✨The Weight of Yesterday, the Hope for Tomorrow ✨

Last week, I truly felt like I was finding my groove with streaming. I was beginning to settle into a routine that worked. Each day brought in a decent number of viewers, and Thursday turned out to be my best day yet—a rare four-hour stream. I was having fun, gaining momentum, and really enjoying myself.

But not long after I ended my stream that evening, I got a call from my mother. It was news I never wanted to hear. My nanny—my grandmother—the woman who helped raise me, had passed away. She was one of the few people who ever really stepped up for me. She was my rock when I didn’t have anyone else, especially during the time when my mom was navigating life after a messy marriage.

To say my childhood wasn’t pleasant would be putting it mildly. And these past few days, the flood of emotions has been nothing short of overwhelming. I haven’t streamed since then—no stream Friday, Monday, or yesterday. But as I write this, I fully plan to go live today. Still, I needed to get these words out. Maybe more for myself than anyone else.

I know very few people actually read these blog posts. And that’s okay. This writing—it makes me happy. So I keep doing it.

Monday was the funeral. It was emotional in more ways than I can count. I drove three hours back to my hometown, and stepping into that place felt like walking through a time capsule. The town hadn’t changed. Only time had passed. I saw familiar faces now wearing gray in their hair, fine lines tracing their once youthful features. And still, in my 37-year-old heart, I felt like that same broken child—hurting, searching for closure.

It’s a broken family. One where so many are still fighting their demons silently.

My aunt, bless her pitiful soul, never could quite let go of the jealousy she seemed to harbor—for the fact that her mother chose to care for me. She barely spoke to me. And my uncle, the one I used to look up to, said very little too, though he at least offered a kind word. Neither of them reached out to my mother—or to me—when nanny passed. Not even a message. Not even a whisper.

Bless them.

I’m still hurting. Still feeling wounded and scorned for not fitting into their mold. I’m still grappling with the weight I’ve carried all my life because of my mother’s choices, and the position I was always placed in.

But I want more. I want to grow. I want to heal. I want to close those doors that bring so much pain. I want to learn how to forgive, even if I’ll never understand those who hurt me. I want to let go of the ache that comes from knowing I’ll never get the answers I’ve been aching for.

And even in the midst of grief, I’m learning that healing doesn’t look like forgetting. It looks like showing up—fragile, imperfect, but still trying. Today, I choose to move forward, one step at a time, with love for those who stood by me, grace for those who didn’t, and hope for the version of me that’s still becoming.

If you’re reading this and carrying your own hurt: you’re not alone. There is still joy to be found, growth to be had, and peace waiting just beyond the pain. We don’t need all the answers to begin healing—just the courage to keep walking.