LAUNCH ANNOUNCEMENT: The Poetry Prescription

This Tuesday, something new begins. 📋

From my chair — the one across from the couch, the one by the window, the one that has held still while people fell apart and put themselves back together in front of me — I see things.

Not diagnoses. Not case notes. Not symptoms to be checked off.

People.

I see the woman in the grocery store who pauses at the card aisle, picks one up, puts it back, picks it up again — and I know she's thinking of someone she hasn't spoken to in a year. I see the officer on scene holding it together to conduct his work but as soon as he gets in the car, pulls on his vest to give him room to brief and decompress from what he just saw. I see the teenager at the coffee shop pretending to text so no one notices the tears. I see the husband broken in my office from finding out a family secret that would devastate his sons, even though it’s his wife’s secret.

I see the triumphs that no one celebrates — the person who made the phone call they'd been dreading for months. The one who got out of bed today when yesterday won. The one who said "no" for the first time and is still shaking from it.

And I see the downfalls that no one notices — the slow ones, the quiet ones, the ones that don't make a sound because the person falling has learned to fall gracefully, to collapse inward, to make their breaking look like composure.

Day to day, sitting in that chair, walking through the world, I watch humans do the most extraordinary and ordinary thing: try.

Try to keep going. Try to heal. Try to love anyway. Try to hope when hope has burned them before. Try to carry what they carry and still, somehow, make dinner, return the email, smile at the barista, say "I'm fine" when they are not fine — not even close.

And here's what I've learned from that chair:

Sometimes what people need isn't a strategy. It isn't a five-step plan. It isn't a framework or a worksheet or a technique. Sometimes people just need the right words at the right time.
Words that say: I see you. I see what you're carrying. I see that it's heavy. And you are not the only one.

That's why, starting this Tuesday and every Tuesday after, I'm launching The Poetry Prescription — a weekly series of original poems written for the emotional experiences I witness every day, from my chair and as a human navigating the world.

Each poem will be "prescribed" for a specific experience.

Rx: For the one who feels they've lost their spark.
Rx: For the one who can't stop replaying the conversation.
Rx: For the one who is afraid to hope again.

Each comes with a dosage, unlimited refills, and zero side effects — except, possibly, a deep breath you didn't know you were holding.

I can't invite you all into the therapy room. That space is sacred, and it belongs to the people who trust me with their stories. But I can share what that room has taught me about being human — in the form of words I hope find you exactly where you are.

Whether you're tending an ember or searching for a lighthouse, there's a prescription coming for you. If you feel the reflections resonate with you, feel free to leave a comment or a provoking thought.

This Tuesday. Every Tuesday. 🌿🔥

Lexi Eller, LCSW-S
Ember & Lighthouse