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.

I’ve wondered why some of us feel compelled to chase something bigger than an easy life. Maybe hardship sharpens that instinct. Maybe it’s the desire to turn pain into meaning. For me, it has always been about inspiration. The kind I’ve received from writers, artists, musicians, and inventors whose work carried me through storms I thought would drown me. I want to be that for someone else.