500 Days of Safety
For the first time in my life, I have lived long enough in safety for it to feel real.
Jul 10, 2026 MilestonesChallenges
Living Gallery
What Your Support Makes Possible
This gallery is a living record of real moments from my life. Every image carries meaning: what support made possible, and what care, effort, and systems it took for that moment to exist.
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A Birthday Held by Many Hands
A life does not become less celebratory because it requires support. This evening was made possible through generosity, companionship, accessibility, care, and my willingness to let the day belong to me.
Jun 22, 2026 Pet ZoneMilestones
What Building Looks Like From Here
People often see what I build without seeing the physical reality, care, regulation, and design that make it possible. This entry shows that my work does not come from ease or ignoring my body, but from building with my well-being at the center.
Jun 20, 2026 Daily LifeChallenges
Meeting Halfway
This moment matters because it holds the quiet grief of wanting ordinary social life while needing extraordinary planning just to safely leave home. It asks what meeting halfway really means when distance is not the only measure of effort, and it remembers that having constraints does not make a person too much.
Jul 12, 2026 Daily LifeChallenges
I Needed a Minute to Let It Feel
Support is not abstract when access to water, electricity, care, and cooling can determine whether a person is safe. This moment shows what becomes possible when individuals and systems recognize the true stakes of survival and help carry them.
Jun 17, 2026 ChallengesSupport in Action
The Art I Could Finally Place
It is an honest reflection of love without fantasy, grief without bitterness, and memory without possession. This moment was possible because of the care and support that came before it.
May 19, 2026 Daily LifeJoy
Being With, Not Just For
Not all loneliness comes from a lack of people. Some of it comes from the absence of everyday, unstructured presence—the kind of connection that exists without purpose or planning. This moment reflects that distinction, and the quiet weight of living without it.
Apr 26, 2026 Daily LifeChallenges
They met it before the world did
Before anything is shared, seen, or named by others, there is a moment where something new quietly enters the life it was created from. This was that moment.
Apr 25, 2026 Daily LifePet Zone
First Night Walk Without Distress
What may look like a simple walk was actually a meaningful shift in how my nervous system and body were able to function.
Mar 6, 2026 Daily LifePet Zone
Celebrating the Walk
Small milestones deserve to be acknowledged and enjoyed, especially when they are made possible through care, support, and listening to the body.
Mar 6, 2026 Daily LifePet Zone
Birthday amidst Fragility: Nick's Choice
Being chosen and cared for, even when I felt like I had nothing to give, reminded me that love doesn’t depend on what I can offer—it can simply exist in being together.
Jun 22, 2025 Daily LifeJoy
Birthday amidst Fragility: When things fall apart
When things fell apart, what mattered wasn’t the disruption—it was choosing each other and continuing anyway.
Jun 22, 2025 Daily LifeChallenges
Birthday amidst Fragility: Second chance
Choosing to try again—together—turned a messy moment into something we could return to with care and pride.
Jun 22, 2025 Daily LifeChallenges
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Living Moment
500 Days of Safety
For the first time in my life, I have lived long enough in safety for it to feel real.
More from this moment
Full Reflection / Story
Today marks 500 days of safety in my life.
For the first time in my life.
I built a safety counter, a simple app and widget for myself to count my days of safety. And last night, I stayed up late to watch 499 change to 500.
I don’t know much about how feeling safe all your life feels, but I finally know how feeling safe long enough for it to feel real feels.
There weren’t sparks or fireworks. I saw the counter turn 500 at midnight, and there were tears. There was joy. There was pride. And there was also grief and mourning.
Something came up that I hadn’t ever mapped before.
I used to be in bed a lot starting around 15-ish. I used to feel exhausted, like moving around took so much effort. Then other moments I had mapped months ago with my neurologist came up too: loss of sweat in my limbs around 13–14 years old; significant sweating in my palms and feet between 14–15; and then that stopped soon after.
There was a lot my body had been struggling with since I was very young. We knew that by now.
What surfaced as the counter struck 500 was this feeling of realizing what my body finally got to set down when it found safety.
February 5, 2025 was the day I was safe and felt safe for the first time, inside and out. And there I was, a few weeks later, unable to function.
I remember explaining it like this when I talk to people:
Imagine you’re running from danger, constantly in threat, so you keep running even if you are wounded, even if you are bleeding out. And then you enter a safe house. Before you do anything else, your body collapses. Not because safety caused you to collapse, but because safety allowed your body to finally release from survival mode.
I am proud of my body, you know?
Five hundred days of safety will not change the harm that came before it. What it does is much more real: it reminds my nervous system that we built safety, and that we are in a place where it doesn’t have to brace for what comes in the next moment.
My lived reality is complex. My medical reality is fragile. My financial reality is critical. My circumstances are chaotic.
None of those are magically erased by safety.
They are made livable by safety.
I don’t collapse into my circumstances because I know within me that I built this safety brick by brick and decision by decision. I know within me that I am here because my body kept fighting for a very long time to keep me alive, and I am finally able to meet it and protect it with safety.
So, yeah.
Five hundred days it is.
Not uninterrupted, of course. I paused the counter on February 4, 2026, for 21 days after calling the cops and after a severe event happened. What matters to me is that I took steps to protect my safety with everything I had, and I rebuilt safety with what was left.
I was talking to someone today, and they essentially said:
“I hope, eventually, being safe will stop feeling like a novelty.”
It made me tear up.
I hope it does too.
For now, I am grateful I am here. I am grateful I am safe. And I am very much grateful I get to share what it feels like to be here.
Not fireworks.
Just knowing that the 15- or 16-year-old me would be grateful too. Grateful that I am in a place where what she experienced might not have been laziness, as they called it.
And grateful that I am here now, as a 31-year-old, taking care of her needs the way she always deserved.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
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Living Moment
A Birthday Held by Many Hands
A life does not become less celebratory because it requires support. This evening was made possible through generosity, companionship, accessibility, care, and my willingness to let the day belong to me.
More from this moment
Full Reflection / Story
On June 22, 2026, I turned thirty-one.
It was also the day my memoir, Built, Not Born, entered the world.
For part of the time leading up to this birthday, I did not know what the day would look like. There were points when I felt like maybe there wasn’t anything to celebrate. I didn’t know if it mattered to anyone.
When I curled into bed on the night of June 20, feeling alone, my body said, “We’re still here. That’s worth celebrating, isn’t it? It might not matter to anyone else, but it does to me.”
It was in that moment that I realized celebration was worth it. To me.
Initially, my definition of celebration required more than deciding where I wanted to eat. It required money. It required transportation, physical access, enough bodily capacity, a place where Toffee could remain close to me, and someone willing to share the table.
In that moment, however, I knew celebration meant creating a meaningful moment, even if it meant holding myself and saying, “We made it here.”
Then I asked if anyone would be willing to help me celebrate.
Support arrived.
Until then, I hadn’t realized my birthday or the book meant something to anyone other than me.
A member of my community covered the cost of my birthday dinner. I remember his message: “I’d be honored to.”
A neighbor joined me so I would not have to celebrate alone.
Zephyr’s staff made room for my power wheelchair, welcomed Toffee beside me, cut my dinner into bite-sized pieces to help with swallowing, brought out a slice of cheesecake with a candle, and wrote “Happy Birthday!” across the plate in chocolate.
None of these acts was enormous in isolation. Together, they created an evening—my first time at a restaurant in over nine months, and definitely my first time outside for fun within my current needs and reality.
Toffee rested between my feet on the footplates of my wheelchair. She is one of the reasons I’m alive today, and this celebration belongs to her just as much as it does to me.
My neighbor, Mary, and I played a conversation card game as dinner progressed.
There was warm tea, food I could swallow, a candle burning in a piece of cake, and my wheelchair carrying the collection of things that help my body remain in the world.
The machinery of access was not separate from the celebration. It was part of the picture.
There are photographs in which I am laughing broadly. There is one in which I hold a spoon as though the cake and I are sharing a private joke. There is another in which my hand rests over my chest and my eyes are lowered, the candle still glowing in front of me.
That was a moment when I paused to let the joy of being cared for reach my body and say, “We made it here.”
After dinner, I wrote a note on a napkin I had available:
Dear Lauren, Zephyr team,
Thank you for being so warm & helping me have a lovely & memorable birthday.
—Harshini
That gratitude belonged to more than the restaurant.
It belonged to the person who made the dinner financially possible. To the person who came and sat across from me. To the workers who treated my birthday as an occasion worth marking. To Toffee, who remained close through every part of the outing. To my wheelchair, Oona, which carried me there. To my body, which stayed with me. And to me, because I allowed myself to ask, to receive, to arrive, and to be seen enjoying my own life.
I had a moment in front of a great painted wall of blue waves, green hills, arches, flowers, and imagined landscapes. Toffee sat against my chest, and I opened both arms toward the world.
The mural was enormous. We were small beneath it.
But we were there.
My thirty-first birthday was not made meaningful because everything was effortless or because every need disappeared. It was meaningful because the support was real enough to build an evening around the life that actually exists.
And for one evening, the many structures that make a life possible did not feel like evidence that the celebration was compromised.
They were the way the celebration came into being.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
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You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
What Building Looks Like From Here
People often see what I build without seeing the physical reality, care, regulation, and design that make it possible. This entry shows that my work does not come from ease or ignoring my body, but from building with my well-being at the center.
More from this moment
Full Reflection / Story
I was talking to a friend the other day about how so many people have asked me some version of: “You build so many things already, why can’t you just get a job and get paid?”
And I was telling him how frustrating it is that people can see what I produce, but not what it takes to produce it. They see the things I build, but not the physical state I am usually in while building them. They see the coherence, the systems, the offerings, the writing, the organizing — but not the conditions under which any of it becomes possible.
He said something that stayed with me.
“You know, what you build is so incredibly intentional and from my perspective might take someone months with a team. You build these things and if I didn’t know you and what it costs for you, I wouldn’t have ever thought the things were made by someone in your situation.”
And that helped me understand something more clearly.
When an individual is cognitively “gifted” — I hate that word, by the way — and is able to build coherent systems, and you do not actually see what their physical state is, it becomes easy to imagine a life of ease that the work comes out of.
It becomes easy to assume capacity where there is actually careful design.
It becomes easy to assume productivity where there is actually survival, regulation, recovery, and constant negotiation with the body.
Interestingly, I had installed a camera in my room a few days ago after going unconscious multiple times and not knowing how long I had been like that. The camera was originally a way of tracking loss of consciousness. It was not installed to document my work or make a point.
But it revealed something I wanted to share here.
It showed what my physical state usually is when I am building.
Not to say, “I keep building and ignore my body.”
It is actually the opposite.
I build as I care for my body.
Some days start with the ability to sit upright. Some days, the only way I can live is by lying flat.
I listen to my body and adjust positions every few minutes.
My body cannot regulate temperature well, so I have a bed cooling system, portable AC, bedside fan, and central AC going at all times. I can go unconscious and unresponsive without active systems trying to keep me cool but not freezing.
My body struggles to keep me upright for more than a few minutes at a time. So I have an adjustable bed with a ton of pillows that helps me be in sitting positions. But even then, being upright for too long is really difficult and can send me crashing if I do not adjust as needed.
I also live with fluctuating limited physical and cognitive capacity, and I protect it with everything I have.
I do not text often. I ask people to call instead.
I try to limit my attention to things that genuinely matter and that I actually have capacity to do.
And because my cognition works differently, I can sometimes have the capacity to build something, but not the capacity to fill something out. I can have the capacity to understand a system, but not the capacity to complete a form. I can have the capacity to lead, but not the capacity to do conventional productivity on demand.
People often think cognition works the same way for everyone.
It does not.
Just because something is easy or less taxing for you does not mean it will be the same for me.
And one of the worst parts of living with severe chronic illness and disability while also carrying the ability to build and lead is that you spend so much time trying to explain why you can do one thing and not another.
Why it is not laziness.
Why it is not fantasy.
Why it is not inconsistency.
Why capacity is not a straight line.
I have been asked so many times:
Why can’t you just freelance?
If you can’t work for somebody, how can you offer these services on Sahana?
How can you lead?
And the answer is that every single thing I build, I build based on my capacity and my well-being.
I can offer services on Sahana because I design them in ways that work with my body. I create structures that can hold the services in alignment with my needs while still meeting others’ needs.
I can lead because leading, to me, is not micromanagement. My cognition is comfortable in relational things, including leading. And I am leading from my lived experience, which inherently honors every being’s well-being, including mine.
I cannot just “work” or “get a job” to get money because most organizations need reliable productivity on demand.
And I am not reliably productive on demand.
Trying to force that kind of productivity can be life-threatening to me.
I have also been in extreme pain recently from trying to work with a laptop in bed. I realized I actually need a bed-based work setup. But unfortunately, I cannot afford to feed myself, let alone set up something that helps me be more at ease while I build.
And still, I build.
Not because I am ignoring my body.
Not because I am trying to prove my worth.
Not because I believe work matters more than well-being.
I build things because I live in a world that needs them.
I build because I have lived what happens when well-being is treated as a luxury.
I build because what I build means something more than its monetary value.
I build because what I build deserves to be in the world for people who deserve to live with well-being at the core of their lives.
And I cannot do that while abandoning my own.
So I keep building from here, in the ways my body can survive.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
Meeting Halfway
This moment matters because it holds the quiet grief of wanting ordinary social life while needing extraordinary planning just to safely leave home. It asks what meeting halfway really means when distance is not the only measure of effort, and it remembers that having constraints does not make a person too much.
Full Reflection / Story
I was talking to someone about getting together in person, and I first suggested, “Can we meet at my place?”
It was far enough of a trip for them that they asked if we could meet somewhere midway.
I paused.
There was a tinge of pain inside me.
Because I wanted to.
Genuinely.
I would love to go out and hang out somewhere.
I would love to go out and get some fresh air.
I would love to have a social life that does not require a million calculations and research tasks before I even know whether I can safely leave my home.
Reality is not so simple, is it?
Someone with access needs can’t always just wake up in the morning and think, Oh, the weather is nice. I’d like to go to a park.
When I want to go out, I look at the temperature outside.
I look at accessible routes, if any, that I can use my wheelchair on.
Then I need to look at places where I won’t be exposed to smoke or strong fragrances or loud sounds that might mean I collapse or go unconscious.
Then, if somewhere is farther than I can travel by wheelchair, I need to find a wheelchair accessible vehicle that can accommodate my Permobil F5.
And if all that somehow aligns, I need to see how I pay for the whole thing, because I have $0 in every single account associated with me.
Magically, if all of those are taken care of, I still need to pack my to-go kit.
Cooling packs.
Heating packs.
EpiPens.
Swallowing support drinks.
Rescue inhaler.
Sound dampening tools.
Glasses.
Masks, even though I can’t breathe with them.
I have heard so many people say, “Yeah, I hate masks,” and I’m like, Oh, you see, I actually have collapsing airways, so I struggle to breathe on a good day. But I will still wear masks because I would rather suffocate than get sick or inhale smoke, in which case I need a rescue inhaler and hope I don’t go unconscious.
So yes, I understand you hate masks.
Can we please not equate our experiences, though?
And then there are a bunch of other things I can’t think of right now, but they are on a big list I have somewhere that reminds me what all I need to keep myself safe in the world we live in.
Can I tell you something?
I wish it wasn’t so freaking difficult to just live and socialize.
I remember, on my birthday recently, Mary, my neighbor who joined me, saw me pack all of them and said, “I never realized how much you had to prepare. I’m sorry.”
I remember I just smiled and said, “Yeah, I’m just grateful I am able to. Thank you for joining me and being patient.”
You know what is interesting?
I have been setting up my wheelchair, Oona, to be a full-infrastructure support for me when I am out.
I have so many things on her now, thanks to Tony, my wonderful Assistive Technology Professional.
Do you know what would help Oona actually become that for me?
Do you know what would help me actually live my life without at least worrying about temperature and sensory safety every single time?
A portable air filter attachable to Oona.
Portable cooling and heating attachable to Oona.
A second set of the things I need for my to-go kit, so I don’t have to scramble and pack every single time.
What about the vehicle and the routes and the places that are not accessible, you ask?
What a wonderful thing it would be to actually own a wheelchair accessible vehicle that I could ask an IHSS care provider to drive for me, so I don’t have to call multiple nonprofits, give them at least five days’ notice, and provide a set start and end time.
I could actually go and live my life.
I could actually come back when I want to come back.
About the routes and places that are not accessible, I won’t claim to know if one concrete thing might make a dent in all of that.
Wait.
Maybe a dent is what we need.
They are called curb cuts.
And ramps.
Well, here we are.
I even designed a portable door assist device, by the way.
It is one of the innovations in Sahana’s Innovations Archive.
Because whoever thought heavy swing doors were an awesome way to keep people out, you were successful.
Can we have another go with people who actually live on this planet, please?
People with injured arms.
People carrying groceries.
People carrying kids.
People without enough strength.
Or maybe, just maybe, people who actually live on this planet and have real needs.
I realize I have gotten quite sharp in this writing of mine.
Somehow, I still feel dull.
Because someone can know what they need with precision and still not have the resources to meet those needs.
I am one of those people.
So what did I do with the ask to meet midway?
I didn’t continue the conversation.
I teared up.
I felt that old ache rise up in me.
The one that says, maybe this is the moment where I tell them the constraints and they walk away because dealing with me is too much.
So here I am.
Writing this instead.
And believe it or not, I am NOT too much.
I am in a world that makes me feel that so often instead of meeting me for me.
Dealing with me might not be “easy” or “worth it” for many people.
You know what is easy?
Thinking you know someone from their struggles or constraints.
You know what is worth it?
Opening a conversation enough to see how to meet them halfway, even if it is not physically halfway.
You know what?
I will return to the conversation and open that door, so I can see for myself.
I might not be easy.
I am very much worth asking to be met halfway.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
I Needed a Minute to Let It Feel
Support is not abstract when access to water, electricity, care, and cooling can determine whether a person is safe. This moment shows what becomes possible when individuals and systems recognize the true stakes of survival and help carry them.
More from this moment
Full Reflection / Story
I was on a call with a support person who asked, “What are your past-due utility bills?” I started opening all the portals to give her up-to-date information.
I checked my water bill: about $95 past due. I know they shut off the water once it reaches $100, which happened to me a few months ago.
I checked my trash and sewer bill: about $385 past due. They have been extremely understanding of my situation, and the balance has continued accruing.
Then I checked my gas and electric bill, and it said $0. It showed that the most recent payment had been made, and I was like—I applied for the LIHEAP program, and they had said they placed a pledge on my account to avoid shutoff. This screenshot was that pledge being fulfilled.
My voice broke while I was still on the call with the support person. She asked, “Are you okay?”
My response was, “Yeah. I just saw it got paid off, and I am in tears because it really showed up. I need a minute to let it feel.”
Her response: “Take your time. I understand.”
Someone I had never met or spoken to before this call witnessed me in a moment of gratitude for support showing up.
When my water was shut off a few months ago, I had no money to restore it. I went into an organization’s office and said, “I have no running water, and without it, I don’t have my In-Home Supportive Services care provider either.”
They saw a woman in a power wheelchair telling them that she had been peeing and pooping in trash bags because she couldn’t flush her toilet.
CityServe was the organization, and they restored my water service by paying the $150 I was past due. I remember their representative saying, “They’re risking your life without running water.”
And I knew that too, because I know my body can’t regulate temperature, and I need four cooling systems running simultaneously to keep myself from getting heat stroke, even inside my house.
Water is essential for cooling and just living.
When support shows up, it makes me realize I’m not totally alone in carrying the weight of survival. I might not be perfect at expressing it, but I am true to the gratitude I hold for every individual and every system that shows up.
Because I know we all need webs, and it makes me realize that my web might just be starting to take shape—to hold my life as I keep building safety and sustainability for myself and the world we live in.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
The Art I Could Finally Place
It is an honest reflection of love without fantasy, grief without bitterness, and memory without possession. This moment was possible because of the care and support that came before it.
More from this moment
Full Reflection / Story
When I asked Nick, when we were still together, if there was anything I could do to meet all he had been doing for me, his response was,
“I love it when you color. Can you color something for me? I will put anything you color on my desk.”
I was so glad I could do something for him, given how much he had been carrying to keep me going when I could barely hold myself up.
I started thinking and planning for weeks after. I saw how depressed he was getting, burned out from caregiving without support. He talked often about how dark everything felt.
I wanted to create something that showed how I experienced him, in joy and in sadness, in pain and in love. He was a warm and vibrant person at his core, whom I adored and respected. I wanted something that would hold up a mirror to who he was, that would be there for him even on days when he couldn’t see it on his own.
By the time I started finalizing what I was going to do, we had separated.
I knew deep in my heart that I wanted to create it because this art wasn’t about our relationship; it was about how I saw him. So I started it.
My first portrait work I had ever done. Every color, every stroke was intentionally chosen to reflect the colors or textures I associated with his presence.
The way I would work on this piece was very intentional too. I would play the song “A Thousand Years” with a slideshow of our pictures on my laptop while I created it. I wanted this to be created from my experience of him.
When we separated, the last time I spoke to him, he said I could send him emails and he would see them when he had capacity.
So, I was planning to send this in an email on his birthday and maybe mail it to an address if he wanted.
As I finally got to drawing his features, it had been a while since I had been with him, and I was struggling to feel connected, to draw from my felt experience of him. So I stopped.
I stopped because the piece was to honor how I saw him, and when that connection faded, it felt wrong to keep going, because it would no longer be honest to the intention.
I just left that on my art table, and it sat there for the next few months. Every time I saw it, I said, “Hi, Nick,” with a smile. I love him, I do now and I know I always will. Because relationship is not the same as person. And this particular person changed my life in ways I cannot fully name.
He deserves to know that no matter how dark things might get, he has this vibrancy and warmth within him that will continue to be there. Always.
Even unfinished, this piece is complete to me. Because it is an honest reflection of how I saw him.
Today, I finally felt ready to set it in a frame.
I don’t have money to get a right-sized frame. So I cut a Ziploc in half, placed the piece in it, and mounted it onto a wooden board that is now sitting on my bookshelf.
Right before I put it up, I wanted to write something.
So there it is, his name written with love and the title of the piece on the back.
As I look at it now, I feel a sense of warmth. I am grateful for him, and even if it never got to him, I think this piece met its purpose.
To reflect Nick as I knew him.
There is always a small hope that lives very deep inside that one day he might be able to see it or have it. I don’t deny it, I honor it. Hope without longing alongside gratitude without fantasy. A beautiful blend. I am glad I am here with it.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
Being With, Not Just For
Not all loneliness comes from a lack of people. Some of it comes from the absence of everyday, unstructured presence—the kind of connection that exists without purpose or planning. This moment reflects that distinction, and the quiet weight of living without it.
Full Reflection / Story
This afternoon, I did something significant—I posted a launch event for the Self-Perception Studio.
But this moment here is not about that.
It’s about the feeling that maybe what I do doesn’t matter.
As an individual who has been in my bedroom for much of my time since February 2025, living by myself and rarely having visitors who come just to spend time with me, it gets lonely.
People who come into my home are usually care providers, neighbors helping with Toffee’s walk, or sometimes emergency professionals.
People who come here to do something.
I do have people in my life—people who reach out sometimes, people I host on meetups every Tuesday and Thursday night.
And yet, somehow, I feel alone.
Not because I have no one in my life—I know I do.
This feeling is not about not having people.
It’s about needing a kind of connection that is simply part of life.
Someone who doesn’t have to be here for something.
Someone who is here just to be with me.
Someone choosing to drop by to play a board game.
Someone choosing to come hang out for a bit.
Someone smiling at me being silly.
Someone laughing with me.
Someone saying, “I like seeing you.”
It’s crazy how simple that sounds, and yet how rarely I have it.
It hits harder on some days than others.
With my memoir and the virtual studio launch on the horizon, I think my longing for connection—and for some signal that what I do and who I am matters—makes sense.
I know I matter to my body.
I know I matter to my babies—Toffee, Milo, Nacho, and Cheese.
I know the work I do and who I am matter to me, and maybe to someone somewhere who feels alone too. I know that deep in my heart.
Sometimes, it just feels good to hear it too.
The work I do is not the kind that makes noise or shifts rooms, so it’s easy to question whether it matters at all.
Especially given my lived reality and limited capacity, I only have so much I can do in a day—or in a life.
What I want myself to remember is this:
This moment right here matters.
It’s all I have.
And I am living it fully, even when I miss what I don’t have.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
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Living Moment
They met it before the world did
Before anything is shared, seen, or named by others, there is a moment where something new quietly enters the life it was created from. This was that moment.
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Full Reflection / Story
Today, the book got a cover.
Not on a screen.
Not as an idea.
Not as something I was still shaping.
Something I could hold.
I have been building my memoir for a while now, and just a few days ago, I finished the pieces that made it a reading experience. Then it needed to become a book—something someone can encounter.
Today, it became that.
When I printed the cover to see how it feels to encounter it, my babies knew it was a moment to share.
Before I could fully take it in,
they came.
Toffee approached first, slowly, through scent.
Milo followed—watching, pausing, exploring.
They didn’t know what it was called.
They didn’t know what it meant.
They didn’t know what it took to get here.
They just met it.
Curious.
Calm.
Present.
The cover sat between them, not as something introduced, but as something placed into the life that held me while I built it.
And for a moment, that was enough.
Before the book entered the world.
Before readers.
Before meaning-making.
Before the world meets it.
It was here.
In the same space where I’ve lived, struggled, healed, created.
In the presence of the beings who have witnessed me through it all.
They met it before the world did.
And somehow, that felt right.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
First Night Walk Without Distress
What may look like a simple walk was actually a meaningful shift in how my nervous system and body were able to function.
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Full Reflection / Story
For most people, stepping outside for a short walk with their dog is a completely ordinary moment. For me, it was something my body had not been able to do on my feet for a very long time.
On this night, something was different.
I stepped outside with Toffee like I do sometimes to give her a potty break. At first I moved slowly, paying attention to how my body felt with each step. Usually there is a moment when my system begins to signal that it cannot tolerate the activity. But this time that moment didn’t come.
We kept walking.
Ten minutes passed.
And my body was still okay, and just communicated that it was reaching its limit, needed me to step back inside. And I did. It was a total of 15 minutes on my feet outside under the sky marveling the stars.
That might sound like a very small amount of time, but for me it represented something meaningful. It meant my body was able to remain regulated during a type of movement that had previously been difficult or unsafe.
Toffee, of course, was simply enjoying her walk, sniffing the grass and exploring the world the way dogs do, knowing her person was with her. In many ways, that normalcy was part of what made the moment feel so special.
Moments like this are the reason I created this Living Gallery. What may appear as ordinary moments often represent layers of safety, care, support, patience, and persistence behind the scenes.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
Celebrating the Walk
Small milestones deserve to be acknowledged and enjoyed, especially when they are made possible through care, support, and listening to the body.
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Full Reflection / Story
Earlier that night, I walked for 15 minutes without distress to give Toffee her potty break. A Milestone ‘My body is building safety and rebuilding in safety’. I remember repeating “I’m so fricking proud of myself” under the stars as I walked Toffee home.
That day, Erica — my care provider — had picked up groceries from a local donation center, so I had food at home.
When I came back inside, I felt a mixture of gratitude and excitement. I knew I wanted to celebrate.
I called a friend and said ‘Guess what?! I was outside on my feet and walked for 15 minutes without distress!’ She responded with ‘Hooray!’ and I could hear her excitement even at 10PM.
I looked around at what we got donated and thought about food I could make with minimal effort. Celebration that meets the moment without exertion – Nothing elaborate, just something simple and joyful.
A small cupcake, some garlic bread, and Toffee nearby keeping me company.
Celebrating moments like this matters to me. It helps me recognize progress, honor my body’s efforts, and acknowledge the layers of care and support that make these moments possible.
Sometimes celebration is quiet. Sometimes it is just a cupcake and a smile.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
Birthday amidst Fragility: Nick's Choice
Being chosen and cared for, even when I felt like I had nothing to give, reminded me that love doesn’t depend on what I can offer—it can simply exist in being together.
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Full Reflection / Story
By June 2025, I was in the midst of significant changes in my functioning, and when my birthday came, I didn’t know if I had anything to give.
Nick showed up the evening before and chose to be there—not just to say happy birthday, but to stay, to be with me through the night and into the next day.
There’s something about that kind of presence that makes you feel, I am loved.
He showed up with a huge stack of Teddy Grahams. He remembered how much I enjoyed them as a snack during iron infusions at the hospital and chose to surprise me with a bunch, which happened to be delivered just before my birthday.
The next morning, I got my birthday gift—Mr. Penguin. I love cuddling, and he wanted me to have a cuddle buddy.
I remember feeling a kind of joy that wasn’t looking for anything—just pure excitement at this soft toy, and the realization that just a day ago, I didn’t think any of this was possible.
To me, the most meaningful part of it all was this: someone choosing me, staying, and sharing simple things together.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
Birthday amidst Fragility: When things fall apart
When things fell apart, what mattered wasn’t the disruption—it was choosing each other and continuing anyway.
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Full Reflection / Story
Nick ordered food to celebrate. I got to pick the cake for later, and we had it all delivered.
There it was—our lunch: biryani and gobi 65, something we both love.
And then, all of it fell.
Just like that. On the floor.
We both looked at each other in uncertainty. There wasn’t a big reaction. No panic. Just a moment where things didn’t go the way we expected, and we had to decide what to do with that.
That could have been the point where the day felt ruined.
Where we said, “this didn’t work.”
But I saw this person I loved, and I knew spilled food wasn’t going to ruin what we had here. I gave him a hug and said, “we got this.”
I cleaned it up slowly. As I swept, he was reordering the food.
Sometimes, things fall apart.
Not everything goes the way you plan.
And we choose how it defines the day.
Sometimes, the choice is just:
picking up what’s in front of you,
and continuing anyway.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.
Living Moment
Birthday amidst Fragility: Second chance
Choosing to try again—together—turned a messy moment into something we could return to with care and pride.
More from this moment
Full Reflection / Story
After our lunch fell on the floor and we cleaned it up, Nick ordered the food again.
And when he came back through the door, holding that second delivery, it felt different—not just because it was food, but because of what it represented.
We didn’t give up on the moment.
We didn’t walk away from the day.
We chose to try again. Together.
And then we sat down and ate, with pride.
Not because everything went perfectly, but because we stayed with it long enough to come back to it.
Joy doesn’t only exist when things go right.
It is a choice—something you choose even when circumstances feel broken.
And I learned that sometimes, love looks like:
someone walking back through the door,
carrying a second chance.
Thank you for being here. If you would like to be part of what helps moments like this happen, visit Be My Village.
Quiet Trace
If something in this left an imprint, you can mark it here:
It matters to me that what I share meets you in a real way.
These quiet traces help me stay true to it—and remind me I’m speaking with you, not into silence.
Thank you for leaving a trace.
Optional. No replies due to anonymity.
You can use the contact form for connection.