Another metamorphosis
With every new beginning, I remind myself that I do not arrive empty. I carry all of me — the stories that shaped me, the emotions that stretched me, the lessons life carved into my bones. I have survived every rise and fall.
But nothing — not motherhood, not age, not wisdom — prepared me for menopause.
It feels as if a stranger has moved into my body. I look like myself, yet I do not feel like myself. My mind is foggy. My energy fades. I want to rise and greet the day, but my body whispers one word: sleep.
I’m grateful for my Alexa. On days when I can barely lift my head, I call out, “Alexa, play music.” And she answers with gospel — the sound my soul remembers.
The music fills the room and flows into me. I hear a voice I know — my own. Not the tired stranger, but the woman who has risen before. Warmth spreads through me. Peace settles within me. I feel myself rising again, not toward who I was, but toward who I am becoming.
I reach for the practices that have carried me through storms. My frontline training reminds me to care for myself first. So, I self-care. I tend to my body and my spirit — a shower, fresh clothes, devotionals.
My trauma‑informed wisdom whispers that discomfort is the doorway to transformation. So, I learn this stranger within. I reflect, adjust, heal, and grow.
I hear my grandmother’s voice: “You’re not an island.” So, I reach out to my circle — the trusted ones who hold me up when I feel low.
Today, I live with quiet confidence, knowing I am more equipped for tomorrow. I know I will rise.