imagine a room that asks, how’s your heart?

letters, reflections, and remedies for the ones who feel deeply

step inside. the air here is different… slower, like it’s been steeped in quiet for centuries.

Carl Blechen’s Interior of the Palm House at Potsdam

for the ones who hold the key to the stillroom, consider this your first exhale.
there’s a candle lit in the corner,
its flame swaying like it’s been waiting just for you.
the walls are lined with whispers you can’t quite hear,
but you can feel them
soft as breath on the back of your neck.
and with time, those whispers will chime a little louder,
as you find your way back to your self,
as you clear the noise, heal the aches, and feel your light again.
this is the threshold.

you’ve arrived before the stillroom’s first letter,
and that matters.
it means you came for something real,
even before the words found you.
so pause.
let your shoulders fall.
let the hum of the world slip off your skin.
this is not the letter
this is the moment you remember you still know how to breathe.
the moment the room exhales with you.
the moment I invite you to stand still
and let your presence take over.

i built this space in secret,
long before i had a name for it.
it’s been living in the folds of my journals,
in prayers spoken under my breath,
in the fire i’ve been holding for too long
the fire that refuses to dim,
no matter how many times i tried to simmer.
i made this for those who feel everything,
who carry both softness and spine,
who were never sorry for their depth
only surrounded by those who couldn’t meet it.

if you’ve been the one holding everyone else’s storm,
this room is for your quiet, undisrupted state.
if you’ve carried the ache of being too soft, too much,
or simply unseen, stay.
you’re not too much here.
you’re not too little either.
you’re just enough, complexities included.

this stillroom won’t flood your life.
it won’t tell you who to be.
it will only offer you letters — slow, warm,
written like a hand reaching out in the dark
to let you know you’re not alone.
it will offer mirrors, not maps.
truth, not noise.
it will offer you rituals and experiences
that I hope may become some of your brightest memories
in this period of life.

and when the first letter comes,
it will open these doors a little wider
but today…
today is just the breath before the words,
the soft rustle before the fire catches.
so take this moment.
feel your pulse steady in your wrist.
listen. the room is already speaking.
you belong. you made it. you don’t have to be anything but here.
and when you leave this page,
may something stay with you
like the warmth of candlelight
still flickering across your skin.

before you go, place your hand on your heart. take one slow inhale, one longer exhale, and notice how your body feels. what comes to mind when you exhale out? what truth is asking to be witnessed right now? as you cross back into your day, leave a single word on a paper near you, or in the comments — the word that feels most like your heart in this moment. i’ll read them all, like tiny seeds of presence we’re planting together. thank you for crossing the threshold with me. let these next seven days be reflective, slow, and hopeful.

this is only the beginning.
x
cibelle
from the stillroom, where quiet turns into remedy and presence is always brewing.