I am a mother. A wife. A daughter. The weight of love. The truth once buried beneath duty. The heart that has wondered if love is enough.

I am all wonder, whimsy, magic, and therapy. The unshaken certainty that even in the mess, there is light.

I am beauty, capturing it wherever it blooms. In forgotten corners, in a dance of color, in the stories etched on walls and whispered by the wind. Bits of poetry pressed like wildflowers between the pages of my life.

I am free. To say yes. To say no. To stay soft. To love without permission slips. To wear pajamas all day Sunday. To decide when good is good enough.

I am midlife unfolding. Not a second act, but the main event.

I am the late bloom. The second coming of myself.

I am the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Words I swallowed. Strung together in late-night reckonings.

I am secrets unshackled, carried into the light.

I am two words that ended two decades of marriage. Two words and I’m not the same person anymore.

I am the sleepless nights spent replaying mistakes. The whispered “I’m sorrys.” The silent hope that our kids will mostly remember the good. The fear that whispers: “You should have done more. Been more.”

I am the hands that reached for mine. The ones who said: “You are seen. You are still – and always – loved.”

I am the conversations I never thought I’d have. The unexpected allies. The ones who whispered: “Me too.”

I am the ones who turned away.

I am a cycle breaker who refuses to pass down silence like an heirloom.

I am hard truths and the wet shine of unshed tears. The weight of things once unspoken. Sometimes, the weight of silence still waiting to break.

I am the climb, the reckoning, the looking at my own mess — and choosing to figure it out.

I am the slow burn of time. The ache of lessons earned. The grace found in the wreckage.

I am the truth, relentless and unmoved. A force that bends but never breaks.

I am out. Of hiding. Of silence. Of the will to fold myself into small spaces.

I am the moment her name first left my mouth like a promise.

I am love standing steady beneath a backyard oak tree on a cold October day, hands clasped, hearts certain. A mouthful of forevers between us.

I am promises pressed onto my ribs like ink on paper. I will always love you. I will stand beside you. I am here.

I am the anchor when tides shift. The voice that steadies. The fierce encourager of dreams. The believer in your own becoming.

I am the knowing that every kind of love —including this one — is sacred in its own right. No decree can sanctify it. No denial can strip its divinity. It was consecrated in the act of choosing. And in the courage to claim it. 

I am the quiet unraveling of a life that didn’t end up fitting the story the world offered. The slow stitching together of something new.

I am the act of making meaning of the undone. The breath that shapes what was into what will be.

I am the weight of a thousand questions. The ones that haunt. The ones that heal. The ones that won’t let go.

I am the quiet grief of what is lost. The fierce joy of what is found. And the belief that both can exist together.

I am the knowing that time doesn’t take away who we are. The past selves. The ones we shed. And the ones we’ve carried. It just keeps on handing us new ways to return to ourselves. 

I am radical self-compassion. The courage to be seen. The act of showing up as I am.

I am the price of truth. The silence of doors closed behind me. The cost of leaving what felt certain and safe. 

I am the choice the world said not to make. The choice between staying and disappearing. Between sacrificing and surviving. A price to be paid either way.

I am the courage to pay it. 

I am the parade.

I am the march forward.