The Year I Came Back to Myself

Last Thanksgiving, I cried alone on the floor of my bedroom while the rest of the world leaned into gratitude. Nothing dramatic happened—just one of those quiet shatterings that only you can feel, the kind that doesn’t leave visible marks but rearranges you anyway.

I didn’t know, then, that I was standing at the edge of the hardest and most transformative year of my life.

Since last November, life has taken on the speed of a storm. There were moments I didn’t think I would make it through—moments that required more strength than I had, more softness than I thought I was allowed, more courage than anyone should have to pull from thin air.

This year held grief that rewrote me.
Transitions I didn’t expect.
Goodbyes I didn’t want.
Decisions I never thought I’d have to make.
Beginnings that arrived too soon, too fast, or exactly when I needed them.

And somehow, through all of that, I kept becoming.

This Thanksgiving felt different. Not easier, not lighter—but clearer. There is something steady in me now that wasn’t there before. A sense that I survived the kind of year that changes you at the bone level, and I’m allowed to be proud of that.

I’m not who I was last Thanksgiving.
I don’t think I ever will be again.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because somewhere along the way, I became who I was always meant to be.
I rearranged myself so I could finally step into my own potential.
I found my voice.

And I won’t ever go back to the woman I was, because she was a version of me that was silenced.

That’s why I write about women who find their voices—women who hold onto them, fight for them, uncover them in the dark. I want every woman, every girl, to know that their voice is valuable. That it deserves space. That it should never be swallowed or softened or pushed aside.

So this year, I am grateful for my voice—
and for the quiet, brave act of sharing it with anyone who chooses to listen.