Champagne Confessions

Who we are, and who the world demands we be, two mirrors, always angled, never aligned. I never admired the notion of shrinking to fit a frame built by someone else’s hands.

And yet, I’ve played roles. We all do. We become shapeshifters in rooms that ask us to dim or dazzle. We soften our edges for love. We armor up for survival. Around some, we bloom. Around others, we bleed. This is not duplicity. This is humanity.

But what I find most haunting is not the becoming, it’s the misunderstanding. The gall of those who claim to know me, who speak with conviction about a life they’ve only seen through keyholes. Who cherry-pick the chapters of my story that suit their narrative, and discard the rest.

Yes, I have known ruin intimately. I’ve stared at ceilings with hollow eyes, counting pills and prayers. I’ve flirted with death and danced with oblivion. There was a time I did not want to live. Not out of drama, but fatigue. The kind of fatigue that sinks into the bones and whispers, “Let go.”

But I didn’t.

And this is what they never talk about, what it costs to return to yourself after you’ve abandoned all hope. The resurrection is never glamorous. It’s quiet. Messy. Painfully slow. It happens in the moments no one sees. When you choose water over wine. Breath over blade. Truth over illusion. Forgiveness over fury.

So when you say I am broken, or dramatic, or unworthy, I nod, not in agreement, but in knowing. Because what you say about me reveals far more about you than it does about me. Your words are shadows trying to eclipse the woman I’ve fought to become.

You see, I’ve done the work. I’ve held mirrors when they trembled in my hands. I’ve stood bare in the aftermath of my own destruction and said, “This was me. And I forgive her.” There is no part of my past I deny. There is no ghost that haunts me now. Only memory, and mercy.

You cannot shame me with stories I’ve already made peace with.

And yet, I remain human. I still have places within me that ache for tending. I’m not perfect. But I am present. And that is a triumph in itself.

Before you cast your stones, remember: I walked barefoot through the fire and emerged not unburned, but reborn. I am not asking to be idolized. Only understood. But even if understanding never comes, I will continue.

Because I have become the woman I once prayed to meet. A woman not without scars, but no longer ruled by them. A woman who doesn’t shrink when others misunderstand her, but rises.

Ah, accountability. A word so many wear like perfume, fragrant but never touched to skin. I have lived it. I have eaten my shame with a silver spoon and swallowed every hard truth. I have loved myself back into existence.

So whisper my name, if you must, in rooms where the lights stay dim and the courage runs thin. Just know, while you entertain the old ghosts of who I used to be, I am here, draped in light, walking forward. Whole.

Farewell to the past. To the girl who wanted to die. To the woman who survived in pieces.

And welcome, to grace, to wisdom, to the kind of joy that doesn’t need an audience.

To those who do not yet know me: you will not find me in gossip or assumptions.

You will only find me in presence. In patience. In truth.

And to those who think they already know me, 

You never did.