This is Me, Reclaimed

A birthday post, and a quiet rebellion

Today I turn a year older.

And instead of a party post or a list of lessons learned, I’m giving myself this space to return to the roots of who I am:

A writer. A woman. A wife and mother. A soul quietly pushing back against the noise, reclaiming what matters.

. . .

I’ve always been writing.

As a child, it was in perfumed diaries – unfiltered, emotional, sometimes messy, always honest. Sometimes dad would let me use his typewriter and I loved it even more. Later it was the now defunct Xanga and Angelfire, then Blogspot as She Who Wears the Crooked Halo and now The Happiest Hobbits. Over the years I wrote because it helped me breathe and understand what I was feeling before I could name it. 

Then life changed. It got full, and fast. I stopped sharing, took a long hiatus, turned inward. I wanted to be more private, and I still do. But the words never stopped coming.

Somehow, when I write, I feel more truly myself.

And when I don’t – when life gets too loud, too crowded, too full – I start to feel a little less like me. A little more brittle. Like I’m quietly edging toward burnout without even noticing. Writing is how I return to myself.

Over the years, a dear friend and mentor – a writer cut from the same cloth – had shared that she’d been holding her breath too. Busy seasons had pushed both of us away from the page, even though the desire never left. Her honest longing echoed my own. She would often urge me to follow the tug back to my words, promising to make her own way there too. That shared yearning, that nudge of solidarity, cracked something open in me. I’m grateful beyond language.

Around the same time, I found myself back in my hometown on a short staycation. I paused. Sat still. And did something I hadn’t done in a long while: I wrote. Not for work or anyone else. Just for me. Just to make sense of the moment and pin it to the page.

That simple act – dwelling in the moment and jotting thoughts for posterity – led me back to my old, dormant blog. Not the one from my teenage Xanga days or the one I started as a young adult, but this quiet space I created as a grown-up starting a new chapter of life as a wife and mother. I almost forgot about it. Then I began writing again – from the heart, and with no expectations; just a quiet hope that someday my children will find these pieces and feel a little closer to who I was.

That’s really why I write. I didn’t expect anyone else to read it.

At a party recently, a friend mentioned my writing. They said it was beautifully written, and I didn’t know how to respond – because I wasn’t writing to be seen. Yet hearing that made me realise: perhaps the words I craft for myself and my children are also words that call other people back to what they value, and what they hope to pass on.

I’m not writing to impress. I’ve just been trying to live faithfully. To hold space for the things that matter, even if the world seems to have moved on from them. And if that connects with someone else – someone also trying to raise children in a fast world, or live a life aligned with their values – then maybe it’s worth hitting "publish" once in a while.

. . .

The world is so noisy right now.

Social media is teeming with content that feels more performative than personal – pranksters profiting off someone’s shame, fake influencers chasing clout, pseudo-creators feeding a never-ending scroll.

I don’t want to be part of that.

This post is my rebellion.

A gentle one, but a rebellion nonetheless.

A return to truth. To longform. To reflection. To legacy.

This is me, writing from the heart.

For my children. For myself.

And maybe for anyone else who's tired of the noise and hungry for something real.

Still, I want to be clear:

I am not a content creator.

I am not an influencer.

I am not a brand.

I am a real person – living from the soul, writing from the heart, and loving my faith and family deeply.

. . .

This is my quiet return to what’s real – a legacy of voice that endures and hugs my kids whenever they need it most, even long after I’ve passed.

And maybe that’s what this is; not a change, but a return. A becoming.

I remember reading, as a child, a line that stayed with me — perhaps from Anne Rice — that we don’t really change over the years; we just become more fully ourselves.

I think that’s true.

. . .

And to myself, if I ever lose my way again:

Remember this moment.

The quiet joy of coming home to your voice.

The truth that you don’t need to be anything more than who you already are.

And that this — this writing — is how you breathe.

How you mother.

How you leave light behind.

. . .

So I’ll keep writing.

For my children.

For myself.

For my friend who reminded me to inhale and exhale through words again.

For anyone else quietly listening.

And for the girl I was, all those birthdays ago – who always had something to say, and is finally saying it again.