Sarb Randhawa
@sarbrandhawa.bsky.social
Once Lost in noise, I found quiet. 🌿
Now, I write—
Letters on what heals, what lingers, and what never quite leaves.
Slow reflections, twice a month. 🍂
better-blueprint.beehiiv.com
Now, I write—
Letters on what heals, what lingers, and what never quite leaves.
Slow reflections, twice a month. 🍂
better-blueprint.beehiiv.com
Pinned
Sarb Randhawa
@sarbrandhawa.bsky.social
· Jun 24
🌿 If you've just arrived…
I write letters that feel like old light —
gathered from still moments, soft silences,
and the small things we carry but never name.
They go out twice a month. Unhurried. Unpolished.
If that sounds like something you’d sit with—
you’re welcome : shorturl.at/7UugR
I write letters that feel like old light —
gathered from still moments, soft silences,
and the small things we carry but never name.
They go out twice a month. Unhurried. Unpolished.
If that sounds like something you’d sit with—
you’re welcome : shorturl.at/7UugR
Before I learned how
to put myself back together,
I wandered for a while
through the ruins—
a solemn, wondrous place
where shadows spoke softly
and I met parts of my soul
I had never been introduced to.
Fragments that had lived in me
all along,
just waiting to be seen.
to put myself back together,
I wandered for a while
through the ruins—
a solemn, wondrous place
where shadows spoke softly
and I met parts of my soul
I had never been introduced to.
Fragments that had lived in me
all along,
just waiting to be seen.
August 12, 2025 at 10:19 AM
Before I learned how
to put myself back together,
I wandered for a while
through the ruins—
a solemn, wondrous place
where shadows spoke softly
and I met parts of my soul
I had never been introduced to.
Fragments that had lived in me
all along,
just waiting to be seen.
to put myself back together,
I wandered for a while
through the ruins—
a solemn, wondrous place
where shadows spoke softly
and I met parts of my soul
I had never been introduced to.
Fragments that had lived in me
all along,
just waiting to be seen.
He did not seek stone walls, nor the echo of chants.
Only sun on wood, water below, and a silence vast enough to hold his longing.
There, on the old deck of a boat, prayer rose — not from ritual, but from stillness.
Because when the heart is honest, even the wind bows in reverence.
Only sun on wood, water below, and a silence vast enough to hold his longing.
There, on the old deck of a boat, prayer rose — not from ritual, but from stillness.
Because when the heart is honest, even the wind bows in reverence.
August 12, 2025 at 10:07 AM
He did not seek stone walls, nor the echo of chants.
Only sun on wood, water below, and a silence vast enough to hold his longing.
There, on the old deck of a boat, prayer rose — not from ritual, but from stillness.
Because when the heart is honest, even the wind bows in reverence.
Only sun on wood, water below, and a silence vast enough to hold his longing.
There, on the old deck of a boat, prayer rose — not from ritual, but from stillness.
Because when the heart is honest, even the wind bows in reverence.
I learned something beautiful today:
Octopuses taste with their skin.
Not just their arms—their whole body.
Makes you wonder what we’re holding without knowing.
A glance. A voice. We say we forget. But maybe only the brain does.
The rest of you remembers. Quietly.
Octopuses taste with their skin.
Not just their arms—their whole body.
Makes you wonder what we’re holding without knowing.
A glance. A voice. We say we forget. But maybe only the brain does.
The rest of you remembers. Quietly.
August 8, 2025 at 12:00 PM
I learned something beautiful today:
Octopuses taste with their skin.
Not just their arms—their whole body.
Makes you wonder what we’re holding without knowing.
A glance. A voice. We say we forget. But maybe only the brain does.
The rest of you remembers. Quietly.
Octopuses taste with their skin.
Not just their arms—their whole body.
Makes you wonder what we’re holding without knowing.
A glance. A voice. We say we forget. But maybe only the brain does.
The rest of you remembers. Quietly.
Everyone says, “Let it go.”
But not all weight is a burden.
Some things anchor you to who you are.
A promise. A grief. A dream not yet bloomed.
You don’t have to be light to be free.
Just know what’s holding you back—
and what’s holding you still.
But not all weight is a burden.
Some things anchor you to who you are.
A promise. A grief. A dream not yet bloomed.
You don’t have to be light to be free.
Just know what’s holding you back—
and what’s holding you still.
August 5, 2025 at 9:17 AM
Everyone says, “Let it go.”
But not all weight is a burden.
Some things anchor you to who you are.
A promise. A grief. A dream not yet bloomed.
You don’t have to be light to be free.
Just know what’s holding you back—
and what’s holding you still.
But not all weight is a burden.
Some things anchor you to who you are.
A promise. A grief. A dream not yet bloomed.
You don’t have to be light to be free.
Just know what’s holding you back—
and what’s holding you still.
Some words smell like summer on your skin.
Chlorine. Crushed grass.
The creak of a swing you thought was gone.
Funny how a few words online
can open a door back to your childhood—
and suddenly, you're barefoot again. 🍃🛝
Chlorine. Crushed grass.
The creak of a swing you thought was gone.
Funny how a few words online
can open a door back to your childhood—
and suddenly, you're barefoot again. 🍃🛝
July 30, 2025 at 4:51 AM
Some words smell like summer on your skin.
Chlorine. Crushed grass.
The creak of a swing you thought was gone.
Funny how a few words online
can open a door back to your childhood—
and suddenly, you're barefoot again. 🍃🛝
Chlorine. Crushed grass.
The creak of a swing you thought was gone.
Funny how a few words online
can open a door back to your childhood—
and suddenly, you're barefoot again. 🍃🛝
People fight over land.
They bleed for views, for postcodes. But the most valuable land? The empire between your ears, sits unguarded. Forgotten.
We protect passwords, renovate kitchens, but not thoughts.
But this land—your inner world—is ancestral.
Sacred. Yours by birthright.
They bleed for views, for postcodes. But the most valuable land? The empire between your ears, sits unguarded. Forgotten.
We protect passwords, renovate kitchens, but not thoughts.
But this land—your inner world—is ancestral.
Sacred. Yours by birthright.
July 28, 2025 at 5:44 AM
People fight over land.
They bleed for views, for postcodes. But the most valuable land? The empire between your ears, sits unguarded. Forgotten.
We protect passwords, renovate kitchens, but not thoughts.
But this land—your inner world—is ancestral.
Sacred. Yours by birthright.
They bleed for views, for postcodes. But the most valuable land? The empire between your ears, sits unguarded. Forgotten.
We protect passwords, renovate kitchens, but not thoughts.
But this land—your inner world—is ancestral.
Sacred. Yours by birthright.
We’re all travellers of memory, finding pieces of home in
unexpected places. A stranger’s kindness.
A line in a poem. A certain kind of sky.
Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
unexpected places. A stranger’s kindness.
A line in a poem. A certain kind of sky.
Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
July 27, 2025 at 10:42 AM
We’re all travellers of memory, finding pieces of home in
unexpected places. A stranger’s kindness.
A line in a poem. A certain kind of sky.
Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
unexpected places. A stranger’s kindness.
A line in a poem. A certain kind of sky.
Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
Window weather.
When the light looks warm but the wind still bites.
Some hearts live like that—
glowing on the surface, carrying quiet cold inside.
Love is noticing. Not the sun pretending it's fine,
but the warmth that stays anyway.
When the light looks warm but the wind still bites.
Some hearts live like that—
glowing on the surface, carrying quiet cold inside.
Love is noticing. Not the sun pretending it's fine,
but the warmth that stays anyway.
July 24, 2025 at 8:30 AM
Window weather.
When the light looks warm but the wind still bites.
Some hearts live like that—
glowing on the surface, carrying quiet cold inside.
Love is noticing. Not the sun pretending it's fine,
but the warmth that stays anyway.
When the light looks warm but the wind still bites.
Some hearts live like that—
glowing on the surface, carrying quiet cold inside.
Love is noticing. Not the sun pretending it's fine,
but the warmth that stays anyway.
I learned something very interesting today.
In Japanese, there's a word — yūgen — that means a beauty so deep, so quietly powerful, it can only be felt.
Not sadness, not joy — but the ache in between. Like a quiet knock from the universe, reminding you:
there’s more. And you’re part of it.
In Japanese, there's a word — yūgen — that means a beauty so deep, so quietly powerful, it can only be felt.
Not sadness, not joy — but the ache in between. Like a quiet knock from the universe, reminding you:
there’s more. And you’re part of it.
July 23, 2025 at 7:02 AM
I learned something very interesting today.
In Japanese, there's a word — yūgen — that means a beauty so deep, so quietly powerful, it can only be felt.
Not sadness, not joy — but the ache in between. Like a quiet knock from the universe, reminding you:
there’s more. And you’re part of it.
In Japanese, there's a word — yūgen — that means a beauty so deep, so quietly powerful, it can only be felt.
Not sadness, not joy — but the ache in between. Like a quiet knock from the universe, reminding you:
there’s more. And you’re part of it.
A secret I keep learning again and again:
Have something — anything — to look forward to.
Not someday. Not after the chaos clears.
Just a small moment that feels like yours.
A cup. A breeze. A pause. That’s where life quietly begins again.
Have something — anything — to look forward to.
Not someday. Not after the chaos clears.
Just a small moment that feels like yours.
A cup. A breeze. A pause. That’s where life quietly begins again.
July 22, 2025 at 4:26 AM
A secret I keep learning again and again:
Have something — anything — to look forward to.
Not someday. Not after the chaos clears.
Just a small moment that feels like yours.
A cup. A breeze. A pause. That’s where life quietly begins again.
Have something — anything — to look forward to.
Not someday. Not after the chaos clears.
Just a small moment that feels like yours.
A cup. A breeze. A pause. That’s where life quietly begins again.
A teacup remembers every hand that held it.
Even after the warmth is gone, a trace remains in the porcelain.
Like us—cracked, mended, passed down with stories in our silence.
We carry fingerprints of moments too soft to name.
And still, we pour love.
Even after the warmth is gone, a trace remains in the porcelain.
Like us—cracked, mended, passed down with stories in our silence.
We carry fingerprints of moments too soft to name.
And still, we pour love.
July 21, 2025 at 4:21 AM
A teacup remembers every hand that held it.
Even after the warmth is gone, a trace remains in the porcelain.
Like us—cracked, mended, passed down with stories in our silence.
We carry fingerprints of moments too soft to name.
And still, we pour love.
Even after the warmth is gone, a trace remains in the porcelain.
Like us—cracked, mended, passed down with stories in our silence.
We carry fingerprints of moments too soft to name.
And still, we pour love.
Have you ever missed something that never even happened?
There’s a word in Finnish: kaiho.
Not quite grief or hope. It’s the ache of a life unlived
It slips in through music. Through dreams. And suddenly, you’re longing for a place you’ve never been, a version of you that only existed in a blink.
There’s a word in Finnish: kaiho.
Not quite grief or hope. It’s the ache of a life unlived
It slips in through music. Through dreams. And suddenly, you’re longing for a place you’ve never been, a version of you that only existed in a blink.
July 18, 2025 at 4:48 AM
Have you ever missed something that never even happened?
There’s a word in Finnish: kaiho.
Not quite grief or hope. It’s the ache of a life unlived
It slips in through music. Through dreams. And suddenly, you’re longing for a place you’ve never been, a version of you that only existed in a blink.
There’s a word in Finnish: kaiho.
Not quite grief or hope. It’s the ache of a life unlived
It slips in through music. Through dreams. And suddenly, you’re longing for a place you’ve never been, a version of you that only existed in a blink.
Ever notice how memories smell?
Rain on old books.
Your sweater from last October.
Someone’s shampoo in the wind.
Scent is time-travel.
Somewhere, your past is still warm.
Rain on old books.
Your sweater from last October.
Someone’s shampoo in the wind.
Scent is time-travel.
Somewhere, your past is still warm.
July 17, 2025 at 4:58 AM
Ever notice how memories smell?
Rain on old books.
Your sweater from last October.
Someone’s shampoo in the wind.
Scent is time-travel.
Somewhere, your past is still warm.
Rain on old books.
Your sweater from last October.
Someone’s shampoo in the wind.
Scent is time-travel.
Somewhere, your past is still warm.
There’s a Japanese word — komorebi — for sunlight filtering through trees.
Not just light. That light, in that way.
Like the quiet ways people love you: a blanket tucked in, a memory glowing differently with time.
We carry many kinds of light.
Not always bright. But always real.
Not just light. That light, in that way.
Like the quiet ways people love you: a blanket tucked in, a memory glowing differently with time.
We carry many kinds of light.
Not always bright. But always real.
July 16, 2025 at 12:50 PM
There’s a Japanese word — komorebi — for sunlight filtering through trees.
Not just light. That light, in that way.
Like the quiet ways people love you: a blanket tucked in, a memory glowing differently with time.
We carry many kinds of light.
Not always bright. But always real.
Not just light. That light, in that way.
Like the quiet ways people love you: a blanket tucked in, a memory glowing differently with time.
We carry many kinds of light.
Not always bright. But always real.
Reposted by Sarb Randhawa
There’s a Welsh word — hiraeth — a longing for a home you can’t return to. It’s like catching a scent — woodsmoke, old books — and feeling your heart stir without knowing why.
We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
July 14, 2025 at 10:30 AM
There’s a Welsh word — hiraeth — a longing for a home you can’t return to. It’s like catching a scent — woodsmoke, old books — and feeling your heart stir without knowing why.
We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
There’s a Welsh word — hiraeth — a longing for a home you can’t return to. It’s like catching a scent — woodsmoke, old books — and feeling your heart stir without knowing why.
We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
July 14, 2025 at 10:30 AM
There’s a Welsh word — hiraeth — a longing for a home you can’t return to. It’s like catching a scent — woodsmoke, old books — and feeling your heart stir without knowing why.
We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.
Reposted by Sarb Randhawa
I learned something very beautiful today.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.
July 11, 2025 at 9:06 AM
I learned something very beautiful today.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.
I learned something very beautiful today.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.
July 11, 2025 at 9:06 AM
I learned something very beautiful today.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.
Reposted by Sarb Randhawa
The world forgets noise faster than silence.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.
July 10, 2025 at 12:59 PM
The world forgets noise faster than silence.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.
The world forgets noise faster than silence.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.
July 10, 2025 at 12:59 PM
The world forgets noise faster than silence.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.
The future of literature will belong to the books that are impossible to summarize, impossible to explain, the books that you have no option but to sit down and read...
July 10, 2025 at 12:43 PM
The future of literature will belong to the books that are impossible to summarize, impossible to explain, the books that you have no option but to sit down and read...
Some ppl on the inside.
July 9, 2025 at 6:24 AM
Some ppl on the inside.