Still Yours to Return to

You won’t always walk
in alignment
with who you are.

Sometimes
you’ll try too hard.

Say too little.

Stay too long.

And sometimes—
you’ll twist yourself
just to fit
what was never meant for you.

But the core of you
doesn’t change.

Even when the noise of the world
drowns everything else out—
you are still you.

And that still small voice?

It never left.

It didn’t chase you.

It just stayed—
waiting for you to remember.

It’s not about
never straying.

It’s about noticing when you do—
and choosing
not to stay gone.

—Daughter, Unwritten
What is written in you—endures.

Dear, Angel

Dear Angel,

I don’t know your name.

But I know you’re home.

I felt it—

the day you bent your wings.

The day I almost fell.

You left the light behind.

All the glory.

All the freedom.

Just so I wouldn’t stumble.

You didn’t lift me out.

You stayed in the dark with me.

And that—

that was everything.

I carry you now.

Maybe your name was Mercy.

Or Grace.

Or something I whispered

when I thought no one heard.

Your light

never left.

—Angela Bond

Daughter, Unwritten

What Stayed.

Not everything follows you.
Some things—just arrive.

—

You’ve let go of a lot.
But maybe that’s not the point.

The real question is:
What stayed?

What held through the unraveling?
What still reached for you when you stopped reaching back?
What knew who you were
before you became it?

That’s what matters.
Not who left.
Not what ended.
Not even what healed.

What stayed—
is the part of you
that never needed to be fixed.

The part you didn’t grow into.
The part that never left.

The part time couldn’t reshape—
even when it kept moving.

—

Signed in stillness,
Angela
the voice beneath
Daughter, Unwritten

Everything Happens for a Reason.

I had a rough day, so went for a walk—a leisurely stroll.
Came across a man sitting on the bridge, had a box and a pole.

Looked up at me and nodded as I continued to walk past.
So I smiled and said, “Good evening, sir.” He threw a cast.

Then I heard him say, “Walking is good, but it doesn’t go away.”
I stopped, stood quiet for a moment, I was lost for what to say.
So I walked back to where he stood, and looked at the bay.
It was calm and shimmered hues of gray, brilliant blue.

Before I could speak, he said, “What troubles you?”

My eyes, still fixated on the captivating view,
It took me a moment—maybe two—to reply.
I looked at him slowly turning his line.
He said, “Go on now, don’t be shy, I have all the time.”
Something about him drew me in, I proceeded to explain.

“People don’t listen. They nod, they refrain.
They talk just to talk, point fingers, throw blame.
No one looks deeper. They don’t see what they’ve been given.
They’re moving through life—but not really living.
I don’t know… maybe I’m just trying to make it make sense.
But I can’t tell if it’s me… or the world that’s bent.”

He reeled in slow. Set the rod down.
Spoke with no rush. No smile. No frown.

“Most folks search for light they already stood in.
But they never stop walking long enough to look in.

That box?”
He nudged it forward with his worn old shoe.
“Most think it holds tackle—but if only they knew.

A cane. A raincoat. A photo long torn.
A moment I kept from the day I was born.

Sometimes I come here, not to fish—but to stand.
To feel what I can’t see. To hold still what I can.”

He paused. Let the silence finish his thought.
Then said—

“You think eyes are what see, but they’re only the gate

The soul does the looking—when it stops to wait.

And if truth has a voice, it’s the one we ignore.
The one that’s been whispering long before more.”

The wind stayed still. The water moved with the tide.
And the box at his feet—
held every single thing
he never let outside.

Angela
—The voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

Maybe It’s Just Me

I have feelings.
I have dreams.
I have hopes and wishes
and truths that scream.

I have hurt.
Scars that stay.
Fears I carry
day by day.

Somewhere along the way,
as I kept walking,
I looked around
and noticed—
no one’s talking.

People look inward
but not in a way
that leads to soul
or clears the gray.

Not deep in thought.
Not breaking ground.
Just circling loops
they never found.

They’re here—
but not awake.
A life half-lived
still learns to fake.

We’re more connected
than ever before—
but some don’t even notice
if their child’s walked through the door.

I don’t know.
Maybe it’s me.
Maybe I feel
what others don’t see.

Everything looks real,
but doesn’t feel right.
It’s too much noise,
and not enough light.

It’s more,
but it’s not enough.
People distracted
by surface stuff.

Everyone's masked—
not truth or lies.
Just silence
behind tired eyes.

And no one talks
about what they feel.
Not the raw.
Not the real.

Just today,
I barely said a word
to the woman
whose voice
I once always heard.

I don’t know.
Maybe it’s just me.

Maybe I miss
what used to be—

when someone stayed
and meant it, too.
When opening up
was safe to do.

Now heads are down,
and hearts stay guarded.
It’s like we all
just...
halfway started.

So if we wake up
and still won’t look up,
what are we choosing
to become?

I don’t know.
Maybe it’s me.

Angela
—The voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

Peace Without a Performance

It’s not something you find.
It’s something you choose to keep.

And sometimes—
it finds you first.

Not in a moment of triumph.
Not in a perfect place.
Not when the world finally softens.

But in the middle.
In the mess.
In the stillness that doesn’t ask to be noticed.

Peace like that—
it isn’t loud.
But from where I’m standing,
it’s the loudest sound in the room.

See—
I thought I had to earn it.
Thought I had to chase it.
Thought it lived somewhere I hadn’t been yet.

I thought I had to do something.
Be something.
Fix everything.

I thought I had to wait for life to line up—
to meet it,
to deserve it,
to experience it.
To sit with it.
To become it.

But once you realize the truth—
you find yourself standing in the same place I am.

And when you do—
it won’t matter who’s around you.
It won’t matter what’s around you.

All that will matter
is what you feel in that moment.

And once you feel it—
really feel it
without needing anything or anyone else to hand it to you—
you’ll never go back.

Because now you know:

It was already with you.
Already a part of you.
It stays
when everything else leaves.

It’s quiet
when everything else screams.
It speaks
when everyone else shouts.
And it listens
when no one else knows how.

It’s not something you find.
It’s something you choose to keep.

And maybe—
just maybe—
you already know its name.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.
I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”
—John 14:27

—Angela
The voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

THE MOST POWERFUL WORDS

We think the most powerful words
are the ones we never hear enough:

I love you.
I miss you.
I forgive you.
I am sorry.

But what if power isn’t in being told—
what if it’s in telling?

Because sometimes:
“I miss you” means what was never said.
“I forgive you” means they’ll never say it back.
“I love you” means we still would’ve, even now.
“I’m sorry” means we’re not carrying it anymore.

And that? That costs something.

There’s a silence that follows forgiveness.
A grief that comes with peace.
A kind of healing
that hurts first.

And still—

Grace meets us where we run out.
Mercy holds what should’ve broken by now.

Not because we earned it.
Not because we asked.
But because He already knew.

And that’s when it changes.

We speak:

We found mercy.
We let go.
We are His.
We are saved.
He found us.
It is finished.

And maybe the most powerful one of all:

It is written.
Not by them.
Not by us.
But by the One
who saw the whole story—
and still chose to stay.

—Angela
The Voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

“Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
—John 15:13 (KJV)

“But God, who is rich in mercy,
because of His great love with which He loved us,
even when we were dead in trespasses,
made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved.”
—Ephesians 2:4–5 (NKJV)

Grace steps in.
Mercy holds back.
And love lays down.

I Didn’t Realize It Back Then

I think one of the saddest choices in life
is realizing you looked at someone
with rose-colored glasses—

and then one day,
you finally take them off.

And you see them.
For who they really are.

Not the version you hoped for.
Not the one you made excuses for.
Just... them.

Maybe that version of reality is too much sometimes.
Maybe it was easier living in the world
where you chose to see the good
and overlooked the rest.

I didn’t realize it back then,
but maybe I was protecting myself.
Maybe that was self-preservation in disguise.

So yeah—
I came with the clown nose.
Wore it proudly.
Kept the glasses on.
Chose to see light where there wasn’t any left.

But now?

I don’t need another reason
to remind me of who someone is.
I’ve seen it once—
that’s enough.

Because once you’ve walked through someone’s fire
and made it out without needing to burn again,
you don’t ask for more scars
just to prove you survived.

— Angela
the voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

Silent Whispers

A prayer, when no one else is listening.

---

God—
There’s more inside than I let show,
and still, You see. You always know.
I’ve buried dreams, I’ve held my ground,
but silence is the loudest sound.

A voice You gave—I’ve barely used,
too many days I’ve just refused.
Not out of shame, not out of fear—
but wondering if You’d still be near.

Control feels safer in my hands,
but nothing grows in shifting sands.
I’ve gripped too tight, I’ve planned too much,
yet ache for more than I can touch.

My heart is soft, but scarred and worn.
Not fragile—just a little torn.
I’ve run from love, from being seen—
from what could heal what might have been.

But maybe, Lord, You’re not afraid
of broken things that never prayed.
Maybe this voice, kept locked away,
was never meant for me to say—

until right now.
Until this breath.
Until I lay down all that’s left.

So if I speak—please let it be
from everything You’ve formed in me.
Not perfect words, not polished lines—
just something real
that still aligns
with who You made me—
soft but true.

I only speak
because of You.

Amen.

—Angela

The voice beneath —Daughter, Unwritten ♡

When You Don’t Belong to the Storm Anymore—But the Wind Still Knows Your Name

There are pieces of your past
that stop holding you—
but still whisper sometimes.

Not to pull you back.
Not to undo the healing.
Just to remind you:
you lived through something
that tried to name you.

And even though you’re no longer in the middle of it,
there are moments it still catches you.
In a glance.
In a sound.

In a sudden breath you didn’t know you were holding.

That’s not weakness.
That’s memory.
And memory isn’t always pain—
sometimes it’s just the body remembering who it had to be.

You don’t belong to that storm anymore.
But the wind still knows your name.

And that’s okay.

Because now?
You don’t brace for it.
You don’t apologize for how deeply you once felt it.
You let it pass.
And you stay rooted.
Knowing the storm didn’t name you.
God did.

And He never once called you broken.

He called you through it.
He walked you out.
And now when the wind rises—
you don’t run.
You remember.
And you bless the ground that still holds you.

—Angela
the voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten™

What’s Meant to Stay

It wasn’t easy getting here.
But I got here.

Not because I held on—
but because I finally knew
what wasn’t mine.

Not because I stopped feeling—
but because I finally trusted
what I felt,
without needing it to stay.

Some things enter your life
not to remain,
but to remind you
what you’re capable of touching.

And sometimes—
even almost
is enough.

Even if all I ever touch
is the edge of it—
if it’s worth holding,
then it’s worth
reaching for.

Not everything
needs to be gripped.

Some things
are meant
to pass through you—
so you feel them,
just long enough
to know
you were there.

And even that—
was still worth it.

—Angela
the voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

If You Show Up, Mean It

We live in a world where everything gets taken for granted.
Time. People. Presence.

Everyone wants more.
More attention. More hours.
More from people already giving their best.

And still—
the same complaints.
Not enough time.
Not enough effort.
Not enough care.

Maybe the lesson isn’t in what’s missing.
It’s in what’s already here.

Gratitude is seeing past yourself.
Long enough to notice—
most people are just trying.

Not everyone will match your energy.
That doesn’t make them less.
Doesn’t make you more.

It makes you different.

The mistake is pulling someone else’s energy
to feel taller.

Because when they walk past you—
quiet, steady, still rising—
you’ll realize what you lost
wasn’t them.
It was the version of you
that could’ve met them better.

So if you show up—
mean it.
Own it.
And be someone
you could live with
if it ended right there.

“Show up like it’s the last time you’ll get to.”

—Angela
The Voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

Heroes Have a Special Name

Not every ending wraps in gold.
Some walk out strong,
Some don’t grow old—
But every single one was bold.

They don’t wear capes.
They wear the weight.
They leave in silence.
Show up late—
To birthdays, dinners,
first and last.
They live in future,
miss the past.

They pack up young.
They come back changed.
Some don’t return at all.
Some feel strange—
Like time kept going
without their name,
and everything they knew
not quite the same.

They serve in ways
we’ll never see—
Through distance, doubt,
and loyalty.
They hold their fear
behind a grin,
and carry what
they won’t let in.

And yeah—some made it.
Some did not.
Some gave the only
thing they got.
No stage. No speech.
Just silent grace.
Another name,
another place.

Some got yellow ribbons
tied to trees.
Some got gold stars
and folded grief.
But all of them,
in life or loss—
paid a price
we still can't toss.

So if you ask
who wears it best—
the kind of brave
that never rests—
I’ll say it plain,
no need to add:
I call my hero
my Dad.

—Angela Bond

The Silence That Taught Me to Speak

Too often, we try to fill the silence with noise,
afraid to be alone, as if we have no choice.

Just to be heard, we reach for a sound,
but what’s the point if no truth is found?

And even when voices fade, their words remain,
taking up space, leaving whispers of pain.

We should guard this space, protect it as gold,
yet we trade it for stories so carelessly told.

A clear invitation for doubt to reside,
I sat with the quiet, let stillness surround,
and heard my own voice—it was always profound.

Freed from the weight of the world’s empty views,
I let go of their noise and found my own truth.

Let them believe I am fragile or weak,
but silence, not sound, taught me to speak.

And that—no one can take again,
certainly not without permission.

—Angela
The Voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

When Her World Dims

When her world dims, I won’t lose grace—
I’ll guide her steps through every place.
Through unseen paths and rocky ground,
She’ll find her way where love is found.

The world may blur before her eyes,
But not her trust—that never dies.
She’s lit my soul in darkened days,
In silent looks and steady gaze.

And so I’ll be the light she needs,
In whispered calls and gentle leads.
For every time she lit up mine,
I’ll give her back that sacred sign.

No fear will walk beside her pace—
Not while I breathe, not in this space.
And though the world may start to hide,
She’ll always have me as her guide.

As long as she is here to stay,
I’ll walk her through the fading gray.
For she has shown me love so true—
And now I’ll be the eyes she knew.

She once lit the way for me—
now I carry the flame for her.

— Angela Bond
Daughter, Unwritten

He’s Not in the Background Anymore

I thought I had changed—
I thought it was enough.

I’m ashamed to admit it—
but I fit Him in.

And yet—He is the reason for this.
For the word.
For this project.
For this gift.
For me.
And still... I fit Him in.

I thought if I just wrote from a place of honesty—
of presence, of loss, of growth—
that it would hold.
And for a while, it did.

But somewhere in the stillness,
I remembered something I had buried:

I was never meant to carry the weight of truth alone.
Because truth isn’t mine to own.
It’s His.

This isn’t just my story.
It never was.

So, I’m making it known now—
not because I’m starting over,
but because I’m returning.

Returning to the foundation
I tried to honor in silence.
But silence isn’t reverence
if it keeps Him in the background.

God isn’t beneath the words anymore.
He’s the reason I write them.

—Angela
The Voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

The Blueprint My Heart Memorized

I used to think I just had a type.
But maybe it wasn’t the people.
It was the pattern.

They weren’t all the same—
but they all had something in common.
And that part?
That’s for me to know.

I’m not writing this to explain it.
I’m writing it
because I know I’m not the only one.

Maybe you know what that is for you.
Maybe you didn’t—
until now.

Or maybe these words won’t draw it out of you at all.
And that’s okay, too.

But if it doesn’t make you happy—
my hope
is that you see it.

And that you begin to live
not in reaction to your past,
but in alignment
with what is true
to your heart.

Not the pattern your mind created.
Not the wall no one could climb.

Just this:

What feels familiar
isn’t always what feels right.

And when you finally see the pattern—
you don’t have to run from it.
You just stop following it.

That’s how the story changes.
Not all at once.
But quietly—
the moment you choose something else.

—Angela Bond
The voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

You Kept Going—So She Could Exist.

She didn’t need you to be perfect.
Just present.

Not for the big moment.
But for the one like this—
where you almost gave up,
but you didn't.

Maybe she doesn’t say much.
Maybe she just nods.
But you feel it.
And somehow,
you keep going
for her.

And she is proud of you—
Not for what you accomplished—
But for being strong.
For choosing her.
For celebrating the smallest wins.
For learning to embrace progress, not perfection.
And—
Loving you in the moments she needed most.

—Angela
The Voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

Direction Takes Distance

Have you ever quietly wanted to leave the room—
even though it’s filled with people you love?

Not because they failed you.
But because you forgot how to hear yourself inside it.

Sometimes loyalty gets loud.
And the longer you stay,
the harder it is to remember what silence sounds like.

You can’t fully inhale
in a room you’re trying to escape.
You can’t exhale
until you open the door.

Distance doesn’t always mean disconnection.
Sometimes it’s devotion in its rawest form—
the kind that walks away,
not to disappear—
but to breathe.
To listen.
To return with clarity.

You don’t owe anyone your presence
if it costs you your alignment.
And alignment?
It’s not found in what others see.
It’s found in what finally feels still.

And sometimes—
stillness waits on the other side of the door.

“Sacred distance is a silent direction—follow inward, not outward.”

—Angela

the voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten

The Name in Ashes

I don’t rise from the ashes—
I write my name with them.