A Polish soul with English words. I write about love, loss, and the quiet spaces in between. Hoping you find a little piece of your story here, and feel a little less alone.
Hello and welcome,
The words you read above – “A Polish soul with English words” – are more than just a tagline for me. They are the very coordinates of my inner world, the map of who I am and why I write. I’m Jennie, and this little corner of the internet is where I untangle the complex, beautiful, and often painful tapestry of human feeling, using the language of my present to explore the echoes of my past.
So, what does it mean to have a Polish soul? It isn’t just about the food I crave or the carols we sing at Wigilia. It’s a specific hue of melancholy, a żal—a word for which there is no direct English equivalent. It’s a poignant blend of sorrow, regret, and a deep, nostalgic longing for what has been lost, for what could have been. It’s the shadow that lingers in the amber glow of a memory, the recognition that beauty and pain are inextricably linked. My Polish soul feels the weight of history in the quiet; it finds solace in the solemn and finds a strange comfort in the minor key. It appreciates the spaces between the laughter, the significance of a shared silence, the unspoken understanding that some things are too deep for words.
And yet, I navigate this inner landscape with English words. English is my language of daily life, of logic, and of a different kind of clarity. It is the language I chose to build my public self with. But this is not a conflict; it’s a conversation. Sometimes, my Polish soul feels things for which English seems too straightforward, too efficient. So, I must bend the language, stretch it, and infuse it with the gravity and tenderness it isn’t accustomed to. I have to make English feel the way Polish thinks. In doing so, I hope to create a unique resonance—a familiar emotion heard in a slightly new, haunting key. This linguistic dance is where my voice is born.
This brings me to the heart of what I write about: love, loss, and the quiet spaces in between.
I write about love not as a grand, cinematic finale, but as the quiet accumulation of a thousand small moments. It’s the worn spot on the sofa where you always sit, the specific way you pronounce their name when you’re tired, the unspoken pact to always leave one light on. It’s the love that exists in the making of a pot of tea for two, even when only one is thirsty.
I write about loss because it is the undeniable counterpart to love. It is the hollowed-out shape of an absence—the phantom limb of a person, a habit, a future you thought was certain. But I am less interested in the dramatic moment of shattering than in the long, slow process of learning to live with the cracks. It’s the way you forget they’re gone for just a second in the morning, the scent of them lingering on a forgotten scarf, the bittersweet ache of a memory that eventually brings a smile before a tear.
And most of all, I am fascinated by the quiet spaces in between. These are the moments that official biographies and love stories often skip. It’s the train ride home after a difficult goodbye, the stillness of an apartment when the guests have left, the suspended animation of waiting for test results or a text message. It is in these hushed, in-between places that we are most truly ourselves, stripped of performance. It is here that we process, we feel, we simply are. This is the sacred ground where my writing tries to sit, quietly, and just observe.
Which leads me to my deepest hope for you, the reader who has stumbled upon this page: I am hoping you find a little piece of your story here, and feel a little less alone.
We often move through our days believing our deepest sorrows and our quietest joys are ours alone to bear. We see the curated highlight reels of others’ lives and feel our own messy, complicated emotions are abnormal. I am here to tell you they are not. My mission is to put words to the feelings you thought were indescribable. When you read about that specific brand of loneliness on a Sunday afternoon, or the confusing mix of grief and relief at the end of something, I want you to nod slowly and think, “Yes. I know that. I have felt that too.”
This connection, this silent “me too” across the digital void, is everything. It is the antidote to isolation. Your story and my story, though different in their details, are woven from the same emotional fabric. By sharing my Polish soul with English words, I hope to build a bridge to your own, whatever its heritage may be.
Thank you for being here. Make yourself comfortable. I hope you stay a while.
Yours,
JennieCan