Kate Didd

(Day 53) There’s a moment, somewhere between survival and awakening, where a woman realizes… I don’t want to love the way I was taught anymore. Not because it wasn’t real.Not because it wasn’t powerful.But because it cost too much. My mother loved like a storm. The kind that feeds the earth…but also floods it. She…

(Day 51) You know nothing and I mean nothing hit harder than therapy in surround sound. Not one voice. Not one perspective. Two. My male therapist and my female therapist… sitting on opposite ends of the same truth, like a mother and a father arguing over how to raise a child who already raised herself.…

(Day 48) Happy Mother’s Day, y’all. It started soft, like a Sunday that forgot to rush. I woke up late, sunlight already spilling across the room like it had been waiting on me. My baby cousin needed all the love in the world, and for once, I didn’t resist that pull. I poured into her…

(Day 46) I woke up before my alarm today, not gracefully, not glowing, not the kind of morning where the light pours in like a promise… No. This was a body-first awakening.The kind where your bones speak before your thoughts do. My mouth ached from the bands on my braces, tight, intrusive, like they had…

(Day 45) It started with a playlist. Not just any playlist, the kind you build under a full moon when your fingers feel a little possessed and your heart is finally honest enough to stop lying to itself. The kind where every song feels like a spell, every lyric a thread, every beat a pulse…

(Day 44) There’s something suspiciously cinematic about waking up on the wrong side of the bed. Not metaphorically. Literally. Wrong side. Different angle of sunlight. Different gravity, apparently. My partner and I switched places the night before, and I woke up disoriented in that soft, romcom kind of way, like the universe hit “shuffle” and…

(Day 41) Let me paint you a picture. Not a soft watercolor.No, no, this is oils. Thick. Textured. A little aggressive if you stand too close. This is a love story where the nervous systems arrive before the romance does.Where trauma sits at the table like an uninvited aunt who refuses to leave… but somehow…

(Day 39) Reflecting on this healing story in life. Someone once asked me why I chose weightlifting as my outlet. They expected something poetic. Something healing. Maybe a soft, candle-lit journey back to self. I said, “Oh, it was petty.” And not the sloppy kind either. No, no. I’m talking tailored, form-fitting, walk-it-down-a-runway petty. The…

(Day 34) There are some mornings that don’t arrive gently.They don’t bloom open with golden light and birdsong and poetic ease.They arrive like a reckoning. This morning was one of those. I woke up later than usual, already off rhythm, like my body had decided without consulting me that something inside needed to finish breaking…

(Day 32) There’s something strange happening to me again. Not the chaotic, spiral-down-the-stairs-in-fuzzy-socks kind of strange. Not the “text him, don’t text him, text him anyway and then throw your phone into the ocean” kind of strange. No, this one is quieter.More dangerous.The kind that slips in while you’re folding laundry and suddenly realizes…you don’t…