Apologize for Flooding Your Feed. See Other Photos in the Comments… Full Story👇👇👇
I know—I’ve been posting a lot lately.
Photos of Clementine, my rust-freckled Datsun, parked beneath jacaranda trees. Close-ups of Riot, my wild marigold, blooming sideways like she’s defying gravity. Me in linen, barefoot in the garden, holding a chipped mug and a mood. I’ve flooded your feed with petals and posture and stories stitched into sleeves.
And maybe you rolled your eyes. Maybe you scrolled past. Maybe you wondered, Why so many? Why now?
So here’s the full story.
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I used to be quiet. Not soft—just hidden. I’d post sparingly, cautiously, like I was asking permission to be seen. One photo every few weeks. A caption that said little. A version of myself that felt edited, cropped, curated for comfort.
But something shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic. No heartbreak, no epiphany. Just a slow, steady realization: I was tired of shrinking.
Tired of waiting for the right moment to share. Tired of wondering if I was too much. Tired of treating my life like a museum exhibit—only showing the polished pieces behind glass.
So I started posting.
Not for validation. For liberation.
I posted the messy garden, where Ophelia refused to bloom until I played jazz. I posted the dent in Clementine’s door, the one I never fixed because it reminds me of the road trip that changed everything. I posted my face—bare, tired, alive.
And I didn’t stop.
Because each photo was a breadcrumb. A memory. A mood. A moment I didn’t want to lose.
I posted the linen shirt that clung to me in the rain. The marigolds that bloomed out of season. The car parked crooked, like it had attitude. I posted the note I taped to my mirror: “You’re allowed to take up space.”
And yes, I flooded your feed.
But I also flooded my own timeline with proof. That I lived. That I felt. That I dared to show up.
Because here’s the truth: I’m not just curating beauty. I’m claiming it.
I’m naming the flowers. I’m naming the cars. I’m naming the feelings that used to sit in silence.
I’m naming myself.
And if that means posting too much—so be it.
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There’s a photo I didn’t post. Me, years ago, sitting in the garden with my hands in my lap, afraid to touch the soil. I remember the feeling—like I didn’t belong in my own story. Like I was waiting for someone to give me permission to bloom.
Now I know better.
Now I know that blooming is messy. That beauty is loud. That stories don’t need to be quiet to be meaningful.
So I post.
I post the crooked smiles. The cracked vases. The flowers that lean too far. I post the car with rust like freckles. The garden with weeds that I’ve named like old friends.
I post because I want to remember.
And I post because I want you to remember too.
That your life is worth documenting. That your mess is worth celebrating. That your feed doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be yours.
So yes, I apologize for flooding your feed.
But I don’t apologize for showing up.
I don’t apologize for naming Dusty June, my stubborn rose. I don’t apologize for photographing Echo, the motorcycle that sounds like memory. I don’t apologize for posting the petals, the posture, the poetry.
Because this is my gallery.
And every photo is a frame.
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See the other photos in the comments. Each one is a chapter. A confession. A celebration.
Of the person who stopped hiding.
Of the garden that started speaking.
Of the car that carried me home.
Of the story that doesn’t need permission.
Because I’m not just flooding your feed.
I’m flooding the silence.
And I’m not sorry.
