A letter to the me who got here.

Hi dear,

Today is a Saturday in the month of June. My birth month.

It's been one of the most emotional months I've had in a while—but not in a sad way.

A few days ago, I traveled to Boston, for a rock concert at the MGM Music Hall in Fenway. I went to let Josh Homme from Queens of the Stone Age to sing with me with no apology.

It was the first flight I paid out of my pocket. The first trip I fully funded by myself. I was excited and scared before getting on the plane, but once I sat down, I remembered: I got my beautiful ass on my own. Just by saving. Just by trying.

That trip was what my soul had been searching for.
It helped me shed my baggage.
I left behind my scarcity beliefs.
I left behind my narcissistic mother, my unsupportive, psychological abusive situationship.
I left behind my ex-in-laws who treated me like a womb for rent, who made me believe—passively, cruelly—that I wasn't enough.

I deserved to be there.
I walked the streets like they owed me rent.

I felt free from manipulative systems. Even free from my internalized colonization, capitalism, and whatever else that had been pressing me down against the floor.

I went to the concert with salt in my lungs and stars in my chest.
I danced, jumped, cheered, screamed, laughed next to strangers who didn't know my history—and they didn't need to. I didn't think once about being "too much". I didn't owe anyone a performance. I was me, not someone's mirror.

The city allowed me to exist without fear. That's why I sang in public.
I went wherever I wanted. I bought everything that caught my eye.
I watched an amazing woman play the violin like she was sent to remind me: I'm alive.
And that feeling doesn't have to exist only in Boston.

I remembered what it feels like to be on my own.
My solitude became sacred.

No one understood my feelings—and for the first time, I didn't want to be understood.

Let them misunderstand. Let them judge. It doesn't matter anymore.

There's more to say—more reasons why I felt so liberated during that trip.
Maybe I'll tell you one day. Maybe it'll resonate with you
But right now, what matters is this: I'm here.
I'm writing this post as a first real step toward doing whatever the hell I want.

To honest with you, what happened is irrelevant.
This post is about what comes next.

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.
I don't know what I'll do tomorrow.
But I'm taking this step—without caring if my "so-called tribes" approve.
I don't need a degree just because society says I do.
I don't need to obey rules I never agreed to
I don't need to stay quiet to be seen as "humble"
I don't need to accept crumbs and call it gratitude.

Fuck that.

I've done it for decades. All I got was trauma, suppressed emotion, and a confused soul.
My soul deserves more.

I deserve the purest love I can give myself—patience, support, softness.

I don't know where these steps will take me. But you're welcome to come with me—if you want.
If not, its okay.
Just make sure the path you're on is yours.

I was scared. I almost didn't book the flight.
My mother and my therapist almost talked me out of it—said I needed to set a better example as a mother.

But you know what?

They were right about that part.

I did set an example.
Of a mother who is free.
Who loves her children unconditionally.
Who doesn't manipulate, dominate, or instill fear to keep control.

I made it, we made it.

I gave myself a different ending than the one I was handed.

And look at me:
Glowing in my bathroom mirror like it's a throne.

Freedom doesn't always come with fireworks.

Sometimes it's just walking through a city that doesn't know your name—and finally feeling okay about that.
Sometimes it's in the shower, knowing you're alone on this journey...
and realizing you've got yourself.

And if you're lucky, like me—you've got a few who witness you, love you, and don't need to change you.

For me, those people are my children.

For now.