This Is a Home Built on Love
Welcome to a space born not of trend, but of truth.
Gently carved into the fabric of the internet—with care, with clarity, and with unwavering love. This is more than a page, it’s a haven, a heartbeat. A constellation of words and warmth.
Here, the authentic soul, the curious spirit, the radiant heart can exhale.
Here, the woman who leads, who nurtures, who dares—can rest, rise, and be revered.
Your identity isn’t just accepted—it’s honored, not just welcomed—celebrated.
Whether you are loud in your pride or quietly carrying questions,
whether you are healing from silence or roaring toward your truth,
whether you are discovering your voice or reclaiming it, this space is for you.
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“ You don’t need to be everything to everyone. Be everything to yourself first. ”
– Quote of the Week
“She Is”
She is the quiet strength in the morning light,
A whisper of hope in the dead of night.
Her hands, worn with stories untold,
Carry the weight of dreams made bold.
She is the fire that never goes out,
The silent warrior, beyond all doubt.
In her heart, the world finds its grace,
With every step, she carves a place.
She has bled through the storms of time,
Rising with the courage to climb,
For though the world may try to break,
She stands, unshaken, for others’ sake.
She is the voice that calls for change,
The wild spirit that won’t be caged.
In her eyes, a vision so clear,
A future built with love, not fear.
She is the mother who holds the sky,
The daughter who dreams and dares to fly.
She is the sister who will not fall,
The woman who answers every call.
Her strength is forged in the darkest fire,
Her soul, a flame that never tires.
She is the one who changes the tide,
The heartbeat of a world unified.
So, we honor her endless fight,
The courage to stand, to rise, to ignite.
For in every woman, both fierce and kind,
The pulse of humanity is intertwined.
-Thîrteen
“She Rises”
I was given a name that was never my own,
wrapped in a life where I stood alone.
They called me son, they called me boy,
but every word felt like a ploy.
A mirror framed what they could see,
but never showed the truth of me.
I whispered secrets in the night,
a silent plea to make things right.
I walked the world in borrowed skin,
a hollow voice, a caged-in grin.
But deep inside, the truth would swell,
a girl was there, I knew her well.
She sang to me in dreams so bright,
a spark of gold, a kiss of light.
She called me forward, soft yet strong,
a melody I’d known all along.
One day, I let her voice be heard,
my lips released that sacred word.
No longer drowning, shamed, erased
I stepped into my rightful place.
I shed the weight, I claimed my name,
I faced the world, uncurled from shame.
They call it change, they call it new,
but I was always me, I always knew.
So when you see me standing tall,
with a voice of pride and spirits free,
know this, I did not just survive,
I fought like hell to finally be.
-Thîrteen
“To All the Mothers”
This is for you,
the mother who whispers I hope I’m enough
in the quiet ache between diaper changes and deadlines.
The one who shows up, again and again,
even when no one claps,
even when you feel like you’re failing.
This is for the mother with split ends and split hearts,
who loves through slammed doors
and silence at dinner,
who forgives faster than she sleeps.
This is for the ones who mother alone,
carrying groceries, grief, and guilt
with a spine made of stories no one sees.
You, who fight invisible wars
and still manage to make someone feel safe in the dark.
For the stepmoms, the aunties, the godmothers, the chosen,
you are not less.
You are proof that love does not wait for blood to bind it.
It rises, fierce and unrelenting,
from the marrow of your choice.
This is for the mothers who yelled today,
who cried behind the bathroom door,
who wonder if the scars they carry
will teach their child how to heal, or hurt.
They will heal,
because they are watching you rise
every time you think you’ve fallen.
You walk through fire
not because you are fearless,
but because you love with a fury
that burns down doubt itself.
You have lit the way
with the ash of your own becoming.
You are not perfect,
but perfection has never held a child at 3 a.m.
Perfection has never smelled like lavender and sweat,
or sung lullabies with a trembling voice.
You are a mother,
and that is already everything.
Even in your quietest hour,
you are someone’s miracle.
So here’s to you.
To the stumblers, the soul-givers, the silent strength.
We see you.
We celebrate you.
We thank you,
loudly,
and forever.
- Thîrteen