A Gentle Index
If you're new here, or just a little tender today, this is a gentle way in.
SomEpiphany wasn’t built for skimming.
It isn’t a timeline, a pitch deck, or a place to scroll past yourself.
There’s no rush.
No doom-scroll trap.
No lesson plan to keep up with.
Just lively rooms.
A collection of things I’ve written down while trying to make sense of life.
Thank you for reading them.
Some are sharp.
Some are soft.
Some are still unfolding.
If you’re not sure where to begin, or just need a beginning that doesn’t ask too much, here’s a gentle index.
(1) By feeling — if you're led by mood, memory, or the shape of your heart today.
(2) Or by form — if you're drawn to rhythm: an essay, a poem, a letter, a gentle unravelling.
Either way, these pieces open like windows.
(Let instinct guide you. It usually knows!)
-Charlene Iris
Browse by Feeling:
🌫️ For Becoming:
The messy middle. The stretch between who you were, are, and who you're not yet.
🌑For the Heavier Days:
The ache with no obvious exit. The weight that doesn't want to be fixed.
🍀For Gentle Hope:
Small light. Earned gently. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself.
🕯️For After Loss:
Not just grief. Not quite closure. Just the lingering shape of what's no longer there.
🌊 For Reflection:
When meaning isn't urgent. Just present.
✨Mildly Chaotic & Humorous Dispatches:
The pieces where I spiral with flair. The mildly unhinged ones. Mostly, they live somewhere between existential dread and oddly tender comedy. Think: caffeinated overthinking. Soft panic, lightly poetic. Wisdom in sweatpants.
❣️The Ones That Stay With Me:
Some pieces arrive whole. Others arrive slowly, over weeks, in the shower, on the subway,
in the silence between who I am and who I'm trying to be. These are the ones I've kept close, the ones that still tug at my heartstrings. The ones that felt like they were saying something true. Even if I didn't know what.
I return to them. Maybe you will too.
Browse by Form:
🪶 Poems:
Breath-sized truths. Some of these rhyme, some just feel like they might. All of them live between pause and pulse.
🖋️ Essays:
Slow spirals. Thought-maps. Musings with soft spines. These are the longer pieces, the ones that stretch, reflect, and unravel. Some are clear-eyed, others gently lost. All of them mean it, even when they change their minds halfway through.
🍥Musings:
Not quite essays. Not quite poems. The ones that showed up mid-thought and stayed anyway. These tend to spiral, to joke, to confess out of nowhere. I don't know what else to call them, so I call them mine.