back and forth,
like I always do when I’m overthinking but trying not to look like I am. Maybe I had on my Gucci shades… or maybe they were Burberry, or Louie. Either way, they were oversized, dramatic, and doing their best to hide the storm behind my eyes.
And still, no one asked if I was okay.
But what I really wanted… was someone to walk with me.
Through the pool.
Not beside it. Not dry and distant.
But right there—with me. In the cool water, just waist-deep.
Drifting slowly, step by step,
laughing, venting, yapping about life, healing, dreams, and regrets.
Sunglasses on. Sun glinting off the water.
Children splashing nearby like background music to something real.
Just talking.
But talking with someone who sees you.
Someone whose presence is peace.
Someone you can trust enough to float beside.
Today, I got in the pool.
Finally.
It took everything.
If there were awards for quiet courage, I’d have one in every color.
Because no one really claps for the kind of bravery it takes to show up for yourself when no one else is watching.
My lash clusters? Gone—sacrificed to the chlorine gods.
But I swam anyway.
I went under.
And I didn’t panic.
And you know what’s wild?
You don’t realize how cold the water is until you’ve been in it too long.
You don’t realize how high your guard has risen until you try to put it down and it shakes your whole body.
You become numb. Conditioned to the cold.
You take so much, you forget how to receive.
You give just enough to survive, not enough to be seen.
Eventually, it chips away at you.
And you forget how to love without fear.
Not because you’re weak—because you’re tired.
But even in the cold, I remember who I am.
I have my dignity.
My authenticity.
My warmth.
My good heart—and people see that.
It reflects off them in ways they don’t always like, because it reminds them of their own shadows.
So they watch.
And they wait.
But let me be clear: they’ll be waiting forever.
I’m covered. Protected.
Not by chance, but by the good I’ve sown.
And I believe—truly—that goodness always returns.
Today, the pool felt alive.
Toddlers wobbled, teens shrieked, water splashed around us in chaotic joy.
And somewhere in the middle of it, a woman walked by—hair neon green, body sculpted like she designed it herself.
And maybe she did.
She earned that presence, and I loved that for her.
Quietly. Respectfully.
It reminded me that building your dream anything takes time.
And you don’t have to rush back after you’ve fallen—just rise eventually.
Did you know if you stay still too long, your muscles will forget how to move?
And if you cry long enough, your tears can blur your actual vision?
Pain can blind you.
Emotionally. Literally.
So move.
Even slowly.
Especially slowly.
A little bonus today—it’s her birthday.
And the birthday girl is happiest with her mama.
I know that.
She lights up in my presence, and I in hers.
The world is my stage, and I’ve stepped onto it so many times.
But nothing compares to them.
My children are my masterpiece.
Even when I’m not there, my love is.
In their giggles.
In their boldness.
In the way they know they’re adored.
No matter what the world says, I’m not missing anything.
Because I’ve already found what makes my heart full.
Yes, I’ve been with people who wore the right smile, but whose hearts were elsewhere.
And I’ve come to terms with the fact that some hearts—many, actually—still beat a little for me.
And they always will.
So if you’re still waiting,
Don’t check your ticket.
You’ll be waiting for eternity.
Dear Diary, 