there is a scar on my forearm
where pain once opened a door I never meant to walk through.
and just above it—
there is ink.

not to cover,
but to honor.
not to erase,
but to rewrite.

a brain and a heart,
entangled.
not in opposition—
but in conversation.
connected by wires,
or maybe veins,
or maybe something holier than either.

I used to think I had to choose—
logic or love
rationality or feeling
selflessness or survival.

but I was trained in the gospel of self-erasure.
taught to anticipate everyone else’s needs
before I ever learned to ask myself:
“what the hell do you need?”
and even if I had asked,
the answer would have caught in my throat,
choked out by guilt
and the ghost of obligation.

because I was supposed to be
the good daughter,
the emotional translator,
the fixer of moods,
the feeler of everyone else’s feelings.

they called it kindness.
“you’re too nice”.
I called it exhaustion.
because how do you think for yourself
when you’ve only ever been rewarded for disappearing?

and every time I tried to speak,
to set a line in the sand,
they said I was dramatic,
ungrateful,
too much.

I am not too much.
they just asked me to live in too little.

it isn’t just ink.
it’s a reclamation.
it says:
“I won’t keep bleeding quietly
just so you don’t have to see your reflection in the mess.”

it says:
“I have boundaries now.
not because I hate you.
but because I finally want to love me.”

I have spent years
reading rooms like scripture,
absorbing tension like oxygen,
offering versions of myself
tailored to everyones comfort
and calling it connection.

but I’ve learned—
connection without truth
is just performance.
and I’m done auditioning
for love that demands I amputate parts of who I am.

they said balance was something you find.
but I bled for mine.
I built it
nerve by nerve.
word by word.

now I wear ink on my skin
not for show,
but for remembrance.

it is my altar.
my vow.
my refusal to be edited
just to keep someone else’s peace.

because I am not the wound.
I am what grew beside it.

a wire runs
from synapse to sigh,
from heartbeat to hypothesis—
and I am the bridge,
living in the middle.

but remember - lauren -
tattoos disgust me.

I’ve seen things I can’t unsee.
I’ve held lives together
with shaking hands and quiet hope.
And I’ve walked away wondering
if I was ever really seen at all.

But here’s the logic they forget to teach:

Feeling deeply
isn’t weakness.
It’s data.
It’s memory.
It’s proof
that the world still touches you
when it tries to make you numb.

And maybe I’ll never solve the full equation.
Maybe the variables keep shifting.
But here’s what I know:

I would rather stay soft
and confused,
and tired,
and real—

than become sharp and certain
and alone.

It starts with a word I can barely pronounce.
Primary. Biliary. Cholangitis.
It sounds clinical.
Clean.
But the truth of it is messy.
It’s in the yellow tint of her eyes,
the persistent itch that breaks her sleep,
the tired that drapes over her like a second skin.

It’s a slow erosion.
Not a storm, not a flood—
but a river that carves away at her liver,
cell by cell,
quiet and cruel.

I was just a daughter.
But illness turns you into more.
A researcher.
A translator of test results.
A calm voice in the chaos of hospital rooms.
A silent witness when she cries in the dark,
thinking I’m asleep.

I learned to watch her hands—
how they shook after bloodwork,
how they steadied when she braided my hair anyway.

I learned to memorize the rhythm of her breath,
so I could sense the shifts,
the nights her body betrayed her more than usual.

I hated the word “chronic.”
It means forever.
But not in the romantic way.
Not like a love story.
Like a sentence.
Like something you survive instead of live.

She tried to protect me from it.
But I saw.
I saw how she rearranged her pain behind a smile.
How she rationed her energy to make dinner,
even if it meant lying down halfway through.

I saw how strong she was.
Not the kind they write about in books,
but the kind that gets up
after falling apart
in a a hospital bed
quiet but intense on
her own.

Being her daughter means walking beside her,
but never fully understanding what her body feels like
from the inside.

It means Googling treatments at 2am and
Asking doctors the questions she was too tired to form.

It means feeling rage at a disease
you can’t punch,
can’t bargain with,
can’t scream at until it backs down.

But it also means knowing love differently.
Not the easy kind.
Not just the birthday cake kind.

But the holding her hand in waiting rooms kind.
The learning to administer meds kind.
The reading her silence kind.
The sitting with fear kind.

She is still my mother.
And I, still her daughter.
But illness taught us a new language.
One made of glances,
and touch,
and an ache I carry in my own body
even when I feel fine.

She was fighting something I cannot see.
But I see her.
And I will not look away.

my house is not my home
until those who I adore
fill the space I so genuinely
despise when it is
empty
just as a body may exist
to be a home for paradoxical
heartbeats - human and souls perhaps -
as they coexist to mold experience
all locked up in memories
a time capsule of individuality
a genuine tribute to wisdom as we grow
all unique and beautiful

but most importantly a memoir of the most subtle happenstances
the perfect collage

my body exists in my house
but it does not live until human experiences
all locked up collide together
they make it home
we say “its the little things”
dents in hardwood, a broken door hinge

(youll fix it one day)

they make the space less expensive
the collage more understandable
less extravagant, more extraordinary
I hope and I pray that when my eyes wearily
open on a Tuesday morning
and I pull at my hair while looking in the
mirror
that I can recreate the feeling of wholeness
one day of a true home for myself
that is not simply physical  

I will forever laugh at the mess
I will be honored to clean it up
how lucky am I to have something so
beautiful because

at the end of the day
we are all just
walking
each
other

home

I don’t think I stayed so long
because I was afraid of hurt
I think I stayed so long
because deep down I know
that I had lost myself
to him
and facing the truth
about leaving
with a shell of my soul
that I had to repair myself
was harder than
saying goodbye

I used to lay with my mother in the morning
my brother and I
half asleep in my parents bed
I remember taking her hands into mine and
feeling her knuckles
she had a green pillow
sewed in with flowers
even at 5 years old - the hands that raised me
were mesmerizing, they were my safety
I did not realize it at the time
she was tired
and their bed was monumental
it was what I looked forward too every night
as my father sang me to sleep
100 bottles of beer on the wall
and ill buy you a mockingbird
I looked forward to the morning

I held my brother
In his zoo pajamas painted with pandas
and I held my brother
as fast as the sunlight radiated in my bedroom, he was small and he was and is -
my safe haven
my brother snuggled up against my neck
and she held us, half asleep
and morning doves sang their songs

—-

that is now my lullaby
nothing mattered as I held my mothers knuckles
nothing mattered when my brother
squeezed my arm
I was never afraid of my mothers knuckles
I was never afraid of my father singing
I was never afraid of my brothers grip


I woke up this morning in my own bed
alone and tired
morning doves did not sing
they screamed
and my brother is still far
and my father is taking care of my mother
and my mother is taking care of my father
I woke up —- and my brother is far away
my father is growing older
and my mothers knuckles are nowhere near me
I ran my fingers across my
own hands
and I pray that one day

my knuckles will be remembered
the way I remember hers

if i could have given you the world
you would have lived forever
but love cannot maintain life
love is truly not enough
and this is the biggest lesson i have learned

i think phrases like
it wasn't meant to be
is a coping mechanism
because it is easier to spit out words
than to accept the truth
and the sun still rises
no matter what the truth is
and we are all trying to live

even if that means ending life
you forever will be
my everything
and I will run to you (always)