I used to think healing meant feeling nothing—
no ache, no fear,
just clean slates and steady hands.
But healing, I’ve learned,
isn’t quiet.
It’s crying in the shower
and still showing up.
It’s being afraid
and doing it anyway.
It’s doubting yourself
and choosing to try again.
Sometimes,
it’s laughing so hard you forget
why you were hurting.
Other times,
it’s getting through the day
and calling that enough.
I still stumble.
I still carry the weight.
But life keeps showing up
in little ways—
a stranger’s kindness,
a song I forgot I loved,
sunlight that lands on me
like it meant to.
I used to search for signs
that things would fall apart.
Now I look for proof
that I’m still becoming.
And I find it—
in my softness,
in my strength,
in how I keep going
even when it’s hard.
No, I’m not fully healed.
But I’ve stopped calling myself broken.
The good still finds me.
And this time—
I let it stay.
- DK
sorry for being weird online. i'm even worse if you see me in person
How do i explain to someone that half of the things i listen to on Spotify is literally just white men singing about weird shit while screaming into the mic
Percy Jackson if Olympus had their own version of the Met Gala!
Piper McLean if Olympus had their own version of the Met Gala!
Reyna if Olympus had their own version of the Met Gala!
Girls are coming out of the woods, lifting their broken legs high, leaking secrets from unfastened thighs, all the lies whispered by strangers and swimming coaches, and uncles, especially uncles, who said spreading would be light and easy, who put bullets in their chests and fed their pretty faces to fire, who sucked the mud clean off their ribs, and decorated their coffins with briar.
Girls are coming out of the woods, clearing the ground to scatter their stories. Even those girls found naked in ditches and wells, those forgotten in neglected attics, and buried in river beds like sediments from a different century. They’ve crawled their way out from behind curtains of childhood, the silver-pink weight of their bodies pushing against water, against the sad, feathered tarnish of remembrance. They're coming. They're coming.
A segment of poem by Tishani Doshi
Frank Zhang if Olympus had their own version of the Met Gala!
rip magneto you would have loved killing elon musk
“Healing begins when you share your story with safe people.”
— Unknown
Annabeth Chase if Olympus had their own version of the Met Gala!