Brittle Sounds

If you’ve read this piece already, you know it’s quiet.

Carefully unraveled.

Not a declaration, but a remembering.

Earlier, I recorded this podcast version of Vulnerability Is My Superpower — giving voice to the pauses, the cracks, and the quiet strength in the becoming.

If you're someone who finds meaning in the spoken word—or if you just want to hear the rhythm of how it was meant to be felt—this version might land differently.

Not polished. Not hardened. But tender, open.Not certain. Still becoming.

Click here to read the full piece

If the audio resonates, I’d love to know.And if you’re not yet subscribed to Brittle Views, you can do that below—it’s free, and it means a lot.

Still becoming,—Robert

I've lived in a condo in downtown St. Pete for the past three years. There’s limited street parking for residents, and most spots are a few blocks away. Even now, I sometimes forget where I parked. And since I mostly walk everywhere, a couple of days might pass before I need the car again.

It used to bother me, not knowing exactly where it was. Now I find it almost funny.

That’s where this story began—with a memory of my first few weeks here. Luckily for me, the city stayed exactly where I left it.

Love isn’t measured by how it feels when everything’s easy—it’s measured by how it holds when things get hard.

Over time, I’ve come to believe that real strength in a relationship doesn’t always look like having the answers.Sometimes, it looks like staying present.Like choosing softness when it would be easier to shut down.Like returning to each other, even when things feel fragile.

These aren’t answers, just reflections. Six truths I’ve come to trust—not because they’re tidy or universal, but because they’ve helped love hold when it mattered most.

When It Matters Most: Six Truths About What Holds

When love feels light—when days are easy and laughter flows—it’s tempting to believe you’ve built something strong.

But real strength doesn’t show up in the good times.It reveals itself when things get hard.

When emotions run high.When one or both of you are stretched thin.When something is lost, or fragile, or uncertain.

That’s when a relationship quietly asks: Can this hold?Not with fireworks—but in the pause after a hard conversation.In the silence when no one knows what to say—but stays anyway.

How we respond—how we show up for ourselves, for each other, and for the space between us—shapes the kind of love we’re building.

Here’s what I’ve learned about what holds.

1. Held, Not Fixed

We talk about trust, but emotional safety is what makes trust possible.

It’s knowing you can bring all of yourself—even the uncertain, unpolished, and overwhelmed parts—and be met with presence, not judgment.

It’s knowing that saying “I’m not okay” won’t be treated like a problem to fix or a burden to carry.It will be heard.

This kind of love doesn’t rescue or retreat.It stays near. It listens. It steadies.

It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be.But it’s one of the deepest forms of love there is.

2. Love With Edges

In strong relationships, boundaries don’t create distance.They create sustainability.

They say:“I want to stay close to you, but I can’t disappear to do it.”“I’ll support you, but not at the cost of my own well-being.”“This is what I can give. This is what I can’t.”

Boundaries don’t push people out.They make it possible to stay in—without losing yourself.

And when things feel fragile, those boundaries may be what make love possible—when it matters most.

3. With, Not For

Loving someone doesn’t mean carrying their pain for them.

It means saying:“I’m here.”“I see you.”“I trust you to navigate this—and I’m not going anywhere.”

Support doesn’t mean fixing.It means staying present while someone finds their own strength.

That’s not distance.That’s respect.

4. Truth With an Open Hand

Hard conversations are part of any real relationship.What matters is how we bring truth into the room.

Truth that builds connection sounds like:“This matters to me—and so do you.”“That hurt, but I still want to stay close.”“Something needs to change, and I want to find a way through it—together.”

Truth that lands well doesn’t wound.It invites.

When it’s spoken with care, it almost always holds.

5. Let It Break, Then Mend

Even the strongest relationships falter.We get tired. We shut down. We mess it up.

The goal isn’t flawlessness.It’s repair.

Repair means taking responsibility for the impact—not just the intention.It means saying:“I see how I hurt you.”“Let’s find our way back.”

It may not be quick or graceful—but in healthy relationships, it happens.And the relationship is all the stronger for it.

6. Strength in the Soft Places

When life overwhelms, it’s tempting to pull away.To armor up. To protect. To close.

But real strength isn’t in the armor.It’s in the softness that stays open—even when it’s hard.

In my experience, the moments we most want to avoid—the vulnerable, emotionally tangled ones—are often where the most healing can happen, if we’re brave enough to stay in the room.

That kind of softness isn’t weakness.It’s emotional maturity.

And it’s what makes love resilient.

When It Matters Most

So much of what we call strength in love is really just endurance.But resilient love is different.

It doesn’t demand perfection.It doesn’t collapse under pressure.It doesn’t ask you to disappear to keep the peace.

Instead, it invites you to stay open.To speak honestly.To return—again and again—even when it’s hard.

The strongest relationships aren’t measured by how they shine in sunlight—but by how they hold when everything feels uncertain. That’s when love shows its strength.

That’s when it matters most.

Thanks for reading Brittle Views. If it resonated, you’re welcome to subscribe.

 ‘Folded Small’ is a story about presence. The kind that doesn't demand, doesn't rescue, but simply stays. Set in the hush of an afterschool classroom, it traces the quiet connection between a teacher and a boy who's learning how to take up space again. No declarations. No sudden breakthroughs. Just the slow, deliberate turning of someone back toward the light.

It's a story about what changes, when we choose not to look away.

Folded Small

The mug was chipped at the rim, its cartoon owl bleached to a soft outline—faded like something remembered too often. Ms. Everett filled it anyway. Instant hot chocolate, stirred with care. Steam curled in silence.

She set it on the table between them.

Jayden didn’t reach for it. He traced a groove in the laminate, one etched deep by years of pencils and lunchboxes. His finger paused at a knot in the grain, then moved on—as if even stillness cost something.

Outside, rain blurred the playground into smudges. The wire fence leaned into the wind. Somewhere down the corridor, chairs scraped against linoleum. Year Four had gone home.

She stayed with the quiet of her classroom. The radiator clicked. The kettle cooled beside the sink. The sweet, chocolaty aroma lingered between them, unanswered.

Jayden had been shrinking for weeks—not in height, though his jumper sagged at the shoulders, but in presence. He took up less space. When he spoke, his voice barely crossed the air between them.

The others said it was a phase. Growth. Mood. He’d catch up. Ms. Everett had learned not to name things too quickly. Once you named them, people stopped seeing.

She glanced at the mug. The steam was thinning now, a slow surrender. “It’ll cool soon,” she said.

Jayden shrugged. The motion barely moved his jumper.

That morning, during silent reading, she’d watched him peel the label from his water bottle—strip by strip. The scraps gathered in a neat pile at the edge of his desk. When the bell rang, they were gone.

The first note wasn’t planned. A scrap of register paper. The corner torn. He’d lingered after the bell, staring at a scuff on the floor as if it might open. Her hand moved before her mind did.

"You don’t have to explain why you’re quiet."

She'd folded it twice. Tucked it into the drawer—the one that already knew how to keep quiet—beside unused pens, lesson plans, and a few small toys confiscated over the years.

More notes followed. Written in margins. On the backs of worksheets. In ink or pencil. Always folded small.

"You matter, even when you don’t raise your hand."

"You’re not small. The world just doesn’t always know how to hold you."

There’d been years she didn’t speak much either. Not in words that mattered.

She never gave him the notes. She let them rest, still and unspoken, in the hush between noticing and naming.

He shifted now, fingers curling at the edge of his sleeve. For a moment, she thought he might speak. Instead, he looked at her—then back to the mug. His hands stayed in his lap.

She rose, careful not to break whatever this was. Some silences didn’t want answers. Just company.

"Take your time," she said. "I’ll be just down the hall."

He nodded. Slight. Sat, like the quiet belonged to him now too.

She didn’t see him reach. But he did.

He held the mug with both hands, like he wasn’t sure it would stay warm. The old owl caught the light.

The next morning, the drawer was ajar.

The stack of notes had shifted. One was missing. The toys were untouched.

She didn’t search for it.

Later, during morning lessons, Jayden raised his hand.

Not for anything urgent. Just to sharpen his pencil.

But he met her eyes when he did.

She nodded, carefully.

And by the window in the staff room, the houseplant had turned toward the light—subtle, but certain.

Quiet stories, folded carefully. Subscribe below—if you’d like.

Welcome to the first in a new series I’m calling Flashback Friday—a space to revisit past work that still echoes forward. Some pieces marked a shift in perspective. Others helped me name something I hadn’t been ready to before. All of them shaped the writer—and the person—I’ve become.

Each Friday, I’ll bring back an older essay or poem, add context around when and why it was written, and reflect on what’s changed since. Sometimes I’ll read it aloud too—because some stories ask to be heard.

Let’s Do the Time Warp Together

Back in December 2022, I wrote the piece below as part of what I thought was the final stretch of compiling my poetry collection, Love & Loss. But as I got closer to the finishing line, I realized I wasn’t actually finished. I had more to process—and more poems to write. So I gave myself the rare gift of time.

 Since then, I've released my first book, a collection of short stories called 'The Shape of Silence' that just happens to be on sale at Amazon right now, and I'm preparing to publish my debut novel this fall. With those milestones in motion, I've now set a clear date for the poetry collection. Love and Loss will be published on my 65th birthday next March.

What This Poem Opened Up

 The piece I’m sharing today began as a letter to my mum and then became a poem. But more than that, it became a reckoning—a way of finally laying down nearly fifty years of resentment. Writing it didn’t erase anything. It didn’t rewrite the past. But it helped me see it more clearly—and gave me the freedom to let it go.

Looking back now, I still think it’s one of the most honest—and liberating—things I’ve ever written. It helped me stop flinching from the hard stuff. It gave me full permission to move through life—and relationships—with more clarity, more compassion, and less fear.

It taught me that asking “why?” is almost always more powerful than fixating on “what.” That we're all human. That we mess things up. And that sometimes, the only way through is to meet the past with honesty—and then choose to move forward anyway.

If I could speak to the version of me who wrote this, I’d simply say:Thank you.For doing the hard work you didn’t have to do.For proving that honesty with yourself really is the best policy.

The Original Introduction

I’m now in the home straight of finalizing Love & Loss, which will be out early in the New Year. It’s been a cathartic process to revisit and curate almost half a century’s worth of my writing. Along the way, I’ve learned a lot about myself—about the paths I’ve followed, where I am now, and what I want to do next.

In introducing the title track, Love & Loss, I’d like to share an excerpt from the book’s introduction:

“My mother died when I was 17, after a very long illness. Her health had declined throughout my teenage years, and we had known that she was dying for 3 or 4 years before her death.Looking back now, I see that the weight of that loss muddied the love that I felt for her, and from her. I was lost, sad, angry, frustrated, hurt, and resentful.

When a loved one dies after a long illness, it feels like a double whammy. Not only have you lost that person from your life, but you lose the version of yourself that had been supporting them through their illness.

Love & Loss

‘Love & Loss’ is the first poem I’ve ever written about my mum. Like much of my more recent work, it arrived fully formed, spilling out onto the screen. In reality, almost forty-five years is a pretty long gestation period.

I see now that for all that time, I had been resenting her: for having so little emotional bandwidth when I was young; for getting sick; for dying so early—at just forty-nine.

I was still seeing things through the eyes of a child. And I had dragged that hurt through my entire adult life.

As the poem says, I’ve decided I’ve mourned enough. And instead of grieving what wasn’t, I’ve chosen to celebrate what was.

LOVE & LOSS

Sometimeswe get so wrapped up in lossthat we fail to witness love writ large

Remembering our relationshipsby what they were notrather than by all that they were

Sometimesrelationships end all too soonLoved ones leaveThey changeThey growThey die

SometimesLoved ones stayAnd it’s the love that leavesThe love that dies

I’ve mourned for all that we didn’t haveI’ve grieved for the ‘could have beens’For the ‘should have beens’

Enough, I say.I’ve mourned enough.

It’s time to celebrate—All that wasAll that you wereAll that you still are

You are still present in my lifeAnd I choose to see youChoosing to welcome you inChoosing to feel your presenceChoosing to hear you  in my wordsChoosing to see you  in my reflectionChoosing to be enveloped  in your love

If this resonates, you’re warmly invited to subscribe to Brittle Views, or to share this with someone navigating their own reckoning—with a parent, a memory, or a version of themselves they’re ready to release.

Next Friday, I’ll revisit another piece—this time a poem—and reflect on what still feels true, and what I’ve since let go.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

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A narrated version of my essay, The Club I Thought I’d Joined.

It’s a reflection on what it meant—for me—to become American. The belief I carried in the story of this country. The slow realization that the story was more fragile—and more fractured—than I’d imagined. And the choice to stay, not because of the myth, but in spite of it.

It’s about belonging, disillusionment, and the quiet responsibility of bearing witness.

You can read the full text here:👉 https://www.brittleviews.com/p/the-club-i-thought-id-joined

A narrated version of my essay, “The Quiet Work of Love.”

It’s a reflection on what love really looks like—when it’s not performative or perfect, but honest, imperfect, and quietly persistent.

You can read the full text here: https://www.brittleviews.com/p/the-quiet-work-of-love

This poem is my reflection on a crazy week in American life, where the Republican Administration’s tariff policy has pushed stocks down into bear market territory (the S&P 500 is down 14%, the Dow is down 12%, and the Nasdaq is down nearly 16%) and over 3.5 million people joined forces in over 1300 #HandsOff protests on Saturday, all across the country.

Reflecting over the weekend, I feel that it marks a shift—not just in the streets, but in the atmosphere.

Feet on pavement. Signs in hand. Not a roar, but a pulse. The sound of waking up.

This piece is about that moment when the crowd becomes something more than bodies—when presence becomes proof, and resonance becomes power.

Not inevitability—but ignition.

Three million heartsbeating in rhythm,writing resolveon cardboardand sidewalks.

Thank you for listening to Brittle Sounds. If it speaks to something in you, subscribe. This is where I’ll keep writing from.

*If you’d prefer to read, you’ll find the written version here:

Yesterday, I stood among thousands coming together to fill every key downtown intersection in St. Petersburg’s Hands Off protest—a gathering not of spectacle, but of presence. It wasn’t rage that stayed with me afterward, but something quieter. Something deeper.

What I’m sharing today is a reflection that grew out of that experience. It’s not commentary—it’s what remained in my chest after the signs were lowered and the noise receded.

*If you’d prefer to read, you’ll find the written version of this reflection here:

And for context, the piece that came just before it: