The Lovestruck Diaries

My life looks cozy online, soft colors, books, coffee, pretty words. But cozy doesn’t mean uncomplicated, and it definitely doesn’t mean easy.

There was a time when I blogged openly about my mother’s murder, my attempted murder, PTSD, and mental health. In many ways, it was incredible. I built a strong, deeply connected community. But then…like I’ve done so many times in my life…I deleted everything and started over. It became too uncomfortable to look back at my own words, my own pain. So I shifted gears. I began again.

Books were easier to talk about. Soft, cozy aesthetics. Romantic stories. But for a very long time, life didn’t look anything like that for me.

When I first got out of the hospital after my attempted murder, I didn’t recognize myself- or my life. I remember a therapist handing me a stuffed animal, meant to comfort me during such a fragile time. I was almost offended by it. I took it home, tossed it on the floor, and there it stayed until I don’t even know what happened to it. Everything felt hard. Rough around the edges. I swear I didn’t truly sleep for years.

Eventually, I joined a support group for loved ones of murder victims, and that’s where I met someone who changed my life. She had lived through a very similar crime, she had witnessed a murder too, and many years had passed for her. She told me how, for a time, she lived in her car because it felt safer than her house. I felt so deeply seen in that moment. There’s something uniquely devastating about not feeling safe in your own home, knowing what could happen, what already did happen.

As time went on, she told me she began allowing herself comfort. And that’s when I realized something painful and true: I hadn’t been allowing myself comfort at all. Subconsciously, I didn’t think I deserved it. I believed I deserved every hard thing that came my way.

She talked about buying the fancy pillows, the best blankets she could afford, stuffed animals…anything that made her feel cozy and secure. I listened, I absorbed it all, but I still wasn’t ready to offer myself that same grace.

I moved sixteen times in seventeen years. I never stayed anywhere long enough to make a place feel like home. “Stuff” stressed me out. I’d throw away most of my belongings and start over again and again. After my mom’s murder and my attempted murder, I never went back to that house. Everything was packed up, much of it lost. I learned quickly that things can disappear in the blink of an eye, so I stopped attaching myself to them. That mindset even carried into my relationships.

Then one day, after an especially long and exhausting trip, I was sobbing in an airport. My friend Bella texted at me and said, “Go buy yourself a blanket and a stuffed animal for your flight.” So I did. And somehow, it helped. More than I expected.

For whatever reason, that moment gave me permission. Permission to comfort myself, not just with physical things, but emotionally too.

Now, settled here with my wife, I’ve been given the privilege and opportunity to create a space I truly love. There’s intention in every detail. Soft living is something I finally believe I deserve. But it doesn’t mean easy. It means intentional. It means choosing comfort, safety, and beauty, both around me and within me, while still honoring how hard the journey has been.

So I’m curious…what brings you comfort right now? And are you letting yourself have it?

Maybe cozy isn’t about pretending life is gentle. Maybe it’s about choosing gentleness anyway… 💓

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