I remember the me I used to be. The little me, lonely and bookish but also cute and fixated on being funny enough to make her mommy laugh.
How she loved to hear her mommy laugh. I remember the teenage me.
Confused and unprepared for the adult world that she found herself in when she fled from trouble at home only to land in trauma afar. I remember the new mother me, with a newborn in her arms and eventually another.
I remember her finally settling into that place of true knowing that there were two delightful reasons to keep going, not in the same direction but down a new path. I remember early healing me, filled with wonder that she had survived and excited for the opportunity to thrive.
I remember the maturing me, grateful to be on the other side of dysfunction and despair, ready to give her all to making the most of her remaining years. Ready to share a message of hope and to settle once again into a deep knowing that all would unfold as it is meant to.