Why Would Anyone Want to Be Me?

People sometimes tell me I seem confident.

Maybe that’s true now. But confidence isn’t something I was born with. It came from losing almost everything I thought I was supposed to be.

When you spend years living as the version of yourself that other people created, there comes a point where the only way to become who you truly are is to walk away.

For much of my life, I lived inside expectations that never fit me. It often felt as though my opinions didn’t matter, my voice wasn’t meant to be heard, and my purpose was simply to take care of everyone else. If I wanted something for myself, it always seemed to come with a price. I had to give away another piece of who I was just to receive a little acceptance.

For nearly twenty years, I drove a school bus.

I loved that job for so many reasons.

As administrators changed, children grew older, and parents became less willing to take responsibility for their children’s behavior, the atmosphere changed too. My rules were always simple:

Use inside voices.
Keep your hands to yourself.
Bottom to bottom, back to back.

They weren’t just bus rules. They were lessons in respect.

My students still laughed, played, sang, and enjoyed being kids. I wanted them to have that freedom while understanding how to respect one another.

Eventually, cameras appeared on every bus. Speed governors were installed. GPS tracked every route. I understood why those safety measures existed, but for those of us who had spent years doing our jobs with integrity, it sometimes felt like trust had been replaced with suspicion.

What I loved most wasn’t driving.

It was hearing “Good morning!” and “See you tomorrow!”

Parents trusted me. Children counted on seeing the same steady face every day. Even if I never changed the world, maybe I gave one child a safe place for thirty minutes while the rest of their life felt uncertain.

There were days when I questioned the value of my own life. Yet seeing those smiling faces each morning reminded me that my presence mattered, even if most of them never knew my name.

Then the pandemic changed everything.

About a month before the shutdowns, I finally found the Alaskan Malamute my husband had wanted since before we met. It became my Valentine’s Day gift to him, two years after we welcomed our surprise little boy into the world.

During the pandemic, I accepted an accounting position with a real estate company.

I loved it.

Numbers made sense. I could spend time with my family while earning a living. My son came to work with me, and for a while it felt like I had finally found a career that allowed me to be both a mother and a professional.

Looking back, I realize not every workplace relationship was as genuine as I believed. Someone I considered a friend benefited from my skills while making me feel safe bringing my son to work, only for that trust to unravel later. That experience left lasting hurt and taught me difficult lessons about boundaries.

When I think about those years, I remember how lonely they often felt.

People knew me as someone’s wife.

Someone’s mother.

Someone who was scatterbrained.

Someone who had survived difficult things.

Very few people seemed interested in knowing who I actually was.

But I have always been more than those labels.

Today, I find myself lying in a hot bath, wondering what my life might have looked like if I’d known then what I know now.

Would I have made different decisions?

Some.

I still would have spoken up about problems that needed attention. I still would have fought for what I believed was right.

Maybe I would have trusted certain people sooner.

But then I wonder…

What if they had become just another person who used me?

When your life has taught you that trust often leads to pain, second-guessing yourself becomes a habit that’s difficult to break.

For years, I carried words that never belonged to me.

That I didn’t deserve success.

That I shouldn’t have been born.

That I had ruined someone else’s life simply by existing.

Those messages don’t disappear overnight.

They become the voices you have to spend years learning to silence.

As a parent, I have also made mistakes.

My first two children were born when we were teenagers. Their father chose not to be involved, and I had to navigate that reality the best I knew how. I still cannot fully understand how someone can walk away from a child they helped create.

Today, the hardest days are the ones when I cannot speak to my children. Even a simple text message can mean everything.

Eventually, I realized I had to leave the life I was living.

Not because leaving was easy.

Because staying was slowly destroying me.

I didn’t want my children to watch me disappear piece by piece.

Now I dream bigger than I ever imagined I could.

Sometimes those dreams scare me.

Maybe I should simply be grateful for where I already am.

I’ve published my first book—twice.

The first edition taught me a great deal, and after reflecting on what I wanted to improve, I revised it and released a second edition that better represents the story I wanted to tell.

My second book is still in the works.

My first book tells the story of my childhood—a little girl who could be both spoiled and deeply wounded, who spent half her life feeling loved and the other half surviving pain. When my summers in Alabama ended, so did the safety and joy I found there.

My second book explores the healing that followed. It tells the story of what happened after I finally walked away, the grief that came with rebuilding my life, and the unexpected friendship that carried me through some of my darkest moments. It’s the story of two people whose worlds were falling apart at the same time and how, without intending to, they helped each other find steadier ground.

Life has continued to bring unexpected challenges, including difficult housing experiences and situations that tested my resilience in ways I never expected.

Still, I keep writing.

I keep creating.

I keep believing that love is worth choosing, even when it doesn’t solve every problem overnight.

People from around the world now read my blog.

I have a published book that has been released in two editions, and I’m writing the next chapter of my story.

I speak openly about difficult subjects because I believe honest conversations can create change.

No, love alone won’t fix everything.

But it’s where healing begins.

So when someone tells me they wish they had my confidence or my courage, I can’t help but wonder…