—really realized it this time.
You can’t help who you love. You can give someone the entire world, pour every ounce of light into them, and it still won’t be enough to save them. You can be their structure, their stability, their home. But at the end of the day, people have to save themselves. And I think that’s where I’ve been getting it wrong for so long—trying to be the net when I should have just let them fall.
It’s not my job to intercept someone’s karma.
I think about it like this: none of us are football players. Even if we were, we’d all retire eventually. We’re not meant to spend our whole lives catching things that were never ours to hold. And at this point in my life, I’m done trying to be the quarterback, running headfirst into someone else’s storm. You want to take the long route? Fine. You want to learn the hard way? That’s your lesson to learn. I can’t drag people to their own healing. I can’t protect people from the consequences of their own choices.
And I won’t.
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to walk away. I’m at a crossroads with this, because there’s such a huge difference between helping someone through a tough season and trying to save them from themselves. At some point, we all have to take the reins, decide what road we’re going to take, and own the steps we choose. And some of us, no matter how much guidance we’re given, still take the longest, hardest road—because maybe we needed a little more time to grieve. Maybe we needed more space to mourn the versions of ourselves that had to die along the way.
I know how that feels. I’ve been there. I’ve lived that chapter. And maybe that’s why my heart is still so pure, why I still try, even when I know better.
But no more intercepting. No more trying to be the savior. No more stepping in front of fate that doesn’t belong to me. From here on out, I choose me. And I’ll keep choosing me, over and over again, because I deserve to. And I’ll be good to the people who stand beside me as I do. That’s all I can promise. I’m not asking anyone to save me—I’ve never needed that. All I ask is that I remain resilient. That I keep going.
It’s funny. I saw this picture of an anglerfish the other day, this terrifying little thing with jagged teeth and its own built-in light. It went viral online because it looks like something straight out of a nightmare. But the more I looked at it, the more I saw myself.
Because when you pan out, that scary, resilient little thing isn’t as monstrous as it seems. It’s actually pretty small—just a tiny fish in an endless, dark ocean. And yet, it carries its own light. It survives.
And maybe that’s what life is.
You keep going. You get through the tunnels. You find your way in the dark. And sometimes, you do it alone.
Sure, you can be surrounded by love, by support, by people who want the best for you—but at the end of the day, it’s on you to make it. No one’s going to carry you to your purpose. No one’s going to shine your light for you. And maybe your glow won’t light up the whole ocean. Maybe it won’t be appreciated. Maybe people won’t even notice the fight it took just to survive.
Because people don’t really care about the struggle.
They don’t care about the nights that nearly broke you, the weight you’ve carried, the way your hands shook as you held yourself together. They’re too wrapped up in their own pride, their own egos, their own need for control. People see what they want to see. And most of the time, they don’t want to see you at all.
But I see me. And that’s enough.
I’m not lost. I’m not wandering aimlessly like Dory, who forgets her destination and purpose. I know exactly who I am. I am that anglerfish—small but steady, terrifyingly resilient, carrying my own light through the darkest depths.
I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not shrinking. I’m not apologizing for my choices or my survival. If you walked in during a chapter you didn’t understand and decided to judge me for it, that’s on you. But don’t mistake my survival for a sin. Don’t mistake my resilience for something ugly.
I did what I had to do to protect myself and my children. And I’ll never regret that.
One day, my voice will be heard—not just through TikTok lives, not just through captions or comments, but through my consistency. Through my tenacity. Through my very existence.
And until that day comes, I will keep going.
Just that.
Dear Diary, 