I’ve lived many lives in this one body.

I was raised in a home shaped by alcoholism and divorce, where I learned early on to read the emotional weather and make myself small to keep the peace. For decades, I stayed committed to a religious system and a marriage that, in time, no longer aligned with my soul.

Walking away wasn’t impulsive—it was the slow, sacred work of truth-telling. I asked myself: Can I keep doing this for the rest of my life? And if I do—what story will my children inherit about love, faith, and self-worth?

The answer asked me to choose authenticity over approval. To leave what was familiar but was a slow death.

And to begin the lifelong work of coming home to myself.

I’m still unlearning the belief that my value lies only in what I offer others. The hardest parts to love—my needs, my limits, prioritizing those—are slowly being reclaimed. Healing hasn’t come in grand moments, but in a thousand tiny, courageous choices.

No one rescued me. I became the one I needed.

I believe the meaning of life is found in the living—in showing up for what’s real, in witnessing beauty and pain, in choosing presence even when it breaks you open. That, to me, is sacred.