This is where the porch begins. Pull up a chair. Not the perfect one, the one with a loose leg that still holds weight. This porch wasn't built to impress. It's weathered. Worn to pieces. Familiar in a way that feels home. The Broken Porch is where everyday life shows up... the kind that doesn't always make sense, the kind that carries grief and laughter in the same breath. Here, stories don't have to be polished. They don't need a lesson wrapped neatly at the end. They just need room to exist. Some days, this porch holds memories.... voices we still hear, hands we still reach for, moments that shaped us and refuse to let go. Other days, it holds storms. Quiet ones. Loud ones. The kind you don't always tell people about. And, sometimes... it holds miracles. The small, almost-missed kind. The kind that looks like surviving another day. The kind that feels like peace finding you in the middle of a mess. This space is for honesty. For f...