Fifty, Fierce, and Finally Free

Unwritten by the World, Rewritten by Me

Fifty. What a wild concept.

Mothers are 50.
Ladies with bad taste in clothes are 50.
People with unrealized dreams are 50.
But me? I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.
Not with the odds I was given.
Not with the karma I carried.
And yet—here I am.

I have been on this planet for 50 years.
Let that sink in.

Did I do what I set out to do?
Did I make myself proud?
Yes.
And then some.

I was born into lack.
Into a kind of nothingness—emotional, spiritual, material.
I wasn’t seen.
I wasn’t shaped.
So I became the sculptor of my own soul.

I sought insight when no one offered any.
I made meaning out of mayhem.
Of course dissociation took its toll—
on my body, my mind, my spirit.
But it didn’t win.

Because I kept seeking.
And what I found was something no one could hand me:
Myself.

I found her again and again—
each time a little deeper, a little braver.
I swam through sorrow like a diver through dark waters,
following the shimmer of something more.
Each resurfacing, a resurrection.
Each return, a reclamation.

Was I racing?
Maybe.
But not against them—
against who I used to be.

And I won.
Because I’m not dead.
Because I’ve built things that matter—
businesses that fed families,
work that changed lives,
words that healed wounds.

I’m not a waste.
I’m a wonder.
Still wondering what this whole ride is really about.

Today, I turn 50.
I won’t pretend I’m thrilled about the number—
but the milestone?
The five decades of living, losing, loving, and rising?
That’s something to celebrate.

So what now?
What do I do with the next 30, 40, 50 years?

I be me.
Exactly me.
Not who they wanted.
Not who fear shaped.
But the wild, wise, unfiltered essence of who I came here to be.

Cheers to 50.
To the girl who made it.
To the woman who won’t shrink.
To the soul who stayed.