“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.”
— Sylvia Plath

I’ve been healing. Quietly. Steadily. Not always gracefully, but deeply.

This year has been about rediscovery—of my voice, my worth, my body, and my boundaries. It’s been about finding the pieces of myself that I thought were lost somewhere in the wreckage of 2024, and realizing they were never truly gone. Just buried. Waiting.

Therapy has been a major part of that. I looked for someone who reminded me of the therapist I strive to be. Grounded, trauma-informed, direct but kind, deeply human. I found her on the other side of the state, and even through a screen, she has helped me come home to myself in ways I didn’t think possible. We’ve done telehealth for over a year now, and what started as a cautious first step has become one of the most transformative experiences of my life.

There have been milestones. Real ones. I’ve cried, yes, but I’ve also laughed. I’ve felt peace. I’ve felt grounded. I’ve stopped fearing my own emotions. I’ve made peace with my grief.

I will always miss my parents. That doesn’t go away. But it doesn’t consume me anymore. Their absence lives quietly beside me now, no longer demanding all my air.

My health is holding. Not perfect, but stable. My doctor wants more weight off. That’s a conversation for another day. For now, I’m okay, and that, in itself, is a milestone.

And then there’s Sir.

He appeared without warning, shifting the air before I even noticed. I doubt he realizes the reach of his presence—how much of my fire returned just by being seen through his eyes. He probably thinks of it as play, as something passing and contained. But through that play, he became reflection and catalyst. Anchor and edge.

He didn’t rescue me; he reminded me. His steadiness, his command, the unspoken permission in his touch—each of them drew pieces of me back into focus. I still catch myself questioning the why of it, and feeling terrified of when something this intense ends. But I’m learning to stay where my body already is. To take what’s given without unraveling it with doubt. Because what exists now is real enough to matter.

If it stopped tomorrow, I’d be devastated. The silence would ache in places only he reached. It would take time—too much time—before I could open again. But I would still carry what it sparked: the return of creative hunger. The reminder that I can still be desired and inspired in equal measure. That I can write from my skin again. Because even if the connection ended, the awakening it caused wouldn’t. It would live on in the words, in the pulse beneath them, in the parts of me that finally remembered how to feel.

Much of what I’ve written this year began there—in the slow burn of restraint and surrender. The chemistry. The trust. The quiet that hums just before everything breaks open. These stories aren’t crafted to please. They’re lived. Breathed. Written from the raw edge of something that demanded to exist.

So maybe this first book isn’t a dedication—it’s a recognition.
A nod to the hand that struck the match.

And now I stand at the edge of fifty.

Aging has never bothered me. My daddy always said, “It’s better than the alternative.” And he wasn’t wrong. If you’re not having birthdays, you’re no longer here. So I’ll take every year, every laugh line, every ache that reminds me I’m still living.

I don’t feel the need to run to a plastic surgeon or fight the mirror. I’m learning to love myself again. Not just the soft parts, but the loud, aching, wild ones too.

Somewhere along the line, someone tore me to pieces. 2024 was brutal in quiet ways. I didn’t even realize how much damage was done until it was over and I was left with nothing but myself and the question: Who am I now?

The answer was harder to find than I thought.

I am not that weepy, needy, clingy version of myself that trauma tried to mold me into. Yes, I overthink. Yes, I overfeel. But I am not fragile. I am not anxious. I am not broken. I am someone who is finally learning to put her life back together, and this version of me feels more whole than I’ve felt in years.

Fifty is a milestone.
In this day and age, that alone feels like a victory.

But I won’t pretend it doesn’t scare me a little. My mother was diagnosed with cancer not long after turning sixty. That sits with me. I wonder sometimes, is this my last good decade? And if it is, what do I want to do with it?

The answer is simple. Live it.

Fully. Fiercely. Honestly.

Because I’ve spent twenty-five years in a marriage where I’ve been a roommate. A ghost. A shadow of myself. I don’t want the rest of my life to feel like that. I want to be loved out loud. I want to be in a home filled with laughter and heat and connection. I want someone who is playful with me. Who sees me. Who pours into me the way I’ve always poured into others. I know it won’t happen overnight. These things take time. But by fifty-one, I plan to be out of this marriage and standing fully in the life I know I deserve. One built on presence, not just survival.

I want the next chapters—fifty-one and beyond—to be brighter than anything behind me. And if that means letting go of what doesn’t serve me anymore, then so be it.

I am not who I was. And thank God for that.

I am someone who is finally becoming again.
And this time I’m not rushing to the finish.
I’m savoring every messy, miraculous step.

“I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald

And I have.
I have started over. Not in some grand, dramatic way, but in the quiet, daily decision to show up for myself. To tell the truth. To stop shrinking. To let the story be mine again.

This next chapter will be written differently.
With intention. With pleasure. With presence.
And for the first time in a long time, I am not afraid of the blank page.
I am ready for it.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.