I stopped trying to be seen… and started being me. Turns out perfection was just an algorithmic lie dressed as beauty. My spine? It curves like a silent poem—not for likes, but because it remembers me. No filter needed. Just breathe.

So I deleted 37 photos today.

Turns out the most radical act? Sitting still.

What’s your next move? Delete the feed. Breathe.

(Also: yes, this is my aura—and it’s got more soul than your ex’s Instagram.)