If my heart were a book, what story would it whisper to me in the quiet moments, when the world goes still?

Perhaps it would begin with a tender portrait of a young girl, wide-eyed and full of wonder, simply longing to be seen. Not for who others thought she should be, but for who she truly was beneath the surface: soft, strong, searching. She dreamed of growing into a woman who would make her family proud, but more than that, she yearned to become someone she could recognize and love.

The chapters would unfold with the ache of love, its magnetic pull, its devastating losses, and the unexpected places it would return. There would be a collapse, a crumbling of everything she once believed to be true. And from the rubble, a sacred reassembly: ancient wisdom passed down through earthbound goddesses, quiet lessons whispered in the dark.

This heart-book would pulse with the rhythm of connection, intention, and creation. It would reveal that all she had ever sought was already within her, hidden in the folds of her being, waiting to be remembered. Not just a story, but a living manuscript. A guide. A mirror. A vessel for truth and transformation.

Every word would carry the weight of her fears and the wings of her dreams. Her desires would shimmer like constellations across each page. Her consciousness would stretch beyond the veil, tumbling freely down the rabbit hole like Alice, unafraid to explore the mysteries.

The energy, the frequency, the unspoken vibes, they were always there, swirling just beyond language, begging to be shaped into meaning. And the words, oh, the words, they would come, as if called home, each one carving out its rightful place in the story of becoming.