Tomorrow, I turn 35.

And honestly… this past year changed me.

It held exhaustion and beauty.
Grief and reconciliation.
Late-night tears and tiny newborn yawns.
Hard conversations.
Second chances.
Old dreams resurfacing in new forms.

This was the year I heard my daughter’s heartbeat after wondering if I’d ever get to hear one again.
The year I watched my son continue becoming someone thoughtful, creative, and bright.
The year I learned that healing is rarely dramatic—it’s usually quiet, messy, slow, and deeply human.

I spent so many years feeling like I had to hold everything together perfectly.
But 34 taught me something different:

There is strength in honesty.
There is beauty in rebuilding.
There is grace in being unfinished.

This year stretched me in every direction:
motherhood,
marriage,
friendship,
creativity,
faith,
identity,
rest.

Some days I felt like I was finally coming home to myself.
Other days I felt completely lost.

But maybe becoming isn’t about never getting lost.
Maybe it’s about continuing to return.

At 35, I don’t hope for perfection anymore.

I hope for presence.
For meaningful work.
For deeper connection.
For laughter in my home.
For stories worth telling.
For softness without losing strength.
For courage to keep creating.
For peace in my body and mind.
For moments that feel real.

And maybe most of all—
I hope to keep becoming someone my younger self would feel safe with.

Here’s to 35.