This is a major shift that I need to make in my life. It is part of my truth, the stress in my relationship, the hurt that keeps coming back over and over again. I’ve been loving without boundaries. Wholly. Fully. Without hesitation. And it’s left my heart gushing—sometimes metaphorically, sometimes I swear it feels literal—like a faucet that won’t turn off. The hurt keeps circling back like it’s on a goddamn boomerang. You think it’s gone, and there it is again, socking you in the gut like it forgot its keys.
Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to anchor too many things at once, like I’m some kind of emotional octopus:
🌀 Lose a massive amount of weight.
🌀 Fix my career while dragging around a criminal record that feels like a scarlet letter made of concrete.
🌀 Forgive myself for a marriage that nearly destroyed me and still echoes in the worst possible ways.
🌀 And—oh, right—try to love a man who simply can’t meet me halfway no matter how wide I throw open the door.
It’s like spinning plates during a hurricane. And I’m the plate. And the hurricane. And the one yelling at the weather.
So, what could I do differently?
Let’s start here:
I have to stop beating myself bloody in the space where love isn’t showing up.
Because the truth? My timeline and this man’s capacity are not synced. I’m trying to build a bonfire and he’s handing me a damp match. Not because he’s cruel or doesn’t care—but because he just can’t right now. He’s tied up in his own storm. And while I’m standing in the doorway waiting, I’m slowly setting fire to myself.
That silence? That delay? That not-knowing-if-he’ll-call?
It’s been paralyzing me.
I stop dancing.
I stop writing.
I stop applying to jobs.
I stop trying.
I sit frozen in a pile of unmet needs and unspoken prayers. Waiting for breadcrumbs.
But this year? That version of me—the one who waits, who withers, who wilts at the sound of no sound—is not coming with me.
Today, I took the first real step. I met with a new therapist.
And no offense to Mr. California, but I swore to myself I wouldn’t let him hijack the whole hour.
Today wasn’t about him. It was about me.
My weight.
My self-worth.
My desire to make money again even with this giant felon stamp across my chest.
Do you know how maddening it is to be punished forever for something that happened in the middle of a manic episode—when I was so drugged and drunk and utterly gone, I barely remember my own name? And yet the system remembers. It remembers every charge, every fingerprint. It doesn’t care that I’ve been sober five years. Doesn’t care that I now spend my time serving in church. Doesn’t care that I’ve given my heart to helping others.
But God knows.
God knows the whole story—the one no one else ever really sees.
God knows what happened when I was arrested.
God knows what was in my blood, in my brain, and in my breaking point.
And God knows who I am now.
That’s who I’m answering to this year. Not the courts. Not the shame. Not the silence of a man who can’t always show up. God. And me.
Because last year?
Last year was about pain.
It was about scrolling, rereading emails, waiting by the phone like some tragic black-and-white movie heroine in fuzzy slippers and unresolved trauma.
But this year?
This year is about movement.
About me on the living room floor, sweating and swearing through dance workouts I actually like.
About opening that Word doc I’ve been scared to finish.
About emailing one new place a day even if it leads to nowhere, because I’m still trying.
About holding my heart in my hands instead of laying it out like a doormat.
I’m not going to pretend I’ve figured it all out. Hell no. I’m a mess with glitter on. But I’m a mess in motion. I’m moving. I’m healing. I’m showing up.
No more waiting.
More living.
An Inspired Odyssey Through✨️Ink & Stardust✨️ 