Kimmy Fae Words

05/06/2025

I tried to write this calmly.
I failed.
Tried to write it clearly.
Failed again.

This is what happens when you’re wrestling with anxiety
and trying to turn it into something digestible.
Some days it’s like threading a needle underwater.
Others, it’s like the needle disappears altogether.

The words were there.
But every time I touched them, they felt wrong.
Too neat. Too forced. Too self-aware.

Eventually I stopped editing my own nervous system
and just let the poem exist.
A little foggy. A little scattered.
But real.

If you’ve ever overthought a simple feeling into a full production—welcome.

Save this if your thoughts ever speak louder than the moment.

Share with someone who’s made anxiety look poetic, too.

05/06/2025

02/06/2025

This poem started in 2022, in a version of me that no longer exists.

I wrote the beginning in a quiet stretch of time where I still believed that holding space would bring answers. That if I waited long enough, if I spoke gently enough, someone would meet me halfway.

But the waiting stretched too long. So I put the poem down—not because the words weren’t there, but because I wasn’t ready to face what they meant.

And then I lived. I outgrew the girl who needed the reply. I softened in places, strengthened in others. I learned how to finish sentences without needing them echoed back to me.

When I opened the draft again recently, it felt like finding a letter from someone I used to be—someone I love, someone I’ve since carried forward.

I didn’t rewrite the poem. I just let it grow with me. Reframed the rhythm. Gave it the breath it needed to become something whole.

It isn’t about who didn’t show up. It’s about who I became in the space they left behind.

💬 Have you ever returned to a version of yourself and realized how far you’ve come? What have you finished lately—not for anyone else, but for you?

30/05/2025

I keep finding myself stuck between clarity and collapse.
Like I finally understand something I wish I never had to learn—and now I can’t unlearn it, even if I want to. Even if it would make things easier.

There’s this weird thing that happens when you survive enough: people start clapping for you. Not because they helped you, not because they saw you, but because you’re still upright. Still producing. Still saying, “I’m fine,” with just enough eye contact. Somewhere along the way, emotional detachment became a skill, and softness started to feel like a liability.

Years ago, when I lived in Reston, I found myself wandering around the town center one night—obviously unraveling. A stranger stopped me on the rooftop of a parking garage. Homeless, but not empty. He didn’t ask questions. Just stared out at the horizon with me like it was a graveyard we both knew. Then he said something I’ll never forget:

“Don’t ever open your eyes too wide. You’ll never be able to shut them again.”

I was far too young to fully comprehend what was being said— and like most teenagers, it was advice that I didn’t know how to put into logical use. The impact of that advice wouldn’t fully sink in for many years.

27/05/2025

There wasn’t a thunderclap. No revelation. Just a quiet moment I didn’t see coming—like when your favorite song starts playing and you didn’t even realize you needed it.

I’d been rushing through the week like usual—brain fried, soul slightly overcooked—when this stillness crept in. Not forced. Not orchestrated. Just… there. Gentle. Real. Entirely uninterested in being explained.

It didn’t ask me to talk. It didn’t require a plan. It wasn’t healing, per se—but it was a kind of hush that felt like safety. A space where nothing had to be earned or named. Which, for me, is wild.

So this poem? It’s not about heartbreak or euphoria. It’s about the ten minutes where the world outside didn’t exist. Where I wasn’t scrambling to solve or fix or name a single thing. Just breathing. Just being.

No metaphors trying to outdo each other. No emotional plot twist. Just a moment that meant everything because it demanded nothing.

Honestly, I still don’t know what to call it—and that’s why I wrote about it. Because sometimes the most sacred things arrive unannounced and leave you a little softer than they found you.

If you’ve ever stumbled into peace without meaning to, or found yourself oddly emotional in complete silence—share this, tag your stillness, or drop a candle emoji.

Let’s normalize feeling safe without having to say a word.

26/05/2025

Healing doesn’t always look like a dramatic exit.
It’s not always the big speech, the blocked number, or the ritualistic burn of an old sweatshirt.
Sometimes, healing looks like… nothing.
No sudden movement. No storm. Just someone who doesn’t leave, and you letting them stay.

This poem is about that—about the surprise of stillness when you’re used to chaos.
It’s about being so used to defending your peace that you almost don’t recognize it when it walks in, calmly, without asking for a fight.

I used to mistake anxiety for instinct.
If someone made me feel calm, I waited for the catch. If they felt safe, I assumed I missed a red flag.
But healing, it turns out, isn’t the absence of fear.
It’s the ability to feel fear and not follow it.

You don’t realize how much you’ve healed until you don’t flinch.
Until you’re not writing someone’s exit script for them.
Until their presence doesn’t trigger your entire survival manual to light up like a dashboard.

This wasn’t about them proving they were safe.
It was about realizing I didn’t need them to prove it.
Because maybe the proof was in the quiet.
In the absence of patterns. In the lack of alarms.

So this poem isn’t about falling.
It’s about not falling apart.
It’s about what happens when you stop confusing tension for connection.
And finally let softness count as evidence.

If you’ve ever held your breath around people who said they cared—
come exhale with me in the comments.
Tell me what softness means to you. Or just leave a dot if you’re still figuring it out.