every chapter made me someone i didn’t know i’d need

there are days when i look back at my life and it feels like holding a stack of old, dog-eared pages — some soft around the edges, some ripped straight down the middle, some stained with tears i never admitted were mine. and sometimes, if i’m honest, i wish i could rewrite a few of them. i wish i could step back into the body of the girl i used to be and tell her what’s coming, tell her what to hold onto, tell her who to run from.

but then i breathe… and i realize she wouldn’t have listened.
she had to live it.
she had to feel every bruise, every disappointment, every wild heartbeat, every beautiful mistake.

that soft version of me — the one who loved like she was made of nothing but honey — she walked into rooms believing everyone had gentle hands. she trusted easily, forgave quickly, and gave pieces of herself she should have kept. she wasn’t naive; she was hopeful. and the world punished her for that hope more times than i care to count.

then came the sharper me — the one with the guarded eyes and the tired smile. she carried her hurt like armor, convinced that if she stayed alert enough, aware enough, hard enough, no one could wound her the way they once did. she didn’t let people close, not because she didn’t want love, but because she finally understood how deeply it could cut. she was fierce, protective, unwilling to bend. she kept me alive when softness couldn’t.

and then… the version that nearly took me out.
she was born from exhaustion and heartache, from carrying too much for too long. she moved through her days in pieces, pretending to be whole because that felt safer than admitting she was drowning. she held everything inside — the anger, the numbness, the grief, the exhaustion — because she didn’t know how to set it down.

she was the one who felt the weight of every ending.
she was the one who whispered, “i don’t know if i can keep doing this.”
and still, somehow… she did.

that woman — that fragile, powerful, unraveling version of me — is the reason i rise the way i do now. she crawled through chapters that should have broken her, and maybe they did for a while, but she kept going long enough for the story to shift.

and that is why none of it was wasted.

every soft chapter taught me how to love without apology.
every sharp chapter taught me how to guard my spirit without closing it.
every painful chapter carved strength into my bones that no one can take from me.
every quiet chapter taught me to listen to my own voice, even when it trembles.

becoming myself was never clean, never gentle, never linear. it was violent at times — a ripping open of everything i thought i was so i could grow into someone i never imagined being. the kind of woman who knows her worth, who knows the power of her story, who knows she can survive the pages that threaten to swallow her.

the truth is:
i needed every version of me to get here.
the bright-eyed girl,
the hardened woman,
the one who almost gave up,
and the one who rose anyway.

and if you’re standing in your own messy middle — the chapter where nothing makes sense and everything feels too heavy — i hope you know this: one day, the strongest version of you will look back at this moment with gratitude, not shame. she will understand that your breaking was also your becoming.

and she will carry every version of you with tenderness,
because she knows none of you were ever wasted.

with ink + bloom, 🌻