Finding Hope in the Spaces Between
Where am I? That question echoes in my mind more often than I’d like to admit. Physically, I sit in my childhood home, where the walls know both the secrets of my youth and the struggles of my present. I am in a place of transition—caught between who I was, who I am, and who I hope to be.
I look back and see a woman who has tried, with every fiber, to get it right. I have been a single mom for years, shouldering the responsibility of raising my boys alone, navigating relationships that always seemed to lead back to square one. There’s a constant hum of guilt, this ever-present feeling that I never quite measure up—neither as a mother nor as a person. But I remind myself, gently, that love is not measured in perfection. It’s stitched together in the daily acts of care, the apologies and the laughter, the resilience to simply keep showing up.
Life, in the past few years, has thrown curveballs I never imagined. I am a type one diabetic, my vision fading, my independence stolen by the inability to drive. I rely on my parents once again—something that feels both comforting and, at times, deeply humbling. There’s a loss of autonomy that gnaws at me, especially for someone who’s always prided themselves on being “uber dependent”—doing it all, for everyone, on my own terms. Now, I must learn the art of asking for help, of letting myself lean instead of always bracing.
Sometimes, the dreams I once had feel impossibly far. I remember the things I loved: the clicks of camera, the freedom of a walk in the sunshine, the unplanned road trips, the small adventures that made me feel alive. I ache for that version of me, but I am learning—slowly, stubbornly—that life is not over when it changes shape.
I just turned forty-eight. The number sounds heavy, but I want it to be a beginning, not an ending. The time ahead feels urgent—I want to make the most of what’s left, to chase the things that make my heart flutter before the sun finally sets. A bucket list is forming in the quiet hours: see everything I can, travel to places I loved once, and fall in love with new places, dance under the stars, take my boys to a places they’ll remember long after I’m gone, write my story, forgive myself, find laughter even in this new darkness, physically and metaphorically.
Of course, I am afraid. I am afraid of losing more—of sight, of time, of opportunities. I worry who will care for my boys if I cannot. I worry I won’t do enough. But I am determined that my fears will not outweigh my dreams. I want to fill the days ahead with things that make me feel alive—tiny or grand, it doesn’t matter. I want my life to echo with hope, with purpose, with the knowledge that even if I never “get it right,” I never stopped trying.
So here I am—in the care of my parents, learning to let go of old ideas about strength. Here I am, loving my boys fiercely, and daring to hope for new adventures. Here I am, choosing to believe that impact isn’t measured by how loudly you roar, but by how deeply you love, even when life doesn’t go according to plan.
Where am I going? I’m not sure. But I’m still moving forward, led by dreams brighter than my fears, determined to make this life—this one wild, imperfect, beautiful life—matter.
I hope you will come and explore things, watch me grow, using this life, trying to live in the moment, To soak in every last drop of that summer sunshine we try and find in the dead of winter, when you have been in the dark for months. What you hold on to to get through the dark times.
Full transparency. I hope you will join me in this new chapter.
