If you know me—and I mean know me—you know I love to write. I love to draw and paint, too. All for cathartic release, of course.
So there’ll be times none of this makes sense, or sounds normal. But it’s not for you anymore.
It’s for me.
I’ve been holding back a lot. Especially writing. Because I get in my head—just like you do—about who the fuck cares what I have to say.
But here we are.
Because I care.
So this is your moment. Turn back now if you’re not into the internal monologue that’s on a constant loop in my head.
I’m at this weird crossroads in my life, where I thought I was going one way—the easy way, the dying way—but one domino led to me standing at this fork wondering what the fuck I’m doing.
The actual problem is, I never thought I’d get this far. To make it clear for you, my goal was thirty.
Years old.
You see, in my family and my circles, most folks don’t make it past twenty-five, let alone thirty. And if you do, you’re probably in some kind of institution.
Now, if you made it this far, this isn’t a cry for help or a call for pity. So if you feel either of those, turn back.
This is for clarity.
And it’s for me.
I need to process shit differently. When something plagues me over and over, I have to say it out loud. Write it down. Alchemize it.
So why the fuck are you invited to read this? Because, like me, no one actually knows you. Think about it—how many people on this planet really know you? The real you. Deep down.
And if that’s true—and it is—then maybe somewhere in this mess of words you’ll find solace. Or relatability. Or hell, maybe even hope.
So let’s start from thirty.
I arrived.
Alive.
At fifteen I made a deal with myself: get to thirty, then we can end it if we want.Yeah, you heard me right. I didn’t plan much after thirty. I wanted to get there out of spite. Out of defiance against my genetics.
By then, I’d built a pretty cushy life. Climbed tax brackets no one in my family had seen. Climbed the ladder in my industry most don’t. Built a small but mighty online following. Found a healthy, supportive partner who, despite my instincts, isn’t mad every time he changes his breathing pattern.
And I couldn’t enjoy it.
I didn’t know how.
All I knew was survival at such a high level it started to look like achievement.
And I was tired.
So I opened a salon. Because what I needed was more achievement, right?
Dead. Ass. Wrong.
I did it. I’m profitable. I have an amazing team.
But I wanted to die anyway.
Most salon owners will understand why.
All I knew was—I wanted to feel something else.
I’m not kidding. That was it. I wanted to feel something.
I spent years making sure I stayed alive.
The minutes in between? Spent proving people wrong.
Then I ran out of minutes.
If I could find just a few seconds of emotion, I wanted it.
So I began to recalibrate.
Focusing inward to find me.
And yeah, I lost a lot. They warn you about it—but they really don’t.
What they really don’t warn you about is how lonely achievement is. The others up there on the ladder? Zero interest in connection. They’re busy achieving; and sold on the idea that anyone else on this ladder is a threat.
So if they’re focused on them, I’ll focus on me.
I found things that changed my mind, body, and spirit.
I’m not afraid of change. Or evolution.
I’ll reinvent myself as many times as I need to.
I’m afraid of time.
Not dying. Not starting over. Not losing it all.
I know I can rebuild.
I’m afraid to waste my time.
What a paradigm.
I’d love to punch out, but I don’t want to lose time.
I know it makes no sense. But it does to me.
Here’s what clocked for me: I climbed the ladder, met the people at the top—and was so thoroughly unimpressed, I found achievement to be a waste of time.
Before you get your panties in a bunch, it’s not a waste. Your achievements are valid, full of worth.
But by that logic, you should feel something about them.
That’s what I was chasing.
...I lied. I wasn’t chasing it. I gave up.
Until now.
This last year, I’ve been clawing my way up.
Out of a hole I dug myself.
An achievement in its own right.
But no ladder this time.
Most of my friends are dead—or dead to me. (Achievement will do that, too.)
My family’s broken. What’s left, I love. But broken nonetheless.
So here I am, almost to the top of this hole I dug—where I almost buried myself. The edge of rock bottom, if you will.
Then someone believed in me.
And not that I don’t have people who believe in me—of course I do—but if you had the girl-high-school experience, you know. It only takes one girl hating you to feel like everyone hates you.
Of course I never believe people at face value. And of course I don’t believe the people who love me.
They have to love me.
Like when your mom tells you you’re pretty.
It doesn’t count.
But this one person’s belief in me—it landed. And when I borrowed it, I felt something.
I’m not great with emotions. Not all of mine have come in yet. But something’s there.
A wake-up of sorts.
Mindset is a crazy fucking thing.
One turn of a dial, a few words, a morning where you wake up different—and everything shifts.
And that’s where the magic is.
What’s wild is I teach this shit. But looking back now, I did good. Still, I could blow people away with what I know now.
And by no means am I out of the hole.
But even seeing a little light?
That’s hope.
But hope isn’t a strategy.
Hoping for breaks won’t work. Creating my own breaks will. (Points if you know where I stole that one.)
I also believe in divine timing.
Kind of.
I think the universe, God, whatever higher power you trust—it’s always around you.
With signs and clues.
Miss them, and you’ll get more.
And I think I’ve been missing them.
Until recently.
Now, this next part is gonna sound stupid. Stick with me.
I’ve always been an athlete; I know, take that in for a minute.
I’ve always played sports, been athletic. But recently, I dove head-fucking-first into Formula 1.
I’m telling you this for a reason.
Climbing out of this hole, finding belief—even outside myself—and F1 all connect.
It’s the only team sport where it’s up to each person to be at their absolute best—inside, outside, mentally, physically, spiritually—because every team member is equally important to the win.
And every team member, cares about the other.
There’s no one player that can carry the team or pick up slack.
Everyone matters.
If the engineers fail, the car fails.
If the drivers fail, everyone’s work means nothing.
If one mechanic fails, everything fails.
You get the point.
These people spend millions—on science, on wind, on finding a tenth of a second.
But this came at a time in my life when I needed a mindset shift.
And guess what—in F1, mindset comes first.
The drivers have this balance: knowing they aren’t the best, but also knowing they can be the best today.
Race day.
And even when they lose, they know they can show up tomorrow and be the best again.
Because they are the best.
They’re chasing a feeling more than trophies.
The trophy is the byproduct.
That’s what I’m doing.
I’m chasing a feeling.
Not trophies, not clout, not followers.
I never had a voice growing up. No one believed in me—except me.
And I lost her for a bit, at the bottom of that hole.
But she’s the one helping me climb out.And I won’t be letting her down again.
I just need to focus.
Focus on the feeling.
Of flying.
So let this serve as a journal of sorts. Maybe you find something in it—maybe inspiration, maybe recognition, or maybe it’s just fun to follow along and think I’m a lunatic.
But I want you to know: by the time you finish this post, I’ll be locked in.
Focused.
So if I see you out there—remember, I believe in you too. We can do anything. I truly believe that. And if you need to borrow belief, you can take mine till you find yours.
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