I don't want to convince anyone to want to be with me. Not anymore. I used to feel like I had to prove my worth, justify my feelings, and strive for attention, as if love were a reward for effort. But today... today I stand in a different place. I'm no longer chasing. I'm choosing.I look at my life and see how many times I've lost myself trying to fit in with someone who didn't even try to look deeper into my eyes. How many times I waited for words that never came, or gestures that no one intended to make. And I finally understood that the heart isn't a currency, and presence shouldn't be a plea.I don't need someone to "force" me—love that has to be asked for is just a shadow of love. I prefer emptiness to appearances. I prefer lonely silence to the noise of just any presence.Today, when someone comes into my life, I look to see if they walk with me steadily, if they can be there without demanding I give up myself. Does he see me as a human being, not a project to be fixed? And if he doesn't, I let him go. Without regret, without running after someone who doesn't want to stay.Because I, too, am a choice. And I deserve to be chosen just as strongly as I choose him—without hesitation, without games, without the constant questioning, "Am I enough?" I am enough.So I don't chase. I move forward, head held high, knowing that what's real won't escape. And what's leaving was never mine.

When I think about meeting the right man, I see clearly that it's not a moment from a movie or a firework that takes care of everything for us. It's more of a calm understanding that comes when I stop rushing.I've always believed that if you can talk endlessly with someone, if laughter comes naturally, and silence isn't awkward—then it must be it. And yes, it's important. Very important. Liking each other, wanting to reminisce, feeling the other person's curiosity—that's the foundation. But over time, I realized that foundation alone isn't enough if the rest of the house is to crumble.It wasn't until I started looking more closely at my life that I noticed how much our values ​​and lifestyle matter. How we spend our days, what's important to us, how we treat others, how we cope with difficult emotions. I understood that love isn't about fitting in at all costs, but about meeting in a similar place. Where we both want to go in the same direction, even if we're taking different steps. Emotional maturity turned out to be a key I hadn't been able to talk about before. The ability to talk, to take responsibility for my feelings, to not run away when the going gets tough. The right man isn't afraid of intimacy or the truth. He's ready—not "almost," not "someday," but now. Ready for a relationship, for me, for building something together.And most importantly: he chooses me. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't leave me hanging, doesn't keep me guessing. He chooses me consciously, just as I choose him. No games, no vying for attention. We're simply there for each other.Today I know that when I meet the one, I'll feel peace. Not because everything will be perfect, but because it will be real. Right, ready, and present. And that will be enough.

On January 26, 2026, Ridero Publishing published my original poetry collection, "Za-nie-kochanie." The volume was released in Legimi, Empik, and on the taniaksiążka.pl website. It will soon be available in all bookstores in Poland. An English version is in preparation.This volume doesn't tell a story. It doesn't explain, it doesn't teach a lesson. It doesn't ask for understanding or consent. These are poems about being in love, about not having it, and about being present within yourself when everything passes.Three states that exist simultaneously, not as choices, but as experiences of the soul. Don't look for answers in them. Let them touch the silence within you, pause for a moment, breath by breath.If something moves you, accept it. If nothing moves you, that's okay too. This isn't a story about falling in love. It's a record of being present in love.

Meeting a new person can be compared to opening a new book. When I lift the cover, I don't yet know if I'm holding an adventure novel, a quiet essay, or a story that will leave a mark on me for years to come. There's only curiosity- a slight shiver, the same one I feel when my fingers touch the first page.At first, I read carefully. I collect individual sentences: a passing smile, the way someone says my name, the brief pauses between words. Each one sounds like a hint of something bigger, but it doesn't yet reveal the plot. I turn the pages slowly, knowing that rushing can ruin even the best-written story.Over time, the paragraphs become longer. Memories emerge, small weaknesses emerge, laughter sometimes at inappropriate moments. I begin to recognize the style-I already know this isn't a simple narrative. There are twists and turns, sentences I return to in my mind, and passages I mark in the margins.Not every page is easy. Sometimes I come across a chapter that makes me uneasy, or a metaphor I don't immediately understand. But that's when I truly feel like I'm reading. That it's not a brochure to quickly skim through, but a book that demands my attention and presence.My favorite moment is when I forget I'm even reading. When the story captivates me so much that I stop analyzing and simply immerse myself in the dialogue, in the silences between the lines, in the unsaid lines. Then I know this journey into the unknown has meaning.And even if I ever close this book, something from it will stay with me forever. One sentence. One scene. Or the knowledge that I dared to open the cover and allow myself to be led where I haven't been before.

They met without tension. Without stories to prove. Without the need to impress. There was something quiet, almost ordinary about this meeting as if they both knew immediately that they didn't need to raise their voices to be heard. She came with attentiveness. He with openness. They didn't ask each other who they should be. Rather, they asked: Who are you now?And they listened to the answers until the very end. There was no drama between them, because there was no acting.There was no feigning strength or indifference. There was no need to guess what was hidden beneath the words, everything was on the surface, calm and real. When something hurt, they spoke about it before the pain could grow. When uncertainty arose, they didn't bury it in silence, they placed it between them like something fragile, something that needed care, not judgment.Silence, when it appeared, was safe. Never punishing. They gave each other time. Not because they were afraid, but because they understood the value of pace. They knew that feelings don't like rushing. That what needs to take root needs peace, not pressure.They were present. Truly. Not only when things were easy, but also when fatigue, the shadows of past experiences, the echoes of past losses, appeared. They didn't save each other. They didn't mend each other. They simply were there. Trust didn't come as a declaration. It came as a consequence. As a repetition of gestures. As the fact that nothing needed to be hidden. Vulnerability wasn't a risk here. It was a language. Honesty, not a threat, but a bridge. And truth something that brought them closer, not further apart. What was emerging between them didn't yet have a name.

The days stretch mercilessly, stitched together by incessant rain and torn by a strong wind. The world outside pulsates in shades of gray, as if someone were stubbornly muting the colors. In this slowed-down time, I have the space to organize my thoughts to arrange them like books on a shelf that have waited months for their turn. In the silence, broken only by the patter of raindrops on the windowsill, I catch up on my reading, allowing the words of others to settle within me calmly, unhurriedly. I write the next lines of my book, surprisingly attentive, as if this weather were conducive to digging deeper, beneath the surface of everyday matters.

I sit by the window and watch the morning light slowly climb the walls.I breathe peacefully. In moments like these, I feel it most fully: my heart is enough. It doesn't need to beat louder or faster to deserve attention. It's exactly as it should be. I am wise enough-not because I know all the answers, but because I can listen. To myself and to the world. I am funny enough, even if sometimes I only laugh in my head. And interesting enough because I carry stories within me that no one else could tell in the same way. My light isn't blinding. It simply is. Warm, constant, present. Enough to brighten the day - mine and those around me. I don't need to fill the silence with words. Silence is home, too. I don't have to prove my worth to the world, because it's not something that can be measured or validated.

I think that romantic love is very demanding. I write this without bitterness, rather with the attentiveness of someone who has stopped for a moment and observes their own life from the sidelines. Love can consume time endlessly-it doesn't ask if we have enough of it, it simply takes it. It reevaluates everything that previously seemed constant and obvious. What was important suddenly fades away. I put my interests on the shelf "for later," mornings that once belonged only to me begin with someone's presence, someone's breathing, someone's plan for the day. Routine that safe haven where I knew every stone falls apart orchanges shape. And although change is supposedly growth, I sometimes miss the simplicity of being alone with myself.

I increasingly think that in today's world, it's easier to have a dog than a human. Not because humans are bad. Rather, because they are full of contradictions and uncertainties that no one tries to sort out anymore not even themselves.A dog is simple in the most beautiful sense of the word. When I come home tired, I don't have to explain the silence. He understands it. He sits down next to me, rests his head on my lap, and is there. Without expectations, without hidden resentments, without testing my patience.He doesn't wonder if I deserve attention today - he loves me just as I am in this moment. If only I could have a dog.A human can say "stay" when he means "don't be yourself." He can promise his presence and then disappear mid-sentence. He's as fickle as the weather, full of understatements, fears, and internal wars that he often loses at the expense of others. And I have less and less strength to participate in other people's chaos, when I can barely manage my own.With a dog, everything is fair. Hunger is hunger, joy is joy, longing is a howl at the door. There are no games, no masks.There's a dawn walk, a wet nose, the rhythm of breathing that soothes better than a thousand words. In his world, I don't have to prove anything. Just being back is enough.I'm not saying I'm giving up on people. Maybe I'm just taking a step back. I'm learning to choose peace over emotional rollercoasters, loyalty over empty promises. A dog doesn't ask who I will be tomorrow. Who I am today is enough for him.

I recently read a very interesting article about how too long exposure to cold increases cortisol levels. And I have to admit, there's something to it. I've always felt like the cold weakens me, like it's sucking my energy out. It only takes a moment for me to go out without a hat and I immediately feel my muscles tense, my breathing becomes shallow, and that familiar pressure appears in my head a sign that my body doesn't like this cold.But warmth... oh, warmth is my ally. When the sun caresses my skin, I feel calm, balanced, as if someone had lifted the entire burden of everyday life. The sun's rays can wrap me better than the thickest blanket. Sometimes I sit by the window just to let them dance across my face. I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and feel my pulse return to the rhythm of the sea calm, regular. I think everyone has their own element. For me, it's

Is it also the case for you that the beginning of the year comes like a heavy dream from which you don't really want to wake up?

I learned to be strong before anyone asked if I even wanted to be. Life pushed me against the wall a few times, so I leaned against it and stood tall. Alone. With my head held high. People say I'm doing great. I smile then because it's easier than explaining how much each day costs me.I can shoulder responsibilities, make decisions, and be a support to others. I know how to act when things are falling apart. I know how not to cry in front of people. I know how to pull myself together and keep going, even when everything inside is shaking. This has become my armor. Invisible, but heavy.Sometimes I'm silent. Not because I have nothing to say. I'm silent because I don't want to be a burden. Because everyone has their own issues, their own fatigue, their own problems. I'm learning to contain my emotions in silence, fold them neatly like clothes in a closet and close the door. On the outside, a smile remains. Calm, composed, convincing.

Today is the first day of the new year. I wake up with a sense of silence that isn't emptiness, but promise. As if the world had held its breath with me for a moment. A new nine-year cycle is beginning, and I feel it not only in my thoughts but deep beneath my skin—like a subtle shifting of inner boundaries.

The old year is slowly coming to an end, and I pause for a moment. Not to count the days or settle accounts with the calendar, but to look back with calm and mindfulness.I stand at the edge of time, in a quiet and safe place where memories don't scream, but only gently knock on my heart.I look back at the days gone by the bright ones and those that taught me the most precisely because they hurt. I see moments as short as a breath and those long, stretching on into infinity. Each of them has left something within me. Lessons I hadn't planned, experiences I would never have asked for, and yet today I know they were necessary. They have shaped me into who I am nowcalmer, more mindful, more present.Only one day separates me from the new year. I ask myself quietly: am I making any resolutions? Am I creating a list of new tasks, goals to check off, plans to fulfill?

My transformation process began quietly, almost in a whisper. With Kardec's books. They appeared in my life at a time when I was tired of searching externally for answers, and at the same time, I felt increasingly clear that the truth I desired resided deep within me. I opened them without expectations, allowing them to guide me and then space began.Reading, I felt as if I wasn't learning new ideas, but rather recalling what the Soul had always known. As if each sentence peeled away layers of forgetfulness, beneath which a call had long smoldered, begging to finally be heard. The universe ceased to be a distant concept it became a living presence in which I found meaning, continuity, and a profound unity with all that exists. The spiritual world opened up to me like a space full of light and order, based on simple yet profound values. I understood that we come to Earth to learn to become better Souls through experience, choice, and responsibility. That love and goodness are not abstract ideas, but laws that give meaning to every existence. I felt increasingly clear that the Soul is immortal. That life does not end with the departure of the body, but changes its form, moving into the next stage of development. This awareness brought me profound peace. Fear gave way to trust, and chaos to inner order. I began to look at my life differently. I saw joy and pain, mistakes and trials as lessons that shape my Soul. Nothing was random anymore. Every encounter, every experience had its meaning, even if I couldn't immediately name it. Today I know that those books werethe beginning of a journey, not its destination. A quiet impulse that helped me trust what I had long felt without words: that I wasin a process, that love was the way, goodness was the direction, and the Soul was eternal, in constant movement towards the light.

The end of the year always comes to me more quietly than I expect. As if it didn't want to disturb what was still unfinished within me. Then I sit down with myself—without rushing, without a plan—and let my thoughts flow. It was a difficult year. At times, so much so that I was breathless. And yet, today, I see that every bit of it taught me something.I am grateful. For the lessons that hurt. For the sadness that taught me tenderness towards myself. For the difficulties that exposed my strength. For the smiles, the joy, for the care and human closeness, but also for rejection—because it showed me where my home isn't. I am grateful for the smallest things: for a morning without tears, for the warmth of tea in my hands, for the moments of silence where I could finally hear myself.I breathe.With each inhale, I embrace peace.With each exhale, I release tension.I feel my body slowly letting go of what held too tightly. I let go of what I no longer need. I let go of the thoughts that held me back, that told me I wasn't enough, that I needed more, faster, different. They weren't me.I release the burden I've carried for too long.I give up everything that's no longer mine.My heart becomes lighter. I really feel it—as if someone had lifted a cloak that was too tight. And life... life becomes more beautiful again. Not perfect. Real. Soft where it was rough before.I accept what I can't change. I stop fighting what has already happened. With love, I loosen my grip on control and allow life to flow as it will—naturally, without tugging. I move forward with trust. Slowly. I already know I don't have to run.I choose peace over fear.I choose lightness over weight.I choose freedom over attachment.At the end of the year, I don't ask for more. What is true is enough for me. What is quiet. What is mine.I let go.I release.I love.

That special day comes. Once a year. A day when time slows down for a moment, as if to give me space to breathe and look back. A day when I feel like I've been born again—not in body, but in consciousness. A tear wells in my eye, not from regret, but from excess. From memory. From gratitude. From the quiet emotion of still being here.

I fell in love with Satoshi Yagisawa's books, quietly, like a rainy morning that suddenly feels like home. First there was one story, then another, until I finally realized I wasn't just reading stories anymore. I was entering them. I'd take off my shoes at the threshold of sentences, sit on the floor between paragraphs, and stay there longer than I planned.Like his heroines, I could live in a small room above a second-hand bookstore. I could see it clearly: the narrow stairs creaking underfoot, the smell of old paper wafting like a promise, the window overlooking a street that never seems to rush. The room would be modest - a bed, a desk, a bookshelf that's always too small but perfectly adequate. Because true space would only begin when I opened a book.I would travel every day. Without a suitcase, without a map. One moment I'd be in a small town where people speak in half-words, another in a café where someone is making the most important decision of their life. Sometimes I'd come back tired, with a heart heavy from the fates of others, and sometimes light, as if someone had left me hope between the pages.In the evenings, I'd sit on the floor of the second-hand bookstore, helping to organize books, even though I knew that books couldn't be completely organized. They choose when they wanted to be found. I'd cherish that moment when someone entered hesitantly, said, "I'll just look around," and left with a volume under their arm and a thought that haunted them.I think that in such a life, I would learn patience. And mindfulness. That loneliness isn't always emptiness, and that silence can speak louder than conversations. Books would also teach me that everyone has a story even me, sitting in the small room above the second-hand bookstore, with tea cooling on the windowsill.I fell in love with these books because they showed me that you don't have to go far to travel. All you have to do is open a door. Or a cover.

Dating these days is an extreme sport. The kind without a helmet, without instructions, and with rules written in small print that no one has ever read-and then everyone pretends to be surprised.

When I fall asleep, I feel something inside me quiet, and something else begins to speak. Not in words at least not words I can speak aloud. My answers come as a shiver beneath my skin, like a warmth spreading in my chest, like a whisper I can't hear with my ears, but I know is real. Sometimes they are images-sharp, suddenly projected like photos on old film, frozen in mid-motion, imbued with a meaning I'm only just learning to touch.It's then, in these nocturnal passages, that I feel my intuition is my teacher. That it learns with me, along with my body and what I've experienced. It's not something fleeting or alien. It's like a deep current that has flowed within me forever, but only in dreams do I have the courage to plunge my hands into it.When my ego sleeps, it doesn't try to control the images, doesn't reach out to me with a warning finger. It doesn't say, "It's impossible," "It's just my imagination." Then intuition emerges like light from beneath the surface of the water. It shows me things I pass by unnoticed during the day, too busy functioning, acting, understanding. But at night, I see what is usually hidden: truths that lurked in the corners of my consciousness, thin threads connecting events, emotions, and memories.

I feel a familiar tension within me, that hot throbbing beneath my ribs as anger tries to take over. There's something seductive about anger-it feeds on my pride, whispering that I have the right to turn away, slam the door, build a wall high enough so that no one can reach my wounded heart. But for some time now, I've known it was just an illusion.Standing by the window, watching the day gently fade into evening, I suddenly felt all that anger melt inside me like snow on my hand. It's passing. Everything is passing. And in that one quiet moment, a realization came-so clear I had to close my eyes.Why waste time turning my back? Why lock myself away when just a moment ago I'd longed for closeness so desperately?Why give my strength to emotions that fade faster than I could name them? I took a deep breath. In that breath, I felt myself-the real me, not the one swept away by anger, but the quiet, peaceful me that has always been somewhere deeper. My soul… it's beyond all this. It knows it's not worth waging war where even a single seed of good can be planted.Even if my heart is a little broken-maybe that's why I should be gentler. For myself first and foremost. Because in harmony with myself, I am stronger than all the anger in the world.I smiled at my reflection in the window. Instead of closing the door, I open it a crack. Instead of turning my back, I look up.Instead of nurturing anger, I choose goodness-so quiet, yet stubborn. Because I already know that what I give comes back.And I want to return to myself-whole, peaceful, true.

As I write these words, I still feel the warmth of tears on my cheeks. I'm not proud or ashamed of it-I simply allow myself to be. Because I now know that every challenge, even the one that tightens my throat and tears the most delicate threads within me, carries more than pain. Deep within me, I discover a hidden wisdom I couldn't see before.Sometimes I feel like life places obstacles before me specifically to test my limits. And yet-every time I begin to falter, something inside me quietly whispers, "Stop. See what you can learn." And then, even though the tears press in like an unwelcome tide, I begin to see more.I see meaning where once I saw only chaos. I see a path where there was only fog. I see myself-a little wounded, but stronger than ever.It's in these moments, when it hurts the most, that I feel myself growing. Not like a flower growing in the sun, but like a tree that must dig deeper to survive the wind. Every hardship teaches me something I couldn't find in books or in other people's words. It teaches me about myself.

I smell hunter's stew wafting through the air, warm and spicy, like memories of all the winters of my childhood. It mixes with something else… a delicate shimmer in the air, the scent of the approaching magic of Christmas. I always sense it before others-as if the whole world were whispering to me just before the first star appears.I love Christmas decorations. The way glass baubles reflect light in the smallest corners of the room. The way the lights twinkle at me knowingly, as if to say, "It's time, get ready, it's coming-that most beautiful night." Christmas carols play from the radio, soft, soothing, familiar. Each note envelops me like a woolen shawl scented with oranges and cinnamon.And then I see it-this world shimmering around me, full of fairy dust. Some say it's just dust dancing in the lamplight, but I know better. These are the first signs that magic is awakening from its slumber again. It floats delicately over the table, weaving itself into the spruce branches, lingering just by the window. Just reach out, and I feel like I could touch a spark and tuck it away for later, on a bad day.So I stand in the middle of it all, with hunter's stew simmering on the stove, my heart filled with soft, childlike delight. The world slows down for a moment. Everything smells, glows, plays, and smolders like a small miracle.And I think to myself that if magic truly exists, it exists right now-when there's no need to search for it. You just have to let it find you.

Giving myself space is more than just a moment of respite for me-it's like opening a window in a stuffy room, letting in light that gently falls on my thoughts. When I choose solitude, I don't do it out of a need to escape, but out of a need to return. I return to myself, to that quietest part that sometimes gets lost in the daily hustle and bustle.Whenever I allow myself to enter my inner, peaceful place, I feel the tensions within me soften. I sit in silence, often without a specific purpose, and simply be. In such moments, honesty comes to me-not the brutal kind, but the gentle kind, the kind that embraces instead of judging. With it, kindness also comes. I'm learning to speak to myself as I would to someone I love. And perhaps that's why these moments are sacred to me.

When I look back on the last few months, I clearly see the moment when something inside me quietly snapped. Not dramatically, not with a bang-more like a thread that had long been stretched to its limits, finally giving way. And that's when the lightness I'd only read about before, thinking it was some metaphor for people more spiritual than me, arrived.For years, I tried to shape my life around my own scenarios. I made plans, calendars, options A, B, and C, convinced that only complete control would protect me from disappointment. And yet, the harder I tried, the more often I felt like the world was playing tricks on me. As if things were happening "against me," not "for me."One day-an ordinary, unremarkable one-I woke up and realized I was simply tired. Not of life, not of myself, but of constantly holding the reins so tightly that my arms ached. And then I thought: what if I let go? Just for a moment? So I did something completely new: I stopped fighting what came. Instead of blocking every unplanned turn, I started observing where it led me. Trusting the rhythm of my own path turned out to be not weakness, but courage. The purest kind-the kind that doesn't need fanfare or spectacular declarations.First came the little things: chance encounters that turned out to be surprisingly necessary. Unexpected proposals. Small synchronicities that made me catch myself smiling. As if the Universe was saying, "See? When you stop tugging at me, I can help you a little."And then... then magic began to happen.Not the kind with fireworks, but the quiet kind that fills your body with warmth when you finally feel you're in the right place, even if you don't yet know exactly where the path leads. Things appeared that I never would have dared to dream of before-because they were "too big," "too beautiful," "not for me." Now, as I sit by the window and watch the sunset light slide across the wall, I feel one thing: I've finally made space. By letting go of control, I've allowed life to enter where I once stood-tense, afraid, and convinced I knew best.And life... life knew better.And it continues to surprise me. Every day. As if to say:"It's good that you finally trusted me. Now I can show you what's truly possible."

Life's too short not to believe in magic-I repeat this to myself every day, partly like a mantra, partly like a promise to myself. And the longer I live, the more I see that this magic doesn't have to take the form of a sparkling fairy or a storm of fireworks. Sometimes it's quiet. Delicate. It appears when you least expect it and changes everything.So I allow myself to be amazed. Often. Perhaps more often than is appropriate for an adult woman, but I've stopped caring. I used to pretend that nothing moved me, that I was resilient, practical, and down-to-earth. And today? Today, I can burst into tears at the sight of a beautiful sky or smile at a random passerby, because I believe that such small sparks can brighten someone's day.

It's a strange feeling-as if my own life suddenly started catching up with me, questioning why I'd let others dictate my path for so long. For years, I'd been a crash landing for people who'd come into my world for a moment, just a moment, just long enough to draw energy from me and then leave.I always believed that by giving a lot, I'd receive at least a little in return.But some saw me as nothing more than a stimulus, a one-time hope to sustain them when they couldn't stand upright themselves. I was like a temporary charging station for them-a fragment of tenderness, only visited when their own life was fading.And I... I was disappearing into myself.My boundaries were turning into fog, and my sense of stability vanished like a coin thrown into a well. All I heard was the splash and the silence that followed.I'm learning now-slowly, painfully, but I'm learning.I'm growing out of saving people who don't want to be saved. I'm growing out of being an illusory raft meant to keep others afloat while barely breathing myself. I'm growing out of giving myself "to the max," to the last drop, to the last breath.I'm starting to see myself differently.My heart is no longer a way station for travelers, but a home-my home.I'm learning to leave light in it for myself, not just for others.And you know what?I feel peace returning within me.Not abruptly, not suddenly-but quietly, like water beginning to fill an empty vessel.For the first time in a long time, I'm not someone else's "momentarily."For the first time in a long time, I'm myself-completely, completely, without fragments.And I know I'll never go back to being someone's spare tire.Not after all the time I've spent learning that I deserve something more.

When people talk about me, they often say I'm the "ever-smiling" one. The one who can brighten up a room just by entering, who cracks a joke when you least expect it, even when heavy clouds gather over the city. They say my smile never leaves my face-and maybe it really does-when I pass strangers on the street, when I pet my neighbor's dog, when the sun suddenly peeks out from behind the clouds, and I make a small celebration of it.But no one but me sees that I sometimes laugh through my tears. That a smile, worn so lightly, can weigh more heavily than anything else. No one sees those days when everything inside me sags-my shoulders, my voice, my thoughts. Days when I wake up and already know I'll be looking for a reason to survive, not to be happy.Sometimes I say something harsh, something I don't want to, something that later reverberates in my head until the shame burns like a hot stone. I don't have a shrewish nature-I never have. And yet, sometimes a spark within me ignites too quickly, too loudly, too painfully. And before I can control the words, they're already flying, hurting, leaving marks.And then... then comes the familiar ritual. I disappear. I crawl under the covers, as if to disappear from my own life. I bury my face in the pillow, choke on tears, and tell myself that it will pass, that it's just a day, not a definition of me. But I still endure each such moment-as if it were a cold of the soul that needs to be sweated out in silence.For years, I thought these days spoke of my weakness. That if I'm known for smiling, I should maintain it-even if my cheeks ached from the effort, even if my heart told me otherwise. Only now am I beginning to understand that my smile means more precisely because it exists alongside these difficult moments, not instead of them. Because in truth, I am whole-the one who laughs at strangers and the one who sometimes cries so quietly it seems like even the walls can't hear. The one who loves the world for its little things and the one who, on dark days, can't stand herself. The one who can give warmth to others and the one who sometimes desperately needs it herself.I'm learning that I don't have to be perfect. That I have the right to rage, to pain, to moments when my smile crumbles. I'm learning that I can be both gentle and strong, vulnerable and courageous.And when I go out into the street again the next morning and smile at a stranger, I don't do it because it always feels easy.I do it because I know how much I sometimes need it-and I hope that someone else needs it today, too.

So I'll tell you a story I've carried with me for a long time-a story about how I matured not only with years, but also with my heart.I once believed that the world was spinning fast, and I had to run with it, even if I was out of breath. I thought that impressions, flashes of light, first impressions, the effect, were what mattered. Only later did I begin to understand that the older you are, the more you appreciate a hug-a simple, leisurely one, where you feel someone is truly there. No one had explained this to me before. I had to grow into it myself.The older I get, the more I see how much selfless help means. I used to think that everything had to be repaid, that nothing comes for free. Today I know that the most beautiful gestures are those that don't expect anything.And listening-oh, that's a treasure. Sometimes one attentive "speak, I listen" is remembered for years.As I got older, I stopped believing in appearances. I've shed the masks I wore to fit in, to look good, to avoid disappointing someone. Now I know that honesty and straightforwardness are worth more than any act. Whoever likes me, likes the real me. The rest was just a lesson.I also increasingly feel the importance of the time another person gives us. It's the greatest gift we can give each other. It can't be returned, bought, or made up for. If someone gives me their time, I treat it as the most tender form of love.And speaking of love-for a long time, I confused it with fireworks. With flashes, with euphoria, with loud declarations. Only life taught me that true love is the kind that lasts when things are bad, ugly, difficult. The kind that doesn't run away when the lights go out. Fireworks always fly up, make noise, flash… and disappear. Love remains.And perhaps what touches me most today is the realization that the world is becoming increasingly lonely. People lock themselves away in their own microcosms, sometimes not even by choice, but out of fear.That's why I know it takes immense luck to find a kindred spirit-someone who hears what I'm not saying, understands between the lines, who is silent around me so that I feel peace.Maybe that's why I walk through life more slowly today. With greater attention. Because I now know what truly matters.And I also know that if I meet that one, the right soul-I will hug them tightly, listen, and give them my time. Because that's what the years have taught me: to be truly there for someone.

Dating these days is tiring me out more than I'd ever like to admit. Sometimes I feel like, instead of getting to know people, I'm just flipping through character sheets from some strange game-some more colorful, others completely empty inside. Everything happens in this virtual world that pretends to be close, but in reality, it's like a cracked mirror: it reflects, but never quite truly.I write a message, I receive a heart. I send a smile, I get a twinkle. And something seems to be happening… and yet nothing happens. Emotions come too fast, as if someone has sped up the pace and forced me to immediately validate feelings I haven't even touched yet. I have to judge people I only know through pixels. I have to categorize them into some kind of box: "worth it," "not worth it," "maybe." It's exhausting. Inhumane, even.Because how am I supposed to recognize truth in a world built on filters, masks, and idealized descriptions? How can I distinguish sincerity from well-packaged illusion? And at the same time-how can we avoid falling into paranoia when, after all, behind this illusion, there actually is someone real, warm, genuine?I often wonder how real it all is, and how much it resembles an optical illusion. Like a rainbow over the road after rain: beautiful, intense, but one step closer and it disappears. In moments like these, I ask myself the most difficult question:Is it possible to transfer something illusory into the real world? I'd like to believe so. That sometimes behind these short messages and spontaneous conversations, there's someone who's also tired of pretending. That when we finally decide to step out of this virtual maze, take our imperfect selves and place them in front of each other, this whole illusion will either begin to crack... or transform into something real.Because maybe magic isn't about finding someone perfectly suited to my imagination. Perhaps it's about testing whether two people-previously existing only behind a screen-have the courage to cross the line between the world of created illusion and the world where you can hear breathing, feel nervous smiles, and see unfiltered eyes.And there's a smoldering conviction that truth exists-even if it begins with illusion.

When I realized that synchronicity wasn't a one-time flash, but a process, I began to listen to myself with renewed patience. It wasn't chasing something I couldn't name-it was more like holding the hand of someone who had been waiting for my attention for a very long time. That person was me.

My head is a mess, I'm not thinking straight—I keep repeating this to myself, as if words could even bring some order to what I can't quite put together. These thoughts churn inside me like everything else I try to push into the darkest recesses of my consciousness. They swell there, clatter, want to come out, and I pretend I don't hear them.Sometimes, in these naive moments, I think that if I just close my eyes, the chaos will calm down on its own. That the silence will cover everything like a soft blanket, allowing me to breathe more evenly, more fully. But it never works. Closing my eyes doesn't calm me at all—it only deepens the darkness and brings out what I fear most.

Sometimes I think my life felt like walking through a fog. Everything was soft, blurred, as if separated from me by a thin layer of glass. Even my emotions bounced off this invisible barrier, returning to me only slowly. That's why I couldn't inhabit my body for so long. It, too, was a fog—a part of me, yet not mine.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and, before I even open my eyes, I feel a quiet trembling within me. It's not fear, though I once confused it with anxiety. It's life, pulsing within me so clearly, as if reminding me: "You are here. You've walked your path. And you're still walking."

Sometimes, when the world is still asleep and the morning is just wiping my eyes, I breathe in the first, cool air of the day. In these moments, I feel that spiritual growth doesn't always come from great breakthroughs. More often, it's born from silence. From breathing. From noticing things so easily overlooked.I learn to find joy in simple moments—the smell of coffee, the softness of the morning light, the smile of someone who didn't even plan it. From the fact that I can feel, see, be. I used to search far and wide for meaning, but now I find it in the simple "here and now," as if suddenly the simplest thing has become the most sacred.I love with my whole being. No longer halfway, no longer cautiously. I allow myself to love people as they are—with their stories, hardships, beauty, and imperfections. I love life, even though it isn't always gracious. I love what happens to me, even if I don't immediately understand why. Because in both hardship and delight there is a lesson, and I want to accept it with openness. Sometimes someone tells me I'm a support for them. That my presence is like a calmer breath, like hands that can hold them when the whole world begins to shake. And although I once found it hard to believe, today I accept it with humility. Not because I'm perfect. Quite the opposite—because I know what it's like to struggle in silence. And perhaps that's why I can see in others what they don't see in themselves.I want to be a light, but not one that blinds. Rather, one that warms. I prefer to be an example, not through words, but through how I live—calmer, more mindful, more conscious. With a heart that's no longer afraid to feel too strongly. With a soul that knows that the path is more important than the pace.Spiritual growth hasn't made me superior to others. It has made me more myself. More delicate, yet stronger. Open, yet rooted. Attentive, but not self-absorbed. And when I look at the path I'm on, I know one thing: I want to continue on it. I want to discover, learn, love, and support. Because if I can bring peace, hope, and inspiration to someone, so be it. But above all, I want to be at peace with my own heart. Because it guides me most beautifully.

When I first heard that "you have to tame your shadows," I burst out laughing. It sounded like something from a self-help book you only read on the train when you've forgotten your books. And yet, those words kept coming back to me, especially in the evenings, when the light in my room grew so soft that everything looked like a hallucination beginning. That evening, when it started flickering, I couldn't escape anymore. I sat on the floor, rested my back against the closet, and felt something inside me crack—gently, like a thin shell. "Okay," I said. "Show yourselves." And they came. Not as monsters. If they were monsters, it would have been easier. They came as versions of myself, the ones I'd rather never remember. First, that little girl, standing in the corner of the kitchen, trying with all her might not to cry. Then the teenager, who had learned to mask her fear so well that no one had ever noticed how badly her hands were shaking. Finally, the grown-up me—the one who always manages because she has to.

This year has been a rollercoaster for me.I felt like life was sometimes pushing me forward at breakneck speed, and other times stopping me so abruptly that I was out of breath. Experiences crashed over me like waves—some gentle, others tumultuous—and I tried to stay afloat without losing myself along the way.There were moments full of laughter, spontaneity, and a sense that I could do anything. And right after them came those that forced me to stop, look deep within, and confront what I had been running away from for so long. I learned what it meant to be important to myself, to not settle for less, and to listen to my own voice, even when it trembled.Every difficulty left a mark on me.Some were painful reminders of what I had lost, others proved to be lessons I didn't want, but needed. Only over time did I begin to see that all this chaos was leading me somewhere further, deeper—to myself.And yet, at the end of this crazy year, something happened that gently touched my soul. I met someone who appeared unannounced, yet from the very first moment seemed familiar. Someone who calmed my heart in a way I hadn't experienced in a long time. Our conversations flowed naturally, as if we were continuing something that had begun much earlier, in another time, perhaps in another life. In his presence, I felt light, real, seen. As if some invisible thread connected our energies.Is it possible that souls truly recognize each other? That a soulmate exists?I don't know where all this is heading, but I feel a new chapter opening up before me. An old cycle has closed quietly, without regret. And I finally look to the future with hope—so soft, so bright,so full of promise.Maybe this is the beginning of something I will finally build from a place of strength, not fear. Maybe it's love, goodness, growth. Maybe it's the right one. Or maybe it's just... finally me, ready for a new start, for the true love I'venever experienced...

I don't want to be just a shadow in the background,Or a thought that flits through the day.I'm not a note on the reserve list,I don't want to be an option when you lack strength.I want to be a choice, that first impulse,That awakens hope and ignites dreams.To be someone you choose again,When the world offers a million alternatives.I don't crave a glance over your shoulder,But a presence that sets the world in motion.I don't want to be a plan B, an emergency bridge,Only a dream that's already coming true.Because I'm worthy of being a decision,Not a fleeting thought, not a moment half-baked.Choose me with courage, without a shadow of a doubt,And I will give you more than you could ever want again.So if, when you look, you see thousands,And in your heart the pendulum still swings—Remember, I'm not an option for later.I want to be a choice.

In everyone's life, there are moments when we meet new people and make new connections. This is often accompanied by excitement, curiosity, and the hope of a deeper connection. Unfortunately, it also happens that instead of true commitment, we start to feel like we're just one of many options—someone who's left on the sidelines, just in case something "better" doesn't come along.This feeling of superficiality in relationships can be painful and frustrating. You wonder why someone doesn't want to commit, why they don't make you a priority. The answers vary—some people simply don't want to limit themselves, preferring to have open doors and many options. However, this puts you in a difficult position where you have to decide whether you want to continue being available "just in case."We often find ourselves justifying someone's behavior. We think, "Maybe they're busy," "Maybe they need time," "Maybe they're just afraid of commitment." We ask ourselves if it's worth continuing to deceive ourselves. Do you really want to be someone you only reach out to when no one else comes along? Don't you deserve something more – to be someone's choice, not a last resort?Being someone's fallback means constantly waiting for scraps of attention and commitment. It's being a "safe haven" to fall back on if other options fail. This kind of behavior in a relationship undermines your self-esteem and self-confidence. Each of us deserves to be treated with respect, as a priority, not a fallback.Sometimes it's necessary to find the courage to draw a line and say "enough." This isn't easy; it requires honesty with yourself and an understanding that your own needs are just as important as someone else's desires. Deciding to withdraw from a relationship where you're only an option is an act of self-care. It's worth giving yourself a chance to meet people who will choose you, not keep you "just in case."Don't allow someone to treat you superficially just because they might have other options. Your feelings, commitment, and time are valuable. You deserve to be someone's choice, not a fallback. Having the courage to walk away from those who don't appreciate you is the first step to a happier, more fulfilling life. Remember – it's better to be alone than to forever wait for someone else's decisions.

I sit on the edge of the bed, entangled with my own thoughts. The words that were floating in the air moments ago taste in my mouth like unripe fruit—tart, unpleasant, leaving a strange aftertaste. I know how they sounded: sharp, decisive, with a certainty I don't feel within myself. Somewhere beneath them vibrates a silent plea—choose me, include me, see me. But out loud, I can only argue, prove, argue.I'm not naturally argumentative. At least that's how I think of myself. Maybe sometimes I fight too hard for my reasons, but that's because deep down I'm afraid my desires will disappear if I don't voice them. I'd like my needs to be obvious, to be visible without having to say them out loud. But the world doesn't work that way, and I can't yet say it directly: "I need you, be with me."Every conflict I find myself in is like a battle between two forces. On the one hand, there's the fear of rejection, on the other, the longing for closeness. I often hear my own voice, as if from afar: "I want to be heard. I want you to understand me." But I say it convolutedly, hiding behind convoluted arguments, recalling examples from the past, raising my voice as if louder meant stronger.I'm silent now, and I feel myself delving deeply into my own feelings. Was I really concerned about who was right? Or did I want to hear that I was important, that my opinion mattered, that someone noticed my emotions? Beneath the words, beneath the fragile shell of anger, lies a cry: "Notice me. Accept me as I am. Accept my weaknesses, fears, insecurities."Everything that sounds like conflict is actually a plea for connection. Sometimes I think that if I could just admit this, the world around me would change colors. Maybe next time I'll try. Instead of explaining, arguing, convincing, I'll simply ask: "Stay. Understand. Be with me." And maybe then I'll hear the answer I'm waiting for—not in words, but in presence. And that will be enough.

At the beginning of the relationship, there's a feeling that someone special has arrived – a man who seems to be the embodiment of dreams. Everything is intense, full of passion and commitment. Every encounter brings delight and a sense of being the center of attention. He's thoughtful, caring, a good listener, surprising with small gestures, professes love, and makes promises of a future together. The whole thing unfolds like a scenario straight out of a romance, where everything seems perfect, to the point of unreality.

Love bombing is a concept that has gained popularity in recent years in the context of interpersonal relationships, especially romantic ones. It refers to a specific form of emotional manipulation that involves showering another person with excessive attention, affection, compliments, or gifts, with the intention of quickly building a bond and gaining control over them. While initially, such intense feelings may be perceived as positive and exciting, in reality, it often conceals a desire to exert power over one's partner.

Reflection on Life: On Freedom of Choice

When I enter a room, I immediately feel whether the atmosphere is sincere, whether someone is pulling on a mask. It's not some supernatural ability, more like an instinct developed over years. My body reacts faster than my brain. My shoulders tense slightly, my hand searches for my pocket, my breathing becomes shallow. It's a sign: there's a lie here, someone playing a role that's not theirs.I can forgive someone's chaos. Everyone gets lost sometimes. Mistakes? I make them every day to learn something. Anger? Anger is human, sometimes necessary like a storm on a hot day. But pretending… I can't stand it. When someone puts on someone else's coat, speaks in a different voice, laughs with a laugh that's not their own – my body raises alarms before I even recognize the words.I value authenticity more than the elegance of words and the perfection of gestures. I prefer the truth, even if it hurts. At least then I know where I stand. Perfection, which carries a lie, is like glass under my feet—it glitters, but every step can hurt.

Let no one confuse silence with indifference. I repeated this phrase to myself like a mantra, sitting among people who couldn't understand my reticence. To them, silence was an emptiness, a lack of emotion, perhaps even a sign of coldness. For me, it was something entirely different. Silence was my refuge, an enclave of peace in a world where too many words crashed against the walls of my thoughts like a merciless hailstorm.

Quietly, at night, when the world momentarily pauses, images appear – incoherent, sometimes recurring, woven from everyday life and our own experiences. Dreams flow with a silent river of emotions, sometimes fears, sometimes longings, which during the day are carefully hidden beneath a veneer of reason. The same motifs often recur – a labyrinth with no exit, endless stairs, falling leaves, or voices whose content cannot be fully heard. In these repetitive dreams, symbolism intertwines with everyday life, becoming a shadow that follows every step.

There are moments when, despite our sincere intentions, immense courage, and open hearts, everything around us seems to work against us. Each step feels like a battle against an invisible enemy, against a fate that refuses to yield to our efforts. Even a positive attitude, energy, and willingness to take risks are not enough to break down the invisible wall that looms before us.