trillion wishesa paper deck of things to say
Random Favorites JUN 2026 25 Calendar
Fresh today · Thursday, 25 June

New Wishes

A handful of wishes pulled from the cabinet this morning. Pick one up — copy, save it to your pinboard, or send it on.

Drawn at dawn
Wishes in the library
92,976

I'll love you through every version of you that comes next — the tired one, the brave one, the one I haven't met yet.

Thank you for being patient with the parts of me that are still under construction — your patience is rebuilding me.

You are my favorite thing the world ever offered me, and I have refused to take that for granted a single day.

I love you in the way that doesn't need an audience — quietly, daily, and exactly where you stand.

Some days I forget to breathe deeply, and then you walk in, and my chest remembers — happy us, always.

You make my life feel less like a list of things to survive and more like a story worth staying inside of.

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What are we writing today?

Cabinets sorted by occasion. Open one — pages are arranged by warmth, not algorithm.

More from today

I love you — and that sentence keeps growing roots, no matter how many times I say it out loud.

If my heart had a window, yours is the face I'd want framed in it every evening I come home.

Mom, I've spent years trying to find words big enough for what you've done — they don't exist, so please accept these small ones.

I think of all the meals, the rides, the late nights — and I know now that love is mostly stamina, and you have it.

You loved me through versions of myself I'm still apologizing for — and you never once kept score.

Mom, you taught me how to be human by being one yourself, plainly, without ever asking for credit.

I'm the woman I am because of the woman you've been — and I'm only starting to understand how much that cost you.

Thank you for the years you put yourself last so I could put myself anywhere at all.

Some days I just want to call you and say nothing — your voice on the line is the whole point.

You held me before I could remember being held, and I still feel it on the days I most need to.

Mom, you're the soft, steady evidence that I was loved before I ever had to earn it.

I see now how often you were tired — and how often you smiled anyway. I don't take that lightly.

You are the first house I ever lived in, and parts of me will always pay rent there.

Mom, thank you for the love that arrived without explanation — the kind that didn't need to be asked for to show up.

I love you in the way only a child can love a mother — clumsily, fiercely, and not nearly often enough.

Every kind thing I do, I learned from watching you — usually when you didn't know anyone was watching.

Mom, I owe you for the laughter you protected, the fear you absorbed, the courage you handed me piece by piece.

You are the reason I know what home means — and the reason I keep trying to build something half as warm.

Thank you for never giving up on the difficult parts of me. They've gotten better. They've gotten better because of you.