We once moved together like three points in orbit. Time shifted the gravity, distance grew, and I learned that love does not mean holding on.

A personal account of living with treatment-resistant bipolar I disorder, CPTSD, anxiety, and trauma. Explore the physical, emotional, and mental realities of depression, the challenges of survival during December, and the resilience required to endure when hope feels out of reach.

I AM. I AM. I AM. Project is a way of understanding who I am when no one else is in the room. The project is a personal excavation. A return to honesty after years of speaking in borrowed language.

I knew, eventually, that if I were to be true to myself, I had to see it through. Not because anyone was waiting, not because there was a promise of recognition or even understanding. Simply because the work needed to exist, even if its audience was only me.

Grief pressed in long before I had a name for it. It lived in quiet rooms and in shadows that lingered even when light broke through. It was relentless.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) stands as a haunting testament to the mind’s fragile architecture, a profound disruption where the normal rhythms of memory and time splinter beneath the crushing weight of trauma.

Mother’s Day is, without question, my most cherished day of the year. It is not the cards or the flowers that move me, but the invitation I’m given to reflect.