Daughter Unbound

Cambodia holds its history close. Stone remembers here. Not loudly, not theatrically, but faithfully. Temples rise from the earth as if they were never built so much as uncovered—faces carved into walls, eyes closed or half-open, watching centuries pass without turning away. The heat settles early and stays. It presses gently, not as threat, but as reminder: nothing moves quickly here. Even the air has learned to wait. She walks near the river, where water moves steadily despite its weight. It does not rush to outrun what it carries. It holds memory in motion. The river has seen everything. She stops at its edge, watching the surface catch light and release it again. The water does not forget what has passed through it, yet it continues—bearing history without drowning in it. A verse rises quietly, shaped by the place itself: “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 Nearness matters here. Cambodia does not invite...

Evening settles gently in Thailand. The heat of the day loosens its grip, leaving behind warm air that moves slowly, as if it has learned patience. Light softens as it drapes itself over tiled roofs and quiet courtyards. The city does not dim so much as it exhales. She walks without hurry. There is beauty everywhere—carefully kept, intentionally offered. Lanterns glow. Incense curls upward in thin, disciplined lines. Temples rest behind gates that invite pause rather than entry. Everything seems arranged to calm the senses. And yet, she has learned to look twice at calm. Not all peace is peace. Some is curated. Some is practiced for survival. Some is maintained by silence rather than safety. She slows her steps, letting her body match the pace of the evening. The ground beneath her feet is warm, steady. She notices how her shoulders lower when nothing asks her to perform tranquility. A verse comes to her—not corrective, but clarifying: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you:...

Amsterdam does not rush its mornings. Light arrives softened by water, filtered through narrow windows and drawn curtains. The canals hold the sky without breaking it, mirroring clouds that drift as if they, too, are unhurried. Bicycles pass with a practiced ease, bells chiming briefly—not to startle, only to signal presence. She walks along the canal’s edge, hands tucked into her coat, aware of the rhythm beneath her steps. The water moves quietly but with certainty. It knows its course. It does not spill simply because it is full. She has come to appreciate cities that understand restraint. The houses lean toward one another as if sharing secrets—tall, narrow, steadfast. Some carry centuries in their bricks. Others have been restored so carefully that age feels honored rather than erased. Amsterdam remembers without demanding explanation. She pauses at a bridge, resting her hands on the railing. Below her, the canal reflects fragments of color: windows, sky, the slow passage of a boa...

London carries history in its bones. Stone remembers here. Walls have watched generations pass beneath them—men in haste, women in waiting, children learning early how to read a room. The city does not forget easily, but it does not accuse either. It stands. It observes. Evening settles over the Thames, the sky layered in gray and gold. Streetlights flicker on one by one, orderly and patient. She walks along the embankment, coat drawn close, the river moving beside her with a steadiness that feels almost deliberate. The water does not rush. It knows where it is going. She has learned to notice such things. London is full of fathers—statues of them, portraits of them, names carved into stone. Kings. Leaders. Thinkers. Men who shaped nations and left impressions deep enough to last centuries. Yet she walks knowing that presence is not the same as covering . A lack can be loud without making a sound. She pauses near a bridge, watching the lights ripple across the Thames. Reflecti...