Posted on by shirindawna

it hits home.

when i was a kid, i came home from school one day with a mission: teach my mom how to pitch balls to me so i could play baseball. with the enthusiasm only a child can muster, i explained the game to her, my excitement bubbling over with every word. we spent about an hour in our backyard, me miming pitches and trying to show her how to throw. she tried, but after countless failed attempts, she finally threw in the towel. it just wasn’t clicking for her. not ready to give up my dream, i scavenged around, trying to create a makeshift tee. that attempt failed spectacularly. with a sigh, i moved on to something else—probably obsessing over jason priestley, my pre-teen heartthrob.

flash forward to last father’s day. my bonus dad was outside, his laughter echoing through the yard as he pitched balls to my son. my husband, with a mischievous grin, decided to pitch a couple to me. the moment was light, unexpected. to both our surprise, i CRACKED the ball harder and farther than anyone imagined. there was a stunned silence, then cheers. so, he pitched another. and another. an hour and a half later, i was completely blissed out, lost in the sheer joy of the game. we were all marveling at my raw talent, this hidden skill no one had known about. my mom stood nearby, her eyes sparkling with laughter and nostalgia, reminiscing about the time i tried to make her play with me.

father’s day has been tricky since my dad passed. the day often felt like a wound reopened. but that day, something shifted. the act of hitting those pitches, the laughter of my family around me, the simple joy of the game—it healed a part of me. the little girl who just wanted to play ball, who missed her dad so fiercely, found some peace. it was as if, in that moment, surrounded by love and laughter, i reconnected with a piece of my past, a piece of my dad. and for the first time in a long time, father’s day felt like a celebration again.

Posted on by shirindawna

it’s the worst men that i write best.

for a long time i carried a silence around my ex like a heavy cloak, a shield against judgment and pity. i believed that talking about him would somehow reflect poorly on me, as if his actions were a measure of my worth. the memory of his betrayal felt like a stain on my heart, something best hidden away, locked in the depths of my thoughts.

it took time to realize that there was no shame in trusting someone i loved. love is a leap of faith, a journey into vulnerability where trust blossoms like a delicate flower. when i opened my heart to him, i wasn’t naïve or foolish; i was brave. i chose to believe in the goodness of his intentions, in the sincerity of his words.

but when that trust was shattered, it felt like the ground beneath me crumbled. questions swirled in my mind like a storm: was i not enough? did i miss the signs? was it my fault?

in the midst of this turmoil, it became clear my friends didn’t understand. i withdrew into myself and i don’t think they even noticed. leaving me utterly alone during the worst time in my life. i was still reeling from my dad’s passing and i was not ready nor capable to process another loss. without support, i felt stranded, unable to share my pain. i didn’t want their pity or judgment. so, i buried it deep within, pretending it didn’t exist, painting on a smile when all i wanted to do was scream. lonely wasn’t a strong enough word to describe how i felt in that time. the loneliness was suffocating, a constant reminder of my isolation.

it took time, months turning into years, before i found the courage to confront my silence. i realized that my ex’s actions were a reflection of him, not of me. i was not defined by his choices. i had loved fiercely and completely, and that was something to cherish, not hide away.

slowly, i began to speak about him, about us, about the lessons learned through tears and heartache. i discovered that vulnerability is not weakness but strength. it is in sharing our stories, our struggles, and our triumphs that we find connection and healing.

today, i no longer carry that silence like a burden. instead, i wear my story with pride, a testament to resilience and the unwavering belief in love. trusting someone, even if it ends in betrayal, is not a flaw but a testament to the depth of our hearts and the courage to keep loving despite the risks.

and i’ve realized something else: it’s often the worst men that i write the best. the ones who hurt me, who left scars on my heart, they inspire the most profound reflections. their actions, while painful, push me to explore the depths of my emotions and transform that pain into art. there’s power in taking the hurt they caused and molding it into something beautiful and meaningful.

there is no shame in trusting the person you love. it is in the giving of ourselves that we truly live, learning and growing from every experience, even the ones that leave us broken for a while.

the worst men, they leave the best stories, and maybe that’s their only redeeming quality.

Posted on by shirindawna

the magnetic pull of a love story.

isn’t it intriguing how love can ignite unexpected sparks and forge connections that defy explanation? i’ve always been the kind of person who stays friends with my exes. some people find it strange, but to me, it’s a testament to the connection we shared. after all, love doesn’t just disappear because a relationship ends; it transforms, it lingers, it finds new ways to exist.

there’s this pattern i’ve noticed, something almost magical. it seems that every man i’ve loved and left, or who has left me (i know…it’s hard to believe, but it’s happened), describes their experience of falling in love with me in strikingly similar terms. they speak of the chemistry as unmatched, a spark that set their world ablaze. they call me magnetic, say i have a pull that’s impossible to resist.

they tell me stories of how their hearts raced the first time we met, how every touch felt electric, and how conversations with me were like nothing they’d ever known. it’s like reading different chapters of the same book, each one recounting the same wonder, the same awe.

“you have this way about you,” one of them once said, a smile playing on his lips. “it’s like you see right into my soul and pull out the best parts of me.”

another ex, years after our breakup, confided, “being with you felt like being alive in a way i didn’t know was possible. the chemistry we had…i’ve never felt that with anyone else.”

these words, this recurring narrative, got me thinking. how is it that different men, at different times in my life, describe their love for me in almost identical ways? is it them, or is it me? is there something in the way i love, the way i connect, that creates this extraordinary bond? (spoiler: it’s not me, but let’s pretend)

the more i pondered, the more i realized that it’s not just about romantic relationships. this magnetic pull, this unmatched chemistry, it’s something deeper. it’s about the energy we bring into the world, the authenticity with which we live our lives. it’s about being fully present, about seeing people for who they truly are and letting them see you in return.

love, in all its forms, is transformative. it’s not about possession or permanence; it’s about the impact we have on each other’s lives. these men, these loves, they were mirrors reflecting back to me my own capacity for passion, for deep connection, for vulnerability.

staying friends with exes has taught me that love evolves. it’s not confined to the traditional boundaries of a relationship. we can carry the essence of those connections forward, allowing them to shape us, to teach us, to remind us of our own magnetic pull.

in a way, this recurring experience of love speaks to something bigger, something more meaningful. it’s about the human desire to connect, to be seen, to be understood. it’s about the magic that happens when two souls meet and recognize something familiar in each other.

and maybe, just maybe, it’s a reminder that we are all capable of being that spark, that magnetic force, for someone else. it’s about being open, being real, and letting the chemistry of connection work its magic, time and time again.

as i continue on this journey, i am grateful for these echoes of love, these reflections of my own heart. they remind me that love, in all its forms, is the most powerful force of all. and that, in itself, is something truly extraordinary. and maybe that’s why i’ve spent a lifetime chasing the right words to capture these feelings…

Posted on by shirindawna

addicted to the if only.

i find myself standing at the crossroads, not knowing which path to take. the weight of the decision about another pregnancy feels immense. recently, i found myself back at the fertility clinic, and now, the reality of what lies ahead is sinking in…

there’s a part of me that yearns for another child, another heartbeat to love and nurture. the idea of expanding our family, of watching our children grow up together, fills me with a sense of hope and excitement. i can picture the laughter, the chaos, the endless moments of joy.

but then, there’s the other side of the coin. the fear, the uncertainty, the what-ifs that haunt my thoughts. the journey to this point hasn’t been easy. infertility, cancer, the emotional roller coaster—it all leaves scars, seen and unseen.

…sitting in the clinic, the sterile smell, the quiet hum of machines. the doctor’s words were a mix of optimism and caution. it’s possible.

there’s a risk.

there’s a chance.

there’s no guarantee.

and so, i’m conflicted. my heart and my head are in a tug-of-war. do we risk the heartbreak, the potential for more pain? or do we hold on to what we have, cherish the life we’ve built, and accept that it might be enough?

sometimes, i wish for a clear sign, something to point me in the right direction. but life doesn’t work that way. it’s messy and uncertain, and sometimes, there are no clear answers.

weighing the pros and cons feels like trying to balance on a tightrope. i think about our past struggles, the tears, the sleepless nights, the endless waiting. can i put myself through that again? can i put us through that again?

yet, there’s that small, persistent voice inside me, whispering about possibilities, about hope. it reminds me of the strength we’ve found in each other, the resilience that’s carried us this far.

so here i am, at this crossroads, feeling the full weight of the decision. it’s not just about another pregnancy; it’s about our future, our family, our dreams.

as we navigate this uncertainty, i remind myself to breathe, to take it one day at a time. whatever we decide, it will be with love and hope at the core.

maybe the answer will come in a moment of quiet clarity, or maybe it will be a series of small steps leading us to where we’re meant to be.

for now, i hold on to the love we have, the strength we’ve shown, and the belief that, no matter what, we will find our way through.