1. Montessori Education 2. Difference between Daycare vs Montessori Education 3. My own personal story about my twins and the type of education they had and as a result to were they are now in their lives.

Lifestyle Blogs: Everyday Life, Beautifully Lived This lifestyle blog category is your go-to space for real life and meaningful connection. From nurturing strong family bonds and creating a peaceful, welcoming home, to exploring romance, deepening friendships, and having honest girl-to-girl conversations about life’s everyday challenges — it’s all here. You’ll also find creative DIY projects for every season of life, designed to inspire, simplify, and add a personal touch to your world. Whether you're building relationships, refreshing your space, or simply looking for relatable encouragement, these blogs are about living intentionally, loving fully, and making the ordinary moments feel special.

It was a hell of a way to die. Not blood-on-the-pavement die. Not sirens-screaming die. I died respectable. Respectability will smooth your edges down so neat you won’t even feel the blood leaving. They take your volume first. Then your questions. Then your body. And every correction is a small funeral. But here’s what they don’t expect: resurrection. Because I am done attending my own burials.

A poem I wrote recently. Relates to my own life and mental health. I write on a daily basis. I started creating poems at a young age.

Recognizing manipulative patterns isn’t about attacking or labeling a parent. It’s about clarity. It’s about finally trusting your own emotional experience. As children, we adapt to survive emotionally. We learn to keep the peace. We become the responsible one. The quiet one. The overachiever. The mediator. Those strategies once protected us. But what protected you then may be exhausting you now. you are allowed to love someone while also deciding how much access they have to your peace. Today isn’t about confrontation. It’s about observation. Pay attention to how your body feels during interactions. Notice when guilt appears. Notice when your voice gets smaller. These signals are information — not evidence of weakness.

A word of caution — this piece gets pretty personal and discusses some themes around SA and DV, so if you don’t want to read that kind of thing, maybe skip it I grew up with hippies. Sometimes we were in housing co-ops, sometimes we were in communes (both urban and rural), sometimes we were homeless, sometimes we lived in regular apartments with a group of people, and occasionally we even lived in houses (mostly my dad).

I love poetry and writing but never knew I wanted to write myself, because I was scared of what others would think <3

I have a box full of broken boards. Some of those boards have blood on them. For years and years, I persevered, until I didn’t. On that day I failed. The boards are wrapped in lengths of cloth. I fought for those bits of cloth, I bled for them. Those bits of cloth are my belts. White, orange, green stripe, green, blue stripe, blue, red stripe, red, brown. These days brown would be black stripe, but back then it was brown. There is no black on that list.

Right now, my brain isn’t letting me sleep. I am scrolling through so many videos about survival shelters, how to pack a bug-out-bag, what kinds of food you should be storing, and damn if I don’t want to get back to experimenting with shelter building and overall bushcraft and survival. It’s February, and I’m in Nova Scotia, Canada — not exactly winter survival on easy mode. There are colder parts of Canada, but it’s wet here, and we get storms. In fact, we are due for one tomorrow. A pretty major snowfall that’s going to shut down the province for a day or two, in all likelihood.

Ash in the lungs. Static in the limbs. And underneath the wreckage, the truth: no one explodes without first trying very hard not to.

How I enjoy weather and consider myself a "Lizard" now days since moving to fl in 2008 and how this week the temps that we've been getting remind of sometimes in Maine

This seems happy but it’s sorrowful to me. How can the most important person to you go to past tense so quick?

Just an insight on how my husbands days off are some of the hardest in this time of waiting. How I see what he's been told growing up is taking a toll on him. And over all how I would wait for him because God tells me what to do and how to do it.

We like to think we see the world as it is. In reality, we see it as we are. Every thought, belief, and certainty acts like a lens—clarifying some things while distorting others. This stream is an invitation to pause, step back, and question the mental architectures we live inside every day. Not to replace one belief with another, but to notice the walls we mistake for reality. If you’ve ever felt that something about the world doesn’t quite add up, you’re already in the right place.

Losing my mother to cancer when I was only seven years old had a profound effect on my life in ways I never saw coming. Without her love and understanding, my self-esteem took a toll, and I often felt set apart from my friends. Determined to soften the hard edges of that reality, I spent my life learning to compensate—becoming a nurse and a caregiver while tucking my own needs away to hide the void. For 23 years, my marriage and my career took up all my mental capacity, leaving no room for my own interests. Now, at 57, the noise has finally settled. This is the story of my journey to fill that void, to reclaim the voice I silenced, and to finally discover the artist who was waiting for the space to bloom. I am no longer just compensating; I am finally becoming whole."

At 17, I left home believing I was ready for anything. I wasn’t ready for isolation, rumors, or how quickly things could fall apart. This is the story of how I survived a season I never expected.

In this note, we are going to search through the deeper meanings of what it means to examine cultures through the arts with relation to the idea of Ikigai, or finding a purpose that fills us in the realms of: Passion, Vocation, Mission, and Profession.

This poem is about the people who shaped me without ever knowing me. Chester Bennington, Robin Williams, and Heath Ledger three artists who spoke my pain before I had words for it. Through music and film, they helped raise me, comforted me, and made me feel less alone in my depression. This isn’t a tribute that glorifies their deaths, but an acknowledgment of the impact their art had on my childhood and the person I became. It’s about being held together by voices that are gone, and still choosing to stay.

So, this is going to suck to write, and it sucks in general. Not only do I have ADHD, but I’ve been deep in depression for a long time. Not clinical depression, at least I don’t think so, but definitely depressed as hell. I mean, there are good reasons for it — a whole lot of them.

The sound of her This poem is about growing up with my first bully being my mother, and how that kind of emotional abuse teaches you to survive by shrinking, staying quiet, and becoming useful. It traces how conditional love, body control, and gaslighting shaped the way I see myself, my worth, and my relationships. I write about learning to listen as a survival skill, becoming the emotional container for others, and carrying that pattern into friendships and love where I believed I had to earn my place. At its core, this poem is about unlearning that voice, reclaiming my body and identity, and slowly choosing to believe that my existence does not need justification.