Welcome to the Porch

Honoring the slow, sacred unfolding of self.

I’m giving my safe space a shape beyond my mind, one I can return to often and pour into with purpose.

I'm starting this blog because I need to remember who I am when I’m not trying so hard to be understood.

My Mind Built a Porch Long Before I Could Name It

When the world felt too loud, too heavy, or too rigid, I’d retreat inward to a quiet, imaginary front porch. A place that wasn’t quite inside with all its structure, and not quite outside with all its noise. Just… in between.

That’s where I belong.

In-between.

Too strategic for the dreamers, too dreamy for the suits.

Too spiritual for the linear thinkers, too logical for the mystics.

The porch lets me be all of it, and none of it, without explanation.

Writing As a Form of Becoming

I'm not writing for applause. I am writing to hear myself think. To put language to the soft truths I’ve silenced for years. To process my past, untangle internalized expectations, and reimagine what’s possible.

This blog is my journal, my blueprint, my prayer. It’s a place for me to unlearn, unravel, and rebuild, one honest sentence at a time.

What If No One Reads It?

Then I will still write. Because the "act" of creating helps me come home to myself. And in a world that constantly pulls us outward, toward productivity and performance, that kind of return is everything.

If someone reads this and sees themselves in my story, that's beautiful. But this blog isn’t a stage. It’s a sacred space. A mirror. A homecoming.

& Company Means I'm Not Alone

The “& Company” part of Frontporch & Company matters deeply to me. It's not just for anyone who finds themselves nodding along in recognition. It's for the many versions of myself I’m learning to welcome home.

• The little girl who daydreamed under trees.

• The woman I’m becoming, unedited.

• Jesus, in the quiet.

• Friends and family who love me in my weird, my wonder, and my wiring.

• You, if you’re willing to sit beside me awhile.

  
  

We weren’t meant to unravel alone.

A Final Word, Before the Stories Begin

This isn’t content.

It’s compost - slow, real, healing.

If you stay, may it nourish something in you, too.

And if you don’t, I’ll still be here.

On the porch.

Tea in hand.

Thread by thread, becoming.

With love and belonging,

Priscilla

Frontporch & Company