In the midst of losing everything, I found myself, not chaos, but process. The urge to prove myself dissolved into something quieter, truer. I call it a reset, a reset only I can name, a fragile turning point that happened inside me.

I stood alone, perplexed, suspended in time, watching the old me fray at the edges. I rebuilt, grain by grain, letting God be my compass when the map dissolved.

I remember the day the world tilted, my life spiraling into a chorus of chaos. Anger burned hot, a wildfire fueled by betrayals—friends and family members who wore masks of care while weaving harm in the margins of our bonds.

A teardrop left its stain, stubborn and permanent, a scar that wouldn't wash away. Each reflection showed not just an echo of the past but a reminder I’d been played, used, and broken—and that the blame, for a long time, had settled on me. The pain rooted in childhood—yearning to belong, never quite finding the door—hung heavy, heavy enough to tilt the room.

I refused to keep blaming the past. I chose a path toward healing, even when the road begged me to stay numb. Therapy felt like stair steps I sometimes declined, but the ache of not trying was louder than the chorus of excuses.