When It Stops Being Fun

Misery.
That’s the feeling.

Not all the time.
But enough to notice.

It comes up when I’m told to do things I don’t want to do.
Not out of resistance—
but out of misalignment.

They don’t align with who I am,
who I’m becoming,
or anything I care to be.

“Be a team player.”

I’ve been thinking about that.

At the cost of what?

Because I make winning plays.
That’s how I move through life.

And the play being called right now…
doesn’t lead to a win.

I know because I’ve seen it before.
We’ve done this before.

We push through.
We execute.
We get the result.

Dollars… and misery.

And I’m realizing—
that payout isn’t worth the cost.

My mind is analytical by nature.
I observe patterns.
I look at outcomes.

And when I analyze this,
it just doesn’t make sense
to keep choosing something
that consistently leads here.

So when I hear,
“This is what we’re doing anyway—
to prove a point,”
I pause.

Because I can feel the cost before it even arrives.

More misery.
Less joy.

More money for you.
The same dollars for me.

I’m not writing this to complain.

I’m writing this because I’m noticing.

This is not my game.

I’ve played it.
And I’ve done well.

But somewhere along the way,
it stopped being fun.

And the truth—
I don’t have to keep playing
a game that no longer feels like mine.

Exhale.

Misery loves company—
but so does clarity.

Good company reminds me
that I am a changemaker.

Good company reminds me
that I am not the problem.

Good company reminds me
that change doesn’t happen all at once—
but it does happen.

That one day,
I’ll call the shots.
I’ll be in control.

These problems aren’t mine alone.
They existed long before me
and may exist long after me.

But with the courage to change what I can,
the peace to accept what I cannot,
and the wisdom to know the difference—
I can do all things.

“Wait and see.”

I’m not sure what I’m waiting for,
or how long I’ll wait…

but something tells me—
it’s already in motion.

“Doesn’t Mean I’m Lonely When I’m Alone”

Even when I’m alone, I’ve never truly felt lonely.
Not once. Not ever.

And I can remember far back.

It’s never just been me.
There has always been presence.
Always been company.
A quiet kind of companionship—felt, not seen.

Only recently did I begin to understand it.

When I started praying aloud in my home, something shifted.
The presence I had always sensed… became known.

Seventeen years later, I spoke the words, “I miss my best friend.”
And my sister gently told me,
“She never left. Grandma has always been with you.”

And in that moment… I realized—
I’ve felt her all along.

And if my grandmother is with me,
then my mother has been with me too.
All 24 years of my life without her physical presence.

There is so much that makes me.
So much that lives within me.

As I approach 30, I’ve come to see something deeper—
my mother had me the year she turned 29.
Her mother had her at 29.

Not coincidence…
but a kind of clarity.

A reminder that life may appear patterned,
but it is also evolving—
and I am part of that evolution.

I’ve always known there was something within me.

As a child, I felt connected to Mary—
not in the way of giving birth to Jesus,
but in the knowing of being chosen as a vessel.

A vessel for something meaningful.
Something that creates lasting change.

As I write this, I’m in tears.

Because this truth has lived inside of me for so long—
and I have never spoken it out loud until now.

This… is my voice.
And my knowing is my peace.

I am not perfect.
I am not a virgin.
But I am still chosen.

I know I am.

So when others try to tell me who to be,
I can receive it with grace—
but I am guided by something deeper.
Something constant.
Something eternal.

There are parts of me that cannot be shaken.

I am royalty.
My body is phenomenal—it amazes me daily.
My spirit… my spirit is strong.

Steadfast against weakness,
yet soft.
Bold, yet calm.

She is wondrous.

She has always been.
And she will always be.

Just as the next daughter will be—
because we all wear crowns, whether we remember it or not.