From Love, Me to Prolific Preambles, my digital diary, and into The One Who Left the Table, a guidebook for those who stepped away from assigned roles, I have used words to tell the truth without putting everyone else first and without perfecting them.

What began as a reckoning with myself became a careful sifting of my emotional inventory and a willingness to sit in the thick of untangling what was inherited, what was assumed, and what was never mine to carry. Writing gave me language, not because I was confused, but because I was searching to understand: my grief, the absence of emotion, love, and protection from my mother, and why I learned to carry the weight of those around me as if it were my responsibility.

Through writing, I reconciled with myself, not only for what I did but also for why I did it. I gave myself grace for not stopping sooner and for tending to everyone else before learning to love and care for myself. The page became the place where responsibility softened into compassion, self-blame gave way to self-knowledge, and silence finally yielded clarity.

Motherhood sharpened this understanding. It revealed what selfless love truly is and clarified what I would never allow my sons to feel: the loneliness, abandonment, or emotional absence I once knew. In loving them, I learned how love is meant to move…freely, protectively, without conditions.

On the other side of being unfiltered, I write without shame or regret. Not to expose, but to understand. Not to fracture, but to integrate. Writing has been both the mirror and the method—how I made sense of my inner life, claimed agency where there was obligation, and learned to stand fully in myself. Through it, I came to know that openness, truth, and accountability are the trifecta of genuine relationships, both with others and with myself. Nothing monumental, just a Thursday morning in January, sharing a simple reflection of why I write.