fractured beginnings 

i have a soft spot for dads who are trying—
hands rough with effort,
hearts wrapped in silent apologies.
they carry the weight of their failures,
invisible to all but themselves,
fumbling for love in ways
that aren’t always perfect
but are still so achingly human.

i was too young to understand—
a child watching from the shadows
as the world cracked along invisible seams.
but too old to pretend—
to ignore how those cracks spread
through walls,
through voices,
through the fragile things we once called home.

we live in a broken world,
and isn’t it strange how often
brokenness begins with love?
how families fracture
not because they don’t care
but because they care too much
or too clumsily?

and now i sit,
a little older, a little wiser,
holding the jagged pieces in my hands,
wondering if healing starts
not with fixing,
but with understanding—
with soft spots for those who tried,
and forgiveness for those who couldn’t.

because maybe broken things
don’t need to be whole to be beautiful.
maybe love can still grow
in the cracks of what once was.
maybe trying is enough.