To be the light that draws them toward goodness. To use my femininity, my grace, my presence as this quiet force that uplifts everyone around me.

And mid-sentence, I realized I was doing what I'd done a thousand times before: shrinking my experience, softening my words, making myself palatable so someone else could feel comfortable with how I felt.

There's a way that the world treats women who have real beliefs—women who won't compromise on what matters to them. We become inconvenient.

But when you grow up in a world where "better" isn't even a concept you're allowed to consider, leaving looks different. It looks like betrayal. It looks like ingratitude. It looks like rejecting everything your family built for you.

Like somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five, you're supposed to suddenly know your entire life trajectory. Career, location, the kind of person you want to become—everything crystallized and certain.

That's not how it works. I realized that recently—actually, I realized it after a moment where I thought I was past something, and then it came back. And I felt like I failed.

The world tells women their bodies belong to them and only them. But our faith teaches something different. Our bodies belong to God first. And the way we treat them, the way we present them, the decisions we make about them—these are spiritual choices.

For so long, I thought I had to be mysterious, unbothered, like nothing really mattered to me. I thought that made me attractive. I thought it made me seem strong and independent. What it actually made me was exhausting to be around.

The Church teaches us about community, about never being truly alone because we have God and we have each other. But sometimes, in the middle of a crowded room, I feel completely alone. And then I feel ashamed of that feeling, like I'm failing at my faith somehow.

Everyone in my generation left. They said the village had nothing for them, that life happens in the city. I understand why they went. But I don't regret staying.

I think about this a lot. Like, when I'm excited about something and I talk too much, I catch myself and feel embarrassed. When I share my opinion in a group and nobody responds, I wonder if I should have just stayed quiet. When I want something, I automatically feel guilty for wanting it.

Lately, I often find myself thinking that I really want real communication. Not just a few messages in a chat, not superficial phrases — but a sincere conversation, when time flies by unnoticed, and a smile appears by itself.

Hello everyone! I wish you a good week and a positive mood! Kisses, Angelica 💛💛💛💛💛

I'm 57. And I genuinely laugh when someone says: "At this age, everything is behind us." What are you! At this age, everything is finally in essence. We no longer play games, we no longer pretend to be interested in listening to stories about other people's fishing catches, if all we want is coffee and a gentle look. We finally know who we are.

Someone texts you something cruel. You feel it in your stomach. Your hands shake a little. You start typing a response that will make them understand how badly they hurt you, how wrong they were, how—

No. It just teaches us where the fire actually burns. 🔥

I pray that God gives me a person with whom I'm not afraid to be myself. 🙏

Simple. That's it.

Or am I just... Like, maybe the poets are somewhere else. Maybe they're writing about girls who smell like their favorite books, who laugh at stupid jokes, who don't overthink every text message. Maybe they're writing about girls who aren't me.waiting in the wrong room?

It's obsessive. I know it's obsessive. But what if