I wrote this on my birthday — July 13th. Chapter 46. And maybe that’s why these words feel heavier… fuller… more honest. Because last year, on this same day, I truly believed I was flying into one of the greatest seasons of my life. A season that looked like promise, elevation, answered prayers. A season I thought God had wrapped in celebration. I didn’t know I was actually flying straight into the eye of the storm. How could I have known I was headed right into the center of

There was a time I thought the hardest part was losing people. But loss has a way of teaching you what silence never could. Because the real heartbreak wasn’t in the goodbye — it was in the slow, quiet unraveling of who I became trying to be enough for people who were never enough for me. I kept shrinking myself to fit into rooms that dimmed my spirit. I kept softening my voice so no one would feel the weight of my truth. I kept loving people who only loved the version of me

They tried to define me before they ever knew me. Single mom. Eight kids. They built a box and expected me to climb inside it. Never not me They assumed struggle. They assumed lack. They assumed I was someone who needed saving. But I’ve never been a charity case. Not because life was gentle — but because God refused to let their assumptions become my story. The tragedy, the childhood wounds, the heartache, the pain that pressed against my bones — none of it was wasted. It d