I Am Who I Am, and That Is Enough

February 10, 2025 · 7 min read

Healing, Writing, and the Courage to Be Seen

As I find my way back to writing and letting the words pour out of my brain, I am determined to confront the reasons I stopped letting my mind wander in the first place. I’m currently in the healthiest place I’ve ever been — mentally, physically, spiritually — maybe even across all my lifetimes, which means it’s a perfect time to dissect this line of self-questioning.

Perhaps I will gain some sort of wisdom or understanding so that I can finally let go of all that silenced me so that I can move forward with patience, real attention, and deliberate action. This means that when I find myself lost in thought, easily distracted, or caught up in emotion, I must not just acknowledge these distractions of peace; I must face them, dissect them, and take control.

That’s the shift — I’m not just focused, I’m anchored. I no longer seek outside validation, especially from those closest to me, to believe in my own worth. This knowing is my miracle, and that is why my fingers type away at my keyboard. If, somehow, my words inspire even one person to awaken to their own truths, that is why I write — with honesty, with depth, with intention.

The Brain Work I’m Doing Now

My brain never developed in a way that fostered stability. My mom suffered severe postpartum depression and lacked the capacity to nurture me. She has spoken about this openly, and our love for each other remains strong, but the reality is that my brain never had the opportunity to form healthy pathways. So here I am, doing that work myself, for myself, five decades into my life.

I am learning how to rewire my thoughts — to create a foundation for joy, peace, and the possibility of heaven on earth. As I continue this writing journey, I will share many of my life stories — what I remember — because I know what it feels like to be consumed by feelings of worthlessness. I also know what it takes to break free from that feeling and ensure it never returns.

Trust begins with understanding, and the only way for you to truly trust me is to know me — at least most of me. Some moments I will keep for myself to cherish, while others will remain buried, never to be resurrected. These choices define my boundaries, allowing me the freedom to share without losing myself in the process.

So now, I will close my eyes and let my mind remember — why I carried such shame, why I doubted my own thoughts, why I stopped writing, why I abandoned myself, and why I made decisions that kept me confined to pain, sorrow, and victimhood.

The Shame That Started Early

I think back to childhood moments that shaped my beliefs about myself. In second grade, I told my teacher, Ms. S, that my single mother was expecting twins — a desperate plea and blatant lie for the same attention my classmate Melissa was receiving due to her parents’ upcoming family addition.

In fourth grade, at my third new school, on the first day, I was so uncomfortable that I walked right past the fourth graders’ table and sat with the kindergarteners at lunch. When my mother asked how my first day went, I put my head down.

“None of the fourth graders wanted to sit with me,” I told her in what I thought was a lie.

I felt deep down I should have done something different that day, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t know how to say any of this — I will talk about my later autism diagnosis down the line. She called the school immediately, demanding the teacher make it right, but the feeling that I had done something terrible consumed me. The next day, I was instructed to arrive ten minutes late, after my teacher had time to scold the class.

The shame of that “lie” clung to me for decades. My mom, passionate about that moment, has brought it up occasionally over the years. I was always mortified by my deceit and never had the heart to tell her the truth — that I simply hadn’t known how to exist in that space. And then, in the last five years, I came to a realization. Maybe the kids had been dismissive. Maybe I could feel it. But I had no way of talking about it or coping with it. Instead, I carried it for nearly thirty years as one of many reasons why I wasn’t deserving of anything.

The Boy from Waikiki

I think back to 16, when I met the boy of my dreams on the beach of Waikiki. For two years, I obsessed over him — obsessed in the way only a neurodivergent mind can. I couldn’t live a moment without thinking about him, without agonizing over being too young to leave everything behind to be with him. I cursed myself for being powerless.

If only someone had helped me process those emotions. Instead, I “coped.” I left my mother’s care in San Diego and moved in with my father on 163 acres in Missouri — Misery, as I called it back then. I started yet another new school — eight times I had to change schools in my life — and gravitated toward the first group that accepted me: the smokers. That started my 17-or-so-year habit.

I was still 16 but in a new city, a new state, my heart still consumed with grief. I took that energy and got a job at the newest and trendiest Tex-Mex restaurant 45 miles away from home. I worked with a majority of college students, which is where I had my first drink, smoked my first joint, and even had sex for the first time. Even though my heart still belonged to my Waikiki boy, the emotions were too overwhelming, too consuming. I didn’t believe I was worthy of his love, so I sabotaged myself before he could.

I lost my virginity to a nameless stranger, just to get it over with.

I can still close my eyes and relive it, and it’s awful. To be very honest, I have never let myself go back to that night before this moment. It’s a moment I am so immensely ashamed of. The fact that I gave up that special experience to a nobody when I could have waited to share it with someone I adored… I think it broke me. If I could do that, what kind of person could I truly be? What kind of love did I really deserve?

But I understand now. I understand the intimacy I lacked, the guidance that was absent. I understand that I was left to figure it all out alone. And though it took decades to fully comprehend, I now meet that younger version of myself with compassion instead of shame.

And to the boy, now a man, whose heart I shattered — not once, but over and over. Maybe if I…

Running from Everything Good

This shame followed me for decades. It led me into disastrous relationships where I knew I didn’t belong, convincing me that I was undeserving of good things. So, I ran — from anything that felt good, from anything that might have healed me, from anything that required me to trust myself.

Self-love? I think I had that, at least in theory. I was too obsessed with myself not to love me, and I always had these nagging thoughts: You are not alone. You are loved. I didn’t know where they came from, but they existed. But trusting my thoughts? Trusting my emotions? Trusting my own decisions, my own worth? That was the missing piece.

So, every loss, every betrayal, every insult directed my way — I accepted it as deserved. I never fought for resolution, never sought forgiveness, never tried to mend. I simply carried the weight and kept moving, believing I was irredeemable.

What would I tell my younger self now that I know better? What do I tell my almost 45-year-old self, emerging from burnout, isolation, imposter syndrome, and hermit-hood?

Do I bring that shame with me? Have I let it go?

When discomfort rises now — I face it head-on. I ask myself: What does it feel like? Anger? Sadness? Fear? Does it make my heart race? My skin prickle? Is this feeling mine, or someone else’s? Deep breaths. Return to my affirmation.

“I am who I am, and that is enough.”

Maybe

Maybe if I had known that I was enough in second grade, I would have sat down with a bunch of strange kids and made life-long friends.
Maybe if I had believed that I was enough, I would have cherished my body and those that loved me.
Maybe I wouldn’t have entangled with men who only sought to destroy me.
Maybe I wouldn’t have made a thousand different mistakes.
Maybe I wouldn’t have started and grown my own business.
Maybe I wouldn’t have taken a corporate job and led an international award-winning marketing campaign.
Maybe I wouldn’t have traveled to Europe twice, Mexico and Central America dozens of times.
Maybe I wouldn’t have found passionate love.
Maybe I wouldn’t have birthed three earth angels.
Maybe I wouldn’t have performed on stage countless times.
Maybe I wouldn’t have started a new adventure at 40.
Maybe I wouldn’t be as strong as I am now.
Maybe I wouldn’t have learned that peace exists when you stop resisting your intuition.