The Night I Started to Remember Who I Was

I wrote this on January 29, 2024. Looking back now, I realize that what I thought was the end of one storm, and maybe the warning of another, was really just the eye of the one I was already in. Nothing could have prepared me for the bands that were about to roll in.

On that particular Monday evening, the overwhelming events of the day hit her like a ton of bricks.

She stared out the window as her half-clean kitchen, almost-finished laundry, and leftovers waiting to be put away seemed to stare right back at her, all of it still unfinished.

And then suddenly, she looked around and, for the first time in six years, a slight smile appeared across her face as she let out a sigh of relief.

For the first time in six years, I felt relief instead of fear.
That was the night I started to remember who I was.

This time, she smiled because even though everything seemed to be falling apart, it was, in fact, falling together.

This sigh was not followed by fear, uncertainty, or the familiar knowing that the inevitable tidal wave headed her way would leave her feeling like she was drowning all over again.

Instead, it was followed by something she had not felt in a very long time: happiness.

Happiness in knowing that, for what felt like the first time in her life, she was free.

So to the women who feel scorned, burned down, and left like a pile of ashes with nothing left, not even coal, please keep fighting.

Keep waking up.
Keep putting your feet on the floor.

Because every time you do, the devil knows he lost.

You are the only one powerful enough to break the chains in your own mind.

And my dear, you were born to fly.