©ESR 2026

February was not a quiet month.

It rarely is.

Death Anniversary months have a way of returning like weather systems — not always violent, but present. This February held memory. It held grief. It held the old architecture of trauma and the language I’ve been building to describe it. Some of the poems were heavier than usual. Some of them were harder to write. All of them felt necessary.

I’ve learned that healing isn’t about avoiding certain rooms in the house. It’s about walking into them when you’re strong enough to stand inside without collapsing. February became that practice for me. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just honest.

There’s something powerful about translating silence into structure. About saying, “This happened,” and letting the words hold it so your body doesn’t have to carry it alone.

And now, March.

Lent has begun, and for the first time in a long time — maybe ever — I’m actually paying attention to it.

I’m rediscovering my faith slowly. Carefully. Not in the loud, declarative way I was handed as a child. Not through fear. Not through obligation. But through curiosity. Through quiet. Through choosing to look again.

March will reflect that.

As part of a personal Lenten practice, my first real Lent undertaken intentionally, I’ll be focusing more on devotional tones, faith-based reflection, and poems that lean into spiritual exploration. Some will wrestle. Some will question. Some will be reverent. Some will be raw.

To respect everyone’s space, each post that leans into faith will include a small note at the top identifying it as faith-based. If that’s not something you want to engage with, you’ll be able to scroll past without surprise. This isn’t about converting anyone. It’s about being honest about where I am.

February was remembrance.

March will be listening.

Listening for what faith feels like without coercion.

Listening for what remains after grief has spoken.

Listening for whether the Divine can exist without fear.

The Kitchen Chronicles aren’t disappearing. Humor is still sacred. Short stories are still alive. And somewhere in the margins, a devotional manuscript is quietly forming. A fantasy novel keeps tapping at the door of my imagination. Nothing is being abandoned, the landscape is just widening.

If February was excavation, March will be contemplation.

And we’ll see what rises by Easter.