Things I Was Told Not to Say (But I’m Saying Them Anyway)

Like everyone else, I was raised to be polite, to lower my gaze, and to keep my mouth shut before it bleeds arrogance or truth. But truth doesn’t always need to wait for permission and I’m done looking for it.

This is a list of things I was told not to say because they are deemed shocking and inappropriate. But I’m saying them anyway, because being silent isn’t always safe. It was a slow suffocation and death.

I was told not to say:

“I’m tired of being the emotional one, the one who feels things.”

But I am. It’s draining carrying the burden of my own feelings and everyone else’s. You say I’m too touchy. I say you need to be more sensitive.

“Sometimes I don’t want to be a mother.”

It doesn’t mean I don’t love my children. It means I want to disappear sometimes. To be free of endless burdens and responsibilities. I want to just be me without being attached to roles and expectations, even just for a while. Just long enough to find myself again.

“Marriage is lonely.”

Yes, even the good ones. Especially the good ones; when you’ve been together long enough, you know each other too much there are barely any surprises anymore.

“I still think about the one who left.”

No, I don’t want him back. But he lives in the hallways of my memory, like when I stop to think about certain songs or street names or places. That’s not being unfaithful. It’s my memory and the only way to forget it is if I lost my memories to dementia or brain damage. Otherwise the memory remains. And I’m allowed to carry it.

“I don’t want to go to this church anymore.”

I believe in God. But I don’t believe in being controlled and being silenced. I don’t want to pretend everything’s fine when my spirit is clearly not. I’m not giving up on faith; I’m moving toward the truth.

“I feel ugly on some days.”

No amount of affirmations makes it disappear. There are days when I can’t stand my body. Some days I don’t even notice it at all. Both truths exist.

“I envy women who get to choose their identity.”

Because I never did. I was born into roles before I could choose which ones I liked. Wife and mother. Good girl. Christian. I played every one of them. But now I want to rewrite the script where the real me can finally be set free.

“I don’t want to be grateful all the time.”

Gratitude is holy. But forced gratitude is performance. I don’t owe anyone a smile when I’m breaking inside. I can be grateful and grieving at the same time.

“I want more.”

More silence. More passion. More space to create without guilt. More people who see me without needing me to explain myself. I want more than I was told I should ask for.

And yes, sometimes I want to be desired and not just needed. There’s a difference. And I feel it every time I’m touched with obligation instead of longing.

I was told not to say all of this. They are taboo and a good Christian woman, a wife and a mother, shouldn’t entertain these sinful thoughts.

I was told to play it safe. To keep my life neat, soft, godly. I was told not to stumble others in their faith.

But truth isn’t always soft. Truth can hurt and burn sometimes. And I’d rather burn than spend another decade in silence.

Call me whatever you want. A premenopausal woman in the heat of a midlife crisis. A delusional Christian woman being lured by the devil. These are some of my truths and I’ll not stop writing about them and shrink myself for others’s comfort. I’m so done with being prim and proper and always saying the right things all the time. I’m done with lying. It’s time for me to proclaim my truths and make them known to others.

The Things That Undid Me

I cooked my love down to tar,
a black syrup in the bottom of the pot.
It taste like a lie
but I said nothing.
I was raised to chew my
tongue for supper.

I sewn myself into the good wife’s dress,
blessed and above reproach,
but I swallowed my own teeth
like communion wafers.

My children pressed their ears to my palms
and heard singing.
But some nights,
my fingers were fists
full of burnt letters.
I’m no witch,
only a woman
who learned too late
that silence is murder.

The pastor preached be pure.
But I loved the smell of rain
in my dirty hair,
my body wanting
without shame.

God, forgive me–
not for sinning
but for the way I loved it:
the unwashed sheets,
the stains on the hymns,
the animal in me
that refused to kneel.

I’m not sorry for the smoke,
or the fire I’ve become.
I’m sorry it took me
this long to strike the match.

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

The Other Me | The Woman Behind the Poem

When I wrote the poem “The Other Me,” I wasn’t trying to sound bold or dramatic. I was just being honest by telling my truth.

People often assume they know me. They see a woman who is quiet. A wife. A mom. A Christian. Someone who shows up, serves, nods politely, and doesn’t cause trouble or controversy. I’m familiar with this image because I’ve lived inside it for most of my adult life. It’s not that it’s wrong. It’s just incomplete.

There has always been a deeper current under the surface. Beneath all that facade of neatness, there is someone who asks harder questions or feels hurt when silenced. There is someone that remembers who I was before all the roles and expectations started to pile up on me.

“The Other Me” is not a fictional character. She is a real person who has always been by my side. I put her away, hidden, so that I could make room for acceptance, safety, and community. In religious communities, women are often praised for being quiet, gentle, and obedient. Where doubt must be neatly dressed in submission, and discomfort is treated like rebellion.

The poem came from the grief of hiding and of living a half-truth because the whole truth felt like too much.

I was taught to be agreeable as a child or to be well-liked. I learned that being difficult was the same as being rejected. That if you had questions, you lacked faith. That wanting more, like more closeness, more freedom, and more honesty, was wrong or selfish.

So I stayed small. I stayed quiet. I played the role so well I almost forgot I was acting. But staying quiet has a price.

When you’re around people who only know the version of you that makes them comfortable, a certain kind of loneliness grows. They love that safe version of you and they honor her because she embodies the values they approved. But you start to wonder if they would still love you if you said something out of character. What if I stopped editing myself for the sake of their comfort? What if I let the fire show?

And then one day you write a poem.

You write it because you have things you want to say but can’t. Your body remembers what your mind tries to bury. Because there is a woman inside you who is sick of bending over backwards to meet other people’s expectations.

You don’t even know if you’ll share it when you write it. But that is beside the point because the truth is you need to see this woman and say to her, “I haven’t forgotten you.”

“The Other Me” is about the version of myself that doesn’t fit into polite spaces. She is the one who laughs too loudly, writes about God and desire in the same line, and asks questions about things she was told not to touch. She loves deeply but won’t let anyone else control her.

In the past, I was scared of her.

But now I know she isn’t a threat. She isn’t being defiant just to be dramatic. She is just being honest. She is the version of me that lived and survived. And I owe her more than just silence.

When I say I feel alone sometimes, I mean it in a specific way. I don’t mean that I don’t have anyone around me. What I mean is that I don’t have a place that feels like home and where I belong. I don’t quite fit in with the local creative community, where the type of poetry that gets attention is usually light, easy to read, and trendy. I write differently. I write deeply. And sometimes, that depth becomes a wall between me and the world I want to reach.

At the same time, the people who connect with my work often live far away. They have different cultures, different worldviews. We connect through words, but we live in different worlds. That, too, feels like a dislocation.

But still, I write.

Because this is how I heal, and this is how I remember. This is how I get back the parts of myself that I’ve tried to hide for a long time.

The Other Me is not a rebellion. It is a way for me to return to the version of me that I’ve neglected.

And maybe, just maybe, if I keep writing her into existence, someone else out there who also feels out of place, half-formed, and unseen, will recognize themselves in my words. And that recognition will feel like belonging.

We might not need to fit in to be complete. Maybe we just need to be honest.

And that is what this poem gave me. A little more honesty. A little more light. A little more room to breathe.

And to the version of me that is still hiding: I see you. We’re coming home.

Note: This poem is not published yet, but you can read a short excerpt on my Threads post.

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

After Andrea | A Tribute to Andrea Gibson

Image source

When Andrea Gibson left this world, they didn’t vanish. They simply changed form.

That’s what I believe. What I’ve always believed. That death isn’t the end but a transformation. It’s a reassembly of light, soul, and memory. It becomes energy that lingers in the folds of pillows, in dog-eared pages, in the sound of your laughter.

Andrea said it best in one of their final gifts to the world: “Dying is the opposite of leaving. When I left my body, I did not go away.”

I read those words with a lump in my throat, but not because I was grieving. They reminded me of something I wrote months ago, not knowing then how it would one day connect me to someone I admired from afar.

So when we grieve for an unbearable loss and feel the crushing weight of absence, perhaps we can take comfort in knowing that nothing is ever truly gone.

The ones we miss exist in a different form now. They are scattered across the cosmos, carried in rays of sunshine, drifting in the gentle breeze. The photons that once danced across their skin continue their journey through space. Their laughter still lingers around us, waiting to be felt by those who remember.

If we explain death by physics alone, the conservation of energy means that when we die, our energy disperses into heat, into the environment, and into the people we loved. ~ Excerpt from my blog: The Physics of Goodbye

Andrea’s poems weren’t just poems; they were silent revolts against erasure and the lie that pain and beauty must live apart.

And maybe that’s what we leave behind: words and permission. Especially permission. Permission to grief and cry. To be angry. To acknowledge love out loud. To die beautifully. To stay, even after.

After Andrea

I want to call you by the sound your bones made when they fell into the light. I want to call you return instead of loss, to pin your spirit to my wall like the last goodnight of a sunbeam. You are not gone. You are still here. You are a new verb. You breathe through my ribcage at midnight when I forget my name and remember yours. Your echoes make me who I am. You are the ghost of the lamp turning on by itself, the sudden music when no one’s home. What trick of physics lets a soul remain when the body collapses? What cruel grace? Andrea, I never touched your hands, but I have held your sorrow, your laughter, your thunder, your holy queerness. I carry it now. In me, and in everyone who heard your voice before they knew you. Thank you for the light. Thank you for the absence that still feels full. Thank you for dying like a poet; all metaphor, without end.

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

What I Know Now That I’m in My 40s

As I get older, I realize that change doesn’t stop. You don’t reach a certain point where you finally feel “together.” When I was in my 20s, I thought that women in their 40s had it all figured out. They knew how to love, how to parent, and how to stay calm when their world fell apart and the bills were late and the kids were fighting. But now that I’m here, I know the truth: we’re all still learning and figuring things out.

In my 40s, I no longer chase the idea of being extraordinary. I want to be real, present, and kind to myself. I’ve stopped apologizing for being quiet, for needing time alone, or for feeling deeply. I used to shrink myself so people would find me easier to digest and tolerate. Now I let the fullness of who I am take up space, even if it makes other people feel uncomfortable.

I have learned that performance doesn’t determine one’s worth. Worth doesn’t come from being productive, getting praise, or doing everything right. Even when I’m still, I am still worthy. Or when I’m unseen or unnoticed. Or when I am not achieving a single thing. This kind of emotional growth doesn’t happen overnight. It came through years of burnout and soul-wrestling, trying to be everything to everyone and having nothing left for myself.

Motherhood taught me that but not in a pretty, “Pinterest-quote” way. It taught me in the messy, heartbreaking moments that often happen in the trenches of parenting. Motherhood revealed the gaps in my patience, where I lost my sense of self or the ghosts I hadn’t exorcised yet. It forced me to look at myself when I was at my worst and ask, “Can I still be nice to my kids? Can I still stay and get through it all?”

Marriage, too, has been a teacher but not always a gentle one. Love in your 40s is less exciting and can be boring but I’m speaking from my experience. It’s less about the big, impressive things and more about the small, boring things like showing up for each other. Or listening when you’re tired and don’t really care about the nitty-gritty of it. Or saying you’re sorry first. I used to think that being in love was like being high. But now I know better.

My art and writing have saved me more times than I can count. They gave shape to emotions I couldn’t name. They held me when I felt invisible. When I returned to writing poetry after years on hiatus, it felt like coming home to an old friend who never stopped waiting. I don’t write to impress anymore; I write to learn and understand. I want to tell the truth without worrying about how it sounds or how it looks. That’s the heart of my creative healing.

And this is my truth: I am a woman who is no longer afraid to feel everything.

I’ve learned to slow down and take my time. I’ve learned to walk away when something costs me my peace. I’ve learned to take a break without guilt. I’ve learned to feed myself what nourishes, not what numbs. I’ve learned that joy isn’t something you chase relentlessly. Joy is something you notice. You can find joy anywhere you look hard enough. In your child’s laughter. In the soft, fading light at 7.30pm. In the peaceful and dull parts of your life.

I’ve stopped needing everyone to like me. Not everyone will. And that’s okay. I am not for everyone. But I am for the people who value honesty over performance, presence over perfection, and depth over decorum.

Being a woman in your 40s means I carry both tenderness and steel in my bones. I know how to hold space and when to keep things to myself. I know how to tell the truth even when it hurts. I still make mistakes, of course. I still feel anxious most of the time, but I’m not as scared of being seen as imperfect. There is no pretending. What you see is what you get.

I don’t have it all figured out. But I know who I am now. And I like her more than I ever have.

Now That I Know

I don’t need fireworks.
I light my own sky
with the hush
of knowing I survived.
No more performance prayers.
No more bloodletting for love.
If I bend now, it’s not to please–
but to plant.
My thighs and belly are soft.
My words are sharp.
I’m no longer a girl
waiting to be chosen.
I have chosen myself,
my whole being–
transforming.

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

What Romance Means to Me Now

A couple holding hands in a quiet park, showing what romantic love looks like after years together

I used to think that romantic love was supposed to be grand. Surprises, flowers, and long letters written by hand that show how much you miss them. Maybe it was because I grew up with 90s love songs and paperbacks that always had that one scene, you know, the one where everything fell into place and you replayed it in your head for years. I’ve desired that kind of love for a long time. I used to think that if love didn’t look like it did in the movies, it probably wasn’t love.

But now? This is what romance means to me.

It’s in the small, mundane things. How he puts my mug in the same place every morning because he knows it’s the only one I use. How he listens even when I talk about things he doesn’t understand, like my blog traffic, my latest art idea, or why I spent an hour editing a blog post. It’s how he laughs at my jokes that aren’t funny to anyone else. It’s how he doesn’t flinch when I break down for the fifth time in a week or when my anxiety keeps me up at night.

For me, the definition of romantic is all about being present for the one you love. It’s not loud or demanding attention. It’s in the effort to keep choosing someone even after the butterflies have settled into the routine of everyday life.

And to be honest, I had to unlearn a lot of what I thought I knew about love to understand this. I had to stop waiting for scenes in movies and start paying attention to what was happening in my life. I pay attention to things like the way our hands touch when we’re having a tense conversation. The way he carries the groceries when I’m too tired to talk. The way he makes time for the kids even when he’s tired from work.

I think about how our love has changed over the years. How it grew to hold grief, misunderstandings, financial challenges, and stress from being a parent. We came close to giving up at times. There were times when I wasn’t sure I still liked him. He probably didn’t like me at times too. But we stayed. We learned how to communicate to each other. We fought, made up, fell apart, and started over.

I think that’s romantic too. Romance in real life is not the absence of conflict, but the commitment to return. To make peace. To say you’re sorry even when it’s hard. To give each other room to grow, even when it’s hard.

Learning how to be your own safe place is another part of romance. It took me years to understand that I couldn’t keep hoping that someone else would save me from my loneliness, sadness, and exhaustion. I also had to learn how to take care of myself. I learned to listen to and parent my inner child by whispering kind things to myself when I felt ugly or unworthy.

Now, everyday romance is my husband standing by the kitchen’s door while I cook, just to be near me. It’s him asking if I’ve eaten. It’s the silence we share at night, when the house is finally quiet and we are just two people who have made it through another day together.

And sometimes, romance looks like him leaving me alone when I need time alone.

I used to feel guilty about the lack of passion in our love. That it didn’t make me swoon anymore. Now, though, I see the beauty in this gradual, steady burn and the way it grounds me.

I want to say this to anyone who thinks their relationship is too ordinary to be romantic: don’t underestimate your quiet love. The love that keeps trying. The love that stays despite knowing your worst. The love that continues to thrive in the mundane.

Romance is not always in the gestures. Sometimes, it’s in the staying.

Sometimes, it’s in the letting go.

And sometimes, it’s in the way we turn the ordinary into something sacred.

Romance

He doesn’t bring me roses—
because I said they’re useless.
So he brings silence
when the room inside me aches.

He doesn’t write letters—
he reads my face
and answers with
a gentle hand
on my lower back.

He doesn’t call me beautiful—
but he finds my mug,
pours the water,
watches the rice,
mops the floor.

No fireworks,
no symphonies—
just staying
that doesn’t beg to be seen.

And I,
still learning not to ask for more
than this
steady, worn-in miracle.

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

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.