Category: Healing

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, When I finally reach the other side,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

I imagine it will feel like a breath of fresh air.

It feels like there’s a collision happening inside me—somewhere between the luteal phase and the menstrual phase. That space is where my emotions hit the hardest. I start thinking deeply, feeling things intensely, almost all at once. And every time I tell my story, I’m reminded of how blessed I am when the person listening is understanding and empathetic.


It’s always the people who know nothing about me who assume my life is perfect… until they hear the truth. Then they slowly realize how strong I’ve had to be, how much I’ve endured—as someone who looks so fragile, elegant, happy, and independent on the outside.

This year feels like a stepping stone.
Though honestly, I don’t know how many stepping stones a person is supposed to need. Usually one should be enough—you step, cross over, and reach the other side.
But I’m still making my way through mine. And when I finally reach the other side, I imagine it will feel like a breath of fresh air.

When I’m moving through chaos with music playing and surrounded by family, friends, and love—and then I have a moment to myself alone—that’s when everything settles in. Recently, I felt like I was gifted something special. And I hold these gifts close because they don’t feed my sadness; they lift me. They remind me to rise.

I’ve had to remind myself that I’m still young. I’m not tired of life. I’m not tired of living or being excited about life. I’m just tired of the strange things that happen.
And acknowledging that—accepting that life comes in phases—helps me breathe.
When you’re going through it, sometimes the only option is to go through it. But you always, ALWAYS – have to come out of it stronger and better.

Right now, my mood is calm.
Sometimes these thoughts come to me while I’m driving.
A wave moves across my chest—like a slow, emotional rollercoaster—and I catch my reflection. I look beautiful tonight. My hair is lightly tousled, my lashes are done, and I’ve been taking care of myself—making sure I look good, feel good, smell good every day.

I’m just having a quiet moment.
Just thinking.
Just trying not to become someone who forgets herself in the middle of staying strong.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Meditation, Parenthood

Dear Diary, Right now, the bass is humming through my car,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

vibrating through my chest.

I am fighting tears right now. I’m just hoping I can make it to my destination without breaking down. I needed to get in my car, breathe, and clear my head for a moment. Everything is technically under control… yet sometimes it feels like I’m not. It’s so easy to forget how much support I truly have around me, and how not everyone will understand me. Being misunderstood is such a heavy feeling—that’s why I try my best not to judge others. I know how deeply it stings when someone assumes the worst about you.

Tonight is one of those dark nights where it feels like time is folding backwards. The sky is heavy, and so is my heart. My gas light has been on for a while now. I keep checking it but I still haven’t stopped to fill up. For some reason, I just don’t want to. It reminds me of how I force myself to eat just enough to get by but never enough to actually feel full—only doing the bare minimum to survive.

But even in this moment, I know what my limits are. And that’s the message I want to leave behind at the end of this blog:
Learn your limits. Respect them. And when you run low, refill yourself before life forces you to shut down.

Because sometimes that tiny bit of fuel you’re running on is all you have left. And once you hit empty, you have no choice but to get back up, go again, refill your tank, and rebuild yourself. It’s okay to run low. It’s okay to admit it’s hard. It’s okay to say, “This is the best I can do today.”

This is all part of being misunderstood—people don’t see the exhaustion, the overstimulation, the stress, the lack of strength… or even the lack of funds that make it hard to keep up with life. They don’t see the private battles. They just make assumptions.

My heart feels so heavy tonight. Maybe it’s because I finally feel ready to speak on my losses this year. I’ve lost people. I’ve lost habits—some good, some bad. I’ve lost pieces of myself in ways I never expected. But somewhere inside all of this, I know a more beautiful version of me is trying to emerge. I’m hoping this year ends with a lighter heart, more structure, more stability, and the closure I need on the things and people who no longer serve me.

I want to grow. I want to feel free. I want to stop feeling like I can’t fill up my tank or nourish myself fully. Sometimes I eat myself into a food coma just so I can sleep deeply, just so I can escape. Food is comfort, but it could be so much more fulfilling if I wasn’t running from my emotions.

Life can be better. The ride can be smoother. The rims can shine brighter. The sun can hit differently. But I have to actually want it. And sometimes I do… sometimes I don’t. But the moment you truly want something, nothing will get in your way. And I’m trying—really trying—to find that awakening again. To fill myself up. To fill my heart. To restore what’s been drained.

Earlier, I posted a TikTok with a sound that kept repeating, “love me,” like a soft, harmonized acapella. It was soothing and overwhelming all at once. It brought tears to my eyes because it reminded me of when my father passed away. I remember live streaming that night, trying to cope in the only way I knew how. Losing someone who loved you your entire life leaves a wound that never fully closes.

My dad’s love wasn’t perfect, but it was perfect for me. And maybe that’s why I grew up wanting so little from everyone. I accepted the bare minimum because I never wanted to drain people—I wanted them to save some love for themselves. My dad did that. And I learned from it.

But I also realized I cannot control how people view me. They will think what they want. They will conclude what they want. They will decide whether I’m worthy of their time, their space, their energy. And I’ve learned to be okay with that. The ones who truly want to know me will try. The ones who want to misunderstand me will twist the smallest things into entire narratives. And yes, that hurts—but everything that hasn’t killed me has made me stronger.

So here I am, fighting tears, learning the harsh truth that life doesn’t get easier—you just get better at fighting through the pain. Especially when the people closest to you choose to misunderstand you on purpose, creating stories in their minds and stamping you with labels you never deserved.

What keeps me grounded is knowing this:
If they can be that wrong about me, I can be just as wrong about them. And somehow, that’s the strange beauty of life.

Right now, the bass is humming through my car, vibrating through my chest. My heart is jumpy, tight, almost wringing itself out. It’s an epiphany mixed with sadness, mixed with clarity—a rush of pain that somehow hurts in a way that feels cleansing, even though I know it isn’t good for me. Instead of fighting it, I’m letting it wash over me.

I’m wearing a hoodie, driving my Mercedes, grateful for the tint on my windows. It gives me just enough privacy to break down quietly. Tinted windows aren’t just for hiding from enemies or prying eyes—sometimes they’re protection from the world. Protection from the people who don’t deserve to see you at all.

People can search for me online, can watch me from afar—I won’t hide my life. But they don’t get access to me. The tint is symbolic. They might catch a glimpse of me for a split second, but that’s all they get now. No more forced greetings, no more eye contact, no more pretending. Just distance. Just indifference.

Life has taught me that if I love myself enough, there will always be enough love inside me to give—carefully, intentionally, and to the right people.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m learning to let that love circle back to me.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, When you run empty…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

it’s ugly.

I’m not in a rush;
not to arrive, not to reach a final destination.
Every time we think we’ve found “the end,” life proves us wrong.
The world is full of surprises,
and humanity, with all its beauty and chaos, is inescapable:
the good and the bad,
the structure and the instability,
the security and the insecurities,
the light and the crimes that shadow it all.

Tonight I realize something powerful:
I don’t want to control anyone,
and I refuse to be controlled.
I want to release.
I ask the gods, the greater good, and the holy spirits
to shield me from anything that might chain me;
any person, any spirit.
I deserve to fly free.

The weight I’ve carried feels like anchors
dragging behind a massive ship.
But I’m ready to rise.
I want to float.
I want to fly.
I want to climb higher and higher
until the pain that once held me fades into the clouds.

I’ve never felt that I wasn’t enough.
Instead, I’ve often felt others weren’t ready to meet me
in the depth of love I offered.
I poured and poured
even from an empty cup
and still, it was never enough.
Because there is no such thing as “enough.”

When someone asks, “How much is enough?”
I can only say: it doesn’t exist.
Life isn’t about measuring love or effort;
it’s about pouring into yourself
and into those who truly receive it,
so that your well never runs dry.

Because when you run empty,
it’s ugly.
It’s lonely.
It’s the worst feeling in the world.

So I choose freedom.
I choose to stay full.
I choose to set myself free.

Posted in Akira, Amy Douangmany, Healing, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, Value is not always about expense…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

it is about the care and intention.

Today was a really lovely day. I am finally winding down, not in a candlelit skincare kind of way, but with something far more indulgent: a Supreme Doritos taco. It has been ages since I have had one, and I am not sure when my love for tacos faded. These days I am more of a noodle and pasta person, but tonight the craving won.

I spent the afternoon with Kira, shopping at Daiso for extra school supplies and a few things to feed my own love of reading, writing, and continuous learning. We found her the softest pajama set with sparkly butterflies and a matching sleep mask. She knew exactly what she wanted. Not a headband, but a sleep mask. I love that about her, the clarity of knowing what fits you.

Our final mission was shoes. She tried on silver, black, and pink pairs in the same size, but none felt right. And that is the thing about fit: it is rarely just about size. Whether it is shoes, friendships, or relationships, sometimes you try to make something work because you love it, but it simply is not your fit. Comfort, texture, and the way it makes you feel all matter. Eventually we found the perfect pair: black with pearls on a soft memory foam and a subtle shine, ready for every season and even matching her coat.

I could not help thinking about how shoes mirror our own growth. Over time I have raised my own standards. The price tag is not everything, but it reflects how much I am willing to invest in quality and in myself. About a month ago I picked up a pair of heels and some Birkenstocks, and I wear them constantly. Value is not always about expense; it is about the care and intention you bring to what you choose.

The best pair of shoes, like the best relationships, deserve investment—emotional, physical, even financial. Money matters, but never more than the comfort and confidence a true fit provides.

Now I am home, ready to slip off my shoes, shower, pamper my skin, and rest my bare feet. The perfect ending to a day that fit just right.

Tomorrow is another day, and I am looking forward to bringing my best foot forward. I may be moving through changes and different chapters of my life. I do not always announce my struggles or my wins, but there will always be signs—whether in moments of quiet detachment, unexpected distance, small celebrations, tears of joy, or even the soft grieving of a lifestyle that no longer fits the person I am becoming.

Cheers in advance to the next perfect fit.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Healing, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, As certain things in my life begin to align…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

I realize how simple my heart’s desires truly are.

I’m sitting here tonight, in the quiet stillness after the sun has slipped below the horizon. The sky not too long ago was painted in streaks of lavender, rose-gold, and deep orange, the kind of breathtaking gradient that makes me pause every single time. Sunsets have always been my favorite. The way the light melts into the sky feels like a reminder that endings can be just as beautiful as beginnings.

As I sit here, I feel a wave of gratitude washing over me. These past months… really, the past two years have felt heavy, slow, and sometimes unbearably still. Lazy, in a way, though not in the sense of doing nothing, but more like a long stretch of waiting, healing, and piecing myself back together. Now, as certain things in my life begin to align, I realize how simple my heart’s desires truly are: to be happy, to be at peace, to keep discovering little joys that make my soul light up and my eyes glisten.

I’m learning that peace doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from being seen and heard. From someone showing, not just saying, that they notice me, that they understand me. It’s in patience, even when things feel frustrating or complicated. It’s in knowing that if a hard decision ever had to be made, the choice would be to put me first, to put *us* first, to put the children first… never the opposite. That kind of love feels like a soft place to land.

And still, through it all, I hold close the blessings I already have. My health may not be perfect, but it is steady enough to carry me. I can stand firmly, both on my two feet and on the life I am building. I can still see the colors of the sky, hear the laughter of my children, and choose every single day between what is good for me and what is not. These are gifts I remind myself never to overlook.

Because each day, life quietly gives us that choice: to look at others with compassion, to try to see them in the best light even when they don’t stand in it themselves… or to let bitterness cloud our vision. I remind myself that often people reflect what they hold inside; if they cannot see goodness in others, it’s usually because they struggle to see it in themselves.

So tonight, under the memory of the sunset’s glow, I feel content. I look forward to each new day, even the uncertain ones. For the first time in a long time, I truly feel that things are unfolding in the right direction. And above all, my heart is full of gratitude.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Meditation, Parenthood, Self Reflection, Uncategorized

Dear Diary, It’s a strange thing…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

dressing for a funeral.

Today started before the day even began.
Restless. Heavy-hearted. Awake at 3:00 a.m., not from an alarm clock but from this soul-deep pull, the kind that reminds you something big is ahead. I managed two hours of sleep, then back up at 5:00, sluggish, but wired in a quiet panic, watching the minutes drag across the clock face like shadows stretching across an empty room. There’s a specific kind of dread that creeps in when you know you’re waking up to see someone you love lying still, not in rest, but in eternal peace.

It’s a strange thing, dressing for a funeral. You’re picking out clothes not just for a day, but for a memory that will burn into your skin. It’s the last moment you’ll see your father. The last goodbye you don’t get to say with your voice.

When I stepped into the room where he lay, I was bracing myself for heartbreak, and it came. But not all at once. There was something strangely comforting in seeing him this time. He looked better. Peaceful. As if the pain that I somehow felt echoing through me the day he passed had finally left his body. And maybe that’s why I felt it so intensely then, because he didn’t have to carry it anymore, so it spilled into me.

My sisters and I stood together. And as much as this day was about loss, it was also about love. We idolized our father’s good traits, not because we’re blind to the rest, but because we’ve made peace with the truth that we all come into this life flawed. We’re all still learning. And it’s those imperfections that humanize us, make us real, make us family. The chanting of the monks, low and steady, sacred and melodic, filled the air. Suddenly, time didn’t feel real. It felt like transition. Life to death. Pain to peace. Breath to stillness. Stillness to rebirth.

There was a moment I couldn’t breathe. A tightness in my chest that wasn’t anxiety or nerves. It was heartbreak. And not the kind that comes from broken romance. This was a grief heartbreak. The kind you feel when a parent leaves. When a child never gets to grow. When a pet goes silent. When people you once loved become memories.

And yet, through the heartbreak, something new is blooming.

I watched my family, the ones who’ve been through every chapter with me, and I realized something. Grief feels different when you experience it beside people you love. It doesn’t hurt less, but it heals in pieces. And it hurts in pieces. It’s a strange paradox. It helps, but it hurts. And it hurts, but it helps.

There was something I heard the other day that stopped me in my tracks. It was like someone took all my unspoken thoughts and emotions and gave them a voice. Everything they said matched what I was going through, word for word. It felt like the universe pulled back the curtain and showed me that I’m not breaking. I’m becoming. They talked about isolation not being punishment but preparation, about outgrowing versions of yourself and leaving behind what no longer fits. And I just knew… I’m in that space right now. Life reminded me that heartbreak isn’t just from love lost, but from soul shifts, from becoming someone new. That this version of me emerging is sacred, powerful, and necessary.

I’ve always wanted a big family. Not just in number, but in soul and connection. In branches and roots. And I realized today, I am building that family. It doesn’t have to be blood. Loyalty, love, and understanding make someone family. We are chosen. We are bound by intention. And maybe, just maybe, this grief is reminding me that I am still growing that tree. That the branches are still reaching out, trying to connect to others who need the same thing.

Grieving feels like playing a video game where the levels get harder as you go. Even when you gain experience, it doesn’t get easier. But maybe it’s not about difficulty. Maybe it’s about shifting how we see it. Maybe we stop trying to win and start allowing ourselves to feel it all.

Because today, I saw my father again, for the last. And for the first time, I felt like maybe he’s okay now. And maybe, even through the pain, I will be too.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Healing, Meditation, Parenthood

Dear Diary, Lately, I’ve been…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

sitting with this uncomfortable truth:

Setting boundaries sometimes makes you look like the villain in someone else’s story. I never thought protecting my peace would be the thing people questioned most about me.

But here I am, balancing court dates, figuring out what healing looks like as a mother, keeping up with phone calls that are half static and half emotional landmines, all while trying to remember who I am under the noise. Some nights I drive just to feel the quiet, watching the Bay lights flicker like they’re whispering reminders that I’m still here, still soft, still strong, still surviving.

And yet, there’s this voice, sometimes external, sometimes my own, that asks, “What if you’re the problem?” But I know now, that voice isn’t truth. It’s trauma. It’s people upset that I’m no longer as accessible. I don’t always answer every call. I ask more questions. I don’t always say yes. That doesn’t make me cruel. That makes me healing.

I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m trying to be honest. To be present. To be safe — for my children, and for the version of me that got so used to being last on the list. The one who finally realized her softness doesn’t mean she has to shatter to prove it.

And if that makes people uncomfortable, so be it. I’m still learning how to be okay with being misunderstood.

But I know what I’m building. It’s rooted in peace. And peace doesn’t always look polite.

Love,
A

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Parenthood, Romance, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, People don’t know if this is my final rock bottom…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

and they won’t.

Tonight, I cried. Not because I’m weak. Not because I’ve given up. But because I’ve carried so much — silently — and I still show up with love in my hands.

It’s strange, how I can be surrounded by people yet feel like I have no safe person. No one I can fully collapse into without guarding parts of myself. I’ve learned I have to be limited — measured — in how much I share, how deeply I trust, how loudly I hurt. Not because I want to hide, but because I’ve had to protect the very parts of me that make me real.

Still, I choose to believe there’s purpose in this path. That my patience and my perseverance aren’t being wasted. That even when no one sees the full weight of what I carry — God does. And maybe that’s why I’ve been gifted this quiet resilience. This sacred ability to hold space for others even when I have no space being held for me.

I don’t move through life trying to prove I’m better than anyone. I just want to be good. To live gently. To love without conditions. To influence without forcing. And I think I have — because I’m starting to see people reflect back the values I’ve modeled: consistency, softness, non-transactional love, showing up without demanding anything in return.

It’s honoring… but also bittersweet.

I’ve given without titles. Loved without needing to be announced. Held others through their struggles while never unloading my own. And even though I’ve struggled — silently, sleeplessly, sick, and stretched thin — I’m still standing.

I am the source of my own survival.
And I’m not using that source unless I absolutely have to.
That restraint? That quiet? That’s my power.

People don’t know if this is my final rock bottom — and they won’t. Because I’ve learned that mystery is a form of protection. People are curious how I keep going. How I still have faith. How I haven’t collapsed under the weight. And the truth is: I just keep moving. I take the risk of silence, the risk of patience, the risk of trusting the slow work. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’m unsure. Even when it hurts.

Because I know good things are coming.
Because I know being a good person does pay off — even if it’s delayed.

I know this process is long. I know it’s slow. I know it’s not easy. But it’s mine. And I’m proud of myself for how I’ve carried it.

Thank you, God, for keeping me grounded. For keeping my voice steady when my heart is heavy. For reminding me that I don’t need to chase, perform, or prove. I just need to trust — that everything I’ve given in love, in patience, in silence — is being returned in ways I can’t yet see.

I have faith.
And I will always have faith.

—
Love,
Amy

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing

Dear Diary, Honestly, I feel good.

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

Not just physically good, but soul-deep good.

Today marks almost 24 hours of stillness. No running around. No forcing myself to be anywhere or with anyone. Just me. And honestly, I feel good. Not just physically good, but soul-deep good. I’ve been discontained, distant, and quietly reserved. This little pause has let my mind breathe and stretch and unfold in ways I didn’t even know it needed to.

I’ve come to realize I’m done trying to make sense of things that aren’t meant to be understood. People do things that seem careless, inconsistent, or even cruel, and for the longest time I tried to decipher it. Translate it. Give it meaning. But what if it never had any? What if their actions weren’t rooted in anything intentional, thoughtful, or kind? What if my need to understand was just wishful thinking dressed up as empathy?

Wishful thinking can be beautiful, but it can also be dangerous. It tempts you to justify nonsense. It keeps you analyzing when you should be letting go. It makes excuses for people who never took accountability, and it leaves you explaining yourself to people who never cared to listen. And when you’re someone who values your life deeply, it’s disheartening to be misunderstood by those who don’t value anything at all… not even themselves.

But then I think about those people who are just consistent. The quiet achievers. The women who wake up and take care of business without needing applause. They’re steady. Peaceful. Unbothered. And often, they’re misunderstood or even hated for that. Because looking unbothered when you really love yourself seems to trigger something in people who haven’t found that same kind of peace.

People love to vilify what they envy. They create stories, rumors, and narratives to shape you into someone that makes them feel more comfortable about their own misery. And I’m finally realizing I don’t need to fix that. I don’t need to explain myself or break myself down just to be digested more easily.

I’ve found inspiration in places I never expected. Maybe it’s someone I’ll never meet. Maybe it’s a story from someone rich in something I don’t yet have. But the feeling I carry isn’t envy—it’s admiration. And it fuels me. I’ve been showing up for myself in real ways. Studying. Learning. Listening. This summer feels like school for the soul. And I think I’m about to graduate with honors.

Right now, my hair is still damp from the everything shower I just took. It was luxurious, long, and full of intention. Exfoliation, oils, steamy softness. It was all part of this little ceremony I’ve been having with myself lately. A ceremony of rebirth. My body feels calm. My skin is glowing. I smell like Good Girl and clean sheets. I’m letting myself heal from a fun and chaotic weekend and finding joy in simply being again.

I usually circle things back to my children. I always do. But tonight, I’m circling back to me. Just me. And it feels good. I want to love myself better. Respect myself deeper. Draw clearer boundaries. Create more space. Call in more peace.

I don’t know what’s coming next. Maybe this is hibernation. Maybe it’s the cocoon before the wings. But I know this next version of me isn’t for public display. She’s quiet. Sacred. Becoming. And she’s not coming out to play just yet.

Because the world doesn’t get to take from her this time.
She’s staying with me.

With love,
Amy

Posted in Akira, Amy Douangmany, Ariyah, Blog, Healing, Malynah, Maylana, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, I was pacing again today—

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

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.