Five Years Later: A Life I Didn’t Know I’d Get To Live.

If you had told me five years ago that this would be my life, I don't think I would have believed you. Not because I didn't want it, I did, desperately, but because it felt like something meant for other people. People who were steadier. People who didn't carry so much history in their bones. People who didn't have to rebuild themselves from the inside out.

And yet...here I am.

Not perfect. Not finished. Not healed-all-the-way-through. But here, in a life that feels fuller, safer, and more sacred than anything I imagined for myself.

I have a husband I love. Not in the abstract, not in the "this is what love is supposed to look like" way, but in the quiet, steady, everyday way. The kind of love that sits with you in the kitchen after the kids go to bed. The kind that grows roots. The kind that makes you softer and stronger at the same time.

I have two beautiful children I never thought I'd have. Two little souls who changes the entire architecture of my heart. They are loud and messy and miraculous. They stretch me, they teach me, they remind me that life can be both overwhelming and holy in the same breath.

I have friends who feel like family, the kind who show up, who laugh with you, who hold space for the unfiltered parts of your story. The kind you don't have to perform for.

I have a relationship with God again. Not the one built on fear or perfectionism or trying to earn love, but one rooted in presence. In honesty. In the quiet knowing that I am held, even when I don't feel steady.

And for the first time in my life, I have consistent therapy. A place where I can unravel and rebuild. A place where I'm learning that healing isn't a destination, it's a rhythm. A practice. A kindness I offer myself again and again. The funny thing is... my therapist doesn't even feel like a therapist. She feels like a friend. Someone who sits with me, not above me. Someone who doesn't just analyze my story but holds it with me. Someone who reminds me that healing isn't a straight line, it's a long, winding walk with detours, pauses, and unexpected breakthroughs.

And I need that reminder, because I'm still not perfect. I still have bad days. I still have a lot of work to do. A lot of healing to do. A long way to go.

But here's what I'm learning: If I lose sight of how far I've come, I'll only focus on the steps I take backward. And I can't do that anymore.

Because the truth is, I've taken a hundred steps forward. Even if I take ninety-nine back, that still means I moved forward. I tried. I grew. I showed up for myself in ways the old me never could have imagined.

Five years ago, I was surviving. Now, I'm noticing.

The way my daughter's hair curls after a bath. The way my son's hand fits perfectly inside mine. The way my husband laughs when he's truly relaxed. The way sunlight hits the kitchen table in the morning. The way peace doesn't always come loudly, sometimes it slips in quietly, like it's been waiting for me to slow down long enough to see it.

I'm learning to appreciate the little things, not because they're small, but because they're the things that make a life. The things that remind me I'm not who I used to be. The things that whisper, "Look how far you've come."

Five years ago, I was hoping for a life that didn't hurt so much. Today, I'm living a life that feels like grace.

And I'm grateful, deeply, wildly, quietly grateful, for every piece of it.