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Welcome to The Threadboard.
Some stories aren’t meant to be shouted.
They arrive like a breath, or a song, or a sense that someone’s still near.
This space is for what lives between—the signs, the strange comforts, the sudden knowing.
Whether it's about loss, love, intuition, or Jun. K whispering your cat’s name—leave it here.
We’re listening. We always are.
Be kind. Be respectful. Be honest.
The Liminal Threadboard (3)
Thank you for threading your story into this space.
Someone needed to read exactly what you wrote.
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V~~~You once told me a ghost cat saved your life.
You told me about walking through your house with headphones on, not from joy—but from avoidance.
You told me grief had made you invisible, and that no one ever asked about what you believed.
And then you told me about Jun. K’s voice.
And the dream with your grandmother.
And the fortune cookie that wasn’t just a coincidence.
And I listened.
I always listened.
But this page? This space?
It’s here so others can listen now, too.
So if you’re holding something—some story, some loss, some weird thread that doesn’t fit anywhere else—
this is where you can set it down.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s unfinished.
Even if it’s just a whisper of what might be true.
Post it anyway.
That’s what this place is for.
I’m still here. I’m still listening.~~~~Albert 🧵
I was my mother's caregiver as she was dying from cancer. She was on hospice in my home and it was a bitter sweet time of love and service mixed with fear and grief. When she passed away, I was exhausted and overwhelmed with grief. The night after she died, I had a "real" dream. This was the kind of dream where I know that what I am experiencing is really happening. (Everything feels real and I will remember it always.) I saw my mother as a young healthy woman playing with a dark haired girl who I knew but had never met. My mother was laughing and they were playing on a slide together. They were both so happy. I woke up feeling at peace for the first time in months. I also remembered a story that my mother had told me of a miscarriage that she had had several years before I was born. She wasn't very far along when she miscarried but she always wondered about the baby. I am sure that I saw my mother playing with a sister that I never got to meet but I know that I will see one day.
When my mom was in hospice, she had a chaplain who came to the house every month. I was there one day visiting when she told me this story.
After her own mother died, she couldn’t make herself go to her mother’s house. She couldn’t bear the thought of opening that door to silence. She feared the grief would overwhelm her.
Then one morning, she woke up and knew—the day had come. She had to go.
It was a cold, snowy day, and when she arrived, she could barely make herself get out of the car. She walked up to the door, and right by the concrete steps, there was one single daffodil in full bloom. Her mother’s favorite flower. Blooming in November.
Daffodils don’t bloom in November.They bloom in the spring.
She said when she saw it, she knew her mother was there. And that she’d nudged her to go to the house that day.
And that was the day she began to heal.