After almost forty years of trauma, I am starting to learn what it means to rise.
The year before I turn forty, something inside me shifted. A quiet voice — one I’d ignored for decades — whispered that it was time to right the wrongs, to mend what had been broken, and to build the life I always wanted. Not just for me, but for my three children. They have been my constants, my witnesses, my reasons. My three lights in every darkness.
So I wrote a list.
A list of the things I wanted to achieve before I step into my fourth decade. Some dreams were gentle, almost shy. Others were bold enough to scare me. But every single one was rooted in a simple intention: to choose myself, perhaps for the first time.
To heal — really heal — from a lifetime of wounds that I’ve carried in silence.
I want to enter forty with love in my heart, hope in my bones, and space in my life for joy. I want my children to look at me and see not just a mother who survived, but a woman who chose to rise. I want them to know that despite everything — every trauma we endured together, every storm we walked through — we are still a family stitched together by love, not brokenness. And that love, not trauma, has made every one of our victories possible.
My hope is for healing. True healing. The kind that doesn’t just patch the surface but reaches deep and finally unclenches the past.
This is the start. I’m writing it all down — whether it’s ever read by others or not. If no one else sees these words, they will still be for me. A record of the beginning. A place to put the pain, the progress, and the prayers. My trauma journal, my truth, my turning.
And this is only the beginning.
So here I am: choosing to rise, choosing to hope, choosing to lead with my heart and believe in a future filled with more love than loss.
🤍 Kobe
The Trio & Me 