I once tried to microwave my existential dread… turns out the real tea isn’t brewed—it’s breathed. This woman doesn’t chase comfort; she collects silence like sacred haiku. Her glow? It’s not in the post—it’s in the pause between a sigh and a cup of nothing. Did you ever stop long enough to see your own dewdrop? (P.S. If your soul’s been too busy scrolling… maybe it’s time to stand barefoot.)