Becoming

PMDD has been my hidden storm since I was fourteen,more than hormones, more than mood swings.

For much of my life, I craved being seen-not just noticed, not admired, not even loved in the ways that make for pretty pictures or...

I don’t think we’re here just to make money or collect milestones. I think we’re here to live on purpose. To get up each day and choose something, no matter how small, that nudges the world just slightly toward better. I’ve seen what happens when that fire goes out, even in people we love. But I still believe in the spark. I believe we each carry something that matters- and the way we show up, even quietly, can change everything.

I didn’t come here to be seen. I came to disappear a little. To lay my tired bones somewhere the world couldn’t reach me. No big...

It wasn’t the tree or lights that made it magic it was a stranger’s kindness and a whispered answer: most likely, you’ll make it.

I became a mother before I became a woman. This piece reflects on the journey of raising children while still becoming myself, and the quiet longing for a kind of motherhood that comes from love, choice, and wholeness- not survival.

I became a mother before I became whole. But she didn’t wait for perfect—she arrived anyway, a miracle disguised as a detour. In giving birth to her, I found the strength I never knew I had and the love I had always longed for. She didn’t just change my life. She made it mine.

Maybe identity isn’t about becoming someone new -but remembering who we were before we learned to be afraid. And the most radical act is this: to choose again, not out of shame, but out of love

For a long time, I thought growth was linear. That once I healed something, it would stay healed. That once I learned a lesson, I was done with it. But the last few months have humbled me. Becoming isn’t about moving on-it’s about circling back, again and again, to meet yourself more honestly each time. This piece is for anyone who’s felt like they’re breaking down when, really, they’re breaking open. If you’re walking your own spiral-shedding skins, questioning truths, grie

I was fourteen when literature found me, not in the pages of a textbook, not through perfect grammar or clever punctuation, but in a...

It wasn’t that love didn’t exist. It just couldn’t meet me where I was becoming. And that’s when I knew the chapter was closing.

Ten years ago, I stepped off a plane and into Rome with a backpack and a shattered name. I was thirty, newly divorced, a mother of two,...

I searched for love in others, but it came in quiet moments, in my own breath, my own becoming, when I chose to come home to myself.

A Christmas Eve where grief met glitter glue and a crooked kind of magic. This was the start of my art therapy journey.

Written in the quiet aftermath of my second divorce - a night of tea, thunder, and the music that helped me come home to myself.