Greetings my lovelies,

Yes! I changed up my greeting to you all. You are all so incredibly lovely to me, no matter your walk of life, no matter what kind of path you are trekking through right now. We are all just trying to find our footing, aren’t we?

So, I was getting myself ready for work this morning, going through the usual daily rhythm. You probably know my routine by heart by now, but if you don’t, it’s a whole process: showering, getting dressed, making the bed—though today was a full “change the sheets” kind of day—cleaning out the ferrets’ room and scooping their litter boxes, making sure all the furbabies are fed and happy, blowing out my hair, moisturizing my face, and sipping on some mushroom coffee because Ronnie and I are completely moving away from regular coffee beans.

It’s a comfort routine. It’s the safe, predictable space I build for myself before the workday starts—a way to anchor my mind before the rest of the world rushes in.

But right in the middle of it, a thought hit me out of nowhere: “I want to get back to myself.”

It felt like a natural thing to say. A comforting thing. We hear it all the time when people go through a dark season—this idea that if we just hold on long enough, we’ll eventually navigate our way back to the familiar shore of who we used to be.

But right on its heels came another, louder, almost violent thought that shattered the quiet morning vibe completely:

“NO! I don’t want to get back to myself.”

That stopped me dead in my tracks, staring at my own reflection with a hairbrush in one hand and moisturizer in the other. It was a total system shock.

Because when I really looked at my reflection, I realized that wanting to “go back” is a trap. Going back means trying to force myself into a mold that doesn’t exist anymore. It means treating all the pain, the grief, and the heavy roads I’ve just walked like a detour I can just erase. But you can’t undo the fire once you’ve been through it. Trying to reconstruct the old version of me feels like trying to glue a shattered vase back together—even if you manage it, you’re just left holding something fragile, leaking water, and covered in scars, trying to pretend it’s whole.

I don’t want to live a fragile, patched-up life. I cannot go backward. I can only go forward.

This realization comes after everything I have been through this month—the heavy, suffocating weight of grieving and mourning, right alongside the beautiful, amazing milestones that pushed me forward. I cannot go back to who I was before all the trauma because that version of me was broken open. And honestly? Even the woman who actively carried that trauma through the fire, the one who spent weeks just surviving on autopilot, is gone now, too. She did her job. She kept me alive. But I don’t need her survival armor anymore.

So here I stand at the edge of June, somehow already halfway through 2026. What is left is a woman standing with her hands wide open to the sky, feeling the solid ground beneath her feet, and asking the only question that matters:

Where do I go from here?

It’s not about looking back at where I came from or obsessing over who I used to be. It’s about looking at the open road ahead. How do I take that brave, bold step into the unknown and start living my life entirely on my terms? Fully, completely, and with absolutely zero apologies to anyone for occupying my own space.

But to do that, I have to face the questions that scare me the most right now:

What makes me light up? What makes me happy? What is my greatest dream, goal, and desire?

Honestly? I don’t know right now. I can’t answer that.

I wish I could tell you I woke up this morning with a grand, beautiful vision for the rest of my life. I didn’t! When you’ve been in survival mode, your world shrinks down to just getting through the next hour. You lose the ability to dream because you’re too busy just trying to breathe.

But what I do have are memories of the things that have always made me feel alive, and I want to bring them right into the light with me. Because these aren’t just random hobbies; they are the pieces of my soul that I dropped along the way, and I want them back.

I’m talking about curling up to get lost in a book for hours, and writing freely just because something inside me needs to be put into words. Writing has always been my therapy, my way of untangling the knots in my mind, and I’ve starved myself of it for too long.

I want to make playlists, sing at the top of my lungs, and dance around the house! Music isn’t just noise in the background; it’s how I shift my energy, how I call joy back into a room. I want to do my hair, makeup, and nails just for the pure fun of it, and wear nice clothes that actually fit and flatter my body shape. It sounds simple, but dressing well is how I show respect to myself. No more settling for torn-up rags or hiding my body in oversized clothes because I feel invisible.

I want to window shop, make wish lists, and dive back into being creative with diamond art, ceramics, drawing, and painting. When I am making something with my own two hands, the chaos of the world goes quiet. It’s pure meditation.

I miss swimming more than I can explain, and I miss working out. I miss feeling strong, capable, and physically connected to my body instead of feeling like I’m just a passenger in an exhausted shell. I want to get my hands dirty in the garden (though definitely not walking barefoot in the grass anymore, because desert life has taught me that the things hiding out there bite back!). There is something so healing about putting your hands in the dirt; it reminds you that life can grow again, even in dry places.

I want to decorate my home in my own unique style so my environment reflects my internal peace, and watch Ronnie completely take over the kitchen to cook, BBQ, and bake. And, oh, my fur family—spending hours just loving on them, because nothing heals a bruised heart faster than those unconditional cuddles and kisses.

And Ronnie. Holding his hand, going places, laughing, snuggling, and just being 100% together. He has been my rock, and I want to make sure we aren’t just surviving side-by-side, but truly connecting and living. I want to work a full-time job I genuinely love doing, where my energy is being poured into purpose, not just a paycheck.

Man, when I look at it that way, that list could go on for quite a while! Reclaiming these things isn’t just about passing the time—it’s about refusing to let the spark inside me go out.

As I sat with all of this, another thought came to me. Maybe this season of my life isn’t really about honoring those who have passed away. That might sound strange, maybe even a little cold to say after everything that has happened this month.

But hear me out.

I have spent years putting every ounce of my energy into honoring everyone else—elders, friends, family, coworkers, bosses. People I loved, people I admired, and people who completely depended on me to be the strong one. I poured so much of my own water into everyone else’s cups that, slowly, my own well ran dry.

It didn’t happen intentionally. It happened a little piece here, a little piece there. A missed workout here, a hobby set aside there, a moment where I swallowed my own needs to keep the peace or take care of a crisis. Until one day, I looked around and realized I had become an absolute expert at surviving for everyone else, while completely forgetting how to actually live for myself.

We’ve all been told at some point—whether through culture, family, or society—that the highest virtue is to let go of “self,” to erase the “ego,” and to live entirely for others. But honestly? Make that make sense to me. Because if you spend your entire life focused on everyone except yourself, you don’t become enlightened—you just disappear. You end up exhausted, depleted, overextended, and gasping for air. You don’t save anyone else; you just end up drowning and suffocating in the mucky waters of survival right alongside them.

That is exactly what happened to me. I let myself drown while trying to keep everyone else afloat.

To most people, June is just the easy gateway to summer. It’s all about vacations, backyard BBQs, wedding season, and soaking up the sunshine. It’s a time when the world feels lighter.

But for me, the contrast is everything.

I am standing at the edge of the dark, mucky waters of survival—that heavy, suffocating place where I’ve been wading for so long just to keep my head above water. And right in front of me is June. Summer. A season of pure, blinding light, warmth, and growth.

Because here is the honest truth I realized this morning: You cannot thrive in darkness or dirt.

If you stay down in the muck, you aren’t living; you are just decaying. You are suffocating. Darkness is for seeds that are still hiding underground, but I have already broken through. I cannot stay buried anymore. To truly thrive, I need the sun. I need the heat, the light, and the open air to dry off the mud and make me feel alive again.

June isn’t just a month on the calendar to me this year. It is an invitation. It is asking me to finally pull my feet out of that thick, dark mud, shake off the cold, and step into the heat of living. It’s asking me if I have the courage to grow out in the open, on my own terms, and learn how to thrive.

I already know how to survive. I have done that for years, and it got me to this day. But I am done drowning in the dark.

The summer is waiting, and I am finally ready to step into the light.