From Hope to Here:
Today I found something unexpected. Tucked away between old notebooks and faded photos was one of my “happy books”—the kind I used to make when the world felt too loud and I needed a place to dream. I must’ve been around sixteen when I made it. Back then, life felt like a constant storm of “what ifs” and “will I ever?” but somehow, in the middle of it all, I wrote down a list. A list of what I wanted to become. The dreams. The goals. The things I quietly hoped would one day be mine. And reading it now, I couldn’t help but cry. Not sad tears—just this overwhelming surge of pride, awe, and disbelief. Because… I’ve done so many of them. Not perfectly. Not always the way I imagined. But with every ounce of energy I had—fighting through pain, exhaustion, grief, disability, and doubt—I did them. I became them. I think about that sixteen-year-old girl often. How she was hurting. How she had no idea what the next few years would bring. How people doubted her—how she doubted herself. How s...