I have a problem. It’s a problem a lot of people have, especially those who struggle to believe in themselves. The strange thing is that confidence isn’t something I lack. It’s something I buried. I buried it a long time ago. As a child, I learned that confidence could make you a target. Joy could make people resent you. Strength could attract the wrong kind of attention. So I did what many survivors do: I hid the brightest parts of myself.

It’s been raining cats and dogs my entire life. Not the cute kind. The kind that turns the ground to mud, floods the gutters, and leaves you soaked before you’ve even stepped outside. I’m burnt out. Not temporarily, not seasonally. Chronically. I haven’t slept well my entire adult life. I had four children in five years, which meant I was basically pregnant from nineteen to twenty‑four. Then came raising my adorable mob.

There’s a moment in Last of the Mohicans that has lived inside me for decades. The younger daughter stands on the edge of a cliff, the music rising like a heartbeat. She looks at the man who intends to take her. His hand outstretched. Then back at the chasm behind her. She hesitates. She chooses. She jumps. That scene carved itself into me. That breath‑held, soul‑splitting moment is my benchmark for a great story.