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...

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...

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...

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...