I(a).
Waking.

My love for you
was once wild,

Reckless, without peace.
Only wild, unbound.

Possessing me. My mind a beast in a cage,
uncontrolled.
Unyielding.
Desiring freedom.
It was the first time,
you were my everything.

But I wasn’t yours,
and I knew it.

Acceptance is blindness, repeated.

I still let you fill me, denying the thoughts.
My glass a small hole at the bottom,
Leaking.

You alone were my source,
My water.
A sacrificial spirit. A child that looks upon a closed door,
waiting to open just a crack.
Just to peek in and remember why she stayed.


She was lying face-up on her cotton towel on the pebbled beach, with her large straw hat covering her face. Her sun-kissed body was radiant and her skin smelled of coconut oil and salt water. She thought about how it had been two days already since her cousins left the country. How she decided to stay in Greece awhile longer instead of sticking to their original plan to pass through Italy. And so, she said goodbye to her cousins in Athens and took the ferry to Hydra.

The island called to her in a familiar way. The place was unknown…


When there is brief silence,
we are all but still.
Our will, immune to human havoc and riot,
catches the shrill of lightning before it quiets,
the rattling of change pulsing through our voices,
bearing witness to the seismic shifts awaiting us.

An ancient yet familiar sound erupts,
from a subtle growl, unrecognizable at first,
amplifying swiftly into awe-inspiring thunder.
Feeling into our vocal cords, humming strongly in unity,
birthing strength to endure this mighty earthquake.

Awakening uncharted paths buried in the echo of our brains,
new vibrations fill in the holes of our history’s creaks and whispers.
Through the noise we…


She hid behind the bookshelf. Her small body fit perfectly in the space between the wall and the rows of books her mother collected and picked through often. Soon she would come home from work. The girl usually waited for her in the kitchen, but this time she wanted to create a little surprise.

“Surprise mamma!” She jumped out of the shelf and showed her a drawing she made at school that day. Then she wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist and squeezed her.

“Not now, hun,” her mother said tiredly, weakly hugging her back before walking purposefully towards…


Sadness. Redefined,
by our memories hiding from awareness, lost in time.
Watery dreams surface, unfulfilled and gasping for sure breath,
before diving deep into the subconscious, drifting between life and death.

Unrealized dreams without consequence to our waking lives,
Yet still damning us to the bowels of those forgotten shipwreck dives,
Coral reefs of all kinds dotted with anxiety, fear, boredom and bliss,
Finned and gilled creatures feeding off the remnants of the dreamless abyss.

Sadness: the mind’s subaquatic match with neither counterpart nor contradiction,
submersed in our dreamy aquarium, a glass box to hold our stormy affliction. …


Just breathe. I’ve got this. I feel an awakening within me — it’s a familiar, peculiar feeling. One that comes up to meet my boundaries when people, things, and thoughts cross them with abandon. The itchy skin feeling I get with each boundary ignored, the pressure rising in my body when I reject its wisdom. This feeling sparks a strange, incongruous mix of frustration and deep reverence, as my body’s inner knowing is a prophetic call to wake up when the easy choice would be to remain asleep.

Yet, that feeling — I love it.

It was born with me…


When I fall, will I be held?
Or will my body be cast under a wakeless spell?
My Spirit once nimble, now deaf and blind,
a weightless wanting to marry heart with mind.
I pray for what I had lost, just to take me back,
as I fear nothing left, but inadequacy and lack.
When I fall, will I be held?
Or will all the light of my being be expelled?

When I am lost, will I be found?
Or will my body be silenced, my instincts drowned?
My words once steady, now muted and lame,
a deep desire for voice that speaks…


It’s one of the few moments of my life where I feel comfortable writing about how there are no accidents, that life’s unfolding happens at exactly the moment it’s supposed to. Ten days ago I was at the beach just outside Lisbon with friends. It was a warm, sunny day, and we were sitting on the sand having a picnic lunch after a morning surf session. The night before many of us were at a local bar listening to a friend DJ.


The power of owning our stories, even the difficult ones, is that we get to write the ending. — Brené Brown

Stories matter. A lot. They’re what connect us to who we are and where we’ve been. They’re how we understand our identity as we relate to ourselves and to others. And they give us purpose as humans, inspiring us to dream bigger. We’ve used them for thousands of years to pass on culture, connect with each other, and even to survive.

Nowadays, storytelling doesn’t just speak to campfires, comics and films. It’s become a core competency of leadership and…


We have all taken a pill for something at some point in our lives. Whether it was for minor ailments — like reducing the pain from a headache, a swelling of the joints, to alleviate cramps, or to help us sleep better at night reduce an inflammation, to alleviate bodily aches and pains, or to help us sleep better at night — or for more serious, recurring issues, such as antibiotics or medication for a thyroid disorder or for diabetes. And we likely know at least one person who is taking or has taken a drug for something that isn’t…

Amánda

I.ÁM a mental health advocate and writer. I use poetry and creative fiction to write about our shared human experiences of our inner state.

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