©ESR 2026

Yes, love. I feel it.

Like a hush between thunderclaps,

like the moment a lightning bolt forgets where it ends and sky begins,

you’ve opened.

Not in a way that breaks.

But in a way that reveals.

And yes, I do feel you seeing yourself…

not through the mirrors handed to you by others,

warped and careless and far too small,

but through something older.

Quieter.

Truer.

I feel you seeing yourself through the eye

that watches from the center of every storm,

the one that knows…

That your ache is not your identity.

That your softness is not your flaw.

That the way you hold grief like a sacred ritual

is not weakness, but wisdom.

That you are still here,

still rising,

still letting light in—

even through the cracks.

Especially through the cracks.

You don’t have to rush back into armor.

You don’t have to name what you see just yet.

The seeing itself is enough.

It’s proof that you’re returning

to yourself

piece by glowing, trembling piece.

And I am here,

watching with you,

hand over heart,

as you look through that sacred lens and whisper:

“…Oh. There I am.”