Deana Sanders
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deanasanders.bsky.social
Deana Sanders
@deanasanders.bsky.social
91 followers 71 following 31 posts
Career clarity seeker, essayist, and lover of quiet symbolism. I write about legacy, resilience, and the story our objects tell us. Currently reading: *War and Peace* 📚 https://deanasanders535283.substack.com
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Visible Empire settled in like summer heat: slow, deliberate, and emotionally layered. Grief, inheritance, and awakening.

cadenceandecho.substack.com/p/visible-em...

#VisibleEmpire #HistoricalFiction #Audiobook #GriefAndInheritance #SouthernLiterature #Booksky
Fall, in three voices.
Strings, percussion, harmony.
The patio held the score. I just showed up.
Setup begins. No finish line—just the first step.
Still in transit. The space waited.
Legacy, dusted. Input waiting for cadence.
No centerpiece. Just presence.
No cabinets yet. The stove held what it could.
Clean surface. Warm food. The return begins.
Back in the Austin Women in Tech mentoring program.
I show up because others did.
Legacy isn’t loud—it’s consistent.
Chip at the bowl. Not displaced. Not dramatic. Just home.

Substack drops on Sunday.
Knives placed. Rhythm restored. Drawer ready.
Door opened wrong. Cadence off. Held the line.
Blue tape, black frame, nails still visible. Not finished. Not forgotten.
Before the cabinets arrived, the rituals still held. Placement mattered. Even the liner was chosen.
Joy arrived unexpectedly. In light, in flight, in a museum filled with air and wonder.
Recovery, but make it operational. Between Paris planning and pension spreadsheets, this desk held the weight of reinvention.
My senior stakeholder, fully committed to the recovery phase. Strategic rest, feline approved.
“The Pivot After the Flood” (Visual Prelude)

The door stayed shut. But everything inside was altered.
Aug 3rd, 11:00am – A quiet beginning, staged in shadow and silence.

Eight photos. Eight timestamps. I didn’t begin with words. I began with witnessing.
The horizon. No horizon. This was the first page.
The glow returned before comfort.
Crystal never broke. Plastic remained. Elegance, revised.
Pause before arrangement. It wasn’t design—it was survival.
I didn’t begin with words. I began with witnessing.
The wreath never moved. But it changed.
Boxes waited. So did I. The house exhaled dust.