Learning to love myself

Is It Too Late to Dream at 44? Maybe it's not too late. Maybe I'm just getting started. Growing up, I honestly can't remember spending much time thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up. At twelve years old, I already thought of myself as a little adult. I was the oldest of twelve children, and childhood didn't always feel like childhood. My mother struggled with drug addiction, and there were times when she would disappear. At first, it might be a weekend. As I got older, those weekends turned into weeks, sometimes even months. I remember one time when I was around fourteen or fifteen. My mother disappeared for approximately two months. When she finally came back, she was pregnant. Growing up was a struggle in ways that are hard to explain. There was always something happening, something to adjust to, something to figure out. I don't think I spent much time imagining my future because I was too busy dealing with the present. When you're young, y...

My Dreamy Book Escapes: When Even a Tawdry Romance Can't Save Me From a Book Slump Let me tell you something about me: I LOVE a good romance novel. And when I say love, I mean LOVE. Give me a deliciously tawdry romance with a swoon-worthy hero, a heroine who can hold her own, a little danger, a little drama, and enough passion to make me fan myself. I'm here for it! I've been a romance reader for as long as I can remember. I fell in love with the genre when I was just a girl, and I haven't looked back since. Books have always been one of my favorite ways to escape the world for a little while. One of my favorite authors is Christine Feehan. There's something about getting lost in her paranormal worlds that hits differently. I love the combination of romance, danger, supernatural elements, and those intense relationships that make you want to keep reading just one more chapter. You know the kind of book I'm talking about. The one where you tell yourself you...

Finding My Way Back to Me: One Week at a Time Have you ever looked at your life and realized that somewhere along the way, you stopped making time for yourself? You spend so much time being there for other people, handling responsibilities, and trying to get through whatever life throws at you that you forget about the person who needs your attention the most: YOU. I've been there. Life has a way of changing us. Sometimes we experience losses that leave us trying to figure out who we are all over again. Sometimes we spend so much time being strong for everyone else that we forget we're allowed to have difficult days, too. I've been on a journey of healing, learning, and trying to understand myself better. It's not always easy, and I certainly don't have all the answers. But I'm learning that I don't have to have everything figured out to take the next step. That's part of why I started this blog. I wanted a place where I could be honest about life...

Just Say No: Why I Don’t Borrow (or Lend) Money — Even to Family Let me say it plain: no. You should never borrow money — especially from family. That might sound harsh, but it’s coming from someone who’s learned the hard way that money and blood don’t mix . I don’t borrow money from anyone. Not from family. Not from friends. Not even in an emergency. If I’m down bad, I deal with it . If I’m hungry, I skip a meal or two. Hell, I’m fat — I can afford to miss a plate or two. It’s not about pride. It’s about peace. See, when you borrow money, you invite expectations, guilt, and judgment into your life. Suddenly, every family gathering has tension hanging in the air. Every phone call feels like a debt collector in disguise . If I choose to give money, that’s one thing. I can do that with a clean heart because I already know who I’m dealing with — the ones who always have their hand out, never bring anything to the table, and somehow always have a story to tell. I accept them for w...

  No More Favors Can you do me a favor? That sentence should come with a warning label. Hell, it should be illegal to ask someone that, especially when the favor is “free,” but somehow ends up costing me forty dollars. And not just in money, but in time, peace, and self-respect. I’ve said this before, but this time I mean it: No. More. Favors. If you lead with “Can you do me a favor?” I will hang up the phone. Immediately. Because here’s the truth—those favors never get returned. They’re taken, expected, drained out of me like I’m some endless well, when I barely have enough to give myself. The people I keep helping? They never offer a hand when I’m the one in need. If I’m hungry, I go without. If I need a ride, I call Lyft. If I’m short on money, I figure it out. Alone. Not because I want to be, but because I’ve learned—asking gets me nothing but disappointment. Why? Because my family is self-serving. A collection of users. And it’s taken me too long to finally accept that truth. ...

What I Wish I Knew Before Gastric Bypass Surgery Lying in that hospital bed, pain tearing through me, I regretted every life choice that brought me there. Every single one. It wasn’t just the surgery. It was the first time I ever turned to food for comfort . The nights I stuffed my emotions down with whatever I could find in the fridge. The years I spent hating my body, and the years I spent ignoring it. One step after another—each decision, each moment of silence, each time I didn’t ask for help—led me here. And then came the depression . Nobody talks about how after the surgery, when your body is healing and your old coping mechanisms are gone, the sadness creeps in. Loud and unrelenting. You can’t eat your way through it anymore, and sometimes it feels like there's nothing left to hold onto. I wish someone had told me that it’s not just a physical transformation . It’s an emotional unraveling . A reckoning . And still… I’m here. Regret and all. Healing, one painful t...

When Love Is Served: Navigating Acts of Service in My Family My love language has always been acts of service. I’ve grown up showing love through caring actions—whether it was babysitting my younger siblings or helping out at every family gathering. Yet, over the years, I’ve also felt that my caring nature has sometimes been taken for granted. A Childhood of Service At around 12 years old, I became the family’s unofficial babysitter. I wasn’t in it for the pay—it wasn’t much anyway. I did it because it felt natural to help out, to be there for my family. It was my way of expressing love, even if that sometimes meant putting others’ needs before my own. An Easter to Remember One particular memory still sticks with me. When I was about 15 or 16, my grandmother and aunt put together to buy outfits for all my siblings for Easter. Beforehand, my grandmother told me there wouldn’t be anything for me. She asked if I was okay with that, and I told her I was because my heart was full just...

I got my official surgery date today—March 19! It’s really happening. I also start my pre-op class on March 4, and from there, things get real. The next step? A strict 14-day pre-op diet to shrink my liver. That means: Protein shakes twice a day – 28 shakes total, which means I need to stock up on two cases since they only come in packs of 12. One Healthy Choice meal for dinner – paired with ½ cup of vegetables . Three different vitamins for after surgery – a multivitamin, calcium citrate, and B-complex to keep me on track. I keep reminding myself: I’m doing this for my health. The sacrifices, the discipline, the cost—it’ll all be worth it in the end.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood. Losing my sister has brought back so many memories—some good, some bad, all unforgettable. We were some crazy-ass kids, always up to something. We loved picking on people and then taking off running like we were untouchable. And let me tell you, we got creative. We used to take a crib mattress and slide down the stairs on it like it was the best ride ever. When I was a kid, I used to rush home from school just to watch Jem and the Holograms . If you know, you know. One time, Chenelle went into the bathroom and set a fire in the trash can. But guess who got in trouble? Me. My grandmother hit me with the “You’re the oldest, you should have been looking out” speech. The irony still makes me laugh because come on—we were only 11 months apart! How responsible could I have really been? We discovered boys together too. I’ll never forget crying to her when my first crush got a girlfriend. And then there was that summer when we ended up ...

Dear Younger Me, I see you. I see the little girl who had to grow up too fast, who carried burdens far too heavy for her small shoulders. I see the way you tried to hold everything together when it was never your job to. I know you felt invisible, unheard, and unprotected. I wish I could sit beside you and tell you that none of it was your fault. I wish you knew that you were never meant to be the fixer . Your mother’s addiction was not yours to heal, and her choices were never a reflection of your worth. You were just a child who deserved safety, love, and care. I’m sorry you didn’t get that in the way you should have. But hear me when I say—you were always enough. You didn’t need to prove anything to be loved. I wish you knew that forgiveness isn’t about excusing the pain—it’s about setting yourself free . The past will try to keep its grip on you, whispering that you are broken, that you are stuck in the story written for you. But you are not. You have the power to write your ow...

   I’ve been talking about my journey—my struggles with weight, grief, and trying to find my way forward. But what I haven’t shared is how I’ve chosen to move forward. I’ve decided to get gastric bypass surgery. It wasn’t an easy decision. In fact, it was one of the hardest choices I’ve ever made. Surgery isn’t a quick fix. It’s expensive, it’s scary, and it forces you to face yourself in ways you never imagined. But after months of trying to push through on my own, I realized that this is the right step for me. I’ve been in this process for six months now, going through all the evaluations, tests, and requirements. Every step has made it more real. And as much as I try to stay strong, I won’t lie— I’m scared. Am I allowed to say that? Because I am. I’m scared of the surgery itself, of how my body will change, and of the unknown that comes after. I have an amazing supporter in my aunt, and I am so grateful for her. But beyond that, I feel like I’m doing this alone. Chen...

Losing Someone You Love Losing someone you love is a pain that words can never fully capture. The condolences, the people asking if they can do anything for you—but the one thing you need most is the one thing they can’t give you: your loved one back. When Chenelle passed away, it felt like a bad dream. She was only 42 and full of life—she had been that way since we were kids. We always joked about how I was the accident-prone one, always ending up in the hospital, while she seemed kissed by angels. How could we both jump off a swing, but only I break my arm? Or when we were little girls jumping on the bed, I was the one who fell off and cut my head. If that wasn’t luck, I don’t know what was. We had wild imaginations back then. How could she be gone now? I ask myself—why not me? I’m the unhealthy one. As I work through the confusion and pain, I struggle not to turn to food, which has always been my comfort. But you know what? I’m going to get through this. I have to. I will live for h...