in the middle of my own emotional Egypt.
Sometimes… when I slow down enough to really feel, I realize how blurry my vision can get—not just my physical sight, but the way I see life, people, my place in the world. It’s like trying to peer through fog while your heart is pounding out of your chest, and you don’t even know why. All day, there’s been this tightness in my chest, like something invisible is pressing down on me.
What is eating me alive? What am I missing?
It feels like I’ve slipped into a sudden freefall. A steep drop. One day I was soaring, the next—crashing. And yet, somewhere in the middle of the storm, I still see her—me—this one-woman show, this Cleopatra of modern chaos. I laugh quietly to myself. Yes, that’s me… Cleopatra, British in grace, divine in survival. Royal, even if my throne feels like it’s made of sand today.
I spent years building this golden pyramid in the middle of my own emotional Egypt—layer by layer, pain by pain, triumph by triumph. I really did that. I am her. And of course, I had my cats beside me, always. Not all are here anymore, but I carry them with me still.
And now… it just feels like my pyramid is crumbling. Like every polished stone I laid down is being torn apart by winds I can’t control.
Why does it feel like the foundation I gave everything to is failing me now?
I close my eyes and picture myself drifting—lost at sea. Not drowning, not dead, just… floating. Alone on a small boat, bobbing in the middle of nowhere. The kind of lost that doesn’t come with panic, just this hollow ache.
I’m trying so hard to stay afloat. I’ve been trained to weather storms, but no one really talks about the aftermath. The quiet damages that show up later, in you, in your space, in your peace.
The truth is, even the safest places in life—your home, your friendships, your mind—can be breached. Can be trespassed. And maybe, just maybe, my little boat has a leak. A small one, but isn’t that always how it starts? Tiny cracks you don’t notice until you’re knee-deep in water, trying to fix it with tired hands.
Where’s the leak coming from? Why can’t I find it? And if I do, will I even have the strength to repair it?
Sometimes, it’s the people closest to you. The ones you thought were anchors… turn out to be the holes in the hull. You share your plans, your progress, your heart—and they watch. Some genuinely care. Others? They watch because they want to see you fall. Closer. Slower. Harder.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How people want to humble you. Not out of love, but envy. Or maybe it’s their own pain they’re projecting.
I had to pause just now—this kind man asked me to take pictures of him and a young boy—maybe his son, maybe grandson, I couldn’t tell. Funny how life does that… how it keeps things undefined. Still, the way he looked at that boy, the care in his eyes as he taught him to swim—it was pure. He wanted to capture the moment. Not for Instagram. For memory.
And I thought… that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
Not being perfect. Not having it all figured out. Just being there when it matters. Loving someone enough to show up again and again—even if it’s messy. Even if there’s a history. Even if the tides are rough.
Expecting loyalty from people—real, lasting loyalty—it’s almost impossible. People are human. They’re flawed, they’re fickle. They change their minds, they wander. They want to feel, explore, escape. And maybe… maybe we’ve misunderstood loyalty. Maybe what I crave isn’t someone who stays just for the sake of staying, but someone who shows up when it counts. Who sees me, supports me—beyond intimacy, beyond obligation.
Maybe that’s the loyalty I’m really longing for.
I keep dreaming about the day I wake up and don’t feel this tightness in my chest. A day that starts without anxiety, without dread, without wondering if I’m too much or not enough. A day where I don’t feel like a burden or like I’m trespassing in someone else’s peace.
There will be seasons where I’m not soft. Where I’m confused, where I’m guarded. But I remind myself, over and over again:
Nothing is permanent.
The only constant is change—and thank God for that.
So I welcome change now. I’m manifesting new keys—literal and symbolic. Keys to open new doors: of safety, of stability, of privacy. For me. For my children. For the life we deserve.
And honestly? Sometimes I’m stunned I’ve made it this far. Because all I’ve really been doing is breathing. Breathing and fighting. And still breathing.
But oh—how I long for the days when things shift. When it’s not just survival, but living. When I see people living out loud—luxury, love, trips, late-night dances, hand-holding on balconies—I don’t envy them.
Because I know life is seasonal. Those couples? They’ll have storms too. And if they never do… then their greatest challenge will be how they handle the storm when it finally hits.
And that, I’ve learned, is the true test.
—
Until tomorrow,
Me
(the queen, the sailor, the builder of pyramids made of hope)
Dear Diary, 