She was a daughter. A sister. A wife. A mother. She took every role to heart - and played her part a little too well.

Because in being that daughter, there were expectations. Her wild spirit was unacceptable, so it was crushed. Her risks were punished, her joy extinguished, her wanderer told her

“You can’t do that, why would you even try?”

And so she believed the voices. She bent to accommodate. And a thread appeared.

In being that sister, there were comparisons. She felt unlovable. Less than. She bent again. More threads gathered.

In being that wife, her fairytale dreams were shattered. For years she held it together - stepping into the role of protector, carrying what needed carrying. The threads wound tighter. The fabric grew heavier.

In being that mother - now THIS was a role she loved. She promised herself that her children would never be hindered, that their spirits would reign free. Her wildflowers. An in the struggle to protect their freedom, she continued to ignore her own.

Until one day, a voice whispered that there was a different way. That she could shed the heavy fabric - the threads woven over years of neglect, of bending, of performing. And become herself again.

She didn’t believe it at first. “I can’t shed this fabric. It’s been covering me so long, it’s a part of me.

And the voice whispered, “Yes, you can.”

So she shrugged it off. And beneath it? Wings. A little creaky, but brighter than the sun and as glittery as the ocean.

She uses her eyes to see the goodness in others. Her voice to champion herself and those who struggle. Her hands write stories that intrigue and inspire. Her feet to go wherever the hell she wants.

She is passion. She is power. She is mischief. She is magnificent.

She is the authority. And she honors herself by simply being who she was born to be.