There are parts of us that don’t survive loud rooms very well. The gentle questions. The half-written truths. The hopes we don’t say out loud because we’re not sure yet if they’re strong enough to stand on their own. This space exists for those parts. Today, you don’t have to arrive with something finished or brave. You can arrive with something small, something unsure, something still learning how to be named. If you leave anything here, let it be this: A sentence you almost didn’t say.

Living in a small town can feel like standing in a room where everyone knows each other’s names — but not everyone’s stories. Systems run quietly. Decisions get made in back rooms, at kitchen tables, in conversations you’re never invited into. And sometimes, the people who feel the weight of those choices the most are the ones who feel the least seen. This space exists for the voices that don’t travel far on their own. For the moments you questioned something and felt like the only one who noticed. For the truths that didn’t have a place to land. If you feel comfortable sharing — What’s something you’ve witnessed, felt, or carried in a place where speaking up felt like it might disappear into the trees instead of being heard? This is a place where those words don’t have to vanish.

If you’ve found your way here, you don’t need to arrive with a finished story, a polished voice, or a clear direction. This is a space for drafts, questions, half-formed ideas, and the kind of thoughts that usually stay in the margins. Some days we’ll talk about writing. Some days we’ll talk about what writing does to us — how it helps us carry, process, or make sense of what we’ve seen and lived. A few simple ways to begin: - Share a line you can’t stop thinking about - Ask a question you’ve been stuck on - Or just introduce yourself in your own way — even a sentence is enough There’s no pressure to perform here. Only an invitation to show up honestly and let your words take their time. I’m really glad you’re here.

Tomorrow is Friday, and for me, weekends carry a different kind of quiet. When my children go to their father’s, the house becomes still — and that’s often when my writing begins. The ideas come in waves. So do the thoughts I’ve been holding at bay. Writing becomes my way of sitting with them, moving through them, and turning what feels heavy into something I can breathe with. If weekends hold a similar kind of space for you — whether it’s for writing, reflecting, or simply being — I’d love to know: What does the quiet give you?

I write quietly because that’s where healing began for me. In silence, words held what my voice could not—grief, truth, and resilience. The Quiet Writers is a space for gentle expression, deep reflection, and healing through the written word.