When you’re reading this, I’ll be 28.
Crazy, right?
I used to stop counting my birthdays after 18. Not because I didn’t care—but because I didn’t know if I’d make it this far. Back then, survival felt like a question mark. I didn’t plan for a future because I wasn’t sure I’d get one.
But here I am.
Still here. Still growing. Still learning how to live.
Each year since has been a quiet revolution. I’ve shed versions of myself that were built around fear, silence, and people who didn’t value me or my time. Losing them hurt. It sucked. But they made their choices—and I made mine.
In their absence, I found something better.
I found true family.
The kind that shows up when you’re crying over spilled slime or chasing sunsets just to feel alive again. The kind that doesn’t need a reason to love you. Especially Izzy (but don’t tell her—her ego doesn’t need the boost).
I never got to plan my life.
I didn’t think I’d be able to live it.
But now?
Now I do.
I plan it in messy journal pages, in spontaneous adventures, in blog posts like this one. I plan it with every boundary I set, every piece of art I make, every time I choose joy over fear.
And yeah—some days I feel like I’m backtracking. Like I’m slipping into old patterns or losing progress. But I’ve learned that healing isn’t a straight line. Backtracking doesn’t mean failure. It means movement. It means I’m still in motion. Still showing up. Still trying.
28 years in, and I finally have my life back.
And I’m not giving it up for anyone.
So here’s to me.
To the girl who didn’t think she’d make it.
To the woman who did.
Happy birthday, Daisy. You’re magic.
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