My kitchen table is covered in tiny plastic petals.
Yellow, blush, ivory, sage.
My hands are snapping together LEGO flowers while my life feels like it’s quietly imploding in the background.

The world I live inside right now is loud.
Emotionally unpredictable.
Heavy with tension.
Full of things that make my nervous system brace itself even when nothing is “happening.”

And still — I am building flowers.

The other day, my oldest looked at me and, with his old soul wisdom, at the age of 5, said, “Mom, I find it really beautiful when we build Legos together.”

Oh, me too, kid…me too.

These moments are often broken up by “he who shall not be named” shouting at me from the other room. “What are you doing? Get me water…make me food…this house is a mess.” or any variation of those comments.

There is nothing efficient about what I’m doing.
It would be faster to scroll.
Easier to dissociate.
More socially acceptable to “power through.”

But slowing my hands slows my breath.
It reminds my body that I am not only surviving — I am still allowed to exist gently.

Slowness, right now, feels like a form of resistance.

These flowers are not just decor.
They are proof.

Proof that I can still create something delicate in a life that does not feel delicate.
Proof that my hands can make something that doesn’t ask anything from me in return.
Proof that I am more than what is happening to me.

I am building what my life currently cannot give me: calm, predictability, and softness.

Writing feels the same.

It is slow.
Intentional.
Quiet.

When my thoughts feel tangled, sentences become the place I lay them down gently and straighten them out.
I am learning that writing is not about productivity — it is about regulation.

It is the place my nervous system goes to remember itself.

Nobody is applauding this.
No one is calling it brave.
But choosing softness inside chaos takes more strength than people realize.
I am not waiting for my life to be peaceful to become myself again.
I am becoming myself inside the storm.

I don’t know what my life will look like six months from now.
I don’t know how everything will resolve.

But I do know this:

There are flowers on my table.
There are words on my screen.
And there is still a version of me quietly returning — one small beautiful piece at a time.