For most of my life, I didn’t know I had a choice. I thought I had to take what was offered. Stay where I was tolerated. Make peace with crumbs. I internalized the message that I was somehow too much, or not enough, or simply not quite right for love to land and stay. I spent years under the thumb of learned helplessness—where even imagining agency felt like a betrayal of the roles I had been handed.

But something has been changing. Slowly, quietly. And now I can see it clearly: I’ve been rising.

1. From Helplessness to Action

Yesterday, I thought I’d ruined something important. My car part search spiraled into shame—old voices crept in, whispering failure, futility, “see, you always mess it up.” But I paused. I breathed. I stepped back. I left eBay and searched elsewhere. I made a phone call. Found the part. Got it to the garage. And the mechanic? Calm. Kind. Professional. No judgment.

That moment might seem small, but for me, it was monumental. In the past, I’d have drowned in the shame spiral. Now, I know how to swim.

2. Choosing Peace Over Pleasing

I’ve started setting boundaries with people who drain me. People who, if I’m honest, were never really nourishing in the first place. I don’t need to fight or explain anymore. I just step away. Gently. Firmly. I’m no longer available for dynamics that ask me to shrink.

Even recently, when I doubted myself after a tough interaction with a family I supported, I didn’t stay stuck in shame. I spoke to my manager—someone I trust. I brought the emotion to light, reflected, owned my part, and allowed myself to move on. That’s progress. That’s agency.

3. Reclaiming My Path

Everyone told me poker wasn’t a viable path. That it was reckless. Unrealistic. Maybe even selfish. But I knew better. I know better. I’ve reclaimed poker not just as a means of income, but as a symbol of self-trust. It requires discipline, regulation, deep emotional clarity—and I have all three. I’m not gambling. I’m investing. In myself.

4. Making This House a Home

I used to live in spaces that weren’t mine. Spaces filled with furniture that belonged to someone else, or no one at all. Now, I’ve made choices. Bought furniture. Hung art. Placed lamps. This house reflects me. It’s becoming a home—not just for my son, but for myself. And in doing so, I’m signaling to my nervous system that it’s safe now. That I’m in charge. That I belong.

5. Staying Open

I’ve tried to connect with people. It hasn’t always worked. Some efforts have landed in silence or fizzled into nothing. But I haven’t given up. That, in itself, is sacred. And even on the nights when I haven’t slept and that old belief resurfaces—that I’m unlovable, unworthy—I don’t let it run the show anymore.

I know that belief is expired. I know that shame once kept me safe. It whispered caution in a world that didn’t offer me care. That critical parent voice helped me survive. And for that, I don’t hate it. I hold it. I thank it. I give it a seat at the table. But it doesn’t get to drive anymore. It doesn’t get the last word.

6. I Am Not Broken

Let me say this clearly: I am not broken.

I used to think I was. That the chaos I came from had splintered me beyond repair. But now I see I’ve been intact all along—just hidden, just surviving. And now I’m surfacing. Whole.

I am one human being. That’s enough. That’s more than enough. People are lucky to be in my presence—not from a place of arrogance, but from a grounded place of self-belief. I no longer chase love from a wounded place. I offer it from a healed one.

And I’m just getting started.