I have realized that my life is not a series of accidents; it is a deliberate construction. By honoring my interest in the liminal—in the power of Hekate, the keeper of thresholds—I have learned that the “too much” label was merely a boundary marker. They were trying to keep me from crossing into my own territory.

But I have crossed. I stand now on the other side of the gate, where the air is thinner, clearer, and richer.

When I look at the visitors to my home—the birds who visit my feeder, like the Black-headed Grosbeak—I see a reflection of my own refusal to hide. They are not “inappropriate” for being colorful; they are simply being what they were designed to be. Nature does not apologize for its vibrancy. The landscape of the Sonoran Desert, with its deep roots and sudden, bright blooms, is a masterclass in survival and beauty. I have adopted that same architecture. I have decided that if I am to occupy space, I will occupy it with color, with sound, and with the unapologetic sparkle of crystal.

This home is my sanctuary, and it is a living, breathing testament to the fact that you do not have to “wind down” just because the calendar suggests you should. I refuse to curate a museum of who I used to be. My home is a laboratory of who I am becoming. Every rose gold accent, every piece of Tyrian purple fabric, and every arrangement of light is an affirmation that I am the sovereign of this space.

Ron, my partner, has been the witness to this unfolding. In a world that wanted to tell me my eyes were hazel, he was the one who looked deep enough to see the green. In a world that called my voice “too much,” he was the one who listened when I spoke. Having his witness has been the final anchor for my roots. When you are finally seen for who you are, the need for their approval simply evaporates. It loses its gravity.

I am no longer performing for an audience that wants me to fail. I am living for the woman who finally looked in the mirror and decided she was her own favorite sight.

Let them call it “too much.” Let them call it “toxic.” Let them call it whatever they need to keep their own worlds from burning down. I will continue to cultivate my garden of rose gold and purple. I will continue to polish my crystals and my resolve. I am not masking the world’s darkness; I am simply refusing to let it define the architecture of my soul.

They wanted me to be a martyr for their misery. Instead, I became a Queen in my own palace. And if that is “toxic” to their small, beige lives? Then I suppose the poison is, in fact, my power.

I am not “too much.” I am just finally, vividly, enough.

I am stepping across the threshold of the liminal. I am the woman who wears her crown every day. I am the woman who walks in Tyrian purple and speaks with a voice that rings like crystal against gold. They wanted me to be a background character in a grayscale film. I chose to be the director of my own technicolor, jewel-toned reality.

I am Vividly Rae. Bright Life, Deep Roots.