There’s too much beauty and too much ache.

How Do I Carry Both?

There are things we want to say. But what’s actually stopping us?

The fear of being too much? The fear of being seen and still not understood? Or maybe we just don’t know where to begin.

Some days, it feels like I’m overflowing with light. Other days, it’s the shadows that sit closer. And most of the time,it’s both.

I see something soft. A color. A leaf. A silence. And just like that, my chest tightens.

Because beauty reminds me of what I’ve lost. And ache reminds me I’m still here to feel it.

It’s confusing. To want to cry and create in the same breath.

To walk into the studio and wonder—Should I paint what I’m grieving? Or what I’m grateful for?

But maybe they’re not separate. Maybe ache is beautiful. Maybe beauty aches because it’s alive.

And maybe the real question isn’t how to carry both. But what kind of light I want to carry them in.

Some days, I want to enter the dimmed light room.

Where everything is quiet. Muted. Safe. A space where nothing demands me to shine.

Just me, my thoughts, and the hush of not needing to be anything more.

Other days, I want to fling the windows open and let the striking sunlight in.

Bright, bold, no apologies.

To burn the doubt away. To begin again without softness.

But those days are rare. Earned. Sacred in their own way.

But today?

Today, I just want to let in the soft light. The morning kind. The one that wraps without asking.

That says, “You don’t have to shine today. But you don’t have to hide either.”

I don’t have a tidy way to carry both ache and beauty. Most days, I just let them sit next to each other. Like strange friends who’ve stopped fighting.

And maybe that’s enough for now. Not a breakthrough. Not a masterpiece.

Just a door cracked open to let in the light I can hold.

—Dura Ki Hana