Letters to Empress

  There’s a moment in life when heartbreak isn’t just a passing sting—it becomes a teacher. I’ve gone through breakups before, but I never truly felt anything.  Back then, as soon as a relationship ended, I was already moving on, distracted by someone else. I made sure the new person was exciting, attractive, captivating, and suddenly, the pain of losing someone faded before it even had a chance to settle. It was a shield, a distraction, and for years, it worked. But it also robbed me of something important: the chance to feel, to grow, to process the heartbreak the way it deserves to be processed. This time, it was different. For the first time in my life, at the age of 28, I allowed myself to  feel heartbreak . I didn’t run, I didn’t seek someone new to mask the pain. I chose to sit with it, to stare it in the face, and to embrace it fully. And let me tell you—there’s a strange kind of courage in that. The kind that comes from saying:  I will face this pain, I...

  My favorite person died. And everything just… flipped. Upside down. Inside out. The world I thought I knew? Gone. And somehow, everyone around me expects me to act like nothing happened. Like I’m still the same person I was before. But I’m not. I can’t be. I move differently now. I think differently now. I feel differently now. My priorities? They’ve completely shifted. My personality? It’s not the same. Grief doesn’t just touch a part of you—it reshapes everything. And when someone you love disappears, the world you knew disappears too. It’s hard when people don’t get it. When they talk to you like the old version of yourself is still there, laughing, joking, responding the way they remember. They don’t see that inside, you’re broken. That the smallest things—memories, reminders, even silence—hit harder than anything else. That your life has been rewritten in ways nobody can understand unless they’ve felt it too. I remember trying to keep it together around people who didn’...

  This isn’t the highlight reel. This is the part nobody posts — the days when you wake up feeling like the weight of everything is crushing you, and you question why you’re even trying to keep moving forward. Yesterday, I went to bed feeling terrible — the kind of terrible that’s heavy in your chest, that won’t let you breathe right, that messes with your mind. I woke up this morning, and those feelings didn’t just disappear. They were still there — the same dark cloud, hanging over me, making it hard to face the day. I asked myself:  What’s the point of all this grind? The hustle, the sacrifices, the sleepless nights — what’s it all really for? I know, deep down, that the things we’re chasing — the money, the success, the trophies — won’t bring the kind of happiness we expect. But somehow, even knowing that, we still have to keep going. We still have to show up. Have you ever bought a new phone, or a car, or a thing you thought would change your life — and after a few d...

  Some breakups don’t end in screaming. They end in silence. No blocking. No dramatic text message. Just... stillness. A strange kind of quiet that forces you to sit with everything you didn’t say. And for months, I sat with it — unsure if I was the villain, unsure if I made the right call walking away from someone I once believed would be my forever. The decision to end the relationship didn’t come easy. I had valid reasons. There were moments I was emotionally drained, unheard, and left to beg for basic connection. I reached my limit. I walked away not because I stopped caring, but because I started realizing I was the only one fighting for what we had left. Still, after the breakup, something unexpected happened. I didn’t feel relief — I felt guilt.  Crushing guilt. Like I broke someone who only ever tried to love me. I questioned everything. Was I too cold? Did I give up too fast? Did they actually love me more than I realized? But here's the truth: what I missed wasn...

  They say time heals all wounds—but what they often forget to say is that some wounds don’t want to be healed. Not because we enjoy pain, but because that pain is proof that something—or someone—once mattered. Deeply. That’s what grief is. It’s not weakness, and it’s certainly not self-pity. Grief, in its truest form, is simply  love that has lost its way . When someone tells you to "get over it," they’re usually not thinking about you—they're thinking about  their  discomfort. Grief makes people uneasy. It’s raw. It’s unpredictable. It can’t be tidied up or put on a schedule. And yet, when you're grieving, the world seems to expect you to smile through it, to carry on as though your heart isn't still bleeding. But here's the truth:  Grieving is coping.  It’s survival in motion. It’s the soul’s way of processing love that can no longer be returned in the way it once was. Whether it’s the death of a loved one, the end of a relationship, or the distance...