When I was placed in foster care at nine years old, my father, on one of his rare visits, gave me my very first journal. It was light blue, hardcover, and sealed with a small lock and key. Printed on the cover was a poem by an anonymous author, called What is a Dream? One of the lines in the poem stuck out to me: Your own secret corner where no one can go, where the path to fulfillment can start. Having grown up in a household where my privacy and person were violated at ever
There is a sacred quiet that exists just before a song is born. It is a space of profound vulnerability, where the whispers of the heart finally find the courage to become a melody.
