It didn’t happen with fireworks...
It didn’t come with a big announcement or a dramatic declaration of transformation. It happened in quiet choices I made almost without realizing it:
- saying no to things that drained me, even when it made me feel guilty
- slowing down when my instinct was to rush
- no longer defending the parts of myself I was growing into
Some shifts were so small they barely registered at the time, but they added up in a way that made life feel different from the inside. I looked back at the goals I set for myself in January and realized many of them didn’t belong to me anymore. Some were rooted in fear. Some were shaped by other people’s expectations. Some were there simply because I hadn’t yet believed I was allowed to want what I truly wanted. So I let them go.
Not out of rebellion or confidence, but because continuing to chase them would have meant abandoning myself again. And somewhere along the way, without a big moment or a speech to mark it, I chose myself.
It didn’t happen all at once.
No big moment or crowd was cheering. It wasn’t a dramatic declaration or a personal rebrand. It started in small, quiet ways that didn’t look like much from the outside — little shifts in how I spoke to myself, how I moved, how I cared for the parts of me I used to neglect.
For a long time, I chased validation without really noticing I was doing it. I worked harder than necessary, loved louder than I felt, over-explained myself when I was doubted, and pretended I wasn’t hurt when I was. If I felt fear, I pushed through it. If I felt unsure, I hid it behind achievement. That was the script I knew.
But sometime in June 2025, something in me slowed down. Not out of defeat, but because I was tired of sprinting toward a version of myself that only existed when someone else approved of her. I didn’t suddenly become confident; I just became unwilling to keep contorting myself to earn a sense of worth I could have granted internally.
It wasn’t a transformation in one night. It was the slow unlearning of a habit: proving. And the quiet arrival of a belief: maybe I don’t have to anymore.
I Stopped Outsourcing My Sacred.
In June, I started saving the moments that mattered to me — not because they were impressive or shareable, but because they felt true. I wrote them down in a way that made them real, even if no one else would ever see them. Phrases, memories, small flashes of tenderness — things that would have disappeared in another season of my life.
I realized how often I used to wait for someone else to acknowledge what was meaningful before allowing myself to value it. I would ask, silently or not, “Does anyone else think this matters?” as if consensus was required for joy to count, but something shifted. I stopped looking outward for confirmation and began trusting my own experience. Not everything needed an audience or approval. Sometimes it was enough that a moment moved me, even if it didn’t move anyone else. There was a new sentence that replaced the old question:
“I saw it. I felt it. That’s enough.” And it was.
Finally...
A while ago, I was packing my husband’s lunch and heard him whisper, “Only God knows how much I don’t want to leave.”
It wasn’t dramatic, but it was tender in a way that stopped me. I realized I wasn’t performing anymore. I wasn’t holding my breath for applause or waiting for someone to tell me I was doing it right. I was just living inside what mattered to me. I stopped explaining myself to people who weren’t listening. I stopped pausing my own pace until everyone else felt comfortable. I started sharing what I felt as it happened, even if it wasn’t polished or perfect.
I trusted the name/ title Sanctuary of Sound without "running it through a committee". I let go of trying to impress anyone, and I let myself be present instead. But the most meaningful change wasn’t public at all. I started saving the moments that felt holy, not because anyone asked, but because I finally recognized them as sacred.
I created a collection called Relationship Healing Moments, but not to convince anyone of anything, but to honor the truth that these tiny, tender parts of life actually matter.
Your Turn. Mid-Year Check-In.
Sometimes the turning point isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s a sentence, whispered privately, that begins to rearrange everything.
“I don’t have to earn my own life anymore.”