Let’s sit. I want to talk to you for a minute.
Not the you everyone sees—but the you who keeps going even when nothing makes sense anymore.
There was a clear line in your life, whether anyone else noticed it or not.
A before. And an after.
Before it, things felt good. Normal. Safe enough.
After it, everything became harder—louder, messier, heavier. From that moment on, life stopped feeling like something you moved through and started feeling like something you were constantly pushing against.
You didn’t suddenly become dramatic or weak. Your nervous system was hijacked. Panic attacks, sensory overload, constant chaos—those weren’t personality flaws. They were your body trying to survive something it never got the chance to process.
You grew up without a foundation. Always moving. Always adjusting. Always bracing. The only stability you knew came with conditions—be different, be quieter, be what someone else needed you to be. You learned early that love often came tangled with control, and that safety wasn’t really safety at all.
Life felt like swimming upstream. Fighting the current without really knowing why—only knowing that stopping wasn’t an option. So you kept pushing, hoping the destination would eventually explain the struggle.
The job you took on wasn’t your dream. It was what worked. It gave you freedom when your life was unpredictable—panic attacks, health issues, raising kids, exhaustion. It paid the bills. It kept you moving. But slowly, quietly, it chipped away at your self-esteem. You told yourself it was temporary. That someday you’d stop scrubbing and get a “real” job. Something worthy.
The truth is, you always had a dream—a big one. That pull never left you. But every time you tried to reach for it, your head filled with noise. Voices telling you it was stupid, unrealistic, embarrassing. So you put the brush down and went back to routine, because at least that was familiar. At least that was allowed.
You spent a long time waiting for something to save you. You prayed. You held on. You believed that if you were patient enough, faithful enough, something would eventually make all of this worth it.
And then… your body broke.
That was the moment everything changed.
Not because of despair—but because something in you finally snapped and said, ENOUGH.
Anger became your fuel. Not the destructive kind—the clarifying kind. The kind that strips away illusion and leaves only truth.
Anger that pushed you past every story you’d been told about limitation.
Then it hit you. All at once. Sharp and unforgiving—the truth that no one was coming.
And something in you split open and said: “Then I will save myself.”
You planned a ride with a broken body, barely any preparation. It made no sense—but something inside you needed to push to the brink, mentally and physically. You needed to know, really know, what you were capable of. Something hard. Something big. Something chosen.
Rage carried you across the province. Not gently. Not gracefully. It became the fuel that pushed you past the threshold—past the doubt, the insecurity, the deeply rooted belief that you were somehow unworthy.
That was the line you drew in the timeline.
After that, things finally started moving. A book was born. You healed. You turned fifty. The anxiety eased. The panic fell silent. And somewhere in that unfolding, something shifted—quietly, but completely.
And then it came. The final test.
You picked up the brush again.
The ghosts are still there. But so are you. You have the tools. You have the courage to stay. No paralysis. No shame. And what is coming out of you feels almost impossible—not because it’s new, but because you’ve been waiting your entire life for this exact moment.
Now, you’re preparing for your first exhibition—a full body of work unlike anything you’ve ever created before. The second book is growing, another already taking shape. Interviews are scheduled. Doors are opening. A cleaner turned artist and author at fifty—something no one would have predicted, including you.
If all the pain, heartache, and chaos are what it took to bring you to this exact moment, let me reassure you—you’d do it again. Because as brutal as the journey has been, it brought you back to yourself.
And you didn’t abandon God—you stripped the idea down to something real. Not a figure who rescues, but a force that moves through creation, choice, and courage.
You are rising. Not because you were saved—but because you finally decided you mattered.
And I need you to hear this clearly:
Nothing was wasted.
Nothing was too late.
You were becoming the whole time. <3