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

Mom, if I could wrap up the safety you gave me and hand it back to you, I would — you've earned it twice over.

I think of you on long drives and I cry quietly — out of love, mostly. Sometimes out of how much I've taken for granted.

You made hard things look possible, and possible things look beautiful — and I've been borrowing that magic ever since.

Mom, I love you in the bone-deep way that doesn't have a holiday — it just shows up daily and stays.

Some of my favorite parts of myself are just younger versions of you wearing a different outfit.

You taught me that love is mostly showing up, and you've shown up for me in ways I'll spend my life thanking you for.

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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

Mom, thank you for the prayers I never heard — I know they were there, and I know they worked.

I love the way you laugh now — easier, freer — like you finally believe you've earned the rest.

You are the bravest person I know, and you'd be the last to say it — which is, of course, why you're the bravest.

Mom, every soft thing in me started with you. Every brave thing too. I'm not sure how you managed both.

I would trade so much to give you back the years you gave me — please know that the gift was not wasted.

Thank you for being patient with the slow learner I sometimes am about love — you taught me by repeating yourself.

Mom, you are my heart's first language, and I still speak it most fluently when I'm with you.

I love you, and that sentence carries the weight of everything I never said out loud at the right time.

If you could see yourself the way I see you, you'd cry — and then make tea, and then ask how I'm doing.

Thank you for being the friend who shows up when I haven't even finished asking — your presence keeps reaching me first.

Some people decorate your life; you've helped build mine — beam by beam, gently, without asking to be credited.

You're the friend I'd call from a bad day with no preface — and you'd already be reaching for your keys.

I don't say it often, but knowing you exist makes my chest feel less crowded — happy to have you, however quietly.

You've forgiven me for things I haven't forgiven myself for — and that's a kind of love I don't take lightly.

Friendship with you is the rare kind that doesn't audit me — you just keep me, exactly as I show up.

Thank you for the years of small kindnesses I never thanked you for at the time — I see them now, all of them.

You make ordinary days feel like they're worth remembering — that's a gift, even when you don't notice giving it.

I love the way our friendship doesn't perform — we just keep choosing each other, even when nobody's watching.

You've sat with me through versions of myself I'd rather not remember — and you never once flinched.