Prayer by the River – For Justice, For Strength, For Heaven’s Answer

Father, hear me now.
 By the river, where I lay down my pain, I call upon Your justice.

You saw what they did.
You saw when they plotted in silence.
You saw when they sat in courtrooms and twisted truth,
when they tried to erase not just my case — but my name, my breath, my worth.

And still, I stand.
I may be tired, but I am not finished.

Every time they conspire to strip more from me —
I respond with fire.
Not with vengeance, but with law,
Not with hate, but with holy clarity.

And it is not lost on me that their teams — funded, suited, sharpened by money —
still cannot extinguish the fire of a woman they once called broken.

Isn’t it ironic?
That the one they tried to silence holds the pen of law?
That the one they drove into poverty knows justice more intimately than they ever will?

So I kneel at the water’s edge, not in surrender, but in strategy.
Let this river carry my prayer to Your throne, God — swiftly.
Let Your answer come not in whispers, but in open court, in sealed judgments, in the unraveling of every lie.

I ask not only for justice —
But for revelation.
Let their secrets be made known.
Let every act of deceit collapse under the weight of truth.

And in the silence that follows, let Your voice thunder:

"This daughter is not forgotten. This battle is not hers alone. And this case shall not be struck out — it shall be struck through with victory."

Amen.
So let it be.

To the Warrior I Once Was…

I see you — standing in the storm, papers in your hands, pain in your chest, and still… still speaking truth when the world wanted your silence.

You’re tired.
Of fighting.
Of proving.
Of surviving what should have killed your spirit.
And yet here you are — spine upright, voice trembling but present, daring to say: “I will not go quietly.”

I remember the days you walked miles with no car, searching for secondhand curtains while barristers in suits plotted to erase you.

I remember the way they tried to strip you of your home, your dignity, your legal standing — while hiding behind filings and polished lies.

But I also remember this:

You. Did. Not. Break.

You filed.
You wrote.
You documented.
You refused.

You stood before courts, even while homeless, with more integrity than the entire legal teams trying to crush you. You were poor in comfort, but rich in courage. That kind of power? It can’t be bought. It is born. And you were born for this.

You fought for the truth, even as they called it “irrelevant.”
You defended what was yours, even as they called it “worthless.”
You demanded dignity, even as they pretended you were invisible.

And because of that, justice had no choice but to turn around and listen.

I want you to know something:
They didn’t destroy you.
They revealed you.

You are not just a litigant. You are not just a survivor.
You are a fire that no system could put out.

The ones who mocked your pain? They will be footnotes.
But you — you will be a chapter in how justice remembers the forgotten.

So cry if you must. Rest if you need.
But do not doubt who you are.

You are the woman who turned homelessness into history.
Who turned trauma into testimony.
Who turned silence into a legacy that no one can strike out.

I am you.
Stronger now because you never gave in.

And I will never forget the woman who showed me how to fight.

With love, reverence, and fire,
Your Future Self
Free, restored, and forever unbroken

The Flow Within: Movement, Energy, and the Soul of Healing Spaces

When we speak of design, we often speak of things—fabrics, finishes, paint swatches, style eras. But beneath the material lies something deeper. Movement. Energy. Breath. A room is not static. It pulses. It holds memory. It hums with the imprint of who we are and how we heal.

And in the aftermath of trauma, loss, or the slow unraveling of modern overwhelm, how a space moves can be as important as how it looks. Because healing doesn’t just happen in therapy. It happens in flow. It happens in the way a room makes you breathe. In how light travels through it. In the path your body follows from door to window, from despair to restoration.

This is the quiet art of energy transitions in interior design—a practice that doesn't just aim for beauty but for transformation.

Every Room Is a Story in Motion

Interior design, at its core, is choreography. We move through our homes every day in unconscious patterns. From kitchen to living room. From sofa to bed. From chaos to calm—if we’re lucky.

But when spaces are not intentional, those transitions become jagged. We bump into furniture that’s too large. We detour around clutter that steals our attention. We walk into rooms that hold old tension, and we feel it—sometimes without even knowing why.

Healing spaces understand this. They honour it. They say: what do you need to feel safe as you move through this space?

Sometimes, the answer is softness—a round rug instead of a square one. Sometimes, it’s light—sheer curtains that lift with the breeze. Sometimes, it’s openness—a chair repositioned to create a clearer pathway, both physically and emotionally.

When we align our homes with our healing, movement becomes medicine.

The Energy of Entrance: Thresholds That Transform

The moment we cross a threshold, energy shifts. Think of the difference between entering a courtroom versus entering a garden. One contracts the body; the other expands it.

Your home’s entrance—however modest—is an opportunity to say, you are safe now. That message isn’t spoken in words. It’s spoken in light, scent, texture. A warm lamp. A hook for your coat. A bowl for your keys. A welcome mat that isn’t just for your feet but for your nervous system.

Trauma survivors, especially, benefit from entrances that invite regulation. A seat to pause. A plant to ground. A calming neutral tone. This is not just styling—it’s anchoring.

Because a true healing space begins at the door.

Flow and Function: Clearing the Emotional Clutter

Movement is not possible without flow. And flow is not possible without space. That doesn’t mean you need a minimalist house with empty walls. It means every item has a home—and every home has a reason.

Ask yourself: Does this object serve me emotionally? Does it soothe, inspire, or centre you? Or does it keep you tethered to an older version of yourself?

Energy stagnates in clutter. Healing accelerates in clarity. Sometimes, moving a piece of furniture is more than decor—it’s symbolic. It’s saying, I no longer need to make room for what no longer reflects me.

The transitions between rooms become the transitions between stories. Between who you were and who you are becoming.

Zones of Restoration: Designing for Movement and Stillness

Every healing home must hold both motion and stillness. We are not just one thing. Some days we stretch and dance. Some days we collapse and cry. Our spaces should make room for both.

Movement zones are areas that welcome activity:

• A kitchen where you can pivot freely

• A hallway that invites pacing when thoughts feel too loud

• A corner with a yoga mat already unrolled—an invitation, not an obligation

Stillness zones are for restoration:

• A window seat with a book

• A blanket-draped chair with a diffuser beside it

• A bath area that feels less like utility and more like baptism

These zones are not always defined by walls, but by energy. By intention. By sensory language—sound, scent, materiality.

The Nervous System Needs Beauty

We often think of beauty as frivolous. But for those in recovery—be it from trauma, burnout, illness, or heartbreak—beauty is survival. It softens the body. It helps the breath return to rhythm.

When I design healing spaces, I ask:

• What does your nervous system need in the morning?

• Where can your eyes land when you’re anxious?

• Is there a space that holds your tears without judgement?

I choose curved furniture over sharp corners. I let light pool in places where it feels most welcome. I use natural textures—linen, rattan, wool—because the body recognizes softness even before the mind does.

This is the psychology of comfort. The architecture of safety. This is where design meets devotion.

Transitions as Sacred Practice

There is healing in thresholds.

The space between day and night—marked by drawing the curtains, lighting a candle, playing soft music—is a ritual. It tells the body: you may slow down now.

The transition between productivity and rest must be protected. This is why your bedroom should not double as your office. This is why your dining table should not always host laptops and bills.

Create containers for energy:

• A morning corner with sunlight and affirmations

• A journal table near the bed

• A “pause point” in the hallway with a chair, plant, and mirror—where you can check in not just with your reflection, but your truth

These transitions restore dignity. They remind us that we are worthy of slowness, of rhythm, of soft change.

The Home as a Healing Partner

A well-designed home doesn’t just house you—it partners with you. It listens. It reflects. It adapts.

There is no one formula. There is only your formula. For some, that’s maximalism with intention. For others, it’s silence and space. But the golden thread remains: how your space flows reflects how your energy flows.

To design for healing is to believe that your home can hold the version of you that is still becoming.

And isn’t that what we all need? A space that doesn’t demand perfection. That understands transition. That welcomes you not just as you are, but as who you’re still learning to be.

Final Reflection: Healing Happens Between the Rooms

If you’ve ever walked into a room and exhaled, you know the power of design.

If you’ve ever cried on the floor and felt held by the walls around you, you know the intimacy of space.

If you’ve ever rearranged your furniture after heartbreak, swept the floor after grief, painted a wall to mark your rebirth—you know what it means to move not just through a space, but with it.

That is healing design.
 That is energy in motion.
 That is the sacred choreography of coming home—to a house, and to yourself.

Love Bombing Is a Form of Coercive Control — Here’s How to Spot It

At first, it feels intoxicating. The flurry of messages. The grand gestures. The declarations of “I’ve never felt this way before.” It feels like something out of a movie—soulmate-level intensity.

But beneath the roses and romantic rhetoric, something darker might be taking root.

This is love bombing—a tactic of emotional manipulation, often used as a gateway into coercive control.

What Is Love Bombing?

Love bombing is when someone overwhelms you with affection, attention, praise, and gifts early in a relationship—not out of genuine love, but to gain control. It’s excessive, intense, and often too much, too soon.

It doesn’t just happen in romantic relationships. It can occur in friendships, family dynamics, workplaces, or even spiritual communities.

At its core, love bombing is about power, not love.

Why Is It Coercive Control?

Because it:

• Creates emotional dependency: You’re made to feel special, seen, and adored—then subtly made to believe that without them, you’re nothing.

• Disarms your boundaries: You’re pressured to move fast: emotionally, physically, financially. Saying “slow down” feels like rejecting love.

• Conditions you for later abuse: After the “honeymoon” phase, the adoration can suddenly turn cold, cruel, or controlling. You’re left confused, blaming yourself, and trying to “earn back” the love that was never real.

This isn’t just emotional immaturity—it’s a calculated pattern of control that can escalate into isolation, surveillance, gaslighting, and even physical abuse.

How to Spot Love Bombing

If you’ve experienced trauma before, especially childhood neglect or abandonment, love bombing can feel like healing. That’s what makes it dangerous.

Here are some red flags to look out for:

1. It’s Too Much Too Soon

   • “I love you” within days

   • Talks of marriage, kids, or soulmates almost instantly

   • Lavish gifts or pressure to commit right away

2. Constant Communication

   • Flooding you with texts, calls, messages

   • Getting upset if you don’t respond quickly

   • Framing it as “caring” or “missing you too much”

3. Boundary Pushing

   • Ignoring your requests for space

   • Showing up uninvited or trying to “surprise” you

   • Guilt-tripping you when you say no

4. Playing the Victim

   • Telling you how you are their saviour

   • Trauma-dumping or rushing intimacy to create instant closeness

   • Framing their need for you as urgent and fragile

5. Isolation Disguised as Devotion

   • “You don’t need anyone else when you have me”

   • Criticising your friends or family

   • Encouraging you to spend less time with others “for us”

Why It’s So Effective (And So Dangerous)

Love bombing feels good—until it doesn’t.

By the time the mask slips, you’ve bonded. You’ve attached. Your nervous system is now cycling between euphoria and anxiety, closeness and rejection. And that’s not love—that’s trauma reenactment.

Abusers use love bombing to:

• Hook you in

• Blur your sense of self

• Rewire your expectations of what love should feel like

And when the control kicks in, it’s confusing. You remember the good days. You blame yourself. You wait for the love bombing to return.

That’s the trap.

What Survivors Say

“He told me I was everything. Then he started deciding what I wore.”
 “She said no one had ever understood her like I did. Two weeks later, she started accusing me of cheating when I didn’t reply instantly.”
 “I thought I was being swept off my feet. But I was being groomed.”

What Healthy Love Looks Like

• Paces itself with mutual respect and curiosity

• Honours boundaries even when it feels inconvenient

• Builds trust slowly, not through urgency or pressure

• Doesn’t rush or rewrite your identity

• Is consistent, not conditional

Real love doesn’t demand your entire world. It asks to coexist with your independence, your community, and your self-worth.

If You’re Experiencing Love Bombing

You are not overreacting. You are not “too sensitive.” And the confusion you feel is the effect of emotional manipulation—not your failure to “understand” them.

Here’s what you can do:

• Slow it down: Take time to step back and observe

• Journal the shifts in how you’re feeling physically and emotionally

• Talk to someone outside the dynamic: friends, therapists, domestic abuse helplines

• Name it: Naming love bombing for what it is can be the first act of reclaiming power

Final Words

Love bombing is not romance. It’s a tactic.
 And it’s often the first move in a much darker game.

But awareness is protection. Voice is power. And healing is possible.

You deserve a love that grows, not engulfs.
 That listens, not performs.
 That holds space for your freedom, not your submission.

Coercive control starts with confusion—so let’s meet it with clarity.

You are worthy of peace. Of trust. Of safety.
 And that begins with knowing the difference.

I had nothing

I picked up the keys with trembling hands. Not because I was unsure, but because I knew what this moment represented. This wasn’t just a tenancy. This wasn’t just a flat. This was a resurrection.

There were no curtains on the windows. No bed to sleep on. Not even a spoon to stir the tea I had fantasised about making in this kitchen—the one I had longed for through months of surviving on the streets, in my car, in shelters, and in spaces that offered anything but safety. But still, I stood in the middle of those bare floors and whispered, “This is mine.”

Not because it was gifted to me. Not because it was grand. But because it was the first space I could truly claim after being shattered, displaced, and silenced by a system that forgot I was human.

Homelessness is a kind of grief that follows you into every corner of your body. You learn to live with your guard up. You shrink to fit into what society offers. You ration not only food, but dreams. You measure hope in teaspoons.

So when I moved into this flat, I didn’t rush to furnish it. I didn’t scroll through Pinterest for inspiration. I breathed. I stood still. I let my nervous system catch up with the fact that I was no longer being pushed out.

The first week, I slept on the floor. My carpet hadn’t yet arrived. I remember laying there, my arms outstretched in the dark, thinking this floor is safer than the car I used to cry in. That alone was enough.

And then came the walking. Long, deliberate journeys on foot—three miles to find wax to restore furniture. Another four to hunt down curtain rods. I had no car, no van, no trolley—only my own two feet, and the will to build something from the ruins. I was tired, yes. But I was also alive in a way that surprised me.

On one of my walks, I spotted two vintage chairs discarded by the side of the road. Their seats were cracked, their legs uneven. Once, I might’ve passed them by, thinking they weren’t worth saving. But now? I saw myself in them—worn, yes, but not without worth.

I carried them home, one by one. Sanded them with quiet reverence. Painted them in layers. Upholstered the seats in sheepskin—creamy white, soft, and strong. They now sit by my G Plan-style drop-leaf table, which I found secondhand. Another thing someone else gave up on. But not me.

Because healing isn’t always about going back to who you were. Sometimes, it’s about becoming someone new—someone who sees beauty in the broken. Someone who brings life to what others left behind.

Each piece I restored became part of my emotional architecture. A found rug. A rescued mirror. A houseplant from Marks & Spencer that now lives in a vintage tray. All of it, chosen with care. All of it, made sacred through intention.

I come from a background in interiors. But this was different. This wasn’t about impressing guests or making things “Instagrammable.” This was about creating safety—physically, emotionally, spiritually.

My trauma had wired me to expect chaos. Doors slamming. Voices raised. Floors that creaked beneath the weight of fear. I wanted this home to be different. I wanted it to exhale with me. So I curated intentionally: soft lighting, muted textures, things that felt like kindness to my nervous system.

I chose natural fibers—jute, linen, wool—because they grounded me. I avoided loud patterns. I kept the color palette close to the earth: sand, cream, grey. It wasn’t just style. It was survival.

Every corner was a conversation with myself: Do I feel safe here? Does this object make me breathe easier? If it didn’t, I let it go. This was not a space for performance. This was a space for truth.

Resilience doesn’t look like what they tell you. It doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it limps. Sometimes it cries on the walk home. Sometimes it hangs linen curtains with string and shaky hands because the rod hasn't arrived and the streetlight outside won’t let you sleep.

But resilience is there. It’s in the decision to keep going. To turn a bare flat into a vessel for healing. To clean secondhand furniture not just with polish, but with prayer.

In this home, I laid down more than rugs. I laid down new rules for how I would live. I would not rush. I would not shrink. I would no longer apologise for my needs. I would sleep in peace. I would eat with grace. I would rebuild not just my surroundings, but my sense of self.

And I would do it with my own hands.

There is something holy about doing things manually when you’ve been made to feel powerless. My body had been through so much. It had braced itself in police stations, courtrooms, hospital waiting rooms. It had endured sleepless nights in parked cars and showers in unfamiliar places.

So when I began carrying chairs, laying carpet, and walking mile after mile for paint or fabric, I wasn’t just styling a home—I was reuniting with my body. I was saying, Thank you for carrying me. Now let me carry something for you.

Healing lives in the doing. In the scrubbing. In the sanding. In the placing of a sheepskin on a restored chair and whispering, This is my seat now. This is where I belong.

This home is not complete. There are still things I need. A proper sofa. More storage. A few shelves, perhaps. But when I look around, I don’t see lack. I see proof.

Proof that I survived. That I created something from nothing. That I can turn pain into place. That I am still here—and still capable of beauty.

When people come over, they often comment on the peace they feel here. That’s not accidental. That’s because this isn’t just a flat—it’s a living, breathing love letter to myself.

I didn’t wait for someone to save me. I didn’t wait for the right budget or the right timing. I moved with what I had. I listened to what I needed. I followed the quiet nudge of resilience. And in doing so, I made a home.

Not just for my body. But for my soul.

To anyone beginning again from the ashes—know this:

You do not need to have it all together to begin.

You do not need matching plates or a Pinterest board to claim space.

You do not need validation to say, “I deserve beauty.”

All you need is breath. Intention. And the courage to place one foot in front of the other—even if you’re carrying a chair on your back while you do it.

Because the most powerful homes aren’t built with money. They’re built with meaning.

And I made mine with nothing.

But I made it sacred.

Honoured and Humbled: Receiving the CREA Global Award

There are moments in life when time stands still—when the fight, the heartbreak, the rebuilding, the tears, the quiet resilience—suddenly crystallise into recognition. I am deeply honoured to share that I have been awarded the CREA Global Award by Brainz Magazine.

This isn’t just a personal milestone. It’s a moment for every survivor who has ever been told to be quiet. For every woman rebuilding her life from broken systems, broken spaces, and broken trust. For every person healing, not just for themselves—but for the generations coming after them.

The CREA Global Award is presented to entrepreneurs, thought leaders, innovators, and creatives whose work contributes to sustainable impact, mental health, leadership, and human empowerment. To be included among such courageous global voices is both humbling and affirming.

But let me be clear: I didn’t receive this award because the road was easy. I received it because I kept walking.

From Homeless to Honoured

When I began this journey, I was navigating trauma, eviction, legal injustice, and grief. I slept in my car. I fought through courtrooms. I bathed in rivers. And still—I wrote. I podcasted. I spoke truth. I built SAFECHAIN™ from a place of purpose. I turned found furniture into healing art. I shared my story so no other woman would feel alone in hers.

This award doesn’t mark the end of my fight. It simply marks that the world is watching—and listening. And that truth, integrity, and intention do echo beyond walls.

The Power of Voice

Receiving this honour means that my voice, once silenced by fear, now stands with credibility and strength. It belongs not just to me, but to every reader of Silent Screams, Loud Strength. To every child who reads The Little Voice That Roared. To every survivor still waiting for justice. To every woman daring to begin again—with nothing but will, wisdom, and faith.

This award belongs to the community we’re building—one of dignity, vision, healing, and hope.

What Comes Next

I don’t take this moment for granted. If anything, it strengthens my resolve. My mission with SAFECHAIN™, my advocacy through writing, my voice in the courtroom, and my commitment to healing spaces are all part of a larger movement. This is just the beginning.

If you've followed my journey, supported my work, read my books, listened to the podcast, or stood in the quiet corners cheering me on: thank you. You are part of this moment. You are part of this win.

And to anyone still in the trenches—still unheard, still fighting—know this:

You are not invisible. You are not voiceless. You are not defeated.

You are rising.
 And the world is finally starting to notice.

To learn more about the CREA Global Award and my work featured in Brainz Magazine, visit www.brainzmagazine.com

With gratitude and fire, Samantha

The Chairs I Carried: Restoring What Was Lost, Reclaiming What Still Remains

Today, I didn’t record the podcast. I didn’t sit behind a mic and speak the words of healing out loud. Instead, I healed in silence. With my hands. With sweat. With distance. I walked six miles in total, back and forth, on aching feet—to pick up turning polish and wax to restore two old chairs.

They were tired. Leather seats cracked with age, frames worn from time. But something in me saw potential. Not just beauty. Not just function. Value. I didn’t just see chairs—I saw parts of myself.

These chairs were picked up secondhand. Nothing fancy. But I knew what I could do with them. I stripped the old seats, sanded down the legs and arms, wiped them clean of stories they no longer needed to carry. Then I upholstered them with sheepskin. White to cream. Soft. Strong. New. Still vintage, but refreshed. More me.

They now sit proudly at my drop-leaf G-Plan table. Next to a Monstera plant. A room diffuser. A tray holding the small details of my becoming. It smells of eucalyptus and candlelight. It smells like healing.

The wall above is still bare. No mirror. No artwork. Not yet. But maybe this emptiness isn’t lack. Maybe it's space. Space to breathe. To imagine. To grow into. The room doesn’t have a sofa yet. And that’s okay. Maybe this season isn’t for lounging, but for rising.

I carried those chairs. Literally. I restored them with my own two hands. And somewhere in between the sanding and the stapling, the long walk home and the drying polish, I realized: I am restoring myself too.

This is what new beginnings look like. They aren’t always neat. Or fast. They often don’t come with comfort or cushions. But they are mine. Earned. Felt. Fought for. And slowly, lovingly, built.

If you’re in a season where everything feels undone, incomplete, uncertain—keep going. Hang your curtains. Lay your hands on what still remains. Rebuild from the pieces. Reimagine from the pain. And most of all, restore what still carries value.

Because just like those chairs—you were never broken. Just waiting to be reclaimed.

I Will Not Be Defeated: A New Beginning on My Own Terms

There are moments in life when the world seems to collapse around you. When every door slams shut and you find yourself walking—literally walking—for miles with your history packed into plastic bags, and your dignity held together by sheer will. I have lived that reality. I am still living it. But here’s what you need to know:

I will not be defeated.

Last Thursday, I picked up the keys to my new home. To some, it may look like just another move, but for me, it was a declaration of life. It was a silent roar that said: I’m still here. After months of homelessness, injustice, grief, and being pushed to the edge of what a human heart can bear—I walked in with my head high and my spirit anchored in something deeper than survival.

This is not just a home. It is rebirth.
It is the ashes becoming embers.
It is the storm becoming a song.

I have carried mattresses, furniture, and suitcases by hand. I have laid down my own carpet and held up curtains with trembling fingers. I have hung linen with blistered palms and created art on bare walls. I have bled. I have wept. I have sweat through my clothes and aches. But every movement has been sacred—because it was me reclaiming my place in the world.

And yes, I’ve slept on the floor. Because trauma doesn’t always know when it’s safe to rest. But I am safe now. And piece by piece, my body and mind are learning that again.

This is what integrity looks like.
Not perfection.
Not pristine sheets and Pinterest corners.
But choosing to rise, even when you're held together by fatigue, glue, and grace.

I am rising in truth.
I am rebuilding in light.
And I will use every single tear, every scraped knee, and every betrayal as testimony.

Because when they tried to break me—when they took my home, my safety, my name—I chose not to bow. I chose not to become bitter. I chose to build again, with a softer heart and firmer feet.

This is the beginning of a new chapter.
Not written for applause.
But written with blood, sweat, tears—and undeniable strength.

To anyone reading this who feels like the ground beneath you is breaking—remember this: You are not buried. You are being planted. Rise with integrity. Turn your pain into power. Your mess into your message. And never let the world convince you that you are anything less than unstoppable.

I am walking into this season not as a victim.
Not even as a survivor.
But as a visionary.

Still standing. Still speaking. Still sacred.
And I will not be defeated.

“…But My Body Hasn’t Caught Up”

Even with the bed finally in place — carefully carried, assembled, and dressed with care — I found myself sleeping on the floor.

Because trauma doesn’t follow logic. My body hasn’t yet realised we have a roof over our head now. It still expects the cold, the noise, the threat. It still remembers the car seats, the group shelters, the street. Safety takes time to settle into our bones.

But each night, I light a candle.
Each morning, I make a cup of tea.
Each curtain I hang is a message to myself: We are rebuilding. We are safe. We are home.

“The Key That Opened More Than a Door”

Last Thursday, I turned a key — not just to unlock a door, but to reclaim a piece of myself.

After months of instability, after courts, shelters, police stations, and prayer-soaked nights sleeping in a car, I picked up the keys to my new apartment. No fanfare. No cheers. Just my trembling hand, my breath caught in my throat, and my spirit whispering, You did it. And I did.

But moving in hasn’t been easy. I didn’t have a moving van or a big crew of helpers. I had me — my legs, my hands, my grit. I’ve walked miles each day, sometimes ten or more. I carried my own belongings one trip at a time — boxes, curtain rods, saucepans, books — wrapped and labelled with care, because even when life breaks you, you learn to cradle what’s left.

I’ve drilled curtain poles into the walls with tired arms. I’ve climbed ladders I barely trust to hang voiles and linen. I’ve pierced my fingers until they bled. I’ve made art when I could barely think straight. I’ve sat on the cold floor with a cup of tea and a glass mug, with no sofa, no carpet, no cushion — just gratitude. Just presence. Just me.

My bed was late. My carpets were laid only hours before. And yet somehow, I still set it all up — even if not perfectly, even if I cried along the way. I made my bed and dressed it in throws and softness because I deserve softness, too. Even in a world that has tried to make me hard.

I failed to rest. I failed to stop. I’ve failed to feel settled — yet. The noise of the street kept me awake, and the weight of survival still sits heavy on my chest. But I’ve come this far.

This isn’t a picture-perfect “new home” story. This is about blood, sweat, and actual tears. This is about waiting in the rain, cooking with a single saucepan, hanging curtains that fell down and rehanging them again. This is about showing up — not just to a new apartment, but to my life.

So here’s to the Thursday I turned the key.
Here’s to every bag I carried.
Here’s to surviving what tried to destroy me.
Here’s to not being set — but being willing.
Here’s to the quiet, unfurnished, imperfect miracle of beginning again.

This is not just a home.
This is healing.

You’re Still Here — And That Means Everything

If no one’s told you this today, let me be the first:
 You are doing so much better than you think.

I know the nights are long and the mornings sometimes feel impossible.
 I know how it feels to hold your breath while pretending everything is okay.
 I know what it is to lose parts of yourself — and still show up for others.

But I also know this:

You are still here.
 And that means something.

Not All Strength Looks Loud

Strength is not always the roar of achievement.
 Sometimes, it’s in the whisper that says, “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

It’s in the moment you get out of bed when the weight feels like chains.
 It’s in your choice to speak kindly to yourself when shame knocks loudly.
 It’s in your breath, your resilience, your refusal to be erased.

This Life You’re Rebuilding Matters

You may not be where you want to be.
 You may feel stuck, unseen, or behind.

But listen—progress doesn’t always look like fireworks.
 Sometimes it looks like:

• Getting dressed.

• Sending one brave email.

• Writing one page.

• Crying and then cooking a meal anyway.

• Believing that healing is still available to you.

Your Story Isn’t Over

If you are walking through grief, heartbreak, burnout, injustice, or betrayal —
 please know that your story is not defined by what broke you.
 It is shaped by how you keep breathing, even when it hurts.

And if you feel like no one sees you right now, I want you to know:

I see you.
 I honour you.
 And I believe in what comes next for you.

Encouragement for the Days That Feel Like Too Much

Here are a few truths I come back to, again and again:

✨ You don’t have to have it all figured out to take the next step.

✨ Healing isn’t linear — and that’s okay.

✨ You are allowed to start again — as many times as you need.

✨ You don’t need to earn rest. You are already worthy of it.

✨ The future will hold joy you haven’t even imagined yet.

The Power of One More Day

You’ve survived every day before this one.
 You’ve carried what many could not.

So if all you do today is breathe and keep going —
 that is enough.

And if you can, remind someone else they’re not alone.
 Because when we lift one another, we all rise.

You Are the Light You’ve Been Waiting For

You are not broken.
 You are not too far gone.
 You are not a burden.

You are becoming.

And every time you choose to keep living, keep hoping, keep creating —
 you reclaim a little more of your voice.

That voice matters.

Use it.
 Live it.
 Let it roar — even in the quiet.

With grace and solidarity,
 Samantha 

Resilience in Motion: Running Through Burnout and Toward Clarity

There’s a quiet power in putting one foot in front of the other.

Not just in life — but on the pavement, through the trees, along the road that stretches ahead with no judgment, no demands, and no expectations.

This is the rhythm of resilience.

Running has become more than a physical activity for me. It’s a lifeline, a therapy, and a way to navigate the chaos of grief, injustice, trauma, and daily overwhelm. When life threatens to consume me, running reminds me: I am still here. I am still moving.

The Silent Creep of Burnout

Burnout doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it shows up in the shortness of breath before a meeting.
 In the tears you swallow because there's no time to cry.
 In the ache of your body begging for rest — but unable to sleep.
 In the heaviness that makes even getting dressed feel like a task.

In a world that applauds hustle and overlooks healing, burnout has become the cost of survival. But it doesn’t have to be.

Resilience isn’t about pushing through until you collapse.
 It’s about knowing when to pause, recalibrate, and run toward yourself again.

Why Running Heals

Running isn’t about speed. It’s about space.

Space to think.
 To release.
 To breathe.
 To feel without being swallowed whole.

When I run, I am not in courtrooms. I am not in trauma. I am not in yesterday’s grief.
 I am here, in my body. With the ground beneath me. With a sky that doesn't judge me.

The Benefits of Running for Resilience:

• Mental Clarity: The repetitive motion soothes anxiety and breaks cycles of rumination.

• Mood Boosting: Running stimulates endorphins and dopamine — your natural stress-relievers.

• Trauma Release: Movement helps the nervous system discharge the energy of fear and panic.

• Reclaiming Power: Every stride is a reminder of what your body can still do, despite what it’s been through.

• Routine & Discipline: It offers structure in seasons that feel unstructured or chaotic.

Tips to Run Without Burning Out:

1. Start Slow — And Stay Honest
    Your pace doesn’t determine your worth. Start with walking if needed. Let your body lead.

2. Make It Sacred, Not a Chore
    Running is not punishment. It’s presence. It’s a prayer in motion. Make it joyful.

3. Rest Is Part of Resilience
    Recovery is strength. Without rest, running becomes a loop of depletion.

4. Fuel the Body, Feed the Soul
    Hydration, nutrition, sleep — they matter. Listen to what your body needs, not what the world demands.

5. Pair It With Affirmation
    As your feet hit the ground, speak life over yourself:
    “I am strong. I am healing. I am enough.”

You Are Still Allowed to Thrive

Even in the midst of grief.
 Even when the world feels unkind.
 Even if your body feels tired, and your spirit is trying to remember joy.

Running helps me return to myself.

Not to who I used to be — but to the version of me that refuses to give up.

A Final Word on Resilience

Resilience isn’t about never feeling tired. It’s about remembering that you have the power to rise again.

If all you can do today is walk, then walk.
 If all you can do is stretch your legs and stand in the sunlight — do that.
 Your healing doesn’t have to be loud.
 Sometimes, it’s found in the whisper of your breath on a long run at dawn.

So lace up. Breathe deep.
 And know this: you are not running away from life.

You are running toward it.

With endurance and grace,
 Samantha

Love Is Love: A Bold Declaration for Pride Month

To every soul who has ever been made to feel ashamed of their truth—this is for you.

Pride Month is not just a celebration. It is a rebellion against silence, a memorial for those who could not live freely, and a prayer for those still hiding in the shadows, simply for existing as they are.

I write this from the heart of survival. From knowing what it feels like to be othered, to be exiled, to have your identity questioned, rejected, bruised. While my story may not mirror every queer journey, the thread of exclusion, fear, and reclamation runs through us all. And this month, we say enough.

To the survivor who was shamed for loving who they love — you are not alone.

To the child who heard slurs before they heard words of affirmation.
 To the adult who left a home that refused to see them.
 To the teen who walks the hallways praying not to be noticed.
 To the elder who never had the chance to say, “This is who I am.”

You are sacred. You are seen. You are not broken.

A Prayer for the LGBTQIA+ Soul

May your truth rise louder than the whispers of shame.
 May your heart be wrapped in safety, not survival.
 May you love and be loved — without explanation or exception.
 May you find community that affirms you, holds you, honours you.
 May your past be healed, your present embraced, and your future radically free.

This Pride, We Mourn and We Rise

We mourn for those taken too soon.
 We rise for those still here.
 We rise for the trans woman walking home alone.
 For the gay teen praying to wake up “different.”
 For the non-binary child erased by systems that demand definition.

We rise because love is love. And love is never wrong.

From Pain to Power

There are too many who have been abused—physically, emotionally, spiritually—for being who they are. This month is for you. For the healing you're doing quietly. For the boundaries you’re learning to build. For the day you said, “I am worthy,” and meant it.

You are not here to shrink.
 You are not here to apologize for your truth.
 You are here to shine, speak, and stand tall in the light of your own becoming.

To Allies: Show Up, Speak Up, Stay Accountable

It is not enough to wave a rainbow once a year.
 Be the friend who defends when no one is watching.
 Be the parent who listens with love, not conditions.
 Be the workplace that doesn’t just tolerate — but celebrates.
 Be the church that opens doors and arms in equal measure.

Closing Benediction

This Pride Month, may we be bold.
 May we be fierce in our empathy, loud in our love, and unshakable in our truth.

For every survivor of homophobia, transphobia, or silence:
 Your healing matters.
 Your story matters.
 You matter.

And may the world rise to meet you — just as you are.

With strength, with love, with fire,
 Samantha 

When One Brand Showed Up: My Visit to Marks & Spencer

In a world where silence often follows vulnerability, a single reply can feel like a lifeline.

A few weeks ago, I reached out to several fashion brands with a simple, honest request: support. As a survivor of domestic abuse, currently rebuilding from homelessness while advocating for others through my platform and SAFECHAIN™, I asked whether any brand would consider providing clothing sponsorship — not as a handout, but as a show of human dignity.

Most never replied.

But Marks & Spencer did.

Their response was gracious, warm, and personal — a rarity in corporate communication. They thanked me for sharing my story, acknowledged the power of clothing to restore confidence, and invited me to visit a local store to speak with management directly. That invitation alone gave me hope.

I visited the Basingstoke store, where the team — Jay and Julia — were kind, welcoming, and respectful. We spoke openly. They took the time to listen. While I didn’t leave with any clothing that day and the decision-maker was not in store, I was encouraged to follow up by email. I did — and I wait with hope, not expectation.

What matters most is this: they saw me.

That one reply — and one moment of kindness — reminds us that change doesn't always come in grand gestures. Sometimes, it's in who dares to answer when you speak from the margins. In how a brand treats someone who has nothing to offer them but honesty.

I write this not to shame the ones who stayed silent, but to uplift the one that didn’t. Because when you’re trying to rebuild a life, something as seemingly simple as a new outfit can feel like armour.

Marks & Spencer, thank you. Whether this goes further or not, your reply was a reminder that compassion in commerce still exists.

For anyone reading this — brands, allies, individuals — remember: showing up matters.

— Samantha Avril-Andreassen

Betrayal, Boundaries & Becoming: A Soul’s Journey Back to Truth

There are few pains as devastating as betrayal.

It is not merely the end of a relationship—it is a profound rupture in the soul. A violation of trust. A shattering of illusions. One moment, you believe you're safe. The next, the floor is gone, and the person you loved, trusted, or shared your world with becomes the very source of your unraveling.

But let me say this with absolute clarity:

If you have been betrayed, you are not alone.
 Your heartbreak is not weakness. It is evidence of your capacity to trust, to love, and to believe in the goodness of others.

And that is a strength this world desperately needs.

The Sacred Wound

When betrayal hits, it cuts far deeper than we often realise. We don’t just grieve the person—we grieve the version of ourselves that felt safe with them. We mourn the dreams, the shared futures, the tender moments that now feel tainted. We question everything:
 How did I not see this coming?
 Was I not enough?
 Can I ever trust again?

These questions are not signs of failure—they are the echoes of a soul trying to find footing on a fractured path.

Healing from betrayal isn’t linear. It is messy, holy, disorienting, and—eventually—transformative.

Divine Redirection

I believe adversity is a sacred teacher.

What feels like loss is often divine redirection. The relationship that shattered you may have been the very thing standing in the way of your truth. The job that broke you may have been blocking your purpose. The silence of abandonment may be the space where your real voice begins to rise.

Even when life confronts us with crushing heartbreak, it’s often the beginning of our greatest becoming.

Because here’s the truth:

Returning to yourself—your values, your integrity, your sacred boundaries—is not just healing.
 It is liberation.
 It is the freedom to finally live not as someone else’s projection, but as your authentic self.

The Power of Boundaries After Betrayal

When you have been betrayed, it is tempting to never trust again. But healthy boundaries are not walls—they are bridges to safety. They are the gentle, powerful ways you teach others (and yourself) what you will and will not tolerate.

Boundaries aren’t about punishment. They’re about preservation.

They are a sacred reclamation of self-respect.

From Pain to Purpose

As someone who has lived through betrayal, abandonment, homelessness, and institutional injustice, I know what it means to lose everything and still choose to rise.

My story didn’t end with betrayal—it began again. And yours can too.

If you are reading this and feeling the ache of a broken trust, let this be your reminder:

• You are not too broken to begin again.

• Your pain is not pointless—it is a passageway to power.

• You are worthy of love that does not hurt.

• And you are never alone in your healing.

A Final Word

To be betrayed is to be cracked open. But it is in that breaking that the light begins to pour in.

You are not what happened to you.
 You are who you choose to become.

Choose truth.
 Choose dignity.
 Choose your sacred self.

And let that be the beginning of everything.

If this resonated with you, explore more healing reflections and survivor-led resources at www.samanthaavrilandreassen.com
 You can also listen to my podcast, Silent Screams, Loud Strength, on Spotify.

A Healing Message for the Betrayed

My heart and compassion go out to every soul who has traversed the agonising terrain of betrayal.

It is not just a break—it is a profound wound that cuts deep, shaking our sense of safety, our understanding of love, and our relationship with truth.

To be betrayed by someone we trusted is to grieve not only the person, but the version of ourselves that believed we were safe with them.

Healing from such harm is not linear. It is sacred.

And you are not alone.

Even when life confronts us with crushing adversity, it is often leading us to our greatest becoming.
What feels like loss is sometimes divine redirection.

Yes—it can hurt. Deeply.

But with time, we begin to see that every betrayal, every closed door, every moment of despair was quietly guiding us back to our truth.

Returning to yourself—your integrity, your values, your sacred boundaries—is not just healing.
It is liberation.

It is the freedom to finally live as you—not as someone else’s projection, expectation, or prisoner.

And that, beloved, is the beginning of everything.

Styling with Scent – How Vintage Teacup Candles Add Magic to Your Interiors

When it comes to home styling, it’s often the smallest details that create the biggest impact. At The Timeless Glow, we believe that candles—especially those poured into vintage teacups—aren’t just sources of scent. They’re stories. Accents. Atmospheres. They bring light, fragrance, and soul into your space.

Here’s how our hand-poured soy candles can elevate your interior design and infuse your home with timeless charm.

1. From Functional to Beautiful
Our candles are more than scent vessels—they’re design pieces. Each vintage teacup is hand-selected for its floral detail, shape, and patina, meaning no two are alike. Placed on a mantle, vanity, or windowsill, they add a refined, curated touch that instantly softens the room.

2. Layering Scent into Space
Scent is an often overlooked element in design. But just like texture and colour, it influences how a room feels. Use Velvet Rose in a romantic bedroom, Lavender in a peaceful reading nook, or Royal Oud in a moody, grounded hallway. Each fragrance adds an invisible layer of character.

3. Creating Vignettes That Tell a Story
Pair your teacup candle with antique books, dried flowers, or lace textiles to create a visual vignette. These intentional corners—on dressers, side tables, or entryways—become moments of storytelling and warmth. A flicker of light brings them to life.

4. Sustainable Styling with Heart
Unlike mass-produced decor, our candles are handmade and designed to live on. When the wax melts away, reuse the teacup as a jewelry dish, plant pot, or teaware. It’s slow decorating at its finest—sustainable, sentimental, and full of personality.

5. Adding a Ritual Element to Everyday Spaces
Interior design isn’t just about how your home looks—it’s about how it feels to live in it. Lighting a candle while you cook, journal, or wind down turns your home into a haven. It signals rest. It celebrates small moments. It says: this is your space, and you deserve to feel good in it.

Design with Intention. Light with Meaning.
Whether you're updating a room or adding finishing touches, a vintage teacup candle from The Timeless Glow is a perfect way to layer beauty, warmth, and soul into your space.

Explore Our Collection of Home-Ready Candles
Hand-poured. One-of-a-kind. Ready to glow.

The Quiet Flame – How Our Candles Support Meditation & Self-Care

In a world that rarely slows down, lighting a candle can be more than ambiance—it can be an act of return.

At The Timeless Glow, we believe our vintage teacup candles do more than scent a room. They hold space. They soften the air. They offer a moment of ritual that anchors you in the present. Whether you're just beginning a meditation practice or seeking new ways to honour your self-care routine, here's how our candles can guide you back to yourself.

1. Lighting with Intention
Start your practice by choosing a candle that speaks to the mood you want to cultivate. Lavender for calm. Royal Oud for grounding. Jasmine for clarity. As you strike the match, breathe in deeply. Let the flame mark the beginning of your inward journey.

2. Focusing the Mind
Flame gazing, or “trataka,” is an ancient meditative technique where you softly focus your eyes on a candle’s flame. It calms mental chatter, sharpens concentration, and brings emotional clarity. Our softly flickering wicks, especially when paired with vintage china, create a serene focal point that invites the mind to settle.

3. Creating Sacred Space
Our candles are designed to make your space feel special. The delicate teacup, the subtle scent, the botanical topping—they all work together to create an environment of peace and beauty. Whether it's five minutes or fifty, your ritual becomes a gentle container for rest.

4. Encouraging Daily Pause
Candle rituals don’t have to be elaborate. Light a teacup candle during your skincare routine, journaling session, or while reading a book. It becomes a symbol of your presence—a soft, glowing reminder that you are worth slowing down for.

5. Reusing with Purpose
Once your candle has burned low, the story continues. Clean your vintage teacup and use it as a vessel for tea, crystals, herbs, or affirmations. This continuation keeps your self-care space sacred and ever-evolving.

Glow With Intention
Each of our candles is more than decor. They’re vessels for mindfulness, handcrafted invitations to return to yourself—one breath, one flicker, one quiet moment at a time.

Ready to Begin Your Ritual?
Explore our latest collection of hand-poured, vintage teacup candles made for the soul, the senses, and the stillness.

In the Glow of Chaos – Creating Beauty and Purpose from the Mess

We often think that creativity belongs only to artists, that meditation requires silence, that interior design needs a plan, and that purpose must arrive in perfect timing. But life rarely unfolds that way—and neither does true beauty.

At The Timeless Glow, we know that some of the most meaningful things are born from the mess.

Creativity Begins in Chaos
The first pour isn’t always perfect. Wax spills. Wicks tilt. Petals fall in places we didn’t plan. But somehow, when the candle sets, there’s beauty in it. That’s the heart of creativity—not control, but curiosity. Letting your hands move before your mind gets in the way.

Candles as Moving Meditation
Lighting a candle can be the simplest form of stillness. Watching the flame dance reminds us that motion and peace can co-exist. You don’t have to stop your world to find mindfulness. You only have to focus on something soft, like the scent of oud curling into the air, or the gentle clink of teacup against saucer.

Designing Space That Feels Like You
Interior design isn’t just about color palettes—it’s about creating a room where you can exhale. A vintage teacup candle beside a worn book. A linen cloth with wild florals. A window that lets light fall across the floor just right. That’s design with soul, not perfection.

Art Is Everywhere—Especially in Recovery
Whether you’re rebuilding a room, a dream, or a version of yourself, art is how we piece it back together. A candle on a table. A brushstroke on a page. A new scent to mark the next chapter. When the world feels too big or too broken, making something small can feel like resistance—and healing.

Finding Purpose in the Unplanned
Maybe the mess was the invitation. To slow down. To get quiet. To remember what matters. Our candles are poured with that kind of purpose—not to fix everything, but to offer a soft light in the middle of it.

So if you're standing in the middle of a mess, unsure of the next step—light something. Breathe. Rearrange the room. Journal beside the flicker. Make something beautiful out of it, even if no one sees but you.

Because in the glow of the mess, you just might find what you’ve been looking for.

Discover pieces that tell your story.
Shop our hand-poured vintage candles and start your own quiet ritual.

Forgiveness, Acceptance, and the Quiet Power of Humility

There comes a point in every healing journey when the soul is faced with a sacred choice:
To stay bound by bitterness, or to walk forward with forgiveness.
To fight reality, or to accept life as it has been — and trust it will become more.

Forgiveness is not forgetting.
It is not excusing what was done.
It is the quiet, courageous decision to release yourself from the chains of anger.
Not because the past deserves it — but because your future demands it.

Acceptance, too, is not weakness.
It is a holy strength.
It is the willingness to stop demanding a different past and to start building a stronger future.

The journey of healing is a two-way street.
It moves between grief and grace, between pain and progress.
Some days, you walk forward bravely.
Other days, you crawl.
But every step matters. Every tear matters. Every moment of softness matters.

And above all things, humility must lead the way.
Not the humility that makes you small.
Not the kind forced on you by a world that tried to silence you.
But a deeper humility:
The kind that says,
“I am not better than anyone. But I am no less than anyone either. My life, my voice, my healing — they matter.”

Real humility bows before pain without being owned by it.
It forgives without forgetting the wisdom gained.
It accepts what cannot be changed while fighting fiercely for what still can be.

Forgiveness. Acceptance. Humility.
These are not signs of weakness.
They are the quiet, roaring power of a soul that refuses to be defeated.

With strength and wonder,
Samantha Avril-Andreassen
Founder of Stillness Meets Strength | Author of Homeless, Not Defeated