I've Lived A Thousand Lives

It feels strange and almost sacred to write again.

I’ve always been an avid reader, the kind who falls so deeply into books that I carry the feeling with me for days sometimes weeks at a time after I’m done. I loved those characters, their epic adventures, the risks they took and the lives they lived.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always lived my life like one of those stories.

Each flight was a plot twist. Each city, a new setting. And every version of me is just another heroine mid-transformation.

In the last 10 years, I’ve lived all over the world. Worked countless jobs. Loved boldly. Learned more about life and myself than I ever expected to. There are months of my life that hold more stories than some people live in a lifetime.

And I’ve never been afraid of leaving.

I’ve always been more afraid of not living.

That thought terrifies me more than anything.

I’ve lived for the joy of chasing impulses, for the spark of the unknown, for the lessons I learn each time I leap.

I grew up modeling. I spent years storytelling behind the bar. I’ve been the main character of my own wild, beautiful movie, especially on solo trips or new moves to unfamiliar cities.

But then something shifted.

In my last relationship, I found peace in stillness. A kind of quiet love that felt safe and real. I stepped out of the spotlight. I stopped performing. I stopped sharing my story not because I didn’t have one, but because, for once, it felt right to keep it just for me.

And I liked that quiet. I liked slow.

Now I find myself in the in-between; not quite who I was, not yet who I’m becoming. A blank page. A pause between chapters.

I used to thrive in connection at the center of every party, every story, always surrounded by people. And I loved that version of me. But I’m not sure she’s all of me anymore.

So I’m writing to figure it out.

Sharing again feels raw. Exposing. Tender. But also... familiar. Like I’m meeting myself on the page again.

I don’t know exactly what this next chapter will hold. But I know I’m rediscovering the parts of me that have been quiet for too long. The dreamer, the storyteller, the woman who wants to build something true.

Maybe this post helps someone else who’s just starting to dream again.

Maybe it’s just for me.

Either way, I’m still in the story.

Pen in hand.

Heart wide open.

And this next chapter?

I’m writing it now.

Standing in front of Hadrian's Arch, two years ago to the week. A moment of freedom, laughter, and the kind of lightness I'd chased across continents. One of a thousand lives I've lived.