I Didn’t Plan This…

But Apparently My Life Had Other Plans

So apparently I’m starting a public journal. Which is hilarious, because I can barely commit to finishing a cup of coffee before switching personalities for the day. And yet here I am. Willingly inviting strangers into the labyrinth that is my brain.

Bold choice. Brave choice. Chaotic choice. Curiously graceful choice.

But something in me. The tiny, dark, mystical fairy part that sees through all my bullshit woke up this morning and went, “Write. Today. Now.” So now I’m listening to my cute inner mischievous cryptid like she’s the CEO of my life.

The weird thing? This doesn’t feel heavy. Which is suspicious. My life has been a high-definition documentary of heavy things, and suddenly the air feels, lighter? Electric? Mischievous?

There’s a spark under my ribs doing a full choreographed number, absolutely uninvited…Rude to be honest. But dazzling.

Lately I’ve been in that fun little state where I’m both bone-deep exhausted and fully electrified. Like someone poured espresso into a haunted doll. My brain is running laps. My heart is sending encrypted messages I’m too smart to decode. And my soul just kicked open a window and said, “Let’s try existing differently today.”

Honestly? I love her for that.

And maybe this stupid little moment where I’m staring at a blinking cursor like it owes me something is the real beginning. Not the dramatic phoenix-rising thing. But the quiet, unsettling shift where you realize you’re not going to disappear again. Like…oh…

We’re doing life again. Weird flex, but I’ll roll with it.

Listen, I’ve lived enough lives at this point to know I’m not delicate.

I’m curious in a borderline dangerous way, resilient like I’m collecting trophies for it, chaotically intelligent, occasionally profound by accident, and allergic to pretending my edges don’t exist. I’m pretty adorable and yes, I know it. But fragile absolutely not.

And admitting that I don’t need to earn a fresh start? Its both liberating and freeing. To be honest, its downright scandalous.

I don’t need to file my trauma alphabetically or present my healing in a slideshow. Sometimes life body-checks you into the pavement and the only correct response is, “…okay rude,” followed immediately by standing up, mascara smudged, hair a mess, eyes blazing, somehow prettier, somehow smarter, somehow more terrifying to anyone who underestimated you.

That’s exactly what this feels like.

A reboot I didn’t schedule, but one the universe apparently did. There’s this magnetic little pull in my chest. A shift I can’t name yet. A spark behaving like it pays rent here. And here’s the part that scares me in a good way:

Somewhere in these words, I can feel myself returning.

Not the coping version. Not the “I’m fine :)” liar. Not the shrink-wrapped version of myself I learned to hand out to keep people comfortable. No, I mean me. The sharp one. The soft one. The curious one who asks too many questions and somehow gets answers the universe didn’t even mean to reveal. The me who is a little intimidating in a way no one can place, because it’s not loud, it’s just true.

This beginning isn’t neat or poetic or inspirational in that Hallmark-card way. This beginning hums.

It has a pulse of its own. It has claws. It has charm. It has mystery that probably has its own gravitational pull. It’s the kind of beginning that makes you think:

Something’s happening here, and I don’t know what, but I want front-row seats.

And if this is me before I’m fully warmed up? God help everyone when I hit my stride.