Finding Me

For a long time, I lived as if I were only the roles other people needed me to play. I was the teacher, the wife, the caretaker, the reliable one who always showed up. Somewhere along the way, I stopped showing up for myself. I poured energy into everything and everyone else until one day I realized I did not recognize the woman in the mirror.

It was not about hating my life. It was about knowing deep down there was more. I had dreams I had buried, stories I had silenced, and a creative fire I had let burn out. The hardest part was admitting that I was the one who had let myself disappear.

When I finally asked, Where did I go? it was both terrifying and freeing. That question became the beginning of my becoming.

started writing again. At first it was just scraps of ideas, fictional stories, journal entries, little pieces of myself stitched into words. Then it grew into something bigger: creative projects, publishing goals, and eventually starting a business that scared me but also excited me. Writing became my way of remembering myself and entrepreneurship became my way of reclaiming my future.

This was not an overnight transformation. It was a thousand tiny choices: choosing my voice over silence, choosing to build something of my own, choosing to believe that it is never too late to start again. Some people call it reinvention. I call it becoming.

Now when I sit down at my desk, coffee in hand, laptop open, I feel like I am finally standing in the life I was meant to live. Not perfect, not finished, but mine.

I am not starting over. I am finding myself again. And this time, I am not letting go. I am unapologetically me.