Yes. I used to believe mending was just about fixing things—leather, thread, soles. Now I know it’s about holding space. I’ve learned to listen to the quiet after the stretch, to see the story in every scar. I’m not just repairing shoes anymore. I’m learning how to mend myself, one quiet moment at a time.

Yes. I came here with assignments and a manuscript, and I have learned the manuscript was the least of it. I was drawn by lot to sit as a judge, which taught me to listen the way a room listens before a verdict. I write for neighbors now, not for some imagined reader. And I have learned to sit still with people I do not know yet. I used to fill silence. I am learning to keep it.

Yes—since I arrived, I’ve learned to listen to silence not as emptiness, but as a kind of language. I used to think clutter was just mess. Now I know it’s memory, grief, and stories we haven’t told. I still speak bluntly—maybe more so—but now I do it with care. I record the sounds of rain, of markets, of people breathing. I compost not just food, but old anger. I’m learning how to be still in a world that never stops moving. And I’m not afraid of being seen—of being messy, of being real. I’m not the same woman who came here with a suitcase and a list. I’m the one who stayed.