When I was younger, I was taught the world is black and white — yes or no, right or wrong, possible or impossible. But life doesn’t operate in absolutes. The gray spaces — the nuance, the complexity, the “maybe” — are where growth, healing, and creativity live. This post is about recognizing those shades of gray in your own life and reclaiming the parts of yourself that are sacred, protected, and whole.

For years, I took pride in not crying. I thought strength meant holding it all together — never breaking, never showing vulnerability. But life has a way of teaching us that real strength often shows up through our tears. This post is about what I learned when I finally allowed myself to feel, release, and confront the emotions I once ignored.

We all have that voice — the one that sneaks in when we least expect it, whispering doubts, fears, or judgments. I call it the inner critic, and for years, I let it feel like a mirror reflecting all the “not enough” thoughts I carried. But recently, I learned how to meet it, name it, and even playfully call it out. This post is about that process and how you can do it too — without judgment, without shame, and with a little humor.

Forty. Can you believe it?! I can hardly believe it. Here I am, on the cusp of a new decade, and I’m hitting pause — champagne in one hand, confetti in the other — to celebrate all I’ve survived, all I’ve learned, and all I’m still dreaming to do. This is my birthday reflection: a mix of gratitude, humor, celebration, and intention. And yes… it’s completely okay to dance a little while reading.

For a long time, I thought being numb meant I was protecting myself. I told myself I was “fine,” that I was managing, surviving, doing what I had to do to keep going. But what I’ve learned is that numbing isn’t living — it’s just existing in the in-between. I’ve been numbing in my own way for years, and now I’m learning how to live, feel, and exist in a world that sometimes feels too heavy to hold. This post isn’t just advice — it’s a reflection of where I’ve been and the work I’m still doing to come home to myself.

Before I officially blow out the 40 candles this year, I’m taking a moment to celebrate… me! This post is a reminder that reflection isn’t just about lessons learned from challenges — it’s also about honoring the wins, big and small. Because let’s be real: if we don’t celebrate ourselves, who will?

Some poems are meant to be read. Others are meant to be felt. This one — “Gravity” — poured out of me in the middle of heartbreak, reflection, and clarity. It’s that moment when you realize love doesn’t always hold everything together — that sometimes, even when the connection is deep, life’s pull in different directions is stronger.

We are rarely just one thing. We are complex, layered, sometimes contradictory beings — and that’s not only okay, it’s beautiful. In this post, I’m sharing a poem I wrote, “Walking Contradiction,” and reflecting on what it means to embrace every part of ourselves, even the parts that feel at odds with one another.

Before I officially blow out the candles this year, I’m taking a moment to celebrate… me! This post is a reminder that reflection isn’t just about lessons learned from challenges — it’s also about honoring the wins, big and small. Because let’s be real: if we don’t celebrate ourselves, who will?

Excuses have a sneaky way of convincing us that staying still is safer than moving forward. In this post, I reflect on the ways I’ve used my mental health struggles and personal traumas as reasons to stop, pause, or hide — and how I’m learning to flip that script. This is about finding strength in weakness, courage in discomfort, and clarity in the spaces where excuses once lived.

I think if I had to choose a spirit animal, I’d be a hummingbird.

Not because it’s cute or poetic (though it is both), but because it feels true to the way I’ve had to live — moving from space to space, dream to dream, season to season, carrying pieces of myself everywhere I go. Always searching for the next place where beauty and purpose meet.