In the hush of midnight, I imagine the advice my mother never gave—less about routines and more about soul-fire. Maybe she’d have murmured, “Baby, never apologize for loving too harsh.” Because love isn’t meant to tiptoe—it should rage like a wildfire, erasing past verses and penning new ones in ink made of longing and thunder. Every kiss, every promise, a fierce declaration that you lived, burned, and began again.

She might’ve taught me that craving more of life is no sin. “You owe it to yourself,” she’d say, “to chase dawn, dance in storms, and sip the ocean on your lips.” The cosmos didn’t unfold by accident—you are its masterpiece. Raise your baton like a symphony conductor, and let life sing through you. But in the shadows, her tone would sharpen: “Never forgive those who aren’t worthy.” You are not meant to absorb harm. You’re stardust stitched with cosmic defiance. Let your boundaries blaze like constellations—clear, proud, untouchable.

Finally, as the stars blinked secrets into the night, she’d whisper: “Love yourself the most. You are the birthplace of galaxies.” Never settle for a flicker when you can conjure supernovas. Every flaw, every scar, every wild dream—tools of celestial creation. So live unrepentantly, forge the universe from your heart’s heat, and remember: you are not just made of stars—you are the poetry they tried to write.

©️ Beatriz Esmer