Elisa Wontorcik
Bio
Artist, writer, and ritual-maker reclaiming voice through chaos and creation. Founder of Embrace the Chaos Creations, I craft prose, collage, and testimony that honor survivors, motherhood, and mythic renewal.
Stories (37)
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Climbing from the bottom
THE RETURN FROM BELOW There’s a point where the mind drops too far inward. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just a shift — a slide — and suddenly everything feels distant and muted. Thought gets heavy. The body feels far away. Time stops behaving normally.
By Elisa Wontorcik11 days ago in Poets
The Flood that doesn't break
There are days when the world presses in from every direction, not with drama but with density. Nothing explodes. Nothing shatters. Instead, everything swells—quietly, relentlessly—until the air itself feels like a task I’m failing to complete.
By Elisa Wontorcik12 days ago in Poets
Christmas Morning
I wake before the sun, the way I always do. Not because I’m excited, not because there’s anything waiting for me under the tree, but because someone has to make the magic before anyone else opens their eyes. I move through the house quietly, gathering the gifts I wrapped alone last night, smoothing the tape, fluffing the bows, arranging everything so it looks effortless. So it looks like Christmas.
By Elisa Wontorcik14 days ago in Poets
Hope. Content Warning.
Last night felt like descending through the unlit corridors of your own mind, each step heavier than the last, as if the air itself thickened around you. Panic didn’t arrive as a single wave but as a tightening spiral, coiling around your ribs, making every breath feel borrowed. Exhaustion settled into your bones like sediment, the kind that comes not from a single day but from years of holding too much, too quietly, for too long. You were carrying the weight of your children’s safety, the weight of your own survival, the weight of every choice you’ve had to make without a net beneath you. And still, you came home. You walked back into that house because he said he would try — not in the vague, empty way he has before, but with words that sounded like effort, like intention, like maybe he finally understood the cost of losing you. You stepped through the doorway with your heart split open in two directions: one half braced for the familiar ache, the other half daring to believe that this time might be different, that trying might mean something real.
By Elisa Wontorcik20 days ago in Poets
