After Andrea | A Tribute to Andrea Gibson

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 30.

Nights Beneath the Mosquito Net

It’s a memory so soft, so far away, it almost feels like I dreamed it. But it was real.

I was ten, maybe eleven. We were back at the longhouse, in our bilik, the apartment that was our family’s space within the longhouse. There were no bedrooms, no separate rooms. Just us, rolling out our mats, hanging mosquito nets, settling down for the night. There was no electricity then, so nights came early. A single oil lamp flickered in the middle of the room, casting shadows that danced along the wooden walls.

And this was when my grandmother would start telling her stories.

She didn’t sit up to tell them. She lay down, just as we did, her voice weaving through the silence. She spoke of people she had known, incidents long past, things that had happened when the world was younger. Her words filled the dark, mingling with the sounds of the jungle outside. We’d listen as sleep slowly pulled us under, her voice becoming part of our dreams.

I don’t remember the details of her stories. Decades have passed. But I remember the feeling. The peace. The comfort. The sense of being anchored to something larger, older, gentler.

Sometimes I wonder if my children will ever have moments like that. Moments where stories are not read from books or screens but spoken softly in the dark, meant only for their ears.

That memory, fragile as it is, is one of my favorites. Because in that moment, I felt safe. I felt home.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 30.

When Passion Feels Like Work

Today I felt as if I were running in place. Not because I’m lost, but because the journey is long.

I’ve recently been devoting a lot of time to my Etsy shop. Learning, doing, testing, improving, failing, and adjusting. And doing it all again. This is not my first venture. I’ve had multiple internet stores on different sites that have generated passive income for years. But Etsy is a completely different beast. A new challenge for growth.

I’ve been building digital shops while raising my children for over a decade. There is no nanny or assistant. Just me, showing up every day, struggling to balance the invisible weight of being a parent and ambition with whatever strength I can muster. My capital is limited. My energy was often stretched thin. Everything is hands-on.

I’m not saying this to complain.

I say this because we need to recognize what it takes to create something from nearly nothing.

People talk a lot about passion but rarely about what happens when passion becomes a career. When inspiration alone is not enough. It demands stamina, fortitude, and faith in the unseen.

This isn’t a glamorous path. But it is mine.

And I am still walking it. Still deciding to show up. Still believe that slow is not the same as stagnant. I’m still discovering that perseverance doesn’t have to be loud. It is often quiet, exhausting, and unchanging.

If you’re there, I see you. And if you aren’t there yet, you will understand one day, when your heart is totally invested in something that also leaves you drained.

This is what it means to care.

This is what it means to keep striving.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 30.

You Don’t Have to Know Everything to Care Deeply

I don’t have a personal story about autism. I’m not autistic. I’m not the parent of an autistic child. I don’t teach in a special needs classroom. I haven’t walked that journey firsthand. But I’ve been watching silently from the sidelines, trying to comprehend.

I have friends and family with autistic children. My nephew exhibits characteristics that would place him on the spectrum, but he has never been properly diagnosed. I’ve heard stories about public meltdowns, heartache caused by being misunderstood, and fear and love that coexist in a parent’s eyes. I’ve read, asked, and reflected. And through it all, I understood something: you don’t have to have been through the experience to stand with someone who has.

This bundle (in my Etsy shop) is my way of doing that.

Ten designs created with color and care. Each quote was picked to affirm, encourage, and advocate. Whether you’re a parent, a teacher, a neurodivergent individual, or just someone who wants to express their feelings, these pieces were designed to say: I see you. I support you. I think that inclusion is more than simply knowledge; it is love in action.

Perhaps I don’t have the right words. Perhaps I’ll never truly understand it. But I want to try. I want my art to be like a kind touch on someone’s shoulder, a simple reminder that they are important and that their existence brightens the world.

I hope this bundle gets to the people that need it. Not because I know best but because I care.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 30.

What His Silence Taught Me About Intimacy

It wasn’t an awkward silence. Nor the silence of distance or dismissal. His silence was something else entirely. It had gravity. Shape. It wrapped around me like twilight settling over the city. And in that silence, I discovered something I never fully understood before: intimacy does not necessarily manifest itself through words or touch.

In those early days, I remember him across the café table. We spoke, certainly. But it was in fragments. There were lengthy intervals where nothing needed to be said, yet I never felt compelled to fill the silence. He never pushed. Never filled silences just to hear himself speak. And maybe that’s why I found myself letting my guard down, little by little, without even meaning to.

There was something sacred in how he listened. He didn’t listen to respond. He listened like he was trying to memorize me. When he finally did speak, it wasn’t to impress or correct me but to reflect something I hadn’t realized I was trying to express. His silence wasn’t an absence. It was presence without intrusion.

One evening, we stood side by side on Lover’s Bridge. The river shimmered beneath us, and the sky was painted in pink and gold. We didn’t touch. We didn’t speak. But something passed between us, though, that couldn’t be seen or touched. Somehow right then and there, our bodies found a rhythm beside each other, like the choreography of trust.

What surprised me the most was how seen I felt in his silence. He didn’t demand performance. He didn’t ask for confessions. And yet, standing next to him, I felt understood. It felt as though he was able to hear everything I didn’t say yet still chose to stay.

That kind of intimacy is unusual. It asks nothing but provides everything. It is not based on lofty declarations but on humble agreements. Like how he read my poems and didn’t say anything after but looked at me with nonjudgmental eyes. Just understanding.

In a culture obsessed with noise and proof, he reminded me that some truths are whispered. Some of the most personal experiences we may have are felt rather than expressed. Some bonds are born not in words, but in willingness. To stay. To witness.

So no, his silence never made me anxious. It made me feel safe. It taught me that intimacy isn’t always loud or clear. Sometimes it’s a quiet agreement between two people who stop pretending they have to explain everything to be understood.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 30.