What Is Real?

 She is a woman who moves through the world with a question stitched into her soul: What is real?

She has struggled to find solid ground in the shifting sands of meaning. Words twist and change depending on who is speaking. Eyes can lie. Smiles don’t always mean kindness. She craves something she can touch, something she can know—not just understand.

So she touches.

She kneads bread with her bare hands, not because it’s easier, but because it’s closer. Closer to something true. She shapes cookie balls herself, refusing the cold precision of a kitchen tool. Every press, every roll is an offering—her skin to the surface, her energy to the dough. A therapist once told her she’s seeking connection. That she believes, even if she doesn’t say it aloud, that by touching something, she in a small way becomes part of it. That maybe when someone eats what she’s made, they’ll feel her, too. They’ll know she was there. They’ll feel real to her, and she to them. 

And it doesn’t stop in the kitchen.

She paints with her fingers, not just brushes. She lets colors stain her skin, lets lines blur between her body and the rock/canvas. She draws slowly, sometimes repetitively, tracing curves and faces and shadows like she’s trying to find the soul inside the page. It’s not just art—it’s a search for contact. She hopes that if she draws a face with enough tenderness, it might look back at her one day and see her, too.

And when she dances—oh, when she dances—it’s the only time she doesn’t question. She doesn’t perform, she feels. The music enters her body like a truth she doesn’t need to explain. Her arms move not for grace but for grounding. Her feet carry her across the room, not to impress but to believe: I exist. I’m here. I’m part of this.

She lives with a kind of magical thinking, yes—but it’s the kind that keeps her alive. She believes touch can carry feeling. That movement can carry meaning. That the soul has weight, and maybe if she presses hard enough—through flour, through paint, through music—it will leave an imprint strong enough to connect her to someone else.

She is not lost. And she is no longer broken.