Dearest Reader,
Today is my birthday. ๐
My 4.3. There have been many versions of me and I canโt count the years without counting the lives and versions I've lived inside them.
๐ง Listen to the audio podcast on Spotify and Apple with a personal reflection at the end.
I want to tell you about some of those versions, because like you, we spend so much of our life playing a part that we forget we are also allowed to be the author.
- There was the eldest daughter who had to care for others before knowing how to care for herself.
- The girl who survived sexual abuse and learned to hide herself so nothing like that could happen again.
- The wife who tried to love someone else before she understood what love actually felt like from the inside.
- The corporate climber who jumped through every hoop, endured every mansplain, neglected every signal her body sent her, just to make her bosses proud.
- The business partner who overgave in service of community, the mission, until she was completely hollow.
- The friend who kept herself small so the insecure people around her wouldn't feel threatened by her light.
I played every one of those parts, and I played them well.
And yet, not one of them was fully me.
The thing about late bloomers is that we aren't late. We were busy surviving the roles we were assigned before we were old enough to audition for them.
We were busy being useful, being good, being everything to everyone, being the version of ourselves that kept the peace and held it together and never took up too much space.
And then one day, sometimes slowly and quietly, sometimes abruptly, the body says no mรกs.
Mine said it hella loud.
And I want to be honest about what was the hardest because weโve built a mutual trust through these letters that I want you to know.
๐ฎโ๐จ The hardest part was disappointing other people and what people thought. The inner whisper about my second divorce. The questions about my loyalty. The part of me that had confused toxic overgiving with devotion for so long that choosing myself felt like betrayal.
You can love people deeply, you can see them clearly, you can have real history and still you are required to honor the signals of your own body above all else.
For the first time in my life, I did that. Chose to listen to the signals. And it broke my heart in the most necessary way.
The most devastatingly beautiful experience of your life is letting yourself fall so you can finally set yourself free.
I've said versions of this before in these letters. Today, on my birthday, looking back at everything it took to get here, I can say this with all ten toes planted firmly, the falling wasn't failure.
The falling was the moment I finally trusted myself more than I trusted the roles. More than I trusted the opinions. More than I trusted the fear.
My therapist Rachel said something that rearranged something in me.
๐๐ผ She said: trust faith more than fear.
The kind of faith that comes from knowing yourself deeply enough to believe that what's on the other side of the hardest choice is something you can survive and something worth surviving for. (AKA, don't give up on yourself!)
Every single time you put yourself out there, to love, to try something new, to say no, to say yes, to set a boundary, to choose yourself, it is in service of showing yourself that you are capable of being your own home. ๐
I spent decades not knowing what it felt like to just be mine. To not be someone's partner, someone's co-founder, someone's teacher, someone's reliable one, someoneโs fixer. To just be Vanessa, learning herself.
That is what this birthday is for me. The first one where I can honestly say: I am my own home.
I am proud of myself.
I am proud of myself for keeping an open heart when everything I've experienced could have made me cold and jaded. For choosing warmth when bitterness was easier. For knowing that listening to her is how I always find my way back to myself.
I am proud of myself for the days that weren't supposed to be easy, when the old patterns kept trying to pull me back and I resisted. For walking away even when it hurt. For the version of myself I chose to become and for reminding myself over and over again that I am worthy of feeling proud.
And I am so proud of you.
Not when you reach the goal and not when someone finally notices.
Right now, in this moment. I am proud of you.
Something in you has been doing the same brave work, surviving the roles, choosing yourself in small and big ways, building a life that makes sense in your body even when it doesn't make sense to anyone else yet.
We have been through so much, processed so much. And we have also built so much, offered so much.
We deserve to feel proud. CLAP for yourself. ๐๐ผ๐๐ผ๐๐ผ
What I want for my birthday is simple.
I want you to say: I am proud of myself. Out loud. Not for what you've accomplished. For who you chose to become despite everything.
The price of choosing yourself has a real cost.
And it is the most worth it thing you will ever pay for.
Sometimes it's isolation. Sometimes it's the heartbreak of walking away from people you love. Sometimes it's building brick by brick, seed by seed, in a silence that feels like nothing is happening when everything is happening.
But the prize is also real.
You get to be your own home. You get to know yourself. You get to lead with your heart and trust that she knows the way.
That prize is worth every fucking dollar.
Happy birthday to us. ๐
Until the next letter,
Vanessa
P.S. Thank you to those that asked what to get me. Nothing material, I promise. But if you want to do something that would genuinely make me smile - buy me a matcha ๐ต or donate to Wellness For The People. Real work is happening there and every dollar moves it forward.
P.P.S. If something in this letter moved you and you're ready to stop building a life or business alone, The Table is where we do this work together, May 21st.
A few seats left. โ Join The Table
To the beautiful souls who loved me, held me, saw me through these versions, thank you. ๐ ๐ โฅ๏ธ
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