Today, I turn forty.

Not just forty years old—
but forty years awake on this planet.

Forty years of breath.

Forty years of survival, remembering, forgetting, and remembering again.

Forty years of learning what it means to exist inside this body, this spirit, this name.

And today, for the first time in my life, I can say this without flinching:

I matter to me.
That sentence alone has taken forty years to land.

For so long, my worth was measured by how much I could carry.
How much I could give.
How much I could endure quietly.
How much I could hold together while breaking inside.

I learned early how to disappear for the comfort of others.

How to be “strong” when I was exhausted.

How to be “understanding” when my boundaries were crossed.
How to be “loving” when love required me to abandon myself.
I confused sacrifice with virtue.
Endurance with worth.
Pain with purpose.
And for a long time, the world rewarded me for that.
But this year—2025—something finally broke open.
Not in a violent way.
Not in a dramatic way.
In a truthful way.
This was the year I walked through my Dark Night of the Soul—not as a victim, but as an initiate.
Each layer of loss, disappointment, disillusionment, and awakening stripped away another false identity.
Another role I played to be accepted.
Another version of me that existed only to be consumed by others.
I learned that you can give everything to everyone
and still be starving.
I learned that love without safety is not love.
That connection without consistency is not intimacy.
That being chosen sometimes requires choosing yourself first.
And here—standing at forty—I finally understand something that no one could teach me until I was ready to receive it:
Happiness is not something you earn.
Safety is not something you prove you deserve.
Peace is not a reward for suffering long enough.
They are my birthright.
I am allowed to be happy just because I want to be.
I am allowed to feel safe without justification.
I am allowed to rest without guilt.
I am allowed to desire without apology.
That realization alone healed more in me than years of striving ever did.
This year taught me to listen to my body in a way I never had before.
To honor the tightness in my chest.
The heaviness in my stomach.
The quiet “no” that shows up before words ever do.
My body has been trying to protect me my entire life.
I just didn’t know how to hear her.

Now I do.
Now I trust her.
Now I let her lead.

I no longer override myself to keep the peace.

I no longer explain my boundaries to people who benefit from me not having them.

I no longer chase clarity from those who are comfortable being vague.

I have learned that mixed signals are a signal.

That inconsistency is information.
That love does not require confusion.
This year taught me the difference between attraction and alignment.
Between familiarity and destiny.
Between being seen and being chosen with action.
It taught me that not every connection is meant to last—but every connection has something to teach.

And the greatest lesson of all?
My rise is about me.

This is not the season where I pour myself into others hoping to be met.

This is not the season where I shrink to make people comfortable.

This is not the season where I dim my light to avoid intimidating anyone.

This is my It’s-All-About-Me Season.

Call it selfish if that helps you cope.
Call it arrogance if that makes sense on your journey.
Call it whatever name you need.

I call it coming home.

I will never again make myself smaller for a man.
Not for romance.
Not for validation.
Not for proximity.

I will never again contort myself for a friend who cannot hold me.
Or a preacher who cannot see me.
Or a family member who requires my silence to stay comfortable.

Not a cousin.
Not an aunt.
Not an uncle.
Not a mama.
Not a daddy.
Not a grandmama.
Not a grandpa.
No one.

Because I finally understand this:
My magnificence does not require permission.

I was not put on this planet to be palatable.

I was not born to be convenient.
I was not created to be consumed.
I was created to be whole.

And as I step into forty, I am not afraid of aging—I am grateful.
Grateful for the wisdom that only time can give.

Grateful for the discernment that pain refined.

Grateful for the woman I had to become in order to survive—and grateful that I no longer have to be her.

That version of me saved my life.
This version of me gets to live it.
I stand here now—soft and strong, open and boundaried, spiritual and grounded—knowing that everything I am seeking is already aligned with who I am becoming.

I no longer rush the unfolding.
I no longer force outcomes.
I no longer beg for seats at tables where my presence was never honored.

I trust the timing.
I trust the pruning.
I trust the becoming.
Forty is not an ending.

It is a crown.

It is the moment where I stop auditioning for love and start inhabiting it.

It is the year I choose myself—daily, unapologetically, and with joy.

And I bless every version of me that got me here.

Happy Birthday to the woman who finally knows:
She is worthy.
She is safe.
She is allowed.
She is magnificent.
And this time—
she is not going anywhere. 🕊️✨

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