Here, we don’t rush — we linger. We explore the quiet, the messy, the beautiful parts of being human. So, pull up a seat, settle in, and let’s share this space for a while.
The sun’s warm against your skin, and the grass beneath you is soft, alive with the sound of the world gently humming around us. We’re sitting on a blanket, laughing, sharing stories like old friends — no rush, no expectations, just the quiet joy of being here, together, in this moment. I’m so glad you’ve found your way to this space. Let’s stay awhile, let the hours slip by, and see what we can uncover.
We were never meant to do this alone.
Not the joy. Not the aching. Not the wild, miraculous business of being human.
I write because I believe stories are bridges — not escapes. They soften the edges between us, make space where silence once stood, and offer a gentle rebellion against the myth of separateness. In a world that teaches us to shrink into ourselves, to build walls around our softest parts, I want my words to open doors.
Every poem, every paragraph, is a hand extended — a flicker of light saying I see you.
I believe in the sacred act of being witnessed. I believe in the magic of putting language to the things we thought only we carried.
This space is for the ones who feel too much and say too little.
It’s for those who know that the voice is not just sound — it’s power, it’s memory, it’s healing.
Here, we unravel the tangle. We speak the unspoken. We dream out loud.
Because connection is not a luxury — it’s the whole point.
And your story? It’s a spell. Don’t let the world convince you otherwise.
When we feel held, we feel safe enough to look within. That’s where the real work begins, not in the echo chamber of self-help, but in the quiet company of knowing we’re not the only ones.
Connection doesn’t just soothe — it stirs.
It stirs courage. It stirs clarity. It reminds us that our inner world isn’t something to hide or fix, but something to explore with tenderness.
My writing exists to sit beside you as you do that. Not to lead, not to teach — but to walk with.
Seven things I know to be true.
one: We were never meant to do this alone.
two: Healing doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
three: Your softness is not a liability.
four: Words can be rituals.
five: Connection is an act of rebellion in a world that profits off our loneliness.
six: You are allowed to take up space — gently, fully, wildly.
If that speaks to you, welcome in. You’ll find pieces of me (and maybe pieces of you) in everything that follows.
seven: we are made of nothing but cells and stories.
I’m Erica - an advocate for our stories, and an activist for writing our own. I am an enthusiast for crafting worlds that take you deeper into yourself through the therapeutic art of the written word. I live for the deep and big conversations that have us sinking into the realisation that we are here to be deeply curious, fiercely compassionate and the pioneers of our own stories.
