Beginnings.

I used to believe beginnings had to be loud — bright, electric, impossible to ignore.
In my world, they always arrived that way: charged with adrenaline, wrapped in urgency, dressed as possibility.

I’ve had many beginnings — in work, in love, in creation.
They’ve always been my favorite part. That first rush when time expands and everything feels vivid and alive, like falling in love for the first time — the pulse, the spark, the ache of wanting.

But I’ve also learned that the spark doesn’t last unless you tend to it.
Unless you create space for it to soften, deepen, change shape.
And I’ve let it fade before — faster than I’d like to admit.

This time, it feels quieter.
Less like a firework, more like a heartbeat.
This beginning isn’t about chasing or proving; it’s about staying.
About being seen — truly seen — and not retreating from my own light.

L’Atelier was born from that quiet.
Not from strategy or planning, but from the simple need to create something slower, deliberate, and true.
A place where I can write the way I breathe — in fragments, reflections, and small confessions.
Some days polished. Some days undone.
Always honest.

Maybe this is what beginning again really means — not starting over, but returning to what’s always been waiting beneath the noise.

I can feel it now — a hum beneath my skin, soft but steady.
And maybe, just maybe, this time… I’ll stay.

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