Writefully Me✨

Health and wellness is not just about products or routines — it’s about the decisions we make every day to honour our bodies, our minds, and our lives. 🌿

Through a life-coaching lens, I believe true wellness starts with awareness, balance, and intention. When we become more mindful of how we live, eat, rest, and care for ourselves, everything else begins to align naturally.

I share simple, practical wellness inspiration and tools that support a healthier lifestyle — not from pressure, but from self-respect and self-love.

If you’re ready to explore a more intentional approach to health and wellness, I invite you to visit my Pinterest space where I share guidance, inspiration, and wellness solutions that support everyday living. 🤍

✨ Click the link below to continue the journey

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I’ve always loved notebooks. Not the aesthetic kind—the necessary kind. The ones you buy because your spirit is full and heavy at the same time. The ones you fill with everything you can’t say out loud.

I wrote in them endlessly. Budgets. Prayers. Broken thoughts. Feelings I didn’t know how to name yet. Pages soaked with tears. Pages written just to survive the night. Those notebooks held versions of me that were trying—trying to feel better, trying to make sense of pain, trying to stay.

Then winter came.

The kind of winter where the fireplace stays lit, not just for warmth, but for comfort. And one evening, I fed the fire every notebook I had ever cried into. One by one. Page by page. I watched my words curl, blacken, disappear.

It wasn’t destruction.

It was surrender.

The fire didn’t just burn paper—it burned weight. It burned old prayers that had already been answered in silence. It burned versions of me that no longer needed to be carried forward. Ashes where pain once lived.

I kept one notebook. Just one. For planning. For grounding. For thoughts that didn’t need saving. But I hardly touched it—because my words had evolved. They had found a new home. A braver one. A public one.

Then Christmas arrived with a quiet miracle.

A notebook.

Blank.

Untouched.

No history. No grief. No tears pressed into its spine.

Just pages waiting.

Waiting for a version of me that writes not to survive—but to be.

To choose.

To begin again.

And this time, the fire stays behind me.

The pages stay open.

And I write from what remains.

The biggest influences in my life were not always loud, famous, or perfect.

They were present. They were consistent. They stayed.

God has been my first and deepest influence.

In moments when I felt lost, unsure, or tired of being strong, He became my anchor.

Not always through answered prayers, but through peace, direction, and the quiet reminder that I am never alone. My faith shaped how I see life, how I forgive, and how I keep going even when I don’t understand the why.

My children changed me in ways no book or lesson ever could.

Becoming a mother taught me patience, resilience, and unconditional love.

Through my first child’s journey, especially raising Sean and navigating autism, I learned strength I didn’t know I carried. I learned how to counsel myself, how to sit with pain, and how to grow through it instead of running from it.

My husband, my number one cheerleader, has influenced me through belief.

Belief in my voice. Belief in my writing. Belief in me when I doubted myself.

His support reminds me that love can be safe, encouraging, and steady.

Life itself has been one of my greatest teachers.

Disappointment, healing, silence, starting over, and choosing peace over proving a point — all of it shaped me. I learned that growth doesn’t always look like winning; sometimes it looks like choosing yourself, lowering expectations, and protecting your spirit.

And finally, the woman I am becoming influences me every day.

The woman who keeps writing.

The woman who chooses healing.

The woman who understands that there was her before a relationship, her during, and her after — and that every version matters.

These are the influences that shaped my voice, my faith, my motherhood, and my becoming.

There was a time when I tried to hold onto the woman I used to be.

Not because she was happier, but because she was familiar.

She knew how to survive.

She knew how to keep quiet.

She knew how to bend without breaking—at least on the outside.

But growth has a way of gently loosening what no longer fits.

I am not who I was—and that is not a loss.

It is evidence of living.

The woman I used to be did the best she could with what she knew at the time. She carried dreams while carrying pain. She smiled through seasons that asked too much of her. She stayed in places she had already outgrown because leaving felt like failure.

But it wasn’t failure.

It was preparation.

Growth doesn’t arrive with noise or celebration. Sometimes it comes quietly, through disappointment, through unanswered prayers, through moments where you realize you can’t keep pretending anymore.

I didn’t wake up one day transformed.

I woke up tired of abandoning myself.

So I started listening.

To my body when it needed rest.

To my spirit when it needed honesty.

To my heart when it whispered, there has to be more than this.

Outgrowing old versions of yourself can feel uncomfortable. There is grief in becoming. You mourn the parts of you that were once necessary—your endurance, your silence, your constant giving. But even grief can be holy when it leads you forward.

God does not shame us for becoming.

He walks with us as we do.

I no longer owe loyalty to who I was when I didn’t know better. I owe compassion to her—and freedom to who I am becoming.

If you are not who you were last year, last month, or even yesterday, let that be your victory. Growth is not betrayal. It is alignment.

And today, I choose alignment over familiarity.

I choose grace over guilt.

I choose becoming.

Because I am not who I was—

and that is okay.

Closing prayer

God,

Thank You for every version of me that survived what I didn’t understand at the time.

Thank You for the woman I was, and the woman I am becoming.

Teach me to release guilt when I grow,

to honor my past without living there,

and to trust that becoming is part of Your design.

Help me walk forward with grace,

choosing alignment over familiarity,

and peace over permission.

Amen.

Closing affirmation

I honor who I was.

I embrace who I am becoming.

Growth is not betrayal—it is grace.

“There was a moment I almost let slip — a moment meant for laughter, for lightness, for me… and I remembered that joy doesn’t need a reason, it only needs permission.”

The last thing I did for play was allow myself to be light without guilt.

To laugh without explaining why.

To enjoy a moment without asking if it was productive, meaningful, or deserved.

Play, for me, looked like resting my mind, letting words flow without editing them, enjoying beauty for the sake of beauty. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t extravagant. It was simple — and honest.

Sometimes play isn’t games or outings.

Sometimes play is letting your soul breathe after surviving for so long.

When was the last time I allowed myself joy without earning it?

When did I last do something simply because it made me feel alive, light, or at peace?

And if the answer is “I can’t remember” — that’s not a failure.

That’s an invitation. To let yourself breathe…

I’m right here with you.

Do we ever get to a point where we actually solve for x? 🤔

Every day feels like an equation
unknowns scattered across the board of my mind.
I wake up and the universe says,
“Here, solve for x.”
And I sigh… because I thought I solved it yesterday.
But life—
life doesn’t mark you right or wrong,
it just gives you another question.

Some days the numbers make sense.
Peace equals prayer plus rest.
Joy equals gratitude minus fear.
But other days… the formula breaks.
Nothing adds up.
Faith feels small.
And I find myself dividing hope by exhaustion,
trying to carry the remainder of my own strength.

No one tells you that living
isn’t about getting all the answers right—
it’s about showing up to the test anyway.
It’s about whispering,
“I don’t know, but I’m still here.”
It’s about trusting
that God already knows the equation,
even when I can’t find the pattern.

Maybe x isn’t something to solve—
maybe x is me.
Becoming.
Learning.
Trying.
Still standing.

So tonight, I’ll stop fighting the unknowns.
I’ll rest in the mystery.
Because maybe the beauty of life
isn’t in solving for x,
but in realizing
I was the answer all along.
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