• Writing

    The Bittersweet Feelings Of Letting Go

    As I stand at the threshold of the house where I grew up, a flood of emotions washes over me. This quaint, familiar space, with its creaky wooden floors and sun-dappled windows, has been more than just a building; it’s been a silent witness to my life’s journey. From the echoes of laughter that danced in the hallways to the silent tears shed in the quiet of my room, every corner of this house is steeped in memories. Selling my childhood home feels like closing a cherished book filled with colorful chapters. There’s a sweet nostalgia in remembering the blissful days of childhood, the warmth of family gatherings, and the…

  • Cornerstone Content,  Diary

    The Seasons Of My Life

    Last night, nestled deep within the embrace of my blankets, I found myself lost in a dream on a journey through time. The landscape of my dreams is often a curious one, a theater where the scenes that unfold often transcend the boundaries of waking reality. As I fell asleep, I was transported to the various turning points of my life, watching, as if on a silver screen, the highs and lows, the joys and sorrows. The seasons of my life have never been kind to me, changing not just in weather, but in emotion and spirit. Like trees in winter, I’ve sometimes felt bare, stripped of hope and warmth.…

  • Cornerstone Content,  Writing

    It Came Without Warning

    The wreckage of my past is the war that’s never won. Often times I think about all the things that were said to me so many years ago; I would always listen to the negativity, silently as if I were laying down in the wake of someone else’s incompetence or insecurities, my elders and a handful of those my parents entrusted with my care having labeled me as difficult simply because I was intelligent, and quiet. When I was a child, I was always passive, reserved, and yet completely incapable of truly standing up for myself. Telling people how I really felt at the time, expressing my emotions, and finding…

  • Cornerstone Content,  Writing

    A Typical Friday’s Child

    I was born on a Friday morning, and I recently returned to the house where I was born on a Friday, almost 30 years later, a typical Friday’s child. The house was a moment froze in time, as if nothing had changed since I walked out the front door at the tender age of 8. I still remember the dimly lit hallway leading upstairs, the flocked red wallpaper, and the salt and pepper carpeting. Nothing had changed in all these years I spent away, stepping out the front door at age 8 as a small child, raised on promises. I made my way through life, living, growing, and thriving, only…