The Road I Didn’t Take

 For more than forty years, I have been driving a road that does not feel like mine.

It is a good road.

It is paved.

It is sensible.

It has brought me shelter, food, competence, a kind of dignity.

But it is not the road I first saw when I closed my eyes at seventeen.

When I was young, I loved angles the way some girls love poetry. Geometry felt like prayer. Lines met where they were meant to meet. Equations resolved. If you respected the rules, the answer revealed itself. There was comfort in that certainty. I earned A’s without effort, as if numbers recognized me.

I asked about trigonometry because I knew I would need it. I could already see buildings in my mind — not just structures, but intentions. Space shaped by thought. Beauty made livable.

Then one afternoon, in a beige office that smelled faintly of paper and old carpet, someone older than me decided my limits.

“You’ll fail,” she said.

Not maybe. Not we’ll find a way.

Just certainty.

Failure spoken over a child has a particular sound. It does not shout. It settles. It rearranges the room. It moves into the bloodstream.

I nodded. I remember nodding.

And then I turned.

I chose the safe courses. Business. Practical. Marketable. Words that sound like protection. Words that can also mean surrender.

The years passed the way highways pass under tires — unnoticed until you look up and realize the landscape has changed.

I built a career. I became capable. Reliable. The kind of woman who understands policies and numbers and outcomes. The kind of woman people trust with their risks.

But sometimes, when I see a skyline at dusk, something inside me tightens.

It isn’t envy.

It’s recognition.

There is a version of me who understands load-bearing walls the way I understand loss tables. A version who stands in hard hats and sunlight, pointing upward. A version who did not nod in that beige office.

I carry her like a twin who chose differently.

Age has a way of sharpening certain truths. Youth believes time is endless. Age knows it is not. Regret feels different when the horizon no longer stretches infinitely ahead. It becomes less dramatic, more intimate. A quiet visitor who sits beside you at night.

But here is what I am beginning to understand:

Regret is not the same as defeat.

Regret is memory insisting on its own importance.

The dream did not die that day. It went underground. It waited.

I may never hold the title. I may never draft blueprints for towers. But architecture was never only about buildings. It was about vision. Structure. Intention.

And I am still here.

I can still design the shape of my days.

I can still build meaning into the years that remain.

I can still choose where the next road bends.

Perhaps the road I didn’t take has not vanished.

Perhaps it has been walking beside me all along, waiting for me to look left instead of straight ahead.

And perhaps the passenger seat has not been empty.

Perhaps it has been occupied by the woman I almost became — patient, unaccusing, waiting for me to invite her to drive.

currently listening to Sometimes It Snows in April, by Prince 

Matching Energy: A Quiet Journey Toward Connection

     

I’m a kind person. Friendly, even. But I’m also an introvert — the kind who finds comfort in quiet corners and deep conversations over small talk. Lately, I’ve been trying to stretch beyond that comfort zone, to be more sociable, more open. It’s not always easy, but it’s a journey I’m proud of.

     One of the biggest changes in that journey? I’ve started matching energy.

     That’s new for me. For a long time, being liked felt essential. I used to go above and beyond — overextending myself, ignoring red flags, trying to earn approval that never felt guaranteed. I thought that if I gave more, people would value me more. But I’ve outgrown that.

     Now, I still want to be accepted — who doesn’t? But I’m no longer bothered if I’m not. I’ve learned that peace comes from authenticity, not performance. I match energy because I respect myself enough not to chase what isn’t mutual.

     If you greet me with warmth, I’ll meet you with the same. If you show genuine interest, I’ll open up. But if your energy is distant, dismissive, or performative, I won’t chase it. I won’t force connection. I believe relationships — whether friendships, collaborations, or support — should be mutual.

     This shift has been liberating. It’s not coldness — it’s clarity.

     And when it comes to my creative work — my side hustle — that clarity matters even more. I pour my heart into what I do. So if you haven’t supported it, maybe don’t ask how it’s going. That question hits differently when it comes from someone who hasn’t been part of the journey.

   I’m learning to be more visible, more vocal. But I’ll always be someone who values reciprocity. Not out of pride — but out of peace.

currently listening to C.O.D. (I'll Deliver) by Mtime

The Invisible Struggles: Why Your Kindness Matters More Than You Know

 

We see people every day, but we never see their full story. The impatient woman in line might have just received devastating news. The quiet coworker could be grieving a loss. The slow cashier might be working three jobs while battling anxiety.

Hidden Battles

Everyone puts on a brave face. Social media shows highlight reels while struggles stay hidden. Behind every composed exterior might be someone fighting battles we know nothing about—financial stress, health scares, loneliness, depression. Many people wake up just trying to get through another day, desperately hoping for one genuine moment of human connection.

Small Kindnesses, Big Impact

This is why small acts of kindness carry tremendous power. A sincere "thank you," holding the door, letting someone merge in traffic, asking "How are you?" and actually listening—these moments might seem insignificant to you, but they can be everything to someone barely holding on.

Your smile might be the first one they've seen in days. Your patience might be the only gentleness they encounter. Your kindness might be the reminder they needed that they matter.

Choose Compassion

Instead of making snap judgments about the "rude" customer or "inconsiderate" driver, what if we assumed everyone is doing their best with whatever they're dealing with? What if we chose curiosity over judgment, compassion over criticism?

You Might Be the Only One

Here's the profound truth: you might be the only person who's kind to someone today. In a harsh, disconnected world, your moment of genuine warmth might help someone keep going. We underestimate how much our small actions affect others.

Tomorrow, remember that everyone you encounter is carrying something. Choose kindness anyway—especially when it's difficult. Your compassion matters more than you know. In a world that can feel divided and harsh, every act of kindness is a small rebellion against despair.

Be kind. You never know whose day—or life—you might be changing.

Currently listening to Clearly, by Anthony Hamilton

i hope there was a reckoning

(my mother passed) a year ago

and i 

   often wonder—

across these 62 years—

 if my bloodmother ever saw 

   how i was treated

(did she imagine

    a reckoning in heaven 

      a moment to confront

 the friend she entrusted me to;

regret rising in her voice as she recalled

    handing me over

before i was 1?)

i don’t know the full story

but i believe 

she thought she was making 

          the best decision

not by seeking parents

but by trusting someone she knew

 maybe

    that trust was misplaced

maybe l(ove) 

   when handed off without clarity

becomes someThing else      

       entirely

- me

The Soft Machinery of Memory

 

About once a week, something makes me cry.

Not the kind of crying that announces itself with sobs or explanations. It’s quieter than that. It sneaks in sideways—through a glimpse, a sound, a passing face, or a flicker of memory I didn’t know was still lit. I’ll be walking, scrolling, washing dishes, and then suddenly I’m not. I’m somewhere else entirely. My thoughts scatter like birds startled from a wire, and before I can gather them again, my eyes well up.

And I ask myself: Why am I crying?

Sometimes I call my best friend. He’s got this gift—he can trace the emotional thread back to its source in seconds. He’ll say, “Oh, it’s because that photo reminded you of  (private) ,” or “That song carries the same chord as the one you played during  (private).” He’s like emotional sonar. I don’t always call him, though. Sometimes I just let the tears come. I let them do their quiet work. And about thirty seconds later, I’m done.

It’s not sadness, exactly. It’s more like a release. A soft exhale from some part of me that’s been holding its breath. A reminder that I’m still porous, still paying attention, still stitched together by memory and meaning even when I don’t realize it.

These moments don’t ask for resolution. They don’t demand a story. They just arrive, do their work, and leave. Like a passing raincloud that waters something underground.

Earlier today, I read those first few lines again—“About once a week, something makes me cry…”—and I felt it. That familiar wetness rising. Not enough to spill, just enough to shimmer. I kept reading. I didn’t cry. I didn’t need to. The feeling passed, but it left a trace. Like a fingerprint on glass. Like a ghost tapping gently on the shoulder of my attention.

I used to think I needed to explain these moments. Now I think they’re proof that I’m still connected—to my past, to my people, to the parts of myself that live just below the surface. They’re small floods of feeling that remind me I’m still here. Still feeling. Still open.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

currently listening to All Day, All Night by Jill Jones (with Prince & The Revolution)