The day before I turned 45, I found myself sitting quietly, scrolling through years of my creative life captured in pictures. Piece after piece, moment after moment I gasped. Not out of surprise alone, but out of recognition. I had created so much. And not just in the past… I am still creating.
Somewhere along the way, life happened. Expectations grew louder. Responsibilities took hold. And in the middle of it all, I slowly denied parts of myself. I became consumed with what I thought I was losing, rather than honouring what was still alive within me.
But even then, I held onto hope. Not perfectly, not gracefully but tightly. Like a comfort blanket I refused to let go of.
I cried. Deep, honest tears. And in those moments, something within me whispered: remain hopeful.
I remember asking, why me? why now? why this season?
There was no clear answer. Just more loss. More intensity. More pain.
And yet… something shifted.
Through the pain, I began to see differently. I found gratitude not in a loud, performative way, but in a quiet, deeply personal way. Gratitude for every tear. Every loss. Every small win that didn’t need announcing. The kind of victories that live softly within you.
Those moments, I shared with one person in spirit my mother. The woman whose victorious strength flows through me in ways I am still learning to understand.
To the outside world, it may have looked like I was winning.
But within myself, I felt like I was losing.
Until I wasn’t.
Through my tears, I found my voice again. Not to speak my wants but to speak my needs. And as I began to honour those needs, something powerful happened: my wants started aligning with them, instead of distracting me from them.
And through it all, one truth remained constant my creativity never left me.
I was never in competition. I never needed validation from the world. I wasn’t chasing recognition. I was simply returning to myself.
Replanting myself.
Again and again.
I nurtured my own growth, even when it felt like nothing was happening. Even when all I had were tears. Because those tears? They weren’t weakness. They were water. They were love. They were life feeding the very seed of hope I refused to abandon.
And today, at 45, I stand in a different place.
Not untouched by pain. Not untouched by loss. But transformed by it.
What was meant to break me didn’t succeed.
What was meant to disrupt my path didn’t win.
Instead, I rose.
Not loudly. Not for applause. But deeply, truthfully, and fully within myself.
I didn’t just survive it.
I ascended.
And if you are in a season where things feel heavy, where answers feel distant, and where hope feels fragile this is your reminder:
You are still creating.
You are still becoming.
And nothing that is truly yours can ever leave you.
Keep going. Your seed is still growing.