There’s a version of me that used to love being seen.

Not in a flashy way. But in a validating way. I knew how to show up with a how-to. I knew how to deliver. I knew how to earn attention.

But somewhere along the way, I started mistaking performance for purpose.

Life lately has felt like a roller coaster. One minute it all seems exciting, anticipation mounting. And the next, you feel like you are plummeting to your inevitable demise. 

Despite my efforts, it’s a ride I can’t seem to get off. There are blind corners of uncertainty. Distant screams filling me with silent worry.

Life holds enough quiet ways to unravel the plans we carefully craft. This time, the silence came from within.

I had forgotten how grief settles softly, like fog resting on tired shoulders. How it gently blurs everything once sharp into muted shades of grey.

I have spent my life building things. Businesses, relationships, dreams.

I’ve started from nothing, held the weight of responsibility, and turned ideas into places where people gather, shop, learn, and grow. I’ve built brands from the ground up, poured myself into them, and then, when the time was right—or when I had no choice—I let them go. 

It’s one thing to have your whole life turned upside down by a single phone call.

It’s another to feel like you’re hurtling down a seven-lane highway at 80 mph, waiting for someone in the backseat to yell out whether the exit is on the left or the right.

I hate waiting.

Sometimes, I feel like I am everything for everyone else, and there is little left for me. I spend my days wearing many hats, teacher, mother, wife, friend, sister, daughter... with little luxury to be just me. I have dreams and aspirations of living a creative life, but they remain locked away in a prison of fear. If only I could silence the imposter and release the artist…

This must be what stepping foot on the moon for the first time feels like. Euphoric. Surreal. A moment so monumental, so extraordinary, that words almost feel unworthy of describing it. If asked to articulate it, I find myself grasping at metaphors, a mere mortal undeserving of such power.

I wish I knew how to bottle this feeling. This rare, intoxicating flow is a high unlike any other (though, full disclosure, my experience in that realm is limited—my wildest trip was an Ambien-induced hallucination, never again).

Nonetheless, I did a thing. I pressed the button. And now it’s real.