Ever since my birthday, I have been noticing things. It started when I posted a selfie. A picture I liked. A picture taken at the right angle, in the right light, making me look beautiful. However conceited it sounds, it’s the truth. I wouldn’t post a picture I don’t like.
And then the messages started. Men slipping into my Instagram DMs, saying they want to be friends. Good friends. As if friendship is something you can offer a stranger like a cup of coffee. But we both know why they are here. They saw the picture. Not my words. Not my mind. Just a moment where I looked a little less ordinary. And that was enough.
Most of these messages come from men. So I say it right away. I am married. I have three kids. A simple fact. A shield. A way to make them go away. Sometimes it works. Other times, it doesn’t. Happily? one asked. What am I supposed to say to a stranger? Of course, happily. And if I wasn’t? I’d be even happier married if it meant I didn’t have to engage with him. The assumption that my happiness is theirs to question, that my life is theirs to measure, makes me uncomfortable.
But it happens all the time. A test. A challenge. As if they believe persistence will wear me down. As if no is an invitation to try harder.
I have my usual answer ready. I am not a nice person. I am rather rude. I am not looking for new friends. But most don’t take no for an answer. They ask more questions. They dig.
And here’s the thing. Even though I claim to be rude, I am not. I reply, but only in short sentences. Only when I feel like it. I try to be boring. To make them lose interest. But rejection is hard for me too. I know what it’s like to be ignored. To be met with silence. And yet. That doesn’t mean I owe them my time.
Tonight, a young man was angry. He told me I was disrespectful for seeing his messages and not replying. The messages were simple. Hi. How r u. I didn’t have the time or the interest. So I moved on. That was disrespectful, he said. As if my silence was an insult. As if I had wronged him. And for a second, I almost agreed. Almost.
But I never invited him into my life. Never asked him to message me. Never promised a reply. I told him from the start that I am not a nice person. That I am not looking for this. That I do not want this. And yet he persisted. And when I didn’t give him what he felt he was owed, he got angry.
It keeps happening. People conflate visibility with accessibility. As if sharing a thought or a picture means I belong to them. Means they have a right to my time. A message is not a key. It does not unlock a door.
And as I overthink, I notice something else. I am ranting about a tiny thing. Attention. And isn’t attention why we post on social media? Why we update our blogs? Why we share our thoughts at all? Shouldn’t I be grateful for every visitor? Every person who sees me? Do I owe them something? Anything? I give them my words, my poems, my thoughts. My wisdom – that’s probably too strong a word, but it fits anyway. What else do they want? And what do I deserve?
I sit here in my little bubble, complaining about nine messages. It’s not much. But it’s enough to preoccupy my mind. Maybe that’s the real problem. Not the messages. Not the men. But me. The fact that I let it bother me at all. The fact that I let it take up space in my thoughts when it could have been ignored completely.
I don’t think I am important. I don’t think I deserve your attention. I am grateful for it, but I don’t expect it. And yet, I write, hoping someone reads. Hoping someone stays. Because isn’t that what we all want? A sign that we matter?
And isn’t this where it all comes full circle? Who am I to demand your time, your likes, your comments, your views? And who are they to demand mine? Maybe none of us deserve attention. Maybe we all do. Maybe that’s the whole point.
I offer my words
Yet another reflective piece about writing, but I am asking a question, that only you know how to answer.
Some days, the words come in a flood, filling my fingers and spilling onto the page. Other days, even the simplest ones seem distant, slipping away before I can catch them. Perhaps it’s because I translate everything in my mind before writing. English doesn’t come naturally. Every sentence requires effort, a careful balancing of thought and feeling. It would be easier to write in my own language, but that doesn’t feel right. Somehow, the words lose something essential when they aren’t shaped in English. They feel foreign, detached, as if they no longer belong to me.
Still, when the words come, I gather them carefully and offer them to you. To read. To swallow. To make yours, if you wish.
I don’t judge their worth. That isn’t my task. I’m only here to listen, to catch them as they fall, and to offer them without expectation. There’s something sacred in that process, something that asks me to trust the voice that speaks, even when it feels fragile.
Earlier today, I read the word glimmer and, without warning, a poem fell out of my fingers. Yet the word remember, so simple, felt just out of reach. It’s strange how some words find me while others remain distant. I don’t force them. I wait. And when they come, I let them shape what needs to be said.
For months now, I have been writing up a storm. It wasn’t something I planned. It simply happened, like a river carving new paths through familiar landscapes. Poetry, reflections, scattered thoughts… I let them flow because I know the silence always follows. And when it does, I have learned not to fight it. Silence is not the enemy. It is part of the rhythm, a pause before the next wave begins. For now, the voices are here, and I am listening.
I haven’t written much poetry on the blog this year. Most of it has found its way to Threads, appearing daily like whispered offerings. Should I crosspost more often? I don’t know. Threads feels intimate, fleeting, like speaking into a quiet room where only a few listen.
Perhaps more of those words belong here too. Perhaps they need a place where they can linger longer, where they won’t be carried away by the endless scroll of a timeline. Like me, maybe they just want to be heard before the silence comes again.
All that’s left of midnight
The night exhausts me with its beauty, pressing softly against my chest. It’s -3 degrees Celsius, and I am standing outside at midnight, letting the cold weave itself around me. I’m in a t-shirt, jeans, and socks. I should be covered, shielded from the chill, but I am not. And I’m smiling. The mist beckoned me outside, sparking a curiosity to feel it on my skin. There is something about not seeing what lies ahead that tests me, a strange pull to step into the unknown.
The stillness around me feels heavy, not oppressive, but full, as though the night is holding its breath. Colours that would normally shout their presence, such as greens, yellows, and even the pink of a distant rooftop, are subdued. They blend with the fog, becoming soft whispers of themselves. A single green streetlight glows faintly through the mist, its light scattering just enough to remind me I am not alone in this frozen scene. The rest of the world feels hidden, muffled by the cold, as though the night has drawn a curtain between me and everything beyond.
My breath forms clouds that curl and vanish into the darkness. The air stings, sharp and unrelenting, but I welcome it. The cold feels clean, its bite a kind of clarity, peeling away everything unnecessary. I can feel the fabric of my t-shirt against my skin, the roughness of my jeans. My socks are no match for the frost underfoot, but I do not mind. This is not the kind of cold that chases you inside. It is the kind that holds you still, asking you to stay just a little longer, to see what it has to offer.
The tree stands nearby, black and skeletal against the faint glow of the houses beyond. Its branches stretch out, angular and raw, as though searching for something just out of reach. It does not move, nor does it need to. Its stillness matches the quiet hum of the night, both unyielding and resolute. There is no comfort in its presence, but I do not need comfort. The tree exists as it is, steady and enduring, and for now, that is enough.
The mist thickens and thins in waves, shifting like the tide. It holds the light in strange patterns, softening it, distorting it. The houses on the horizon appear and disappear, their outlines blurred into abstraction. I think about how temporary this moment is, how the cold will give way to warmth, and the fog will lift, returning the world to clarity. This scene, this feeling, will slip away with it. But that does not make it any less real now.
I should go inside. The cold has seeped through my socks, the tips of my fingers tingling in protest. But I stay. I stand here, letting the frost prickle my skin, smiling at the absurdity of it all. The night exhausts me, drains me of everything I thought I needed, but leaves behind something quieter, simpler. It empties me and fills me all at once. As the world holds its breath, I do the same, breathing in the strange beauty of this frozen hour.
not everywhere, but somewhere
Recently, I’ve been seeing more and more posts—maybe because Threads has neatly wrapped me in its little bubble, from writers, bloggers, poets, and authors grappling with their social media presence. They’re searching, hoping, trying to find an audience, throwing their words out into the world, and getting frustrated when they’re met with silence.
What strikes me most is that many of these people have far more followers than I do (four or five times as many, at least). And yet, their frustration feels so familiar. It makes me wonder.
I often complain about being invisible too. But if I’m honest, I know why I am. I’m not everywhere. I don’t scatter myself across every platform. I’ve tried Medium, Substack, Bluesky, the list goes on. Each time, I realised they weren’t for me. So, I left. Quietly. No dramatic exits or lengthy explanations – just the understanding that those spaces didn’t feel right.
It’s how I left Facebook. It’s how I let go of X (Twitter). It’s how I walked away from LiveJournal, Wattpad, and a handful of other places that have faded into memory.
Would things be different if I were more social? Maybe. But would I still feel like me?
Creating has always come naturally to me. It’s a flow, a rhythm that ebbs and surges but never truly dries up, even when it feels that way. But the weight of constantly performing, of curating myself to be seen, would stifle that natural flow. It’s not the act of creating that would suffer – it’s the joy of it.
And yet, I’m not immune to the chase.
Sometimes, I want an audience. Sometimes, I want more readers, more likes. That dopamine rush, that fleeting moment when the world pays attention? It’s addictive. Of course, I write for myself first and foremost, but let’s not pretend otherwise: when I share something, especially poetry, I want it to be read. I want someone to connect with my words, to resonate with them, to feel seen and understood.
I see all the advice for “growing an audience.” Post this way. Share that way. Be consistent. Be bold. Be everywhere. But here’s my truth: I can’t do those things, not without sacrificing my integrity. If I did, I’d lose my authenticity, the core of who I am as a writer. And that matters to me. Deeply.
At the end of the day, maybe my thoughts don’t matter. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. But they matter enough to me that this post has a place on my blog. Because there’s no one in my day-to-day, face-to-face life who would understand these feelings. And so, I write this here, hoping the void isn’t as empty as it sometimes seems.
I’m learning this: it’s less about being everywhere and more about being somewhere. Fully. Genuinely. It might be less glamorous, but it’s also less exhausting.
Flaws, typos, weirdness, and everything in between. This is where I am allowed to be me. Heard or not. A safe place. For me. And for you too.
Sea sick or World sick?
I’m lying here in the dark, with the rain and wind knocking at the window, asking to be let in. My head’s spinning, and I can’t tell if it’s a stomach bug, a migraine, or something else entirely. The dizziness makes everything feel like a blur, like being seasick but with nowhere to steady myself. Maybe I’m world sick.
Tears slide down my face quietly, more out of frustration than anything else. Frustrated that my body has decided it’s not up to the task today. When I close my eyes, strange images drift in and out—a man I don’t know, a man who isn’t mine but whose presence feels comforting, as if our souls are shared dust. And then another image—a blade against my skin. No cut, no blood; just an echo of past pain. These thoughts don’t belong together, but they linger in the dark, fragments of something I can’t quite piece together. I wonder if the dizziness brought them on, blurring my thoughts the same way it’s blurring my senses.
And then, like an anchor, my sister-in-law’s words float to the surface: You’ve been longer with my brother than without. She’s right, and I feel a flicker of pride in that thought. I’m still here, beside a man I love deeply, weathering whatever comes our way. Even on days like this, when everything feels unsteady, I hold onto that, as if it could keep me grounded.
Outside, a sliver of daylight is creeping in, outlining the shape of the lamp above me. I don’t dare move. The world is already spinning enough. But maybe if I just close my eyes and empty my mind, I can drift off and let sleep take me. Maybe my body knows what it needs, and I just need to give it space to heal itself.
For now, I’ll surrender to the quiet, trusting that the storm will pass, and I’ll find solid ground again. Not sea sick, not world sick, just here. Breathing in the new morning air.
What’s hiding in the silence?
Do you ever feel like you’re a walking contradiction, carrying around all these mismatched parts of yourself, just waiting to trip over them? I do. It’s practically my talent at this point—running into pieces of myself I didn’t know were still lurking around. One minute, I’m minding my business, drinking my tea, and the next, I’m face-to-face with an old version of me I forgot existed, tapping me on the shoulder like, “Oh, now you remember?”
It’s been happening more than usual lately, and I can’t say I haven’t noticed the reason why. This week marks the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing, and she’s been cropping up in my dreams—vivid ones, that pull me back to my youth and my childhood, to moments I don’t think I’ve fully unpacked. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my grandmother dearly, but she wasn’t always kind. There was emotional abuse, blackmail, words she’d say that I could never quite forget, even if I’d managed to ignore them for a while. And it’s funny (or maybe not so funny) how those old memories have a way of resurfacing, especially around anniversaries, as if they’re waiting to remind you of who you were and who you still are, despite everything.
So here I am, faced with the ghosts of myself I tried to leave behind. These aren’t grand revelations, either; more like a scavenger hunt where each clue is a slightly cringeworthy reminder of past me. Like the optimist who once believed everyone in the world could change if they’d only read the right book. Or the hopeless romantic who thought love alone would be enough to heal everything and everyone. And, of course, there’s the poet in me who would spend hours lost in the sound of waves, convinced they held some profound secret about life, because what could be more poetic?
Some of these selves feel like strangers, but others are uncomfortably familiar. And while I’d love to believe I’ve outgrown them, they clearly haven’t gone anywhere. They’re just hanging out in the quiet spaces, waiting for the right (or wrong) moment to appear again. Maybe I’ve left these breadcrumbs for myself all along, like some sort of reminder of the things I once believed and the ways I once saw the world. And in moments of silence, they come creeping back up, asking to be acknowledged, even when I’d rather just move on.
But here’s the thing: even though these run-ins are sometimes jarring, they also remind me of everything that makes me me. Because those versions I’d rather forget? They all shaped me in some way. And even if they’re outdated or idealistic, they’re still part of my story. They’re like old furniture I’ve lugged from house to house, even when I don’t have room for it, because something about it feels like home.
So here’s what I’ve come to realise: if you find yourself crossing paths with a part of you that feels long forgotten—like the dreamer, or the one who cared too much, or even the self that feels a bit too close to painful memories—maybe don’t dismiss it right away. Maybe let that part of you linger, because even if you’ve tried to shut the door on those memories, they’re still part of you, part of what’s shaped you into who you are now.
And who knows? The next time you’re sitting quietly, or standing by the sea, letting the waves carry away your thoughts, you might reconnect with a part of yourself you didn’t even realise you missed.
books
I admit, I take some pride in this. It’s an achievement; at least for me it is. The prevalent theme in my poetry is love, loss, mental health, relationships… Always a bit on the melancholy side of things, but I like to think quite emotive and relatable too.
So here is a little reminder of the books I published:
Unquiet Minds
Unquiet Minds was my first ever published book with my own full name as the author. It was an amazing feeling to hold this little poetry collection in my hands. Just the thought that this was something I had created, completely on my own. Every word written in this book, every editing mistake, I did it all. And I also took this absolutely awesome cover pic myself. It is a heavily edited soap bubble. Yes, that’s right. It’s no drawing and nothing mysterious. Just a soap bubble in the sky.
Drowning in a Sea of Voices
This one was published almost a year after the first. On the cover is me. Oh, don’t let me fool you, contrary to what you may think, my name and my face on a book was terrifying. Even more so knowing that I took that particular selfie in the bathtub. I am demystifying every mystery about the covers of my books in this post. Anyway, it is another little poetry collection; and again, I did everything on my own. I had asked online for a bit of help, but no one offered (I even offered to pay). I kind of like the cover of this book. Dark. Then again, that seems to be something my book covers have in common.
Heart of Stone
Now this was something else, something that still makes my heart swell with pride. Heart of Stone is a novel that I had written and posted on a site called Wattpad. But, it never felt quite finished; the characters never really left my mind, and so, one night I sat down to rewrite and edit the entire story. Chapters were added, characters were dropped or added and overall, the story came out more polished and more rounded than it was before. Now, the subject is not for everyone, in fact it is quite niche. It’s a love story. Romance. It’s a story about two men meeting at the right moment in time, when everything around them seems to shatter and they are the ones who can make the other whole again. Mental health (anxiety attacks) are a subject explored in this book too. I would say it is not cliché, but maybe I am the wrong person to judge. Riley Stone and Emerson Heart are probably the most developed characters I ever wrote. (Of course, as always, the editing and the cover were done by myself. This time I had actually found a beta-reader who gladly took the money but never got back to me with any tips or editing. I doubt they even read the manuscript… water under the bridge now) The cover is of a stone shaped like a heart, I saw it years before this story even took shape in my mind but suddenly, it all made sense. Heart of Stone.
A Life in Frames
With this release, I wanted to show off my writing skills, as boastful as it sounds. Many short stories (flash fiction) I wrote can be found in that book. It felt a bit like wrapping up things. I had published poetry, a novel, and now this anthology. I wasn’t sure if there was more writing in me, but there always is. Creativity is a well that rarely dries up, it’s just that the mind sometimes holds us back and tries to make us feel like failures. I can wholeheartedly recommend A Life in Frames though. It’s a good little book. Good writing. (As before, all done on my own, hehe – do you see a pattern there? The cover photo is a light bulb in the dark)
Out of the Dark and into the Light
This one should be called “the book that doesn’t exist” I barely advertised this one and only sold a handful of copies. I am not sure why it was difficult to get this poetry collection going. I suspect it was me leaving Facebook that made this advertising thing harder than it should have been. But I also admit, I barely remember anything about the process of writing the poems for this one or how and why the cover is the way it is. And to my dismay, I have to say, I don’t even own a printed copy of this either. (Cover pic – light in a hallway, and editing done by yours truly)
Perfect Imperfection
With this book, I had some help. The cover picture and the title were suggested by a good friend of mine – a creative person too. After reading a couple of poems from the manuscript of this book, the friend came up with the title – there’s a poem of the same name in this collection. Perfect Imperfection was also the first more official release. Or it felt that way. It was published with a local ISBN and was the first that could be found in the Luxembourgish National Library, that’s why, on Amazon, it says published by Bibliothèque Nationale de Luxembourg. It’s the book that made me a bit more visible nationally. I like this one, but maybe that’s because of everything that happened after the release of the book (referring to the visibility that I mentioned before)
Word Thief
To date, this is my last publication. It was released on my 40th birthday. In this book, you can find most of the poems that can be found in the other poetry collections too and then some. As you can see, it’s me again on the cover. Again it was a suggestion by my friend I mentioned above. The name Word Thief came about when I noticed that I do borrow words sometimes. No, no plagiarism, but I often use songs as inspiration when writing and I end up using words I heard in the songs I listened to recently. I am not sure if that makes sense. For Word Thief, I had a couple more polished angles to advertise; like the two songs Daniel Cavanagh recorded for me and put on his soundcloud site for instance. I was a bit disappointed at first that this book didn’t do as well as I expected it to do. Was it the price? Was I overestimating myself? All of the above? If you are a creator you probably know the feeling of feeling very strongly about your latest project only for it to fall on deaf ears. That’s what happened here. I tried many things to make it work but in the end I understood that I am just a grain of sand on this earth. I have no impact, no outside voice that matters. All I have is the passion to write and to keep doing what I started doing in 2012. The fact that I am not writing in my native language is something that adds to my insecurities sometimes, but then again, I couldn’t write as emotionally in my own language. It doesn’t sound the same. Anyway, I have many copies left at home of this one, mainly because of a printing error. There were white pages in the books that should not have been there – and for once it was not my fault, it happened at the press. I personalised every one of those copies with a little drawing (I am very bad at that) or/and a little note.
Fire & Rain
Fire&Rain is the latest addition in my self-publishing journey. It has been released on July 12th 2024 and marks the 8th book that was released with my own name on the cover. (The 6th poetry collection.) I am very proud of this book because I think it has some of the strongest poetry I’ve written to date. So far, there is no feedback about it but I will keep you updated. There are a couple of ideas on how to make Fire&Rain the wholesome release WORD THIEF was, but it is all still in the early stages. Fire&Rain is definitely worth a read if you are a poetry lover.
The Weight of Light
The Weight of Light is a collection of poems that balances raw emotion with quiet reflection. It explores the contrasts we live with: light and dark, love and loss, presence and absence. Each poem invites the reader into moments of gaslighting vulnerability, offering glimpses of the strength hidden in stillness. With simple, honest words, it speaks of connection, identity, and the way small moments can carry unexpected meaning.
For those seeking solace, connection, or simply a moment to pause, The Weight of Light offers a space to feel, reflect, and find light even when it feels heavy.
The August Current
The August Current is my tenth book of poems, and perhaps the most unexpected of them all. I hadn’t planned to release anything new this year, but in late July a sudden wave of words swept through me. In less than a week, ninety poems filled my notebooks—written in sleepless nights, carried by a current I couldn’t resist.
This collection is different. Alongside the typed poems, I’ve included photographs of some of the handwritten originals. Ink smudges, crooked lines, crossings-out—all left as they were. They capture the poems in their first breath, raw and unpolished, with a truth that polished pages often lose.
What makes The August Current special is that it wasn’t meant to exist, and yet it insisted. It carries storms and stillness, shadows and light, fragments of longing and release. For me, it stands as proof that sometimes the work chooses the writer, and not the other way around.
Available as Kindle and paperback. Signed copies can be ordered directly from me.
Every one of those books is available on amazon worldwide, or with me – from this blog. I ship worldwide too with no additional fees.
I thank you for being here and maybe browsing this place a bit. I know, the sheer amount of written words on this blog can be a bit overwhelming but, if you like music, poetry, short stories or even some photography, I am sure there is something for you here.
It’s nice to know that you exist 💜
remembering October – a throwback post
In August, I had the idea to walk down memory lane with the blog. After many years of sharing thoughts and poetry and everything in between, I wanted to compile a sort of best of, but that’s not as easy as I thought it would be. I am a harsh critic when it comes to my own creations. There can be tough choices about what to post and share, but I will share those posts that resonate with me when I reread them. Here is September’s throwback. Enjoy!
We start with 2013, because the blog saw the light of this world in December 2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
There is a lot of diversity in my October writing. There are short stories, poetry, music, and a little bit about me. To be honest, it is quite satisfying to see that my writing has improved yet kept the same voice all these years. It’s not that I am holding on to this with both hands, no it’s more that I am writing what I am discussing with my inner voice and it translates like that on your screen. And if you only want to engage with one of these posts, my suggestion would be “The Rocking Chair” it’s a great short story, one of my best.
Don’t be shy about commenting or liking or sharing. And don’t hold back on browsing the blog. There is something for everyone. There are even a couple of recipes for food.
I am very tired, physically and mentally.
Thank you for being on this journey with me.
stream of consciousness (20241005)
We all live under the same sun, don’t we? It burns above us, silently watching as we live out our days. And at night, the moon takes its place, a quiet sentinel. We gaze up, wondering, dreaming, lost in our own thoughts. There’s comfort in knowing that no matter where we are, others see it too. The same moon, the same light—different eyes, same sky. Does it bind us, or are we still separate, even as we look toward the same stars?
We often think the same thoughts but arrive at different conclusions—or sometimes, the same ones. Our minds travel parallel paths, connected but never quite in sync. How many people before us have pondered the same questions? Walked the same streets, felt the pull of something unseen? How many steps have pavements felt, how many hands have touched the same railings? Do these places remember the weight of every footstep, the
brush of every hand?
The stars remind us of this shared experience. We look at them from miles apart, but in the same blink of an eye, we wish upon the same shooting star. Distant, light-years away, but for a moment, it belongs to all of us—crossing the sky, catching our attention in a single, fleeting breath. Is it coincidence, or another thread pulling us together, despite the distance?
The ocean—the waves crash and retreat, constantly shifting, yet the shore remains. Sometimes calm, sometimes wild, but always there. We’re not so different. Linked by something deeper, something invisible, even when the distance feels vast. Every grain of sand holds a memory of where we’ve been, shifting beneath our feet. Our steps leave a mark, even if the tide washes over them. Footprints, written into the shore, invisible yet enduring.
And what of the dust we leave behind? Tiny particles of ourselves scattered on the surfaces
we touch, in the air we pass through. Do we leave a trace everywhere we go? Little imprints of who we were in that moment. Perhaps every place we’ve touched carries a part of us, something that lingers, shaping that space in ways we may never fully understand.
It’s the invisible threads that weave us into each other’s lives, not just binding us, but shaping us, altering the course of who we become. We’re not passive actors in this—each connection, each thought, each act ripples out, leaving marks on others and on ourselves. We think we’re leaving footprints on the shore, but perhaps it’s the shore that’s leaving its mark on us, imprinting its presence, its tides, on our very being.
We often don’t realize how much impact we have. A word spoken in passing, a smile exchanged with a stranger. These are the invisible seeds we plant, seeds that might bloom in the quiet spaces of someone’s life when we’re long gone. The smallest moments ripple forward, shifting the course of lives in ways we may never know.
Maybe that’s what life is—a series of moments, waves and sand, stars and moon, all pulling us back into connection. Reminding us that nothing is ever truly separate. Maybe these aren’t coincidences at all, but the threads that keep us intertwined, even when we feel far apart.
We carry these connections forward, becoming part of the sea, the sand, the stars themselves. And when the tide pulls away, it takes with it all we’ve left behind, carrying us into the next horizon, reshaping us with every wave, every step, every thought we’ve shared.
suicide prevention day
Today, on World Suicide Prevention Day, we’re reminded that behind the smiles we see every day, there are often silent battles being fought. It’s a day to pause, to reflect, and to remind ourselves—and each other—that no one has to fight these battles alone.
I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to be swallowed by darkness, to believe there’s no way out. I’ve felt the crushing weight of hopelessness, and at my lowest, I attempted to take my own life. It’s a hard thing to admit, but that’s why I’m sharing it with you. Because I’m still here. And if you’re in that dark place right now, I want you to know that you can be, too. There is a way through it. And there are people ready to help you find it. Sometimes, one conversation can make all the difference.
When we hear about the passing of beloved musicians and actors like Robin Williams or Chester Bennington, it hits hard. These are people who seemed to have it all—fame, fortune, talent—yet they were still caught in the grip of deep, invisible pain. It’s a powerful reminder that mental health struggles don’t care who you are. No one is immune.
Think of Kurt Cobain—an icon whose music defined a generation, yet his inner demons won the battle. Or Robin Williams, who made the world laugh while struggling silently with depression. These stories tell us that mental illness is real and it’s relentless, but more importantly, that we need to start talking about it openly.
These public figures are more than tragic stories—they are reminders that anyone can be struggling. And when we lose them, it’s heartbreaking, but it also renews the urgency to have these difficult conversations. We need to ask ourselves: How many more lives could we save if we spoke up earlier?
Awareness is power. By spreading awareness, we give people permission to speak up about their struggles. We help dismantle the stigma that keeps so many from seeking help. We let people know that it’s okay to not be okay.
It’s easy to feel alone when you’re struggling with mental health. But when we shine a light on these issues, we show that mental illness is not something to be ashamed of. It’s something to confront, to talk about, and to get help for.
What can you do? The most powerful thing is often the simplest—listen. Be there for your friends and loved ones. Check in with people, even the ones who seem like they’ve got it all together. Sometimes, the strongest people on the outside are the ones struggling the most on the inside.
If you’re struggling, there are resources that can help. Just knowing someone is there, ready to listen, can be life-saving. Again, one conversation can make all the difference.
Remember, suicide prevention is not just a day—it’s every day. This is a conversation that needs to keep going. Let’s not wait for another tragedy to spark these discussions. Let’s keep talking, sharing, and supporting each other now. Because you matter. Your life matters. And if you don’t believe that right now, I hope you’ll reach out to someone who can help you see it.
It’s not just about preventing death—it’s about nurturing life. It’s about giving people the tools to survive and thrive, even when their world feels like it’s collapsing.
—
Helplines:
U.S.:
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: Call or Text 988 (Free 24/7)
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 (Free 24/7)
Veterans Crisis Line: Call 988, then press 1, or text 838255
UK:
Samaritans: Call 116 123 (Free 24/7 helpline)
Papyrus (for young people): Call 0800 068 4141 / Text 07860 039967
CALM (Campaign Against Living Miserably, for men): Call 0800 58 58 58
Luxembourg:
SOS Détresse: Call 45 45 45 (24/7 support)
Kanner-Jugendtelefon (for youth): Call 116 111
Netherlands:
113 Zelfmoordpreventie: Call 113 or 0800-0113 (24/7)
Ireland:
Samaritans: Call 116 123 (Free 24/7 helpline)
France:
SOS Suicide: Call 01 45 39 40 00
Suicide Écoute: Call 01 45 39 40 00
Germany:
Telefonseelsorge: Call 0800 111 0 111 / 0800 111 0 222
Belgium:
Zelfmoordlijn: Call 1813
Switzerland:
Die Dargebotene Hand: Call 143
—
Final Thought
This is not just another blog post. This is a lifeline. If you’re reading this and struggling, or if you know someone who might be, take that step—reach out, talk, listen. One conversation could make all the difference.
cathy@boom.lu
I am always just a screen away,
Thank you!
reflections on my writing and the blog
There’s something about the stillness of the night that invites reflection. As I lie awake, with the stars shimmering above and the world around me at rest, my mind wanders through the corridors of thought. In these quiet hours, when the noise of the day has faded and only the soft hum of the universe remains, I find myself revisiting my words, my writing, and the journey that has brought me here. It’s in these moments, under the silent watch of the stars, that the weight of what I create—and how it is received—truly sinks in.
I’ve always believed that writing is not just about putting words on paper, but about creating a connection—a bridge between the thoughts in my mind and the experiences of those who read my work. Over the years, I’ve poured my heart and soul into this blog, Reflections of an Unquiet Mind, and into my poetry collections, each one a piece of the intricate puzzle of emotions and ideas that define us all.
Recently, I came across a thoughtful review of my work that gave me pause. It’s not every day that you get to see your writing through someone else’s eyes, especially when that person takes the time to really delve into both the strengths and the limitations of what you’ve created. I’d like to share some excerpts from this review with you, as I believe it highlights aspects of my writing that I find important—and it also touches on areas where I continue to grow.
The reviewer had this to say about the emotional depth of my poetry:
“Catherine’s poetry collections, such as Fire & Rain and Perfect Imperfection, capture deep emotions with a power that can touch anyone who has experienced life’s complexities.”
These words truly resonated with me because emotional resonance is at the heart of what I aim to achieve with every poem, every essay. To know that my writing has touched someone deeply is both humbling and affirming.
The review also highlighted what makes my voice unique:
“Catherine brings originality to her work, blending familiar cultural references with her own introspective insights, creating a style that is both distinct and deeply meaningful.”
This blending of the familiar with the personal is something I’ve always strived to do. It’s my way of creating a dialogue with the world around us—taking what we know and reimagining it through a more intimate lens.
However, the review didn’t shy away from pointing out areas where my work might not resonate with everyone, and I think it’s important to acknowledge these perspectives as well:
“While her work resonates deeply with those who appreciate introspective and emotionally charged poetry, it may not appeal to readers who prefer more narrative-driven or light-hearted content. Her focus on deep emotional themes might feel heavy or intense for some.”
This is a fair observation, and I understand that my work is not for everyone. Poetry, particularly when it’s introspective and emotionally intense, can be challenging. But I believe that exploring these deeper themes is necessary to truly understand ourselves and each other. While I know this approach might not suit every reader, I hope that for those who do connect with it, my writing offers something meaningful.
The review also mentioned something that I’ve often reflected on myself:
“Some readers may find that her themes and stylistic choices, while strong, can become repetitive across different works.”
As a writer, it’s easy to fall into familiar patterns, especially when you’re writing from the heart. I’m constantly working to push myself beyond these patterns, to explore new ideas and to challenge myself creatively. Your feedback, as my readers, is invaluable in this process, and I’m always grateful for the perspectives you share with me.
Ultimately, what I take away from this review is a sense of balance—a recognition of what I do well, and an understanding of where I can grow. I’m committed to continuing this journey of exploration, both in my writing and in my life, and I’m so thankful to have all of you along for the ride.
Thank you for being a part of Reflections of an Unquiet Mind. Whether you’ve been here from the beginning or you’re just joining now, your presence means the world to me. Together, we’ll keep reflecting, questioning, and growing, one word at a time.
With gratitude,
Cathy
###
This post was written a while ago. I was not sure if I wanted to publish it or not. Re-reading it, it feels a bit disconnected, a bit less passionate than I usually am. At the same time, I want to acknowledge this lengthy review I received by a reader of this blog who preferred to stay anonymous. (Another reason why I am slightly struggling with this post. But I promised to use no names and I am a woman of my word). What do you think? Share your thoughts 🙂
remembering August – a throwback post
I am up early today. I already cleaned the kitchen, put in a load of laundry, and had a cup of coffee outside. I am on my second cup now. Quite mundane.
This morning, I got a notification telling me that there is a new subscriber on the blog, yesterday I received the same notification. I just wanted to take a moment to welcome you both.
It also gave me the idea to browse the blog and share what I have been up to in the last decade on here. Decade? Yes, it’s going to be 12 years on this journey and there are no signs of stopping.
Okay, so what has happend on or around an August 23rd on this blog since 2012? Here goes:
2012 : nothing. The blog’s birthday is in December 🙂
2013:
2014:
2015:
2016:
2017:
2018:
2019:
2020:
2021:
2022:
2023:
What strikes me most is that I really wrote a lot of poetry and always seem to have. To be honest, I thought the poetry was a more recent thing and didn’t go back all the way. There is a lot of music too. August 22 was a month of music. And so many posts. So many words. And most are mine. It’s incredible. While putting this post together, I felt embarrassed by the words I read. And I was ready to change this post and make it something different. No one would have known, right? Well halfway through the embarrassment changed into something close to pride. I say close to pride because I am having troubles feeling that emotion. I was not raised to see my successes, I was raised to see my failures and dwell on them.
Be it as it may, above are (let me count again) 11 posts. I’d say they are worth getting some attention, but who am I to judge? The coffee is kicking in.
Did any of these posts stand out for you? Which one? I know it is a lot of work to read through them all, but let me assure you, there are less words in all the 11 posts combined than in this post here. The comments are open everywhere. Don’t hesitate to share your thoughts.
While I am writing this, I am also listening to music. (The moment I stop listening to music, something is very wrong). Oddly enough, the song is from the same band and the same album as the song from the 2022 post. Her Name is Calla – Animal Choir. Trusted readers know my story with this band extends way past the music.
Thank you very much for being there. It matters. You may think it doesn’t and that no one even notices that you are there. But I know and I see you.
If you want to know more about me or where to find me online or offline, take a look at this post:
Where do the words live?
As I run my fingers along the spines of the books lining my shelves, I’m struck by a profound sense of gratitude and accomplishment. It’s been a long, winding journey to get to this point, but seeing the physical manifestation of my creativity is an emotional experience I never could have imagined.
The feeling is almost indescribable – the weight of the paperbacks, the crisp pages, the cover designs. It’s as if I can literally reach out and touch the culmination of years’ worth of late nights, self-doubt, and perseverance. Each book represents a pivotal chapter in my evolution as a writer, a storyteller, and an artist.
I remember the first time I held one of my published works. The scent of fresh ink and paper in my nose as I opened it for the first time. In that moment, all of the moments of feeling lost or uncertain – they all melted away. I was overcome with a profound sense of pride and purpose. This was real. This was tangible. This was mine.
Of course, the journey hasn’t been without its challenges. There have been times when the blank page has taunted me, when the weight of expectation has felt crushing, when I’ve questioned whether I have what it takes. But in those moments, I’ve tried to stay grounded in my “why” – the deep, intrinsic drive to share my voice and connect with readers around the world on a profound level.
And now, as I gaze upon this growing collection of my written and published words, I realise that these books represent not just my stories, but pieces of my heart and soul. They are witness of my creativity, and the transformative potential of the written word.
Thank you, dear readers, for your support. Whether you’ve bought a copy of my books (and I could name you all, as it’s not many) or you’re one of the many silent readers of my daily blog posts, your engagement means the world to me.
As I look at the collection of my books arranged in chronological order on the shelves (as seen on the picture), you may notice that there are 9 books in the picture, even though I currently only sell 8. That’s because the one at the bottom of the stack was written under an alias. It contained numerous writing and formatting errors, so I took it off the market myself. I consider that book a trial run – a learning experience that taught me what not to do.
Moving forward, I plan to ensure all of my future publications match the size and style of “Heart of Stone” or “WORD THIEF” for a more cohesive aesthetic. Seeing the shelves filled with my work fills me with a sense of pride. The sheer volume of words I’ve written and continue to produce daily is something I would have never expected like this. These days, my creative process is fueled by inspiring music, reading, and the practice of learning new chords on the ukulele.
Yet, this constant creative outpouring also leaves me with many unanswered questions. Where do these words come from? Where are they stored when I fall silent? Are they coloured in hues of my voice? And is it as loud and clear as I intend it to be? Or is this all just a futile attempt to leave a trace of myself on the world? The truth is, I don’t have definitive answers. What I do have is an unwavering passion for words and a drive to create meaningful, well-crafted content poems and posts. Whether I possess true talent as a writer is not for me to judge. I’ll simply keep pouring my heart into this craft, and trusting the process.
If you’d like to join me on this literary journey, I invite you to follow this blog and explore my collection of books, available now. Your support and readership mean the world to me, and I’m excited to continue sharing my voice with you. Together, let’s explore the power of the written word and all the possibilities it holds.
The journey continues, and I can’t wait to see where it leads us next.
Losing myself – finding myself
The photo captures a moment of pure tranquility – a woman, lost in the pages of a French novel, her fingers gently caressing the strings of a ukulele, a steaming cup of coffee by her side. It’s a scene that instantly transports me to a place of profound peace and self-reflection.In this image, that woman is me.
I’ve chosen to embrace this moment of respite, to lose myself in the rhythmic sway of the ukulele, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the lyrical cadence of a foreign tongue. It’s a chance for me to disconnect from the noise and reconnect with the essence of who I am.
In these fleeting hours, I find myself drifting, my thoughts unraveling with each turn of the page. There is a sense of freedom, of weightlessness, that washes over me. It’s as if the worries of the world have been lifted, leaving me to simply be – to exist in the present, to savor the simple pleasures that so often go unnoticed.
In a world that so often demands our constant attention, the ability to carve out a day of quiet solitude is a true gift. To sit in the stillness, to let my mind wander without the intrusion of notifications is a luxury I too often deny myself.
But today, I’ve chosen to embrace this moment of respite, to indulge in the restorative power of solitude.
So, I encourage you, my fellow wanderers, to seek out these oases of calm. Carve out a day, an hour, even a moment, to find that same sense of freedom and clarity that I’ve discovered in this moment of solitude.
###
I wrote those words knowing that I often struggle embracing these moments. Even more so right now. I went from being wired all the time to feeling invisible and un-needed. For now, I have not found the right way to embrace my first summer holidays as a preschool teacher. But it will come. If I don’t pressure myself and carve out new routines, if I lower my own expectations, it will come. And today is a start. 💜❤️💜❤️
Simple and Profound: Me
The most read poem on the blog:
I decided to share the above poem again because it holds a special place in my heart. As I browsed the stats today, I was pleasantly surprised to see that there has been a surge in views on the blog recently. And while I was browsing and reading, I noticed that the poem above has garnered the most reads ever. This reaffirms my belief in the power of simplicity and the beauty of brevity. It’s fascinating to see how this simple, short poem has resonated with so many people, making it clear that sometimes the most straightforward works hold the most profound impact.
The most viewed post about music:
I wrote a lot about music and the meaning of it in my life. It is a bit of a surprise that over the years this has become the most read or viewed post about music. Still, I like it though. By the way, both Cavanagh brothers came out with new music this week. Both collaborated with Daniel Cardoso and both songs couldn’t be any more different. Weather Systems’s track truly captures the essence of emotional and powerful music. The track “do angels sing like rain” is a masterpiece that takes the listener on a journey through the depths of human emotions. On the other hand, The Radicant’s EP “We Ascend” is a bold step into experimental and boundary-pushing music. The mesmerizing and intricate sounds in the title track leave a lasting impression. The diversity of these projects showcases the incredible range of the artists involved. It’s truly fascinating how artists can explore such different musical territories. If you haven’t already, give both artists a listen, they deserve it.
The most read short story:
The original piece, penned back in 2014, still resonates with me today as I revisit it on this very site. It’s fascinating to look back on a piece that captures a different time in my life. Reflecting on it now, it’s clear that those stories played a crucial role in shaping my growth as a writer and helped me tap into the depths of my creative reservoir. They were instrumental in guiding me towards discovering and nurturing the poet within.
It took a long while to find my voice, and in a way I think the writing on this blog that was recently shared is amongst the best I ever shared. It’s just a feeling, maybe you feel otherwise. I have been very inspired when I finished editing Fire&Rain. It’s quite nice. This was my trip down memory lane for this week.
Now, here is my question for you and I would be happy if you would take the time to engage with me:
What is the first poem you read on my blog? Do you remember it?
Did you listen to the songs? Which one do you prefer?
Which posts do you prefer to see on this blog? Obviously, there is a lot about me too, and short stories like Rare Bird…
Too much? No, it’s simple, profound: me. More about me can be found here: about me.
Keep in touch 🙂
reflections of an unquiet mind 