Dbee Robinson Artist - The Fat Struggling Menopausal Artist

  Where My Heart Used to Be They say grief comes in waves, but no one tells you the size, how a calm sea can suddenly rise and darken the skies. They say grief comes in waves, crashing into you like a tsunami tide, dragging away everything you knew, everything safe, everything that survived. One moment I'm standing, holding myself together somehow, the next I'm drowning in memories, asking, "What do I do now?" Each wave finds me unexpectedly— while making tea, while folding clothes, while passing a place we used to go. And yes, you can brush your teeth whilst sobbing. You can answer questions whilst breaking. You can smile at the world while your soul is quietly shaking. It's exhausting. Deep-down, bone-aching, spirit-breaking exhausting. The kind that sleep cannot cure, because sleep itself has become a thief; bringing me dreams of my David, then waking me back to grief. Every part of me is yearning for him. Every heartbeat calls his name. Every sunrise feels the...

What is Love Love is not the blaze of passion, nor the sharp edge of longing. It does not demand, it does not keep score. Love is the quiet placing of your trembling heart into hands you trust more than your own. Love is gentleness when the world has turned cruel— the hush of your touch on my most frightened days, your steady voice when all I could hear was noise and harm. Love is giving all of yourself without ledger or bargain, and calling it joy. Love is never cruelty, never rage that lingers, never the cold shape of absence. It is the courage to be fragile, to let another guard what is most breakable in you. Love is knowing every quirk and shadow, and choosing them still. It is listening when weariness bows your head, the blanket drawn over my shoulders before I knew I was cold. Love is being received unchanged— and cherished beyond deserving. Love is not deceit. Not unkindness. Never small or shrinking. It is the holy risk of devotion, the way one soul...