It’s been a while since I last wrote here.
More than a while, actually.
A year and two months. Long enough that life didn’t just happen – it unfolded, shifted, cracked open, and rearranged itself in ways I couldn’t have predicted back then.
The last time I wrote, I had just turned 30. There were photos, my sisters by my side, a feeling of standing at the edge of something new. I didn’t know what that “new” would look like. I just knew I was stepping into it.
This post feels like a return.
Not because everything is figured out, but because I finally feel ready to speak from where I actually am.
It all started in March 2025.
Around International Women’s Day, I decided to create a day that was only mine. No reason beyond that. I rented a studio filled with soft light, flowers climbing the walls, chandeliers hanging quietly above it all. I brought a makeup and hair artist, chose a photographer I trust deeply ,Yasya, and stepped into a space that felt almost dreamlike.
I wore a golden gown from House of CB. Structured, soft, heavy in the best way. A Swarovski choker resting close to my neck, like a reminder to stay grounded in myself. There was a swing in the room. A bed by a glass-brick wall. Roses climbing upward, delicate but persistent.
Looking back, those photos captured something before I had words for it:
a version of me standing on the edge of a difficult year, still choosing beauty, still choosing presence.
At the time, I didn’t know how much strength I would need.
It started on a completely ordinary morning.
I went to work like any other day, and suddenly, my vision changed. Bright lights appeared in front of my eyes, almost like flashes. It lasted about ten minutes. I remember thinking it was strange, but manageable. And then the headache hit. Strong, unmistakable, unfamiliar.
That same day, after Pilates in the evening, it happened again. The flashes returned. And again, the pain followed.
By the next day, I found myself in the ER, trying to explain something I didn’t yet understand. That’s where I first heard the words migraines with aura. At the time, they didn’t mean much to me. I didn’t know how much they were about to reshape my life.
What followed was a long, confusing stretch of time.
I went from doctor to doctor, appointment to appointment, trying to understand what was wrong with me. The dizziness was constant. Not something you could always point to, just a steady, unsettling feeling that made everything harder. I was exhausted, scared, and deeply frustrated. Eventually, I was told I was dealing with vestibular migraines.
I was taking painkillers almost every day. Waiting for relief. Hoping the next thing would be the thing that finally worked. There were moments when I felt completely hopeless – like my world had shrunk to managing symptoms and getting through the day.
And still, I kept going.
When the recommendation for Ajovy injections finally came, I didn’t know what to expect. By then, I had learned that healing doesn’t arrive all at once, and it rarely looks like a clear before-and-after moment. It’s slow. It’s layered. It asks for patience you don’t always feel you have.
Those months were hard. My world became quieter, smaller, more inward-facing. My energy went into listening – to my body, to my stress, to the ways I had been pushing myself without noticing. Healing became my quiet focus. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. In a slow, often frustrating, deeply human one.
There were moments of exhaustion. Of doubt. Moments when resilience didn’t look like strength at all – it looked like choosing softness. Like pausing. Like asking for support.
I didn’t always do that gracefully.
But I kept going.
And then, in May, something shifted.
I met my boyfriend – and for the first time, I experienced a kind of love that didn’t demand I be stronger, faster, better. A love that felt thoughtful, steady, and safe. One that allowed me to rest without guilt and grow without fear.
We traveled together to Barcelona. We built memories that felt light and grounding at the same time. He supported me – not just in the big moments, but in the small, invisible ones. And in ways I didn’t expect, this relationship became part of my healing. Not because it fixed me – but because it met me where I was.
Somewhere along the way, I also let go of a job that no longer fit and stepped into something new. Today, I work as a content writer and editor at a big university, and I genuinely love it. I love the thinking, the storytelling, the way words still feel like home to me.
But this year wasn’t really about work.
It was about choosing myself.
About putting my relationships – with my partner, my family, my friends, and myself – at the center.
Time with my sisters. Long moments with my mom. Laughter with my nephews. The people who remind me who I am when I forget.
I’m still in the middle of things.
Still learning. Still healing. Still figuring it out.
But I’m hopeful.
Hopeful because I’ve learned how to stay with myself – even when things are messy.
Hopeful because strength doesn’t feel sharp anymore. It feels soft. Warm. Earned.
And maybe that’s the biggest resolution of all.
My intentions for 2026
(not goals – intentions)
- To choose softness without apologizing for it
Soft doesn’t mean weak. It means present. - To listen to my body before it has to scream
Rest as prevention, not recovery. - To let joy be simple again
Without earning it. Without justifying it. - To stay in my own lane
Less comparison. More trust. - To allow relationships to meet me halfway
Not chasing, not convincing — just mutual presence. - To be honest, even when it’s uncomfortable
Especially with myself. - To stop rushing the “next version” of me
Becoming is not a deadline. - To create space – mentally, emotionally, physically
Space to breathe. Space to feel. - To hold both gratitude and grief at the same time
They’re allowed to coexist. - To remember that healing isn’t linear – and that’s okay
I’m not behind. I’m here.
