"Never Think Of It As Parenting. Think Of It As The End Of The World."
"Never think of it as parenting. Think of it as the end of the world."
More Posts from Acornsgh and Others
tried to draw anya again
Echoes in the Rain ♥
❝ Soft raindrops taps on the pristine glass A rhythm pulled from moments past A whisper from each drop, vague, but clear A voice I thought I'd thought I'd never hear from again.
The streets shimmer bright with mirrored skies, Reflecting tears from weary eyes. A fleeting laugh, an obscured face, Lost within the storm's embrace
The earthy scent, so damp and true, Brings the memories I once thought I outgrew Yet here they are, in pewter streams, Awake again in quiet, little dreams.
The rain will come to an end soon, as storms must do, And leave behind a world anew. But in its soft echoes, I find, Fragments of a wandering mind. ❞
🕊️ Please Take a Moment to Read Nadin’s Story
My name is Nadin. I never imagined I would write something like this. I’ve always been someone who kept her worries quiet, someone who believed that even the hardest days could be endured with patience and faith. But right now, I am reaching out — not because I want to, but because I need to.
I am a wife, a mother, and one of many women in Gaza trying to survive days that feel like they have no end. There was a short time — a brief ceasefire — where we thought things might start to heal. Where the sound of war faded for just long enough to let us breathe. But that moment is gone now, and the fear has returned louder than before.
My days are filled with uncertainty, and my nights with prayer. We have lost so much. Our home was damaged, our sense of safety taken from us. But through all of this, I try to keep going. I try to hold on to what little peace I can create with my hands, my words, and my love.
I am not asking for much. Just a little help to keep our lives from falling further apart. To fix the small things — a cracked wall, a leaking roof, the pieces of daily life that help us hold on to dignity.
This campaign isn’t just about survival. It’s about holding on to what makes us human in a place that keeps trying to take that away. It’s about showing my daughter — even though I won’t mention her name here — that the world didn’t forget us.
If you’ve ever felt powerless in the face of suffering, please know that even the smallest gesture can carry great meaning. A kind word. A shared post. A quiet donation. These things remind us that we’re not alone.
I am still here. Still holding on. Still believing that people out there — people like you — still care.
Please, if you feel moved, consider supporting or sharing this campaign.
🌸 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
ꪖ ꪗꫀꪖ᥅ ꫀ᥅ꪖᦓꫀᦔ (A Year Erased)
𝓣he sharp shrill of thunder outside boomed, jolting me awake. Everything felt so numb. Where am I?
My hand fumbles a bit before reaching across the small nightstand, knocking over a glass of water before finding the source of the noise. Silence returned, but my heart hammered against my ribs. Something felt… Wrong. I slowly sat up, observing my surroundings. This bedroom looked the same as before -- gray walls, a cluttered desk with papers, a night lamp, and a worn leather jacket hung over the chair.
But there was a weight in the air, a heaviness I couldn’t place.
It wasn’t until I swung my legs over the side of the bed that I noticed it.
A note.
A small piece of paper rested on the nightstand, written in hurried, slanted handwriting:
"Don't trust anyone -- not even yourself."
The words sent a quiet chill in my spine. What did those even mean? Was this a prank? The closer I look at it, the more I realize I don't recognize this handwriting.
I grabbed the note and turned it over, hoping for some clue, but the back was blank. Swallowing hard, I tried to piece together the events of the night before.
Nothing was there.
No fragments of a party, no blurry memories of too many drinks, not even a sense of how I got home. I checked my phone for answers, scrolling through my messages and call logs, but there was nothing recent -- just a blank stretch of time that made my stomach twist.
Then I saw the date.
[ March 15th, 2019. ]
My phone fell and clattered with the floor on impact. The last date I remembered was March 15th -- of last year.
I let myself scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over the pile of clothes on the floor, and ran to the mirror. My reflection stared back, familiar yet different. My hair was longer than I remembered, my face thinner. A faint scar curved along my jawline, one I didn't recognize.
Panic surged in my chest and took over my mind. I then tore through my closet, rifling through clothes that weren't mine -- jackets I'd never bought, shoes I didn't recognize. Even the books on my shelf were unfamiliar, their spines worn as if I'd read them a hundred times.
What the hell had happened to me?
The sound of a door creaking open made me freeze. I turned slowly, the note already crumpled in my fist.
"H-Hello?" I called, my voice shaking.
No answer.
I stepped into the hallway, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. The sterile apartment was eerily quiet, every creak and groan of the old building increased in the silence.
When I reached the kitchen, I stopped.
There, on the counter, was another note.
"It's not safe here. They're watching."
I feel a lump form in my throat as I stared at the message, my composure being already shaken. My hands trembled as I picked it up, my hands felt clammy.
"Who's watching?" I whispered.
The war here in Gaza has been going on for too long, the siege has intensified, the bombing has intensified, and with food running out, the price of flour has reached $500, which is unacceptable. The price of my injectable medication has reached $650. Please, the situation here is very difficult, and my pregnancy is very dangerous. I must continue taking the injections until the end of my pregnancy. Please, this is my first child. Help me. You are my hope. Don't leave me alone, please😭😭. Donate so I can buy food and injections. I have only raised $2,500 out of a $10,000 goal. Please continue donating.🥹
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #425 )✅️🇵🇸🇵🇸👇
i write, i draw, and i sleep ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒🦢 ﾟ.𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚: ilovesyogurt_𝐖𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐝: @Eleanor_Is_Cool321
49 posts