Threshold
A collection
Thirty liturgies
For the seasons
no one prepared you for.
Language for the divorce, the diagnosis, the long middle of a hard thing. Not advice. Not a fix. A companion you can hold in the bad hour, written to let your body actually exhale.
A PDF · 46 pages · instant download
You wake up and you know.
Before the coffee. Before the day asks anything of you. Some quiet part of your body has already decided, and now the rest of you has to catch up.
Let it be true for one minute.
You don't have to do anything with it yet.
What's inside
Thirty pieces, arranged like a season — from the first knowing through the long middle to the morning you notice the light again.
I · First knowing
- 01For the morning you wake up knowing
- 02For the night you knew
- 03For the conversation you cannot un-have
- 04For the ring you took off
- 05For the body that keeps the score
- 06For the diagnosis in the doctor's mouth
- 07For eating something while you cry
- 08For the shower you finally took
II · The long middle
- 09For the friend who said the wrong thing
- 10For the friend who said nothing at all
- 11For the mother you cannot tell yet
- 12For the child watching you be brave
- 13For the hour you are tired of being brave
- 14For the email you have to send
- 15For the Sunday that has no shape
- 16For the bed that is now only yours
- 17For the apartment with the wrong echo
- 18For the anger that arrived late
- 19For the day the lawyer called
- 20For the question 'how are you'
- 21For the way grief comes back in October
- 22For the first holiday alone
- 23For the birthday you did not want
- 24For the anniversary of the worst day
III · The light again
- 25For the small kindness from a stranger
- 26For the laugh that surprised you
- 27For the morning the light looked different
- 28For the thing you can finally say out loud
- 29For the woman you are becoming
- 30For the self that was waiting for you
You are so tired of being brave.
Of the steady voice. The competent email. The way you arrange your face before you open the door.
Put it down for an hour.
The brave will still be there when you pick it back up.
Who this is for
The woman whose marriage is ending.
The one whose body has betrayed her.
The one rebuilding a life she didn't choose.
The one who is fine, mostly, except for at 3am.
The one who needs language that doesn't pretend to fix it.
The light is different this morning.
Not better. Not a sign. Just different — the way it falls across the floor you have walked a thousand times while you were not looking.
You are still here.
Notice that. Don't make it mean anything yet.
The writer
I'm Bukola. I started writing these for myself, in a season I didn't have language for, because nothing I was handed felt true to the size of it.
They are not advice. They are not theology. They are the sentences I needed someone to say out loud — quietly, without hurrying me through.
If they meet you somewhere, I'm glad.
The collection
Liturgies for
the Threshold
Thirty liturgies, delivered as a single PDF designed to be printed and held. Yours to keep, return to, give away.
Instant download · PDF · 46 pages