Scratch that.

I am obsessed with Halloween.

It’s my love, my hyperfixation, my lore, and October is my favorite time of year.

Ironically, if you’ve read an article I wrote a few months ago, you know that I was forbidden from celebrating Halloween as a child. Once I broke free and began following my own path, I realized something about myself: I had always possessed a vivid imagination and a love for the darkness, secrecy, and psychological thrill of the unknown.

While other people might feel creeped out by the shadows, skeletons, and dark aesthetics of Halloween, for me, they bring an instant sigh of relief. The occult, the mysterious, and the idea of a thin veil between worlds excite me like almost nothing else.

Some people wait all year for summer.

I wait for the first plastic pumpkin to appear on a store shelf.

The orange glow. The first chilly evening. Halloween movies playing in the background. Those are the little signs that make me realize:

It’s coming.

The truth is, I’ve always liked things that scare me.

I wasn’t allowed to celebrate Halloween as a child, but that didn’t stop me from finding my way to spooky things. I watched Chucky and A Nightmare on Elm Street, but I also loved Coraline, Halloweentown, and The Nightmare Before Christmas. I have always had room in my heart for horror and those wonderfully cheesy Halloween movies made for kids.

I remember reading Goosebumps and obsessing over every story, completely immersing myself in those strange, dark worlds.

There is a peculiar comfort in being scared, especially as a child.

Why does a frightened child pull the blanket over their head only to peek back out a few seconds later?

I was that kid.

I knew deep down that the monster wasn’t going to crawl through the television. I knew the haunted attraction was staffed by actors. I knew ghost stories were just stories.

Or were they?

That’s the fun of it.

There is real fear—the kind we don’t choose—and then there is Halloween fear. It’s the kind we willingly invite inside. Ghosts, witches, Bigfoot, strange things moving through the woods, and urban legends remind us that there may still be parts of this world we don’t completely understand.

And that’s what I love: the possibility.

The possibility that something exists beyond what we know. The possibility that we haven’t figured everything out yet. The possibility that the world is still capable of surprising us.

Sometimes it feels like there are so few mysteries left. We carry little computers in our pockets that can answer almost any question within seconds.

But walk into the woods at midnight and hear something moving beyond the tree line?

Suddenly, things feel a little less certain.

There’s something wonderfully childlike about thinking, Okay, it’s probably a deer.

But what if it isn’t?

Humans have been frightening one another with stories for generations—around fires, at sleepovers, around kitchen tables, on front porches, and through the pages of books.

And there’s something intimate about a scary story.

Someone leans in and says, “I heard something happened here once…”

And everybody gets a little quieter.

Maybe that’s why I write them.

I write scary stories for the children who feel a little different.

I was always the weird kid. I had a big imagination, big feelings, and an entire world happening inside my head that I didn’t always know how to explain. Writing became somewhere I could put all of it. The things that frightened me, the things that fascinated me, and the feelings I didn’t have words for yet could become characters and stories instead.

Maybe that’s part of why I’ve always loved scary stories.

Fear is something children understand long before they understand everything else about the world.

Because being a kid can be scary.

You’re small in a world built for people bigger than you. Adults make decisions you don’t always understand. Friendships change. You worry about fitting in. You discover that people can be cruel. You experience loss, disappointment, and loneliness, sometimes before you even have the vocabulary to explain what you’re feeling.

And then someone hands you a story about a kid facing a monster.

Suddenly, fear is something you can see.

That’s what I want to give children when I write scary stories.

I want the weird kid to be the hero.

I want the sensitive kid to discover that sensitivity isn’t something they have to hide.

I want the lonely kid to find someone who understands them.

And I want the child who feels like nobody believes them to finally hear:

I believe you.

I don’t think children’s stories need to pretend that the world isn’t frightening. Kids already know that it can be.

Maybe scary stories give them a safe place to practice being brave.

And bravery in my stories doesn’t have to mean that you’re no longer afraid.

Sometimes bravery is being terrified—

and opening the door anyway.

Maybe the best way to explain why I keep coming back to scary stories is to tell you one.

So, before you go, dim the lights and come a little closer.

Here’s a small piece from one of my campfire stories:

The Girl in the Mirror

When Maya slammed her bedroom door, the cheers of the popular crowd still echoed in her ears, but her house was dead silent and freezing cold. She marched to the vanity, tears blurring her vision. “I did it!” Maya screamed at the glass. “I ruined her life! Now give me my life back!” The mirror didn’t show a beautiful girl anymore. The airbrushed skin withered into a cracked, gray parchment, and the glossy hair fell away in rotting clumps. The reflection’s eyes rolled back, leaving empty, pitch-black sockets. A jagged, lipless grin split its face and two skeletal, silver-skinned hands slammed against the glass from the inside. “Your life is mine,” a voice scraped through Maya’s mind like grinding stones. “You traded your soul for their applause. Look at yourself. You are just as ugly as me.” The glass rippled like liquid. A freezing hand shot out, wrapping its razor-sharp fingers around Maya’s wrist. The supernatural pull was immense, dragging Maya’s face inches from the glass. She could feel her own fingers turning to cold, brittle glass. Maya closed her eyes, terror squeezing her throat. The mirror fed on her hatred for her own body, her deep shame, and her desperate need to be someone else. With a final gasp, Maya stopped fighting the pull and opened her eyes, looking past the monster to the true reflection beneath. “No.” Maya whispered, her voice trembling but certain. “I am frizzy hair. I am crooked braces. I am the girl who makes mistakes. But I am me, and I don’t want to be anyone else.” As the words left her lips, a blinding warmth surged from her chest. The monster let out a piercing, glass-shattering shriek as Maya’s genuine self-acceptance burned it’s grip like acid. With a violent crack, the entity shattered into a thousand harmless shards, raining down onto the vanity and leaving Maya standing alone in the quiet afternoon light – shaken, but finally whole.

But fairies weren’t always the sweet, sparkling creatures we know today.

Fairy is a broad modern umbrella for many supernatural beings and traditions, particularly from Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England and other places in Europe. They weren’t all tiny, necessarily winged, and weren’t simply good or evil. In older folklore, encounters with fairies could come with rules and humans didn’t always knows what those rules were. Certain places were believed to belong to the fair folk, and disturbing them could invite trouble. In some stories, accepting fairy food could prevent a person from returning home, while breaking a promise or behaving disrespectfully toward the fair folk could bring punishment. Even interrupting a fairy gathering or entering the wrong place at the wrong time could have consequences. That uncertainty was part of what made them frightening. Fairies weren’t necessarily evil creatures hunting humans for no reason. They existed according to their own customs and expectations. A person might encounter them without realizing they had crossed a boundary until it was already too late.

And then there were fairies known as Changelings. The basic story was horrifyingly simple: The child in your home looks like your child but something about them has changed, because they aren’t really your child anymore.

In many tales, the fairies believed to take a human child and leave one of their own in its place. Other versions described the substitute as an elderly fairy, an enchanted object, or some other supernatural being made to resemble the missing child. People gathered different explanations for why fairies wanted human children. Depending on the tradition, human babies might be considered particularly beautiful or desirable, fairies might want human blood within their community, or the child might be taken to serve some purpose in the fairy realm. Historical accounts and folklore collections described “signs” that could include a changeling as a child who seemed unusually withdrawn or sometimes unusually intelligent. There are changes in their behavior such crying excessively or difficult to soothe, they have unusual movements or mannerisms and aren’t speaking or developing according to expectations. These characteristics frightened people because they couldn’t explain developmental disability, neurological differences, congenital conditions or childhood illnesses.

Unexplained differences in development or behavior could be interpreted through the supernatural framework available to a community.

Some supposed changelings were subjected to rituals or mistreatment intense to expose the supernatural substitute or force the fairies to return to the “real” person. Methods recorded in folklore and historical cases could be frightening and sometimes violent.

And these beliefs survived surprisingly late.

One example is Bridget Cleary, an Irish woman killed by her husband and others in 1895 amid beliefs that she has been replace by a fairy. She wasn’t a medieval figure, this happened at the end of the nineteenth century.

Fairy folklore wasn’t frightening merely because people told stories about supernatural creatures stealing humans. It became frightening when those stories changed how real human beings were treated. Perhaps the most frightening thing about changeling folklore isn’t the possibility that fairies once stole children from their beds. It’s what the stories reveal about our fear of the unfamiliar, especially when the unfamiliar appears in someone we love.

There are stories in which adults were taken into fairy realms, joined fairy dances, or returned to discover that considerably more time had passed than they perceived. When they came home, the world they left wasn’t there anymore. There were fairy rings and dangerous landscapes. Mushroom circles, ancient mounds, hills, forests, crossroads and other liminal places. The fairies made the landscape itself feel alive and there were places where human rules stopped applying.

So when did fairies become cute?

The truth is that Tinker Bell didn’t invent the cute fairy. Disney inherited an image that Europeans had already been softening for centuries. Shakespeare also helps make fairies tiny and playful.

A major turning point comes during the Elizabethan period, especially with Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the late 1950’s. Shakespeare didn’t invent fairies, but he helped change their image. The dangerous and unpredictable beings of folklore increasingly became tiny creatures associated with flowers, moonlight, romance and playful mischief. Victorian Britain also became fascinated with fairies. Artists painted elaborate fairy worlds. Children’s books increasingly incorporated them. Fairies became associated with childhood imagination, gardens, flowers, innocence and fantasy. The funny thing is that fairy art wasn’t always innocent. Some paintings were eerie, sensual or downright bizarre. The older supernatural strangeness hadn’t disappeared. But the cultural trajectory was moving toward something increasingly beautiful and enchanting rather than threatening.

Folklore originally helped adults and children make sense of dangerous landscapes, illness, death and unexplained events. Children’s publishing increasingly transformed supernatural beings into sources of wonder and imagination.

Disney’s Peter Pan arrived in 1953, and Tinker Bell became one of the most recognizable fairy images in popular culture. Interestingly, Tinker Bell isn’t exactly the perfectly sweet fairy people sometimes remember. She’s emotional, jealous, temperamental and at points genuinely dangerous. There’s still some of the old fairy unpredictability hiding inside her but aesthetically she’s tiny, female, magical and she flies. Disney’s fairy franchise pushed the transformation even further: fairy communities, individual personalities, beautiful clothes, wings, friendship, nature and magical adventures. By this point, the fairy isn’t about something parents warn children about: it’s something children want to be. Instead of explaining why something frightening happened, fairies could represent wonder, imagination, innocence and escape.

Today, children dress as fairies for Halloween. They were glittering wings, carry magic wands and imagine themselves flying through enchanted gardens. Centuries ago, their ancestors might have warned them not to follow the fair folk into those gardens at all.

The fairies didn’t become frightening. We simply forgot that they were.

He had two children who looked to be about three and four years old. He climbed across the monkey bars, flipped himself over the hanging bars several times, and helped his son do the same. He chased his son and daughter around the playground, laughing as if it were the only moment that mattered.

I was sitting nearby watching my own boys play when I noticed him. Most parents go to the park hoping for a moment to decompress while their children entertain themselves.

But not this dad.

He was completely present. His phone was nowhere in sight. He wasn’t just watching his children—he was playing with them. More importantly, he looked like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

If I’m honest, a part of me felt guilty.

Not because he was an active parent or because I had chosen to sit while my children played. I felt guilty because I realized how rarely I give myself permission to play.

As I watched him laugh and run alongside his children, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had never lost touch with his inner child. He seemed free, present, and completely absorbed in the moment.

It made me ask myself:

When do adults lose their sense of wonder?

As a preschool teacher and mother of twins, I’ve always been fascinated by children’s ability to become completely immersed in the simplest moments. They can spend an hour searching for ants, collecting rocks, pretending to be superheroes, or making up elaborate stories with sticks and leaves.

I was that child.

I read books until my eyes hurt, played outside until the streetlights came on (thanks to my 90”s childhood) , and believed the world was full of endless possibilities.

Then adulthood arrived.

Now many of us spend more time looking at our phones than looking around us. We worry about work, deadlines, responsibilities, bills, parenting, and whether we’re doing enough.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped playing.

Watching that father reminded me why adults need play just as much as children.

1. Play reduces stress.

Children instinctively play, even after difficult moments. It’s how they process emotions and reset. Adults often do the opposite. We work harder, scroll longer, and convince ourselves we’ll have fun once everything is finished. Play gives our minds permission to breathe.

2. Play fuels creativity.

Some of my best ideas have come while hiking, coloring with my boys, or simply being outside. Creativity rarely appears when we’re forcing it. It often shows up when we’re relaxed enough to enjoy ourselves.

3. Play strengthens relationships.

Children don’t make friends by interviewing one another.

They simply ask, “Do you want to play?”

Adults aren’t much different.

Whether it’s throwing water balloons, dancing in the kitchen, playing board games, or traveling together, shared experiences create deeper connections than almost anything else.

4. Play helps us learn.

Every day I watch my preschoolers learn math, science, language, and problem-solving through play. As adults, we often become rigid and believe learning has to feel serious.

It doesn’t.

Trying something new, making mistakes, and staying curious are all forms of play.

5. Play brings us into the present.

Children at the playground aren’t worrying about tomorrow’s responsibilities.

They’re simply enjoying today.

The bills will still be there.

Work will still be waiting.

But this moment only happens once.

6. Play reminds us who we are.

Before we became stressed-out adults, we were children with vivid imaginations, big dreams, and endless curiosity. Somewhere along the way, many of us began believing that joy had to be earned.

Children don’t believe that.

They laugh over bubbles, mud puddles, cardboard boxes, sprinklers, and sidewalk chalk.

Maybe they’re onto something. Maybe adults don’t need less play.

Maybe we simply need permission to play again.

Because somewhere deep inside each of us is still the child who believes the world is full of wonder.

And perhaps that child has been waiting patiently for us to come outside and play.

This week, give yourself permission to play.

Chase your children through the sprinklers.

Color outside the lines.

Swing on the swings.

Build the sandcastle.

Laugh a little louder.

Your inner child is still there.

Maybe it’s time to let them come out and play again.

I was the second youngest of six children—five girls and one boy. My parents were young when they started our family, like many parents of their generation. We moved often and never really had the chance to settle down.

We relied on food stamps to help feed a family of eight. We visited food pantries, wore hand-me-downs from my older sisters, and shopped at thrift stores, where finding a name-brand shirt felt like winning the lottery. Our home had mice and, at times, cockroaches—something I’m still deathly afraid of today.

Before I continue, I want to be honest.

Poverty isn’t something to romanticize. It brings stress, uncertainty, and limitations. I remember watching classmates receive things I knew my family couldn’t afford, and at the time, it felt unfair.

Looking back, however, I realize those experiences shaped me more than I ever imagined.

The funny thing is, I never felt poor.

I had a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, food on the table, and clean clothes. To me, that was simply normal life. It wasn’t until I grew older and watched my parents work tirelessly to create a more stable life that I realized how little we actually had.

I still remember my dad’s old green station wagon that constantly seemed to have mechanical problems. Yet somehow, every time we climbed inside, it felt like we were riding in luxury.

Although my childhood wasn’t without hardship, I never questioned whether we’d have somewhere to sleep or whether we’d eat dinner that night. Looking back, I realize those simple certainties were gifts in themselves.

What Growing Up Poor Taught Me

1. Gratitude for the Small Things

I’ve always considered myself a simple person.

I love picnics, long walks, parks, sunsets, and looking up at the stars. When you grow up with very little, you learn that happiness doesn’t always come from having more. In fact, I’ve met people with far greater wealth who struggle to appreciate what they already have.

Gratitude has changed my life.

How can we expect to be happy with more if we can’t appreciate what we have today?

2. Creativity When Resources Are Limited

When you don’t have money, you learn to improvise.

Some of my favorite childhood memories were birthday parties at home, pretending I lived in a mansion, and spending hours outside using nothing but my imagination.

Looking back, those experiences nurtured the creativity I still carry with me today.

3. Resilience

There were many moments I felt left out.

I couldn’t go on the high school trip to Spain because my parents couldn’t afford it. I didn’t have the newest clothes or the newest car waiting for me when I turned sixteen.

But I also learned something invaluable.

My worth was never determined by what I owned.

My world didn’t fall apart because I couldn’t afford something, and today I know that my value doesn’t depend on the number in my bank account.

4. Compassion for People Who Struggle

Here’s a little secret about me.

My heart is probably too big sometimes.

I watched my father work as a janitor while my mother battled illness, doing everything they could to provide for our family. Because of that, I learned to see people for who they are—not what they do for work, what they own, or how much money they make.

We never truly know another person’s story.

That perspective has stayed with me throughout my life and is one of the reasons I’ve always dreamed of helping families living in poverty around the world.

5. Experiences Over Possessions

If you know me, you know I’d rather collect memories than things. I’m not interested in filling my closet with expensive handbags. I’d rather fill my passport with stamps. I want to hike mountains, experience different cultures, try new foods, and collect stories I’ll tell for the rest of my life.

Experiences stay with us long after possessions lose their shine.

6. Hard Work Without Expecting Shortcuts

This is something I’ve had to heal.

Growing up, it sometimes hurt watching classmates begin life with financial stability while I felt like I was constantly trying to catch up. For a while, I wondered if I had simply been unlucky. But life has taught me something different.

Many successful people weren’t handed anything.

They built their lives one decision, one sacrifice, and one opportunity at a time.

Today, I see myself becoming one of those people.

The Woman I’m Becoming

I’m 42 years old.

This December, I’ll graduate with my bachelor’s degree and begin the next chapter toward becoming a mental health counselor.

More than wealth, I want stability.

Of course, luxury can be nice.

But what I truly want is financial security—the kind that allows me to provide opportunities for my boys, sleep peacefully at night, and break the cycle of financial hardship that shaped my childhood.

I don’t want my children to experience the same struggles I did.

But I do hope they inherit the resilience, gratitude, empathy, and determination that those experiences taught me.

Growing up poor didn’t make me dream about becoming rich.

It made me dream about becoming secure.

This story isn’t about celebrating poverty.

It’s about recognizing how adversity shaped my values while honoring my determination to build something different for the next generation.

For years, I stayed silent about the things I overlooked, the moments I should have walked away, and the excuses I made because they had become my normal. Now, after more than six months of separation, I can finally look back with clearer eyes.

They say hindsight is 20/20.

The truth is, I had no idea I was in an abusive marriage.

I thought I had healed. I believed the abusive relationship before my marriage would be the last one I would ever endure. I had done the work. I had grown. Somehow, though, I found myself in another unhealthy relationship—only this time, the signs were harder to recognize.

If you had asked me a few years ago whether I was being abused, I would have answered without hesitation:

“No.”

I believed abuse always looked obvious.

I didn’t realize it could slowly become the air you breathe.

The truth is, I spent years walking on eggshells.

Every morning, I wondered which version of my wife I would wake up to.

Some days, I comforted her through another wave of depression, holding her while she cried because life felt unbearable.

Other days, anger consumed everything. She became frustrated by the smallest inconveniences—a sunny day, traffic, plans changing—and everyone around her felt the weight of those emotions.

I want to be clear: I wasn’t perfect either. I had bad days. I made mistakes. But there is a difference between having difficult moments and living in an environment where you never know what emotional storm is coming next.

Somewhere along the way, I became responsible for keeping the peace.

As long as I comforted her, everything was okay.

As long as I ignored my own feelings, everything stayed calm.

As long as I made myself smaller, the relationship felt stable.

I didn’t realize how much of myself I had disappeared.

There are moments I still struggle to think about.

The times she yelled at me in front of family and friends.

The camping trip where she berated me in front of her best friend while I cried alone in the tent after putting the boys to bed.

The night I came home from the dentist with stitches in my tongue after a painful accident, only to stay home alone with our children while she attended a birthday party.

The comments about my body after giving birth.

The times affection disappeared whenever she was unhappy with me.

The countless moments I convinced myself every marriage was just hard.

As I write this, I still have tears in my eyes.

Being humiliated by someone you love changes you.

For a long time, I believed love was something I had to earn.

If I communicated better…

If I tried harder…

If I loved her enough…

Things would change.

They didn’t.

The night she put her hands on me in front of our boys became the turning point.

That was the night I chose to protect myself and my children. It was the night I filed for a restraining order.

Looking back now, I realize that moment didn’t come out of nowhere. It was the culmination of years spent abandoning myself in the hope that love would eventually feel safe.

Living separately gave me something I hadn’t experienced in a very long time:

Peace.

I noticed how different my nervous system felt.

I laughed more.

I breathed easier.

I slowly began recognizing the woman I used to be.

I’m still healing.

I still have triggers around being yelled at.

I’m still learning that my needs are not “too much.”

I’m still rebuilding my relationship with trust, intimacy, and myself.

But today I know something I didn’t know then.

Love is not supposed to feel like survival.

Healthy love doesn’t ask you to disappear so someone else can feel comfortable.

It doesn’t require you to abandon yourself in order to keep the peace.

I can’t change what happened.

But I can choose what I will accept going forward.

Today, I’m finding my voice again.

I’m creating a peaceful home for my boys.

And perhaps most importantly…

I’m finally learning that real love should never require losing yourself.

But behind the scenes of this busy life, I’ve been quietly holding onto a dream.

A while back, I finished a manuscript of mystery and suspense short stories for middle school readers called Campfire Stories. Recently, I took a leap of faith and officially submitted it to traditional publishers.

Now comes the hardest part: waiting.

While I wait to hear back from editors, life doesn’t pause. I’m changing preschool sensory tables, writing college papers, raising two little boys, and trying to build a future one day at a time.

It would be easy to let exhaustion win—to quietly stop posting and convince myself that no one would notice.

But I’m choosing not to.

This dream deserves more than my fear, my self-doubt, or my temporary exhaustion.

There have been moments, especially recently, when I’ve stared at a blank screen wondering, Why am I doing this? Why write into the void? Why continue pouring energy into something as unpredictable as publishing?

Then I remember the little girl who couldn’t wait for the school book fair, especially when Halloween books arrived. The little girl who made her own books out of construction paper, markers, and pipe cleaners because stories already lived inside her long before she knew what publishing was.

Giving up now would mean abandoning her.

I also think about my boys.

Every time they see me studying, writing, or chasing a dream that feels bigger than me, I’m teaching them something no lecture ever could: dreams require consistency, not certainty.

Maybe that’s why I can’t quit.

I believe some dreams choose us long before we understand them. They stay quietly tucked away until life finally catches up to them. Every setback, every wrong turn, every unexpected detour has shaped me into the person capable of carrying this dream now.

Some days I cry.

Some days I can’t stop writing.

Both are part of the process.

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re carrying a dream of your own. Maybe you’re exhausted, discouraged, or wondering if anyone will ever notice your work.

Keep going.

Most people never fail because they aren’t talented enough.

They fail because they stop one chapter too soon.

So today, I’m choosing momentum over perfection.

One page.

One story.

One submission.

One step at a time.

Maybe that’s all a dream has ever needed.

Dreams aren’t built in one giant leap. They’re built the way I’ve been building mine—quietly, imperfectly, one brick at a time.

Then I discovered the concept of the Highly Sensitive Person (HSP), a personality trait identified by psychologist Dr. Elaine Aron. Being a highly sensitive person is not a mental health disorder or diagnosis. Rather, it is a normal personality trait that describes people whose nervous systems process sensory and emotional information more deeply than average. Learning about it didn’t change who I was, but it changed how I understood myself. What I once saw as a weakness, I began to recognize as a different way of experiencing the world.

I didn’t know there was a way to describe what I had been experiencing.

If any of these resonate with you, you may be a highly sensitive person too.

1. Human suffering affects you deeply.

For many people, tragic stories are simply headlines. For a highly sensitive person, they can linger for hours or even days. News stories, documentaries, or even crime podcasts may leave you emotionally drained because you don’t just hear the story—you imagine the people living through it. You may find yourself wishing you could somehow ease the suffering of strangers or feeling heartbroken by injustice. Your compassion often extends to people you’ve never even met.

2. You become easily overstimulated.

Crowded rooms, constant noise, bright lights, or busy schedules can leave you feeling mentally exhausted. After spending time around a lot of people, you often need solitude to recharge. Rest isn’t laziness—it’s how your nervous system recovers. Protecting your peace becomes essential, not selfish.

3. You experience emotions intensely.

You don’t only cry during painful moments—you cry during beautiful ones too. Music, movies, acts of kindness, and meaningful conversations can move you to tears. Because you naturally empathize with others, you may also experience compassion fatigue if you don’t create healthy emotional boundaries. Your emotional depth is one of your greatest strengths.

4. You dislike conflict.

Many highly sensitive people find conflict emotionally draining. You may avoid arguments, become uncomfortable around raised voices, or feel responsible for restoring peace even when the conflict has nothing to do with you. Learning that disagreement doesn’t always equal danger can be an important part of healing. Many HSPs value harmony over being right.

5. You thrive with routine.

While everyone benefits from structure, highly sensitive people often feel safest when life has a predictable rhythm. Healthy routines reduce decision fatigue and create a sense of calm when the world feels overwhelming. Sudden changes can take more time to process emotionally because your mind naturally wants time to adjust.

6. You process experiences deeply.

Before making decisions, you tend to think things through from every angle. You notice subtle patterns, body language, and details that others may overlook. While this can sometimes lead to overthinking, it also makes you thoughtful, intuitive, and insightful. People often come to you because you notice what others miss.

7. You need regular time alone.

Not every highly sensitive person is an introvert, but many crave quiet moments to reset. Solitude isn’t about avoiding people—it’s about giving your mind and body space to recover from overstimulation. You often return feeling calmer, clearer, and more present. Alone time is how you refill your emotional cup.

8. You ask life’s bigger questions.

Highly sensitive people are often seekers. You may spend time wondering about meaning, purpose, relationships, spirituality, psychology, or the human experience itself. Surface-level conversations rarely satisfy your curiosity because you’re naturally drawn to depth. You want to understand people, not just meet them.

9. Your imagination is rich.

Your inner world is vivid and alive. You may enjoy reading, writing, daydreaming, creating art, or escaping into stories because your imagination feels just as meaningful as the external world. Creativity often becomes one of your greatest gifts. It’s where you make sense of the world around you.

10. You’ve often felt misunderstood.

Growing up, you may have been called “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” “shy,” or “quiet.” People may have misunderstood your need for downtime as antisocial behavior or mistaken your emotional depth for weakness. Over time, many highly sensitive people learn to hide parts of themselves simply to fit in. It can take years to realize there was never anything wrong with you.

11. You notice what others miss.

You pick up on subtle changes in people’s tone of voice, facial expressions, and body language. You may have been described as wise beyond your years because you observed more than you spoke. While your sensitivity can sometimes feel overwhelming, it also allows you to connect deeply with others and notice beauty in places many people overlook. Your awareness is a gift that deserves to be appreciated, not hidden.

If you recognized yourself in several of these signs, I hope you know this:

Your sensitivity is not something you need to fix.

The world often celebrates people who are loud, fast-paced, and emotionally detached. But there is incredible strength in being deeply compassionate, thoughtful, observant, and emotionally aware.

Being highly sensitive doesn’t mean you’re fragile. It means your nervous system processes the world more deeply than average. That depth can sometimes feel overwhelming, but it also allows you to love fiercely, notice beauty in ordinary moments, comfort others with genuine empathy, and experience life with extraordinary richness.

For years, I believed I needed to become less sensitive.

Now I realize I simply needed to become more accepting of who I already was.

Sensitivity isn’t the opposite of strength.

Sometimes, it is strength.

Perhaps that’s something you needed to hear today, too.

I’d love to hear from you.

Did you recognize yourself in any of these signs? Share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to know which one resonated with you the most.

I was not a typical sixteen-year-old. Growing up in the 1990s, I had already witnessed domestic violence and survived child abuse. In many ways, I grew up far too quickly. Years later, my mother would tell me that I had been exposed to more pain than most children should ever have to carry.

Because of that, I didn’t see the world through rose-colored glasses. I saw suffering. I saw struggle. I saw the parts of life that many people spend years trying to understand.

That brings me to the first suicide attempt I witnessed.

I was on the track and field team in high school, although I wasn’t particularly good at it. During my junior year, I became close friends with a girl I’ll call Charlotte. We spent a lot of time together, and I frequently stayed at her house. She seemed to have everything I didn’t: a beautiful home, a large backyard, and a family that appeared financially secure. Growing up poor and moving between apartments, her life looked perfect from the outside.

What I didn’t know was that she was struggling with her mental health.

One summer, Charlotte disappeared. Weeks passed without a phone call or explanation, and I began to wonder if I had done something wrong. Two months later, she reappeared and casually told me she had spent most of the summer in a psychiatric hospital.

I never pushed for details, and she didn’t offer them.

Although I was relieved to have my friend back, something felt different. She seemed quieter, more withdrawn. The spark I was used to seeing in her wasn’t quite there anymore.

About a week later, we planned one of our usual sleepovers. That morning, she called and told me she wasn’t feeling well and was feeling sad. She said she would reach out later if she felt up to it.

She never called back.

As the day went on, an uneasy feeling settled over me. Looking back, maybe it was intuition. Maybe it was the hypervigilance that often comes with childhood trauma. Whatever it was, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Around 5 p.m., I left my house and ran to hers.

The walk normally took about ten to fifteen minutes, but that afternoon it felt endless.

When I arrived, I knocked repeatedly. No answer.

My heart began racing.

I pushed open the door and ran upstairs to her bedroom.

There she was.

Charlotte was lying on the floor surrounded by empty pill bottles.

I immediately called 911 as tears streamed down my face. I kept saying her name and trying to wake her, but she didn’t respond. At sixteen years old, I truly believed I was watching my friend die.

When the paramedics arrived, they rushed her out of the house. One of them told me I had done the right thing and that I should go home. They would contact her mother, who was a nurse.

So I walked home alone.

The next day, her mother called to thank me.

Charlotte had survived. Doctors told her family that if she had been found even a little later, she likely would have died.

I felt overwhelming relief, but I also carried guilt. How had I missed the signs that someone I cared about was suffering so deeply?

Today, as a psychology student, I understand something I couldn’t grasp at sixteen: many people become incredibly skilled at hiding their pain.

The second suicide attempt I witnessed happened in my mid-twenties.

At the time, I was going through one of the darkest periods of my own life. I had very little family support and was temporarily living with a friend while trying to get back on my feet.

Her name wasn’t Vanessa, but that’s what I’ll call her here.

Vanessa was queer like me, wonderfully unique, and someone I connected with deeply. We bonded over being neurodivergent and the challenges that came with navigating a world that often didn’t understand us.

Neither of us had much family to lean on, so we became our own little family.

One evening, we decided to go dancing at a local gay club. Before we left, I noticed she seemed off. She admitted she wasn’t really in the mood to go but was forcing herself to get out of the house.

Later that night, she found me on the dance floor and said she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go home.

I stayed.

Unlike the experience with Charlotte, my instincts weren’t sounding any alarms.

The night ended sometime after 2 a.m. I brought a friend back to the house for a nightcap before calling it a night.

When I walked through the door, I saw Vanessa slumped on the couch.

An empty pill bottle sat nearby.

Everything inside me froze.

I rushed to her side, calling her name and trying to wake her. She didn’t respond. My friend called 911 while I sat there reliving a nightmare I thought I would never experience again.

The paramedics arrived and transported her to the hospital.

She survived.

Like Charlotte, she required emergency medical treatment after the overdose.

Standing there that night, I couldn’t stop asking myself the same question:

Why?

But as I’ve grown older, I’ve learned that the better question is often:

What pain was she carrying that I couldn’t see?

These two experiences changed the trajectory of my life.

At sixteen years old, I learned that pain does not always announce itself. Sometimes it hides behind good grades, beautiful homes, smiles, and ordinary conversations. Sometimes the people who are struggling the most become experts at convincing the world that they are fine.

For years, I carried guilt for not seeing the warning signs. As I’ve grown older and studied psychology, I’ve come to understand something important: I was never responsible for saving anyone. I was a teenager doing the best I could with the information I had. What I did do was show up. Twice.

Those experiences taught me that mental health is not a weakness, a character flaw, or something that only affects certain people. It is part of the human experience. Behind every statistic is a person carrying a story that others may never fully see.

Today, as a psychology student, I understand that prevention, support, and treatment matter. But perhaps the most important lesson I learned is that human connection matters. Sometimes a phone call, a conversation, a knock on a door, or simply showing up can make all the difference.

I don’t know where Charlotte and Vanessa are today. I don’t know what paths their lives ultimately took. What I do know is that both survived those nights.

I hope they found healing.

I hope they found reasons to stay.

I hope they found people who reminded them that their lives mattered.

And if there is one thing I want readers to take away from my story, it is this:

You never truly know what someone is carrying.

Be kind.

Check on your friends.

Take mental health seriously.

And if you are struggling, please reach out. There is strength in asking for help, and there are people who want you here.

I love the mysticism, the costumes, and the opportunity to become any character you want for a night. I love the corny Disney Halloween movies and the darker ones that make you question the paranormal. I love haunted houses, pumpkin patches, spooky decorations, and everything that comes with the season.

As a child, I had a vivid imagination and was naturally drawn to all things magical and mysterious. The only problem was that I wasn’t allowed to participate.

If you read my last blog, Why I Left Church, you’ll understand why Halloween wasn’t celebrated in my home. I was taught that Halloween was a celebration of evil, the devil, and worldly influences. Participating in it wasn’t just discouraged—it was forbidden.

Looking back, I now recognize that much of this was tied to the religious fear I grew up with.

One movie that always stood out to me was Halloweentown. As a child, I saw a lot of myself in Marnie. In the movie, Marnie is fascinated by Halloween and the magical world that exists beyond what she knows. Yet the adults around her insist that it’s dangerous and try to keep her away from it.

In some ways, that was my experience growing up.

Every Halloween, my parents would close the shades and turn off the lights so trick-or-treaters wouldn’t come to our door. While other children were dressing up and collecting candy, I stayed inside. I remember feeling confused. I couldn’t understand how dressing up as a fairy, princess, or superhero had anything to do with evil.

To me, it looked like children having fun.

What I related to most wasn’t the witches or the magic. It was the feeling of standing on the outside looking in. I watched other children participate in something that seemed joyful and harmless while being told it was wrong. Like Marnie, I was curious. I wanted to understand what was so dangerous about costumes, imagination, and a bag full of candy.

As an adult, I’ve realized that what I was really longing for wasn’t Halloween itself.

I was longing for the freedom to experience childhood without fear.

I wanted the chance to participate, to belong, and to create memories like everyone else.

One Halloween as a preteen, I remember going to a friend’s house and dressing up as a baby. I was terrified my parents would find out. In that moment, I felt like a rebel. Looking back, it’s funny that trick-or-treating felt rebellious. It sounds so innocent now, but at the time it felt like I was breaking one of the biggest rules of my childhood.

When I eventually left the religion, I made up for lost time.

I started dressing up. I watched Halloween movies. I visited haunted houses. I embraced everything I had once been taught to fear.

Ironically, Halloween became my favorite holiday.

Every year, I take my boys to Salem, Massachusetts, and we dress up as a family. We’ve been Harry Potter characters, characters from Stranger Things, and icons from nostalgic movies like Beetlejuice and Edward Scissorhands. What was once forbidden has become one of my favorite family traditions.

These days, I’m known as the Halloween girl. My siblings send me photos of Halloween decorations when they see them because they know I’ll love them. One year, I even received Halloween gifts for my birthday and couldn’t have been happier. Every fall, I have my costumes planned months in advance.

But this story isn’t really about Halloween.

It’s about reclaiming something that was taken from me.

It’s about giving myself permission to experience joy without guilt, fear, or shame.

As a child, I stood behind closed curtains watching the world celebrate from a distance.

As an adult, I stepped outside and joined in.

I’m 42 years old, and I still have a childlike spirit. I still believe in imagination. I still believe in wonder. I still believe there is something magical about putting on a costume and becoming someone else for a night.

Maybe that’s why Halloween means so much to me.

It reminds me that healing isn’t always about recovering what was lost. Sometimes it’s about giving yourself permission to finally experience it.

And every October, that’s exactly what I do.

Visiting East Corinth, Vermont where Beetlejuice was filmed.

Visiting Stephen King’s house in Bangor, Maine.

Nothing compares to a beautiful Autumn day in the East Coast.

Autumn in Vermont.

The year I dressed up as Edward Scissorhands. Still one of my favorite costumes.

This isn’t an attack on Christianity, religion, or people of faith. This is simply my story.

For some people, church becomes a source of comfort, healing, and belonging. For me, it became something I eventually needed to leave in order to heal. I’ve spent most of my life carrying this story, and at 42 years old, I finally feel ready to tell it.

One of the biggest questions humanity has asked throughout history is: Who is God?

In Judaism, God is known as Yahweh or Elohim, the creator of the universe. In Christianity, God is understood through the Trinity: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. In Islam, God is called Allah. Across different cultures and traditions, there are countless names and interpretations, yet many point toward the same idea—a higher power, a creator, something greater than ourselves.

I was born and raised in a Christian household and later in a Pentecostal church.

When I look back on that chapter of my life, I don’t remember joy.

I remember rules.

I remember being told that women should wear skirts because wearing clothing that “pertained to a man” was sinful. I remember standing at the bus stop in the middle of winter, freezing in a skirt, believing that God was watching me and that my discomfort somehow made me holy.

We went to church constantly. Services, prayer meetings, Bible studies, revivals—it felt like church consumed nearly every aspect of our lives. I was taught that God deserved not just some of our time, but most of it.

Questioning wasn’t encouraged.

Obedience was.

Sex before marriage was forbidden. Being gay wasn’t even considered an option. Men were leaders. Women were submissive. That was simply the way things were.

I learned how to fast before I learned how to understand my own emotions. I learned how to pray until my knees were numb. I learned how to work tirelessly for the church. Most importantly, I learned that acceptance seemed conditional.

If I followed the rules, maybe I would be accepted.

If I followed the rules, maybe I would be worthy.

If I followed the rules, maybe I would make it into heaven.

As a child, I didn’t have the language to understand what I was feeling. I only knew that much of my relationship with God seemed rooted in fear rather than love.

When I eventually left the church, something unexpected happened.

I could finally breathe.

1. Fear of Hell

One of the earliest things I learned about God wasn’t love.

It was fear.

I grew up believing that if I stepped outside the rules of the church, I could spend eternity in hell. As a child, that was a terrifying thought. I remember lying awake at night worrying about whether I was good enough, holy enough, or worthy enough to be accepted by God.

Fear became one of the strongest foundations of my faith.

I was taught that God loved me, but I was also taught that if I got it wrong, if I questioned too much, if I lived outside the boundaries that had been set for me, I could be condemned forever.

As I got older, I found myself asking questions I wasn’t supposed to ask.

Could a loving God really create people only to punish them?

Could love and fear truly exist side by side?

The more I reflected on those questions, the more I realized that fear was shaping my relationship with God more than love ever had.

Leaving the church didn’t happen overnight. It was a gradual process of unlearning fear and learning to trust myself.

For the first time, I stopped obsessing over whether I was going to hell and started focusing on how I was living my life right now.

That shift changed everything.

2. Abuse and Hypocrisy

One of the most painful parts of my experience was witnessing the difference between what was preached and what was practiced. The person in my household who followed religion most closely was also the person who hurt us the most. He was respected in the church. People admired his devotion. He was known as a man of faith.

But behind closed doors, it was a different story.

He came home angry. He used fear and physical punishment to maintain control. My siblings and I learned to walk on eggshells, never knowing what version of him we would get.

As a child, this was confusing.

How could someone be viewed as godly by everyone around him while causing so much pain at home? For a long time, I struggled to separate God from the people who claimed to represent Him.

I also began noticing stories that extended beyond my own family. Stories of abuse being ignored. Stories of people being protected because of their position within the church. Stories of suffering being hidden behind the image of righteousness.

Those experiences planted seeds of doubt.

Not because I stopped believing in God.

But because I began questioning whether the institution itself was always living up to the values it claimed to teach.

I wanted authenticity.

I wanted compassion.

I wanted a faith that looked the same behind closed doors as it did from the pulpit.

3. Unconditional Love

One of the greatest surprises I experienced after leaving the church was discovering what unconditional love actually felt like.

For much of my life, love felt tied to behavior. If I followed the rules, I was accepted. If I obeyed, I belonged. If I questioned too much or stepped outside the lines, I risked losing that acceptance. Over time, I began to realize that love and worthiness are not things that need to be earned.

They are our birthright.

The farther I stepped away from organized religion, the more I felt surrounded by love. Not because I was suddenly doing everything right, but because I stopped believing that I had to. I began to see the sacred in ordinary moments. In nature. In human connection. In kindness. In the simple act of being alive.

For the first time, love felt expansive rather than conditional.

And that changed the way I saw both myself and others.

4. Letting Go of the Afterlife

For years, I spent an incredible amount of time worrying about what would happen after I died.

Would I go to heaven?

Would I go to hell?

Had I done enough?

Believed enough?

Repented enough?

The fear of eternity followed me for much of my life.

Then one day, I realized something.

No one truly knows what happens when we die.

Every religion has its own interpretation, its own beliefs, and its own promises. But at the end of the day, none of us can know with certainty until we get there ourselves. Oddly enough, accepting that uncertainty brought me peace. Instead of spending my life worrying about death, I started focusing on life. I started asking different questions.

How do I want to love?

How do I want to show up in the world?

How do I want to spend the time I have here?

Leaving the church allowed me to stop obsessing over my eventual death and start appreciating my very real, very imperfect human experience.

5. Made in His Image

One teaching that stayed with me long after I left the church was the idea that we are all created in God’s image.

The difference is that I began to interpret those words differently.

If we are all created in the image of something divine, then surely that divinity exists in everyone—not just those who believe the “right” things.

Not just those who follow a specific religion.

Not just those who fit neatly into society’s expectations.

Everyone.

The older I get, the more I believe that love is far bigger than the boxes we try to put it in. I don’t believe someone’s worth is determined by their sexuality, their mistakes, their relationship status, their struggles, or the path they choose to walk.

I believe every human being deserves dignity, compassion, and understanding.

When I read about Jesus, what stands out to me most is not exclusion.

It’s inclusion.

He sat with people who were rejected. He showed compassion to people who were judged. He extended love to those society had deemed unworthy.

That lesson stayed with me.

And today, it shapes my understanding of spirituality far more than rules ever did.

6. Learning to Respect the Human Experience

One of the biggest changes I noticed after leaving the church was the way I viewed other people. For much of my life, I had been taught to see the world through the lens of who was “saved” and who wasn’t. There always seemed to be a division between those who were living the right way and those who were not.

But life isn’t that simple.

The older I get, the more I realize how difficult it is to be human.

People are carrying grief, trauma, addiction, heartbreak, loss, and struggles we know nothing about. Most people are simply doing the best they can with what they have. When I left church, I found myself becoming less judgmental and more compassionate. I stopped worrying about whether someone was living according to a particular set of rules and started caring more about how they treated others.

Were they kind?

Were they honest?

Were they trying?

Those questions became far more important to me than whether someone believed exactly what I believed.

Leaving the church taught me that empathy is far more powerful than judgment.

7. My Children

One day I became a mother, and everything changed.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just thinking about my own beliefs. I was thinking about the values I wanted to pass on to my children. I knew very early on that I never wanted my children to feel forced into a belief system out of fear. I don’t want them to believe something simply because I told them to.

I want them to ask questions.

I want them to be curious.

I want them to think critically and explore the world for themselves.

Most importantly, I want them to know that they are loved exactly as they are.

My job as a parent is not to control who my children become. My job is to guide them, support them, and create a safe space for them to discover who they are.

If one day they choose a religion, I will support them.

If they choose a different spiritual path, I will support them.

If they question everything, I will support them.

Because love should never be conditional upon belief.

The greatest gift I can give my children is the freedom to become themselves.

8. My Own Relationship With God

For a long time, I thought leaving church meant leaving God. What I discovered instead was something entirely different.

Once the noise of rules, fear, guilt, and obligation began to fade, I was finally able to hear my own voice. And in many ways, that is where my spiritual journey truly began.

Today, my relationship with God is deeply personal.

I find God in nature when I’m hiking through the woods.

I find God in the ocean, in the mountains, and in the changing of the seasons.

I find God in the laughter of my children and in the kindness of strangers.

I find God in forgiveness.

I find God in healing.

I find God in moments of connection, compassion, and love.

I no longer believe that God lives exclusively within the walls of a church building.

I believe the sacred exists all around us.

In the beauty.

In the uncertainty.

In the heartbreak.

In the joy.

In the messy and imperfect experience of being human.

The God I know today is not rooted in fear.

The God I know today is rooted in love.

And that has made all the difference.

Finding God Outside the Church

When I left church, I expected to lose God.

Instead, I found Him everywhere.

I found Him in the quiet of the woods on a hiking trail. I found Him in the laughter of my children and in the kindness of strangers. I found Him in healing, in forgiveness, and in the moments when life felt impossibly heavy but I kept going anyway.

For the first time in my life, my spirituality no longer felt rooted in fear. It felt rooted in love.

I no longer spend my days worrying about whether I am good enough, holy enough, or worthy enough. I no longer believe that love must be earned through obedience or perfection. I believe love is our birthright.

Today, my relationship with God is personal. It isn’t defined by rules, shame, judgment, or fear. It is defined by compassion, curiosity, acceptance, and connection.

This isn’t a story about losing faith.

It’s a story about finding it.

And whether you’re Christian, Muslim, Jewish, spiritual, agnostic, atheist, or somewhere in between, I hope you remember this:

You are worthy of love exactly as you are.

Not when you’re perfect.

Not when you’ve earned it.

Not when you’ve proven yourself.

Right now.

Just because you’re human.

Leaving church didn’t take me further away from God.

For me, it brought me closer.

Not because the day was full of excitement or fireworks. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was boring—but the good kind of boring.

The kind of mediocre Friday where I noticed the warmth of the sun on my face and the sound of children laughing in my classroom.

As an educator, there are days that feel repetitive, almost like living the same day over and over again. But today felt different. I found myself looking around and feeling grateful for where I am.

My life isn’t perfect. It’s far from it.

I’m 42 years old, navigating a separation, raising twin boys, and preparing to graduate with my bachelor’s degree in psychology in just a few months. If all goes well, graduate school is next.

Life has been difficult. If I’m being honest, it’s been difficult for much of my life.

But today, as I took a moment to reflect on how far I’ve come, I felt lighter.

Not because all of my problems disappeared.

Not because I suddenly had everything figured out.

But because survival mode is slowly beginning to loosen its grip.

I’m healing my nervous system. I’m finding joy in small things again—my morning iced matcha, a good breakfast, a conversation with a friend, a quiet moment of peace.

I’ve noticed myself laughing more.

Smiling more.

Opening myself up to life again.

For a long time, I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel this way. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to trust life enough to keep my heart open.

But somehow, I have.

The thing I’m most proud of isn’t my degree, my accomplishments, or even my resilience.

It’s that after everything I’ve been through, I still choose softness.

I still choose empathy.

I still choose to believe in people.

I still wake up each morning and hope for good things.

Life has taught me that the simple moments are often the most important ones.

And maybe that’s why today felt so special.

Nothing extraordinary happened.

The world didn’t change.

There were no major breakthroughs.

Just a mediocre Friday.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like more than enough.

So yeah, today was a mediocre Friday.

But it was mine.

I’m raising two beautiful sons who wear their hearts on their sleeves. They’re expressive, warm, sensitive, and sometimes a little over-the-top emotional. But in my eyes, that means they feel emotionally safe in this household.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve watched people shame little boys for being “too soft” or “too sensitive.”

A little girl cries and people comfort her.
A little boy cries and eventually someone tells him to “man up.”

As a boy mom, that phrase sits heavily on my heart because I never want my sons to grow up believing their emotions make them weak.

We tell boys to “man up,” and then wonder why so many men grow into adults who struggle to express emotion, ask for help, communicate vulnerably, or feel emotionally safe within themselves.

At the same time, girls are often raised to expect emotional distance from men as normal masculinity.

I know firsthand what it’s like to be raised by a man who refused to feel anything but anger. My father once told me stories about his own father being abusive and alcoholic. He was raised under pressure to “be a man” long before he was emotionally ready to carry that weight. And honestly, hearing that broke my heart.

Because why do we force children to become anything other than themselves?Why are little boys taught so early that softness is something to outgrow?

The moment I found out I was pregnant with my twin boys, I made a promise to myself that my home would always be a safe place for them emotionally.

A place where tears are allowed.
Where emotional conversations are encouraged.
Where they can express fear, sadness, frustration, excitement, or vulnerability without shame.

I let my boys cry.
I let them feel.
I even let them call me out when they need to.

Because their only job right now is to be children.

I WANT MY SONS TO KNOW THEY NEVER HAVE TO EARN LOVE BY PRETENDING NOT TO FEEL.

There’s a part of me that believes the world would be a gentler place if we allowed boys to stay connected to their emotions instead of teaching them to suppress them.

We tell boys not to cry, but we rarely teach them what to do with those emotions instead.

So sadness turns into anger.
Fear becomes emotional distance.
Loneliness becomes silence.

And then society acts surprised when emotionally disconnected boys grow into emotionally disconnected men.

Women are often expected to emotionally carry relationships. We normalize men shutting down, avoiding vulnerability, struggling to communicate, and becoming emotionally unavailable.

But how do we expect men to be better if we never allowed boys to feel safe being human in the first place?

We need to do better.

We need to raise boys who know that strength and softness can exist in the same body.

Growing up, I remember watching my mother move through life with a softness I both admired and feared. She was a tiny woman, standing only 5’1”, and she wore her scars quietly. She had endured so much abuse throughout her childhood and adulthood, yet she never allowed it to completely harden her spirit.

Her heart and gentleness made her beautiful, but she wasn’t safe. I watched the world slowly strip pieces of her away until she became physically sick and passed far too early.

People often tell me I’m a lot like my mother: kind, loving, forgiving, and too soft for this world.

For a long time, those words triggered me because softness felt dangerous. To me, being soft meant people would take advantage of you. It meant lacking boundaries, overgiving, and becoming a people pleaser.

Through therapy, self-reflection, and a lot of hard work, I’ve learned something important: softness is not weakness. It’s a gift. And being soft does not mean giving away your sovereignty.

For years, surviving became my personality.

I lived in a constant state of hypervigilance. I felt like I always needed to be productive, working toward something, moving nonstop. Go, go, go. If I rested, guilt followed immediately behind it.

I mistook hyper-independence for healing.

Chaos felt more familiar than peace, and I believed love had to hurt in order to be earned.

The thing about abuse is that it teaches you to hold everything together, even while you’re falling apart inside. I carried that survival mode for years. I never allowed myself to collapse. I constantly performed strength while quietly dying emotionally underneath it all.

I felt responsible for everyone. I struggled to trust peace. I hardened myself emotionally because being stoic became the armor that kept people out.

But I’ve begun redefining what softness means to me.

My “soft era” is not weakness, laziness, or giving up. It’s not aesthetically perfect either. It’s intentional. It’s healing. It’s choosing peace after spending years in survival mode.

1. Rest

I no longer believe I need to earn rest. Being human is reason enough to slow down and listen to the needs of my body.

2. Boundaries

Not everyone deserves access to me. I get to choose who enters my life and who is healthy enough to remain there. “No” is a complete sentence, and boundaries are an act of self-love, not betrayal.

3. Emotional honesty

This has taken time, but I no longer pretend to be strong all the time. I respect myself more when I allow myself to feel honestly, even when those feelings are uncomfortable.

4. Calm relationships

I’m learning that healthy love and peaceful relationships are not boring. I am allowed to choose people who communicate openly, choose peace over chaos, and make me feel emotionally safe.

5. Safe love

This one is huge for me. Abuse taught me that safe love had to be earned, but it doesn’t. When you stay grounded in your worth, safe love enters your life and reminds you that love should not require suffering.

6. Choosing peace

Open communication, emotional safety, and surrounding myself with things that bring me peace have changed my life. I no longer crave chaos because peace finally feels safe to me.

7. Nervous system healing

I’m still actively working on this every day. Walking, resting, writing, spending time in nature, and choosing people who genuinely choose me back. I’ve become intentional about protecting my nervous system and the energy I allow into my space.

8. Creating warmth in my home

I buy myself flowers. I garden. I make myself a nice dinner simply because I deserve it. Lighting candles, taking long baths, listening to rainstorms, and creating comfort in my home are small acts of healing that matter deeply to me.

9. Allowing myself to be human

I give myself grace now. I cry. I feel. I process. Some days I move through emotions faster than others, and I remind myself constantly that above all else, I am human.

Healing has been a long road, and most people don’t fully understand what it takes to walk through the darkest parts of your life and still choose softness afterward.

These days, I find peace in lake days, overcast skies, gardening, quiet friendships, and cozy nights at home. It’s the simple things that bring me the most joy now. The small pleasures remind me how far I’ve come.

I made the decision a long time ago that I no longer wanted survival to be my identity.

And honestly, I think one of the strongest things a person can do is survive some of the darkest experiences imaginable and still choose to remain soft afterward.

Now, when someone tells me I’m soft, I smile a little inside. Because despite everything this world tried to do to harden me, I never lost my softness.

If you are a survivor of abuse, I see you. Healing is not easy, but it is worth it.

May you find peace in all the little things.

My home, my sanctuary, and my safe space that was once filled with the sounds of small footsteps running through the house now feels empty at times. The laughter of my boys, the bickering back and forth over the smallest things, has been replaced with silence, and sometimes it feels deafening.

Nobody talks about what it feels like to raise children between two homes. You get used a rhythm, a routine, and then one day your world is turned upside down. Suddenly, you find yourself missing the most mundane parts of everyday life.

Nobody talks about the ache in your chest when your child asks why they have two homes. One of my twins asked me the other day why my ex and I no longer share the same space. Or the pain of hearing your baby say that they miss you, even though you’ll only be gone for a day.

Little do they know that I miss them MORE.

Nobody talks about the quiet after they leave. Even though I finally have time to myself, it’s often accompanied by guilt. Seeing their belongings split between two homes is a reminder that they are now divide their time between two different worlds.

Two homes.

Two sets of clothes.

Two versions of normal.

This wasn’t the life I imagined.

Even though the situation I left was unhealthy, there is still grief in change. Birthdays and holidays are now shared between two homes, and motherhood looks different than I thought it would. Separation affects the entire family, not just the adults.

My beautiful, funny, smart, and resilient boys will always have questions, and as they grow older, I know those questions may become more complex. Nobody talks about the pang of jealousy you feel when your child says they want to live with their other parent. I know it’s simply their way of processing change and emotions they don’t fully understand yet, but it still hurts.

Or when one of them says, “I want you to sleep in Mama E’s bed.”

I’ve been mourning the life I thought I would have.

And still, I wipe my tears, continue healing, and work toward becoming the best version of myself because motherhood still exists even when my children aren’t physically beside me.

Through this painful process, I’ve learned how adaptable children truly are. My twins still laugh, play, and love fully despite the changes around them. They’re learning two routines, two environments, and two different rhythms of life. And somehow, they continue to grow beautifully through it all.

This experience has taught me to let go of perfection and simply show up fully present every day. I’m redefining motherhood and what that looks like for me. Healthy, loved children come from all kinds of homes, so what makes mine any less worthy?

After everything I’ve endured – the tears, the grief, the abuse – I’ve still managed to create space. I’ve created peace.

I now understand that love is not measured by one home, and love doesn’t split just because life does.

I want to be careful not to say that everything happens for a reason, because sometimes that phrase can invalidate real pain. So instead, I’ll say this:

I’m learning that motherhood can still be whole, even when life no longer looks the way I imagined.

My boys are still loved.

They are safe.

And I am still their mother, no matter how many homes we live in.

My precious boys.

But what people really mean is:

I don’t perform the way they expect me to.

The world is loud, chaotic. It feels like everyone is pushing to be seen. Talking louder, trying harder, even if it means doing whatever it takes for a moment of attention.

And don’t get me wrong – I am not bashing anyone who wants to be seen. We all do. We all deserve to take up space.

But being an introvert comes with assumptions.

People think that silence means insecurity. That I’m afraid to be judged, so I choose not to speak. That I’m disinterested. Or my favorite – that I have attitude.

I actually laugh a little when people think I’m mean. Because underneath the version of me they’ve created in their minds is someone soft, emotional, and deeply kind.

The truth is, I’m not quiet because I’m uncomfortable.

I’m quiet because I’m observing.

I notice everything – the tone, the shifts, the energy in the room. I pay attention to what’s being said and what isn’t. And sometimes, I find myself wondering how much of what I’m seeing is genuine – and how much of it is just performance.

I’ve always been someone who listens.

I don’t talk over people to be heard.
I don’t feel the need to fill every silence.

I speak when I have something real to say.

And that’s something that took me long to accept about myself.

In a world that rewards being loud, fast, and constantly visible, people like me can feel like we’re doing something wrong. Like we should be more, say more, show more.

But I’m starting to realize…

Maybe I’m not missing anything.

Maybe I’m just not performing.

I don’t have to be flashy or loud to be seen. I don’t have to force myself into spaces that don’t feel natural to me.

I’m allowed to be soft, quiet, grounded in who I am.

It takes all kinds of people to make the world what it is. And I’m finally understanding that there was never anything wrong with me. I just don’t move through the world the way everyone expects me to.

And for the first time in my life, I’m not trying to change that.

I’m not quiet.

I just don’t perform.

When you hear the word manifestation, what comes to mind?

For most of us, it’s the idea of using our thoughts, emotions, and beliefs to bring things like wealth, success, relationships, and opportunities into reality. We associate it with the law of attraction, visualization, and positive thinking—and somehow, poof, we arrive at our desired life. But this is what I actually learned about manifesting—and what truly changed things for me.

1. Gratitude:

It sounds cliché, but I can’t tell you how often I moved through life without pausing to appreciate what I already had. Gratitude doesn’t just “raise your vibration”—it shifts your perspective from scarcity to abundance. I had to ask myself: if I can’t feel fulfilled with what I have now, what makes me think I’ll feel fulfilled when I have more?

2. You Don’t Always Need a High Vibration:

New age spirituality often pushes the idea that you need to stay in a constant “high vibe” to manifest. That’s just not realistic. Life happens. Emotions happen. There are highs and lows, and being human doesn’t block your blessings. I went through one of the hardest periods of my life—and even in the middle of depression, things still began to shift. Toxic positivity is real.

3. The Universe Meets You Halfway:

This one can be hard to accept. Manifestation isn’t about sitting back and waiting—it’s co-creation. The universe might meet you halfway, but you still have to show up for the other half.

You want to be a writer? Start writing.
You want a healthy relationship? Start showing up as a healthy version of yourself.
You want to get in shape? Take the first step.

Without action, manifestation is just a wish.

4. Belief

Belief is everything. There were times I felt frustrated, like nothing was working, and I’d tell myself, “This isn’t real.” But I realized—if you don’t believe in what you’re calling in, how can you expect it to take form? You can’t expect something to grow when you don’t even believe it’s possible.

5. Comparison Is the Thief of Joy

I used to compare my life to everyone else’s. Why do they have what I want?
Why does their life look easier? But the truth is, we’re all living completely different timelines. Once I stopped focusing on what others had and started appreciating my own path, something shifted. That’s when I began to receive more.

6. Trusting Your Path

Not every storm is here to destroy you—some are here to clear the way. My journey has been messy, confusing, and far from perfect. But the moment I started trusting where it was leading me, everything began to shift. Even in uncertainty, I had to believe that it was all unfolding for a reason.

7. You Are Loved

You are deeply loved. Whether you call it God, the universe, source, or something else—we are all connected to something greater. There is a constant, loving force available to us. Learning to trust that love changed everything for me.

8. Trust Divine Timing

We want things now. We think we know exactly when and how everything should happen. But sometimes, things unfold in ways we couldn’t have planned. Letting go of control and trusting the timing of my life was one of the biggest shifts I experienced.

9. Live Authentically

Your uniqueness is your superpower. For so long, I edited myself to meet expectations. When I stopped doing that—when I started being fully, unapologetically myself—I finally felt aligned. And in that alignment, I began to believe I was worthy of everything I desired.

10. Visualization

This one is powerful—and honestly, a little fun. I started seeing myself in the life I wanted: the relationship, the abundance, the writing career. I allowed myself to feel it. If you can truly see it, you can begin to move toward it.You don’t need to have everything figured out to manifest the life you want. You just need: intention, belief, action and trust. Everything else unfolds along the way.

So ask yourself:

How badly do you want it?

The face staring back at me looked like me—but also different. I could see small dark circles forming under my eyes, crow’s feet outlining the sides, and strands of hair beginning to gray. The expression on my face was that of a woman who has lived a lot of life in the past 42 years.

My body—the one that carried and birthed twins—is softer now. Skin that was once tight has loosened. I placed my hand over my C-section scar, a quiet reminder of how much a woman’s body can change over time.

But this isn’t just about looks.

It’s partly about the fear of losing attractiveness, because we live in a world with impossible beauty standards—especially for women. Being seen as attractive can feel like proof that you haven’t completely lost yourself. And yet, beneath that is something deeper: the fear of becoming invisible.

Aging is a blessing—one we often take for granted. But the real fear is that as we get older, we’re valued differently. No longer vibrant, no longer in our “prime.” As if the younger version of ourselves was the one meant to conquer the world, to be seen, to be taken seriously.

And being a woman is already hard enough when it comes to being taken seriously.

We work twice as hard, show up more than we should, and advocate for ourselves just to be heard. At the same time, there’s a societal expectation to maintain a youthful appearance while gracefully—and quietly—aging in the background.

There’s pressure to look young through products and procedures, and an exhausting effort to hide the natural signs of time. Somewhere along the way, we’re taught that we become less desirable after 40.

Then there’s motherhood.

Raising children while aging adds another layer. I want my children to see that we all grow older, that our bodies change—and that there is beauty and strength in that. I don’t want them to grow up chasing youth or becoming consumed by their appearance just to fit into something society tells them they should be.

Growing older is a blessing. I just wish more people saw it that way.

There are moments when I look at myself and feel proud of the woman I’m becoming—the ever-evolving version of me who carries her scars like a badge of honor. And then there are moments where I see how much I’ve changed, and part of that scares me.

But I still feel beautiful.

Even after the trauma.
Even after being told I wasn’t good enough.
Even after my marriage didn’t work out and I had to rebuild my life from the ground up—brick by brick.

I still feel beautiful.

There is strength in aging.

To some, it might feel like time is running out—that there’s less time to do all the things we once dreamed of. But for me, it’s about slowing down and respecting my own timeline.

I’m 42, on the edge of divorce, raising my boys as a single mother. I don’t have everything figured out. I went back to school. I’m writing. I’m showing up.

And I’m proud of myself for loving who I am—even with my flaws.

The truth is, I don’t really know what I’m doing. But I’m starting to realize that no one really does.

I don’t think I’m afraid of getting older. I think I’m learning to sit with what it brings up.

And maybe this isn’t about losing anything at all.
Maybe it’s about seeing myself in a way I never had before.

Because I think every woman has had that moment—she just doesn’t always say it out loud.

It’s the harsh lighting in a dressing room.
A photo where you don’t recognize yourself.
The quiet realization that the gaze you once received—whether from men or, for me, women—has shifted.

It’s the fear of irrelevance.
The disconnect between feeling young in your mind but noticing the changes in your body.

It’s the belief that aging is a failure. That we’re somehow “letting ourselves go.”

But we’re not.

When I see someone older, I don’t see loss. I see someone who is lucky to still be here. I see wisdom. A lifetime of stories. A life fully lived.

There’s so much to learn from someone who has made it that far.

My biggest wish isn’t to stay the same.
It’s to grow old beside the love of my life, watching our children grow into who they’re meant to be—and someday, watching our grandchildren run freely, without fear of becoming who they are.

There were things I was taught growing up that shaped how I saw myself. I grew up hearing that love was only meant to look one way. Anything outside of that wasn’t different—it was wrong.

I knew I was different from as young as eight years old. As I got older, there were so many internal conflicts I had to navigate. The God I was taught to serve was just and loving, someone who accepted us exactly as we were. We were perfect in His eyes.

But I was also taught that being gay was a sin.

It wasn’t always said directly to me, but it was in the conversations, in the way people reacted, and in the silence around anything that didn’t fit what was considered “right.” It wasn’t presented as something to question. It was just understood—like a rule you didn’t break, like something you didn’t become.

So before I even had the language for who I was, I already knew it was something I wasn’t supposed to be.

Throughout my life, there were so many comments made about being gay. Even though I believe some people meant well, I also think religion has a way of making people feel like they have the right to question my life—and so many others.

Comments like:
“Maybe if you weren’t gay, God would listen to you more when you pray.”
“I don’t want your life to be harder than it has to be.”
“Sex is between a man and a woman.”

I even had someone tell me they couldn’t comprehend why I wasn’t into men.

I remember feeling confused more than anything—not because I didn’t understand what I was being taught, but because I didn’t understand why something that felt so natural to me was being described as wrong.

And when you grow up believing that parts of you are wrong, you don’t express them—you hide them. You shrink them. You try to outgrow them.

Before I came out as fully gay, I was afraid to be myself, so I used the label of bisexual. I figured if it looked like I was still into men, then I wouldn’t be fully judged—maybe just halfway.

I was terrified that if I fully accepted who I was, my life would be harder to survive.

I wasn’t strong enough to come out before I was an adult. I knew better than to label myself as the gay daughter of parents who followed religion closely.

I didn’t just learn that being gay was a sin.
I learned that being myself might cost me love.

My sister, who was two years older, was the brave one. She came out in her teens and was unapologetic about it. She paved the way for me—and she also paid the price.

She was treated differently for being herself, and I saw what the cost of coming out could be. When she finally felt safe enough, she blossomed. She was free.

But she was also incredibly lonely.

I came out when I was 21 years old. I was so scared. Even though I was an adult and able to make my own choices, the little girl in me who followed the rules was still shaking underneath my skin.

It’s funny how you carry fear with you, even when you’re no longer under your parents’ thumb.

This story isn’t about how terrible it was to come out—because it wasn’t. By the time I was in my twenties, I was accepted by my parents. Not in a loud or expressive way. I didn’t get hugs or words of affirmation. But in a quiet way—where nobody really talks about it.

This story is about redefining my relationship with God.

The God I was taught about was someone who would judge me after I died—someone who would determine whether I belonged in heaven or hell. A powerful being who held my fate in His hands. A God I feared with everything in me.

Man’s version of God taught me to live in fear. To be afraid of rejection. To be afraid of being condemned to eternity in hell because I loved a woman.

How absurd it is that I grew up believing I wasn’t worthy of God’s love because I didn’t choose to be with a man.

I was indoctrinated by fear.

For a long time, I thought I had to choose between who I was and what I believed. I was taught to fear being gay, to fear judgment, to fear what would happen in the afterlife if I didn’t live the “right” way.

But even in the middle of all of that, I never stopped feeling God.

I felt Him in quiet moments. In beautiful ones. In the parts of my life that didn’t feel rooted in fear at all.

And that’s when I started to realize—maybe God never left me.
Maybe I was never the one who was wrong.

I don’t believe anymore that God sees me as something that needs to be fixed. I believe I was created exactly as I am.

And if that’s true, then there’s nothing about me that disqualifies me from being loved.

I think what I was taught to fear wasn’t God—it was people’s interpretation of Him. A version shaped by rules, judgment, and control.

And for a long time, I couldn’t tell the difference.

But the God I feel now doesn’t live in fear.
He doesn’t make me question my worth.
He doesn’t ask me to shrink parts of myself just to be accepted.

The God I believe in now feels like peace. Like presence. Like something that has always been with me—even when I didn’t understand it.

And maybe that’s what faith is for me now. Not something rooted in fear or rules, but something quiet and personal. Something that doesn’t ask me to choose between who I am and what I believe. Something that allows me to exist fully, without shame. I don’t believe God ever asked me to be anything other than myself. I just think it took me a long time to unlearn everything that told me otherwise.

I didn’t lose God. I just found him somewhere I could finally be myself.

If you’ve ever felt like you had to choose between your identity and your faith, I want you to know – you don’t.

Thank you for being here.

-Delilah

But just because you know it’s true doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Now, I’m going to be brutally honest.

SOME PARENT’S FAVOR CERTAIN CHILDREN.

I’ve seen families where a mother lights up around her daughter but seems distant with her son. Or where a son is favored while a daughter learns to be more independent, more self-sufficient, more…quiet.

No one ever says it out loud.

But you can feel it.

The way parents interact with their kids isn’t always the same.

Sometimes it’s subtle- who gets more patience, who gets more attention, who gets celebrated more.

And sometimes it’s more obvious.

And when you’re the child on the receiving end of that difference, you don’t always have the words for it.

You just start to notice who gets chosen… and who doesn’t.

I was never the favorite growing up.

I was the second youngest of 6 children and somehow it always felt as if I was never good enough. I did really well in school. I was obedient. I was a good kid. But somehow I always felt like I fell through the cracks of my family dynamic. I was also the black sheep of the family. I followed the beat of my own drum and purposely tried to be different. But I was also worthy of love.

Nobody talks about how it feels to watch your other siblings get so much love poured into them. The amount of times my parents said yes to them when they wanted something and who got listened to without being interrupted. I watched as they were spoken to with patience, and I was met with frustration. The way their accomplishments were noticed and mine felt like they barely registered. I stood there watching who was supported when they needed help, who had parents show up to events and who they invested more in. I saw who had to “be strong” or “be quiet.” Who was allowed to feel openly.. and who learned to keep everything in.

Nobody talks about how it feels to watch the differences.

They had different standards for me than they had for my siblings and I was met with stricter expectations.

Do you know what it feels like to NOT be the favorite child?

It feels like rejection.

Like you’re unchosen.

Like you’re invisible… like you don’t matter.

It teaches you to stay small.

To be easier, quieter.

The become a version of yourself that’s more acceptable.

You learn to people-please.

To over give.

To search for the kind of love that never felt fully yours.

It hurts.

I don’t think most parents wake up and decide to choose a favorite. But sometimes it happens in quieter ways.

It can be the child who feels easier to connect with.

The child who’s more similar to them.

The one who doesn’t challenge them as much.

And over time, that difference becomes something you can feel – even if no one ever says it out loud.

And when you’re the child on the other side of that…

You don’t analyze the why.
You just feel the distance.

I’m not here to blame – I ‘m here to understand and be honest about how it felt.

As a mother to identical twins who are wildly different, I can’t imagine picking and choosing a favorite. I honestly don’t even know how that is possible. Children are the purest form of love and every single one of them deserves to feel like they are all favorites.

If you weren’t the favorite, I see you.

The one who was treated differently. The one who was expected to carry so much without the support and love you deserved. The one who fell under the radar.

It shows up in relationships, friendships and in your personal lives.

Choosing people who don’t fully choose you. Staying longer than you should. Over giving to prove your worth. You overthink everything and try to be perfect. You begin shrinking parts of yourself just to be accepted.

I became the easy one. The understanding one. The one who didn’t ask for too much.

Even when love was real – I didn’t fully trust it – I was always waiting for it to be taken away.

I’m actively working on healing this.

A part of me felt like I needed love but I needed reassurance that I wasn’t going to be overlooked again. Even in friendships, I sometimes felt like I was the one showing up more.. hoping to be seen the way I saw others.

And the hardest part is.. it doesn’t stay in childhood.

It follows you.

You learn to shrink, accommodate, to become who you think you need to be – just to feel secure in something that should feel natural. Just to feel loved.

Maybe we weren’t the favorite growing up. But that doesn’t mean we’re not worthy of being chosen now - fully, deeply, and without question. And this time, we get to choose ourselves too.

Thank you for being here with me.

-Delilah

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There was a time in my life when I didn’t have to choose happiness—I was surrounded by it. I exuded confidence. I felt comfortable in my own skin, and I laughed. Not the fake kind of laugh most people put on when they’re on autopilot, but the kind that comes from deep within—the kind that’s contagious.

So what happened to me?

Where is the vibrant Leo who made friends everywhere she went? The woman who danced the night away, sang her heart out, and had a zest for life?

No one really talks about how easy it is to lose your spark when life gets heavy.

I used to believe life was full of possibilities—that my dreams meant something, that I meant something. I felt like I had the world in the palm of my hands, like I was going places.

And then… I wasn’t.

I became jaded.

Trauma has a way of stripping you of the deeper parts of yourself—the parts you show the world—until they slowly begin to disappear without you even noticing. You become smaller and smaller, until one day you wake up, look in the mirror, and the person staring back at you feels unrecognizable.

Let me backtrack for a moment.

I spent most of my childhood living in chaos. It’s not something I’d ever want to revisit, even in my thoughts. But when I became a teenager, I wanted to experience life on my own terms.

I started modeling, entered pageants, and explored different creative paths. I realized early on that I was talented—I could sing, dance, and, of course, write. I wanted to do everything.

I told myself I owed it to me to choose a life of happiness, despite everything I had been through.

I moved through life like something good was always waiting for me. I trusted myself. I didn’t second-guess everything.

In my twenties, I was Miss Massachusetts Belleza Latina. I sang in a girl group. I dipped my feet into acting. I traveled.

I had a spark—and it lit up everything around me.

I remember feeling like I was somebody.

Then life happened.

I started doubting myself. My confidence faded. My ability to feel joy easily disappeared, and I lost my sense of direction.

I used to believe things would work out… and then one day, that belief was just gone.

This isn’t just about losing my spark—it’s about how I slowly stopped taking up space in the world.

Over time, I became smaller. I started hiding.

Not only did I feel like I lost my spark, I felt like I was losing myself. I was suffocated by life, by expectations, by a world that demands so much while expecting us to keep going like nothing is wrong.

For a long time, I felt hollow.

All I could hear were echoes of who I used to be—the girl who was going places, the fearless, ambitious, curious version of me who could feel the beauty of life.

The truth is, we all go through seasons where we feel like we’ve lost ourselves.

In relationships.
In motherhood.
Through trauma.

Somewhere along the way, it happens.

But I’m starting to realize something.

I didn’t lose my spark.

I just got tired of carrying everything.

My spark isn’t gone—it’s buried.

And a hard truth is, we are the only ones who can reignite that spark.

Lately, I’ve been trying to reconnect with myself again—writing, dancing, singing. And there are moments when I feel like the old me is resurfacing. Not all at once, but in small, quiet ways.

Little glimpses of that energy… just waiting for me to tap back into it.

And those beautiful parts that once lived inside of you?

They’re still there too.

Somewhere between surviving and holding everything together, I stopped feeling like the person I used to be—not because she disappeared, but because life got heavy enough to bury her.

But she’s still there.

And maybe getting your spark back doesn’t happen all at once.

Maybe it’s not some big, life-changing moment where everything suddenly feels right again.

Maybe it’s quieter than that.

Maybe it’s in the small moments—
when you laugh and it feels real again,
when you do something just for yourself,
when you feel even a tiny glimpse of who you used to be.

Maybe that’s how it starts.

Not by becoming someone new…
but by slowly remembering who you’ve always been.

Have you ever felt like you lost a part of yourself and wondered if you’ll ever get it back?

I remember how this version of me felt. I’m finding my way back to her.

This was me before life got heavy. I’m learning how to feel light again.

I miss this version of me.. but I don’t think she’s gone.

In my element. Nature is my therapy.

Do you ever look back at old pictures of yourself and miss how you felt back then?

I didn’t know at the time.. but she had something special.