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TÂM ANMỖI NGÀY

Healing

Go through the hard stretch without going through it alone. Nobody here will tell you to be strong.

45 posts

A worn canvas backpack with a frayed strap on a wooden chair by the door, an open notebook and pen beside it, soft evening light
Healing

The Coat on the Back of the Chair

A poem about a coat that has hung on a chair since Monday, and the evenings when getting it onto a hook is already a big thing to have done.

Oct 27, 2026 · 3 min read

An old men's short-sleeved shirt with faint stripes hanging on the back of a wooden chair by a window, in soft daylight
Healing

The Bamboo Broom at Five in the Morning

At five in the morning the yard has no bamboo broom from my grandfather. A short poem about a sound that is gone, and one morning when I picked the broom up myself.

Oct 24, 2026 · 2 min read

A small coffee drip filter dripping into a glass on a wooden balcony table, a green potted plant blurred behind on an overcast morning
Healing

Why You Still Say We After a Breakup

Months after the breakup, the word we keeps sneaking into your sentences. A slip of the tongue does not mean you have not let go. The sentence just has no new place to stand yet.

Oct 21, 2026 · 8 min read

A wooden chair beside a window, afternoon sun falling in a yellow strip across the floor, a cup of tea giving off thin steam on the sill
Healing

Just One Pair of Sandals Outside the Door

A poem about a boarding house with eight doors and the only pair of sandals outside mine, with a few lines of prose and a small writing exercise about things we pass without seeing.

Oct 19, 2026 · 3 min read

A half-eaten box of rice with chopsticks resting across it on a small desk in a rented room, a pale yellow desk lamp and a dark window behind
Healing

A Letter to Someone Sitting Alone in a Rented Room

A letter written at eight in the evening in a rented room, for someone new to working life who is not used to how quiet it is. It does not tell you to get used to anything. It just sits with you.

Oct 17, 2026 · 3 min read

Two cream ceramic cups on a wooden windowsill, one turned upside down, with a jacket hanging blurred on a door behind them
Healing

What Remains in the Room

A poem about the toothbrush, the jacket on the back of the door and the two cups an ex left behind, with a few lines on not needing to clear them out yet.

Oct 16, 2026 · 2 min read

A small soup bowl and a pair of chopsticks on a wooden table by a window, soft late-day light, a blurred alley behind
Healing

Tết Alone, on the Day Everyone Gathers

Staying in the city on Tết eve while everyone else gathers. A few small things for that night and the first morning, not to make it cheerful, only lighter.

Oct 15, 2026 · 7 min read

Late afternoon sunlight slanting through a window frame onto still water with green moss at the edge of a stone
Healing

Why Anxiety Shows Up on Sunday Evenings

Around five on Sunday afternoon your stomach starts to churn. That worry is not only fear of work tomorrow, and there are small things you can do about it tonight.

Oct 13, 2026 · 8 min read

A worn canvas backpack with a frayed strap on a wooden chair by the door, an open notebook and pen beside it, soft evening light
Healing

Seven Questions to See What You Are Carrying

Tired without being able to say why. Seven handwritten questions, from light to deep, to look at what is on your shoulders, including the things nobody assigned.

Oct 9, 2026 · 6 min read