Olivia JD

Marriage Refines You (If You Let It)

Nobody warned me that marriage would teach me the lessons I never anticipated.

They said it would take work. They said communication was key. They said love changes. All of this is true. But no one told me that marriage is fundamentally a slow-burning crucible of personal transformation. Of course there are romance and domestic joy, but those aren’t the main things. Marriage refines you. But only if you allow it.

If I had written this post twenty years ago, things would have been different. I would have told you about the joys of growing older together, about shared jokes and parenting accomplishments, and the comfort of being wanted and desired. I might have glossed over the friction. Or made it poetic, full of excuses.

But now, I want to tell the truth: Marriage teaches you who you truly are, often through pain.

This isn’t the kind of pain that stays with you forever, at least not in a good marriage anyway. But this pain would show you how weak, selfish, and proud you are. It’d expose the parts of you that you didn’t realize needed healing until you kept bumping up against another human being who sees you completely, and sometimes unflatteringly.

In the early years, I believed that in order to be respected, I had to be right. I used to believe that a good wife was someone who was nice and made quiet sacrifices. I thought conflict meant something was wrong.

Then came the truth: Conflict is the classroom. Friction is the fire. Silence is not always peace, and compliance is not intimacy. I learned this slowly and painfully, through nights of misunderstanding, long periods of emotional detachment, and the grief of feeling invisible.

Marriage has pushed me to confront my shadow selves: the part of me that resents when he doesn’t read my mind, the part that wants to be acknowledged for invisible labor, and the part that withdraws rather than communicates when I’m upset.

He has his parts too. When both of us are weary, stressed, or simply being human, those parts collide like stones.

But here’s what I’ve learned: Stones sharpen one another.

We grow as a result of the friction, not in spite of it. This relationship has gradually dispelled some of my misconceptions. I’ve become less concerned with appearing good and more interested in becoming whole. I’ve learned how to stay present during an argument without dissociating. I’ve learned to say, “I need this,” without shame. I’ve learned to apologize and own up to my mistakes because I value the connection more than the ego battle.

Marriage has taught me about perseverance. This perseverance is not the kind where you smile and bear it, but the kind where you continue to show up to face the difficult conversations, the painful realities, and the pain of building your character.

It has taught me that love is not the absence of conflict, but the willingness to hold space for each other’s growth.

This isn’t a post about martyrdom. This isn’t about perpetuating toxic behaviors or glorifying suffering. This is about the refinement that happens in long-term relationships, when two people choose to keep coming back to the table, even when it is a mess. Especially when things are messy.

Some days, love looks like scrubbing the kitchen while the other sits quietly. Some days, it looks like asking, “Can we talk?” even when the previous talk didn’t end well. Some days, it means choosing forgiveness over keeping score. Other times, it involves setting a boundary that says, “I will not carry this alone anymore.”

Marriage as a teacher is subtle, persistent, and deeply transformative. Refinement doesn’t happen all at once. It’s gradual, and at times it feels like failure. But what I do know is that I am not the same person I was when I agreed to this life together. And I’m thankful.

Marriage, in its own imperfect, beautiful and annoying way, is a never-ending teacher. And I’m slowly turning into someone I can be proud of, not because I’ve mastered love, but because I’ve let love master me.

This Is Not a Love Poem (But It Is)

This is not a love poem.
It doesn’t lace silk into longing
or wraps itself around your wrist
like a bracelet of breathless metaphors.

It’s the crack under the door
when we don’t speak for hours.
The grease-stained dinner plate
left by your elbow
and the silence I sit with,
like a burning candle.

This is not a sonnet.
This is the sound
of your sigh in the middle of my sentence.
The way you leave the room,
still loving me.

I wanted something softer, once,
but this? This is love
that turns me over like soil.
That presses its palms into my spine
and says: grow here.

I have.

And it hurts.
And it heals.
And it is you.

Olivia’s Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier, Redbubble, and Teepublic for more.

A Story of Motherhood, Resilience, and Healing After Surgery

It was a late, quiet evening in an operating theater when I first learned that even joy can arrive with a scar. My son was born through an emergency cesarean section, and I almost didn’t make it. Massive blood loss turned a moment meant for joy into a flurry of dread, beeping equipment, and desperate prayers. I recall trying to stay awake not for myself, but for him. For the child I hadn’t yet held.

That birth was my first major surgery. But it was also the first time I witnessed a new version of myself emerge, forged in pain but softened by fierce love. That moment shaped the beginning of my journey in motherhood and resilience.

Years later, I would have another surgery. This time, gallbladder surgery for cholecystitis, not delivery, brought me to my knees. My gallbladder had turned into a ticking bomb. What followed was not just the removal of an organ but the gradual deterioration of my physical health. Even after the surgery, I wasn’t recovering well. During the peak of the Covid-19 pandemic, I was hospitalized multiple times because of retained stones in my bile duct. Each admission was accompanied by fear: being alone, catching the virus, and not returning to my children.

One of the procedures used to remove the stones resulted in pancreatitis. The pain was excruciating, but the mental health after surgery nearly broke me. The never-ending anxiety, the exhaustion, and the uncertainty of whether my body would ever heal were overwhelming.

And yet. I survived. They were very difficult, but I persevered and survived.

Motherhood, in many ways, prepared me for these storms. You see, when you have children, you know deep down that you need to fight and pull through difficulties in life for their sake.

I didn’t discover the strength I needed to heal, to walk again after surgery, to smile through pain so my children wouldn’t be concerned, in a textbook or a self-help podcast. I discovered it in the middle of the night, as I cuddled my sick kid to my chest and whispered lullabies into the darkness. I discovered it when I folded laundry while nursing a headache, prepared meals on days I couldn’t eat, and said, “I’m fine,” even when I wasn’t.

These healing after surgery experiences left scars on my body, but they also carved new realities in my soul. Motherhood, illness, and these near-death experiences as a mom have transformed me into a different person. I became more intentional and thoughtful. I listen to my body more and take measures to safeguard my health. I became someone who sees life as a sacred space to be protected rather than a timeline to be fulfilled.

Motherhood didn’t just make me a mother. It shaped me into a woman who understands the value of life, of being present, and of holding both joy and suffering in her hand. And when I create today, whether it’s a poem or a work of art, it comes from a deep place. And this deep place understands what it means to unravel and still reassemble into someone wiser, more whole.

If you’re going through your own healing process, if you’ve been sewn back together more times than you can count, I see you. I have been there. And maybe the scarred places in us are where the light pours in.

This blog is where I share those reflections. Stories like these are part of a greater journey that I’m stitching together: of motherhood, transformation, and perseverance. If you’re searching for stories of emotional healing for mothers, I hope mine offers you a moment of recognition.

If this resonated with you, I hope you’ll stay a while. I’m slowly building something meaningful here, a refuge for women or anyone who carries both gentleness and strength in equal measure.

Olivia Writes offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

Hand-Painted Affirmation Art, “Be Brave” | A Gentle Nudge Toward Your Own Courage

There are days when the world seems too loud. These are the days when the to-do lists keep getting longer, the dishes in the sink continue to accumulate, and the little, quiet voice within gets lost behind all we should be doing. I created Be Brave for such days, for myself, and perhaps for you as well.

It began because I wanted to release the stress that had been quietly mounting. I was feeling overwhelmed by the need to be everything to everyone. I remember sitting at my cluttered table late one night, the old fan humming in the background, the room dimly lit. Everyone else was asleep. Without hesitation, I let my pencils and brush move over the paper, filling it with flowing lines, swirls of color, and words that had been ringing inside me: be brave. Don’t hide. You are cherished. You are special. And as the drawing took shape, I felt lighter.

Be Brave is more than a fancy drawing; it’s a reminder. A peaceful companion who doesn’t expect anything from you. It exists to hold space for you to gather your courage. I wanted this piece to be a whisper rather than a shout. I wanted it to blend into your space, like sunshine streaming through a window or the soothing sound of a familiar tune. I wanted it to be an art that makes you pause, breathe, and be kind to yourself.

I think of this piece as a love letter to all women, not just mothers. To the weary mother who worries if she is doing enough. To the dreamer who keeps showing up for her work and her family, even on the hard days. And to any woman who, at quiet moments, doubts her worth or hides parts of herself, despite her incredible strength within. The words weaved within the artwork—courageous, treasured, lovable, don’t hide—are things I needed to hear myself. Words that I had long forgotten belonged to me too. And I know I’m not alone in this. Whether you’re raising children, pursuing a passion, caring for others, or simply trying to care for yourself, Be Brave was created to accompany you in those moments. It becomes a reminder that bravery isn’t loud or flashy. Often, it is in the mundane, steady ways that we keep going and choosing ourselves, even when it is difficult.

Every swirl, dot, and word in Be Brave was hand-painted. There’s something grounding about that process. It felt like I was putting together all of the pieces of myself that had been scattered. I used brilliant, deep colors: rich pinks to reflect tenderness and vulnerability, yellows for strength and resilience, and teals for emotional clarity and inner peace. Each stroke was a color-coded memory, pulled from places I’ve been and emotions I’ve carried. What about the doodling style? That’s my way of playing, allowing art to be flawed and human, just like us.

I’m creating this artwork as a printable wall art in my shop, Olivia’s Atelier. And because it’s a printable, Be Brave becomes whatever you need it to be. A reminder on your office wall, a present for a friend or for yourself, because sometimes we’re the ones who need reminding the most.

Have you been needing a gentle reminder today? If so, I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you’ve been carrying more than you let on, or maybe you just need someone to say: you’re doing okay. Perhaps you have felt invisible, worn out, or unsure. I hope Be Brave reminds you that you already do far more than you give yourself credit for. That you’re allowed to take up space, to rest, to dream, and to begin again. My drawing is a reminder to myself and to you that we don’t have to be perfect. All we need to do right at this moment is to be present and create small moments in our day that remind us that we’re still evolving and growing, and that is a beautiful, brave thing.

If this piece speaks to you, I invite you to check out Be Brave in my Etsy shop. It’s a heartfelt printable made from original hand-painted art, designed for mothers, dreamers, and every woman who needs a reminder of her strength.

Olivia’s Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

A Reflection on My Self-Care | Returning to Myself

The other night, when the house had settled into its usual silence, I sat alone with a cup of tea that had gone cold without me knowing it. Not only was I weary from the day’s routines and tasks, but I was also drained from the burden of my thoughts. I stared at the cup for a time, allowing myself to sit. There was no to-do list going through my thoughts. There’s no strategy for what happens next. Just me, solitude, and a reminder that sometimes, this is enough and I am content. In that little moment, I felt a glimmer of peace, a reminder that I am free to rest without having to earn it.

For me, self-care has never been remarkable. It is quiet. It is unremarkable in appearance, but profound in its impact. I find that breaking this idea into smaller thoughts mirrors the gentler rhythm I want to share. Spa days and costly treats are seldom considered, yet they do have their place. Instead, it exists in the fleeting, nearly invisible moments when I return to myself. It’s the five minutes I sneak to draw without care for how it looks. Or the words I scribble in my journal that will never be read by another soul. It’s stepping outside for a few breaths of night air, letting the darkness embrace me like an old friend. These small gestures are how I create a soft shelter for myself, a place where I can slow down, heal, and begin again.

I believe we are often taught that self-care needs to look a specific way. It has to be glossy, curated, and impressive. But in reality it might be as simple as letting ourselves be, without expectations. When I create, whether it’s a drawing, a poem, or a printable, I aim to include the same intention: an invitation to slow down, breathe, and reconnect. Each artwork I create becomes a reminder to myself and others that small moments are important. They often serve as the starting points for healing.

In the past, I assumed that self-care meant doing more. I tried to make every minute count by fixing, improving, or doing something. But I’ve learned that gentle self-care can sometimes mean doing less, or perhaps nothing at all. It means learning to say, “This is enough for now.” I am enough for now. And in that space, I can hear my heart again.

If you’re looking for ways to practice self-care, here are a few ideas that have helped me over the years.

Simple Self-Care Ideas That Have Helped Me

• Sketch without purpose. Let your pencil wander and see where it takes you. There is freedom in creating without expectation.

• Write one honest sentence. No pressure, no rules. Just your truth. Some of my most honest moments come out this way, in fragments that don’t need to become anything more.

• Sit quietly with tea (or coffee, or water) and do nothing else. Allow the present to be enough. When the world becomes too distracting, even a few minutes of silence may be soothing.

• Print out an affirmation or phrase that soothes you. Place it somewhere you’ll see when you need it most. Sometimes I tape mine to the mirror, or tuck it inside my journal.

• Go outside, even for a minute. Allow the breeze to remind you that the world continues to spin and that you are a part of something greater.

• Take deep, focused breaths. Close your eyes, if possible, and feel your breath travel through you. When everything becomes too much, just a small act of anchoring can help.

• Let go of perfection for a while. You don’t need to be perfect in whatever you’re doing, whether cooking, sketching, writing, or simply being. All you have to do is be kind to yourself.

• Make something just for you. You can create something as simple as a doodle, a few words of poetry, or a note to yourself. It doesn’t have to be shared or finished. You’re caring for yourself.

• Unplug for a moment. Even five minutes away from screens might seem like a mental refresher.

When I think of my own self-care, I see it as a silent commitment I make to myself. A promise to appreciate the parts of myself that are sometimes overlooked. These are the parts that long for peace, for simplicity, for gentle reminders that I don’t have to do or be more to be worthy of rest. This is something I strive to integrate into my work as well. When I produce something, whether it’s a printable, a template, a poem, or a work of art, I hope it serves as a companion to someone else’s self-care journey. May we all find small ways to return to ourselves.

If this gentle self-care reflection speaks to you, I hope you can find small ways to be kind and patient with yourself today. And if it feels right, you’re welcome to explore my shop. It’s a small beginning, and I look forward to adding more gentle offerings over time.

Olivia’s Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

When Motherhood Feels Like Too Much | A Reflection on Netflix’s Straw

Image source

I don’t watch many movies from Hollywood. But something about Straw, a Netflix movie, drew me in. I didn’t know the actors’ names. I didn’t read the reviews. I simply watched it and empathized.

Taraji Henson, who played Janiyah Wilkinson, a single mother struggling to make ends meet and to care for her sick daughter Aria, gripped my heart from the first scene. I didn’t care what critics said. Who needs them when we can form our own opinions? Watching Janiyah in that moment, she was like many mothers I’ve known. Every mother facing the struggles of motherhood, every mother who has fought, broken, and somehow kept going. I had never heard of Taraji Henson before this film, but her portrayal will stay with me.

Straw brought me to a world that was unfamiliar to me in some ways: an almost all-Black cast, a peek into lives and difficulties shaped by a reality I don’t live but deeply empathize with. It was a story of survival, love, and the crushing weight of systems created with little regard for people at the bottom. And at its core was Janiyah, a single mother who awoke that day believing she could handle everything, only to find herself in one difficult circumstance after another.

I saw myself in her. I saw many of us. Though I admit that my problems may pale in contrast to hers. The moment she snapped? I made no judgments about her. How could I? I understood. The never-ending cycle of striving to earn enough, care enough, and keep it all together in a society that keeps asking for more and more and giving so little in return. The dysfunctional healthcare system (healthcare that costs so much more than most people can afford—pure evil), the lack of emotional support for moms, and the feeling of being invisible in a world that only sees what it wants to see.

Motherhood can be so isolating, impacting motherhood mental health and contributing to motherhood exhaustion. Even when we are surrounded by people, we may feel alone in our struggles. And when there is no one to support us through the most difficult times, the weight of it all can feel intolerable. That is what Straw conveyed so powerfully for me. That is what I wanted to honor in this reflection.

I’m not writing this to offer solutions. As a mother, I understand that no one can fix what we’re going through. We don’t expect anyone to. We don’t ask for handouts or miracles. But sometimes what we want most is to be seen. To hear someone say, “I see you. I see your effort. I see the fatigue. You aren’t invisible or forgotten.”

That is why I began making emotional support materials for mothers, such as printables for mothers, poems for struggling mothers, and art for overwhelmed moms. Whether you’re seeking a printable for mothers or a poem for struggling mothers, these small creations are here for you. Small gestures that provide comfort, silent reassurance that someone out there understands. No, they don’t fix the problems. But perhaps, in some small way, they might shine a light on a dark day.

Before I close, I want to leave you with a poem. It’s a piece I wrote after watching the movie. It’s raw and honest, dedicated to mothers who feel unseen and overwhelmed.

For the Mother

This is for the mother who kneels
on the bathroom tiles, her sobs
swallowed by the flush of the toilet,
who locks the door not for privacy
but to cage the animal of her grief.

For the mother who starves herself
down to bone, who offers her child
the last crust of bread like a sacrament,
her own mouth full of nothing
but the bitter taste of absence.

For the mother whose spine bends
under the weight of a thousand silent storms,
who still paints her lips red at dawn
and sings lullabies through her teeth.

You are not invisible.
I see you—
your hands, cracked and holy,
your ribs, a cathedral of sacrifice.

You think you are drowning,
but darling, you are the ocean itself,
fierce and unforgiving,
swallowing the moon whole
and still rocking the shore to sleep.

You are not failing.
You are a war fought in silence,
a wound that blooms into a mouth
that says yes when the world says no.

You are more than enough.
You are the goddess no one prays to,
the unlit match in the dark,
the silence, the tempest, the aftermath.

If you’re reading this, I want you to remember: your struggle is real, and so is your strength. You are seen. You are not alone. May we keep finding small ways to lift each other, and may you always know, you matter.

If this reflection resonates with you, I invite you to explore my creations at Olivia’s Atelier on Etsy, Teepublic, and Redbubble. Every piece is made with the intention to offer gentle support and inspiration.

My Ancestor | OKP Dana Bayang the Great Iban Headhunter & War Leader of Borneo

“The Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang of Saribas is now with me…the dreaded and the brave, as he is termed by the natives. He is small, plain-looking and old, with his left arm disabled, and his body scarred with spear wounds. I do not dislike the look of him, and of all chiefs’ of that river I believe he is the most honest and steers his course straight enough.”

— James Brooke, The White Rajah’s Diary, 1843

When I saw this prompt, I didn’t think twice. My favorite historical figure isn’t from faraway lands or great empires. He is my ancestor, Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang (or Dana Bayang), the legendary Iban war leader of the early 19th century.

Dana Bayang was from Padeh, a longhouse upriver in the Saribas. In addition to his prowess in battle, he was renowned for his ability to guide his people wisely at a period when preserving their way of life from both local and foreign dangers was essential to their survival. His warriors, loyal and fearless, served as the first line of defense. Among them was Sabok Gila Berani, his right-hand man who eventually established our longhouse (village), Stambak Ulu. Stambak Ulu was a strategic sentinel, not just a village. It sat along the river, watching for enemy warships approaching up the Layar. From there, word could be quickly transmitted upriver to alert Dana Bayang in Padeh. Stambak Ulu became a shield, protecting Dana’s people and territory.

Years later, Sabok’s son Mang adopted Dana’s granddaughter, Mindu—my great-great-grandmother—after her father, Aji, Dana’s successor, was defeated by Charles Brooke’s forces in 1858. Aji’s death was a turning point, as the old ways clashed with colonial ambition. Mindu’s mother, Dimah, died soon after, leaving her an orphan.

When I think of Dana Bayang, I think of courage that was not for glory but for the preservation of a way of life, of the land, spirits, and community. His sons and warriors fought to keep their people free, to defend their beliefs, customs, and homeland. Nonetheless, they stood on the edge of change as the White Rajah’s army (colonialism) drove into Sarawak’s heart. The story of Dana and his warriors reminds me of what it means to belong to a people who refused to give up, who carried defiance and hope in equal measure.

You can even catch a glimpse of Dana Bayang in the 2021 Hollywood film Edge of the World, which offers a sneak peek of Brooke’s voyage of discovery to Sarawak in the 1800s.

This reflection ties closely to something I wrote earlier: Inheriting Courage From My Warrior Ancestors. The courage I speak of is not just in legends; it lives in the bloodline, in memory, in the quiet resistance of holding onto who we are.

A Chieftain’s Lament

Between the ritual’s demand and the crown’s decree
my once-steady hands falter in silence.
The nyabur rusts in my palm,
steel thirsting for blood,
now hushed by law.
The earth splits open—
Brooke’s foreign feet press into its cracks.

I hear signs, I dream dreams.
We need fertile grounds.
Blood must avenge blood.
But Brooke tells me to sheath my hunger,
swallow the sun, unlearn the hunt.
He asks me to bow, to bury my blade—
yet the wind whispers of battles still untold.

A fire stirs in the pit of my chest,
a pact with shadows, ancestors long gone.
Can we silence our spirits, break our bond?
Or will the old gods rise in the dust of our revolt?
I smell old skin burning,
the wild call of crows—
but I am chained to the unseen leash of kings
who promise peace with chains.

Note:
Nyabur – curved sword from Borneo, a headhunter’s weapon

Olivia Writes offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier, Redbubble, and Teepublic for more.

Luther — The First Boy I Ever Loved

It was 1989. I was twelve, shy and dreamy-eyed, in Primary Six. Luther was fourteen and in Form Two. He had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. We met at Christening classes on Wednesday nights. I watched him from across the room, my heart racing. I was torn between wanting him to notice me and wanting to stay hidden.

It was my best friend who, with a cheeky grin, told him my secret. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to sink through the floor. But that night, everything changed. Luther noticed me and paid attention from then on. We exchanged love letters, filled with clumsy, big-hearted words, and met on small dates behind some buildings; nothing grand, not even kisses. We simply held hands and talked.

But by December of ’89, my father’s job took us to a new town, and just like that, our brief, sweet chapter ended. We didn’t keep in touch because we were too young, and maybe we both knew deep down that first loves are only supposed to last a short time.

Now that I think about it, that experience really changed how I think about love and connection. It wasn’t just about the boy or the letters or the stolen glances. It taught me that love, even in its simplest form, is about seeing and being seen. It’s about feeling, in that fleeting moment, that you matter to someone.

It makes me think of The Wonder Years, an American TV show that was on our local channel at the time. Kevin Arnold’s journey through the awkwardness, joy, and heartbreak of growing up felt so much like my own coming of age. His sweet, tentative relationship with Winnie Cooper; their shy glances, their first kiss, the way they kept circling back to each other through the ups and downs. I understood that kind of love, the sweet young love. Luther and I had our own little universe for a while, much like Kevin and Winnie. We taught each other about hope, tenderness, and letting go, just like they did.

Luther

You had eyes that swallowed me whole—
a storm behind glass,
soft enough to fool me.
Your lips never touched me,
but I felt them anyway,
like rain through a roof crack.

We wrote each other down in crooked lines,
gave ourselves to paper,
to the dark between stars.
For a while, you were a fever I didn’t want to break—
a name I kept folding smaller and smaller,
to hide.

Olivia Writes offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier, Redbubble, and Teepublic for more.

Favorite Thing About Myself

What’s my favorite thing about myself?

I pause at that question. I seldom contemplate what I like about myself. If I sit quietly with it and really try to answer, I think I’d say this: my quiet perseverance.

I keep going. Even when I’m tired. Even at moments of fear. Even when doubt creeps in and whispers, “I’m not good enough.” I don’t live my life loudly or boldly in the way that the world typically applauds. However, I move steadily. I keep turning up. I never give up. I never stop learning. I’m always evolving. I complete the task even if no one notices. That’s something I’m proud of, though I rarely say it out loud.

I don’t hesitate to admit my struggles, no matter how terrified I am. I’m not scared to admit and address my weaknesses. I don’t behave like they don’t exist or blame others for my flaws. I say, “This part of me is fragile.” I need to care for this aspect of myself. After that, I look for ways to improve and make those parts better. I admit I’m not always right. But I don’t give up on myself either.

I’ve learned that quiet perseverance doesn’t mean never faltering. It involves repeatedly pulling yourself together despite trembling hands. It’s about accepting the difficult situation and stating, “I’m still here, still trying.”

Perhaps that’s my favorite thing about myself. I try even when I’m scared, not that I’m fearless. Regardless of how overwhelming the day feels, I decide to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

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How Do I Want to Retire?

I don’t want more when I retire. I want less, but more depth.

I don’t want a big house or a busy social life. I want peace and solitude. A small, warm place that is mine. Maybe a little house by the sea or in the hills, where the air is soft and the days go by slowly. But that’s just a dream. In real life, my husband and I have already decided to spend our retirement years in my childhood home in a small town. We live, work, and raise our family in a big city right now, but when we retire, we’ll definitely go back to that small town where life is more peaceful and simple.

I see bookshelves full of stories I love and words I’ve written. A corner with a window that lets in soft light where I can write. A place where I can breathe and not feel like I’m running out of time.

I don’t want a garden because I’ve never liked taking care of plants. But I do want trees swaying outside, the smell of rain-soaked earth coming in after a storm, and green all around me.

I’d be happy to keep writing and quietly sharing my words online. No need for applause or noise; I just want to put my voice out there for anyone who needs it. I picture myself still running an online store, but just one. Easy. My own website. No more switching between platforms. No more doing too many things at once.

I want to take it easy when I retire. To wake up without a rush. To sip my tea while the morning unfolds before me. To be at peace with what I’ve done and what I’ve left behind.

That’s all I need.

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