softrroom

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

🌸 From One Mother’s Heart – Please Read 🌸

My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.

But life had other plans.

War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.

There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.

I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.

Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.

This is my life.

This is my daughter’s life.

And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.

Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.

That’s why I keep going.

I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.

How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war

💛 If you can, please support our journey here:

If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.

From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.

I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.

Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.

With love and endless gratitude

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

[softrroom]

Spring always arrives shyly, like it isn’t sure if it’s welcome. I feel like that sometimes — hesitant, unsure if I’m allowed to grow again. The ground is still cold, patches of winter refusing to let go, but somehow the first blooms still show up. Quietly. Softly.

I think emotions are the same. They don’t always come rushing in like summer storms. Sometimes, healing, joy, or even grief arrives in little petals. I’ve been noticing lately how my feelings have been shifting, slowly unfurling, like buds testing the warmth of the sun.

Some days I still feel like winter — brittle, bare, tired. Other days, I catch myself laughing without thinking, like sunlight slipping through the cracks. Maybe both can exist at once. Maybe they need to.

I’m realizing that growth isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s soft. Like spring. And maybe it’s okay if I’m blooming slower than I thought I would. The flowers don’t seem to mind their own timing, and maybe I shouldn’t either.

Right now, I’m learning to trust the slow thaw — to believe that the soft, new parts of me will find their way, gently, in their own time.

[softrroom]

foliation by suze woolf

[softrroom]

promise is a promise

[softrroom]