To read Bianca Sparacino’s words — most often shared under her Instagram handle @rainbowsalt or via her published poetry collections — is to get a glimpse into her soul. And just like her poetry, Bianca’s soul is deep, rich, and heart-forward.
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Let’s start with the women who’ve shaped you. We know your mom’s influence, both in her life and in her passing, are so present in your work, your perspectives, and your outlook. What would you say was the most crucial lesson she left you with?
"My mother taught me to pass around as much love as possible in this lifetime. She always reminded me that we were designed to love, to connect, to care. She was the truest and most honest reflection of tenderness and the beauty that could be generated around you when you chose to be the kind of human being who put their whole heart and nothing less into the world. She taught me how to stay open to life itself, how to trust in it even when it wasn’t kind to me, even when it felt unfair, and ultimately — how to always keep love in the equation. I saw firsthand how her heart made an impact. How it left people better than it found them, how it connected in a way that felt real and unguarded in a world that sometimes failed to reflect that same softness. When you witness that, you want to become an instrument for that same hope, for that same grace. Now, every single time I choose love over fear, or connection over distance — I feel her with me. Not just in memory, but in motion. Still teaching me. Still loving through me."
Your work is a testament to the way that creativity can be an essential outlet in life’s most challenging chapters. How would you define the relationship between emotional hardship and your writing?
I’ve always believed that beauty requires contrast. If I can grow in the light, I can also grow in the dark. If some forms of hope are loud, then I must make myself aware of the hope that exists in the quiet. Therefore, when life is weathering me, I feel a deep responsibility to shape that pain into something meaningful, into something that might, in contrast, heal that same pain in someone else. Writing then becomes a way to stay rooted in this world, to reach into it and to trust that it will reach back. Writing then becomes a way to fight against disappearance, to not be swallowed whole by the ache, but rather, to elbow my way through the dark, as if to say, “I’m still here, despite, despite, despite.”
Speaking of chapters, what do you think this current era of your life is teaching you?
"That if I am still here, there is still time."
Love is a major theme you touch on, putting words to the feelings a lot of us would struggle to describe. We’re especially moved by the way you explore grief as an expression of love. What advice would you share to anyone struggling with grief, especially thoughts around the loss of a mom this Mother’s Day?
"I truly believe that grief is love’s grand finale."
"And while we can rope so much beauty to that, it’s also important to make space for the disorienting nature of it, as well. At the end of the day, grief is something that we can't always neatly organize within ourselves. On some nights it just obliterates you — the reality of it all, the missing."
"When it comes to losing a mother, that ache feels cellular. It’s the only way I’ve ever been able to describe it. For women especially, the grief cuts deeper, because we know the weight our mothers carried, the things they silenced, the parts of themselves they set aside in order to show up for everyone else. And so, you ache not just for the loss of her presence, but for all the love she poured into the world that didn't get to circle back to her in full force. That’s what makes it feel so impossibly unfair."
"On those nights, when no amount of reasoning can soften the grief, I like to envision my mom getting the happy ending she never got."
"I think of her in some far off place…. She has a garden, and two dogs that she spoils a little more than she should. She finished the book she was always meaning to write. She watched my sister bring her granddaughter into the world — they play together in the backyard, filling the air with laughter. She learned how to accept herself, how to truly make a home within her body. She healed from the things she did not deserve, she let them go. She feels loved every single day. She is happy there, and hopeful there, and full of life."
"And oddly, that really helps. Sometimes we can't will away the sadness that comes from losing those who meant the world to us. Sometimes, all we can do is build a world for their memory to grow alongside us, a world where we can give them everything we know they deserved, a world where they were afforded more time."
We love your transparent approach to sharing your thoughts and feelings with the world. Have you found that your vulnerability online has translated into connection with others in real life?
"There’s this law in physics that, at its core, says: you cannot be touched without also being touched in return. In science, it's a reminder that nothing we do exists in isolation, that we’re in constant relationship with the world around us — with every atom, every particle, every drop of borrowed light. And I think the same can be said for vulnerability. It’s impossible to pour my hope into words, to offer up the softest parts of myself, without being marked in some way by the people who receive it."
"So yes, vulnerability has absolutely translated into connection in my life. Not always loudly. Not always instantly. But consistently, and in ways that continue to remind me why I do this in the first place. It’s the connective tissue of being alive. It’s the quiet proof that we belong to each other."
Lastly, we’d love to know the rituals that feature in your daily routine. What rituals are central to building both a creative practice and a balanced life for you?
"Ritual is essential to me because it brings me back home to myself. It’s how I show care for my inner world — how I remind myself, day after day, that I am someone worth tending to, worth being patient for, worth loving. There’s something powerful about consistency in the things that ground us. For me, those small, intentional acts anchor me. They help me feel rooted, steady — like I’m choosing myself again and again, in the quietest and most meaningful of ways."
"I write every single morning. Not necessarily because I have to, but because art, and the work I feel called to do in this world, matters to me. I care about it with my whole heart, from the deepest part of who I am. And because of that, even on the days when the words don’t come easily, even when there’s no illuminated spark or all-consuming idea, I still show up. I still sit down. I still put pen to paper. That ritual alone becomes a quiet kind of devotion to what I hope to create, and to the life I feel inspired to live while I’m here."
"Walking is also one of my most sacred creative rituals. Most of the writing I do, whether I’m working through a piece or patching together a poem, finds its shape when I’m walking. I’m rarely thinking directly about the work, as well. Instead, I’m creating space between myself and the page. That distance quiets the noise, softens the pressure, and allows my mind to exhale. I get closer to a different part of myself, and more often than not, the ideas I’ve been searching for quietly arrive — unforced, almost as if they’ve been waiting for me to slow down enough to hear them."
Bianca's Ritual:
