I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here yet, but I’m a college student again. A returning student for maybe the fifth time. But this time feels different. This time, I’m here because I want to be. I’m showing up with intention, with presence, and for the first time in a long while, I’m actually enjoying the experience.
There was a time I believed going back to school at this age meant I’d somehow failed. That I’d fallen behind. That belief used to sit heavy on me—until I proved myself wrong. That’s been one of the most healing things I’ve learned in my 28 years: our stories don’t have to unfold on anyone else’s timeline. Growth is not linear. Becoming never really ends.
In my earlier attempts at college, I often felt disconnected. I’d be sitting in class with my mind elsewhere-too tired from work, too overwhelmed by life, or too distracted by what I thought I was supposed to be doing. I wasn’t really present. I was just surviving. But this time, I’m here on my own terms. I show up to class. Highlight my notes in pastels. I stay after to talk with professors. It sounds small, but it means everything to me. I’m no longer chasing someone else’s idea of success. I’m building mine, one intentional step at a time.
Life moves quickly. Entire seasons pass in a blink. But awareness—those quiet, soul-level realizations—arrives slowly, like light filtering through the trees. In those moments, I’ve collected some of my deepest truths. Patience, grace, softness, presence, love, trust, and perhaps most importantly accountability.
Accountability has taught me that honesty with myself is a form of love. It’s not just about admitting when I’m wrong-it’s also about staying loyal to my goals, showing up for my routines, and being mindful of how I speak to myself. It’s realizing that no one else is responsible for my healing, my peace, or my joy. That’s on me. And that’s okay. There’s power in reclaiming that responsibility-not as a burden, but as a sacred promise to my future self.
Before I made the decision to return to school, I was fired from a job I gave so much of myself to. I felt humiliated. Rejected. Unworthy. When the company finally sent the official letter of separation-the company switched the reason to “laid off” instead. I thought it might soften the blow-but the grief remained. I applied to dozens of jobs, pouring hours into applications, interviews, and emails, only to be overlooked again and again. It was exhausting. Disorienting. For a while, I felt invisible.
So I started again. Right here. With this blog. With my words.
I’ve wanted to write for as long as I can remember. Writing is how I make sense of things-it always has been. And maybe it’s no coincidence. When I was in the second grade, I was a deep reader-which lead to my mother sharing with me one day that I am a descendant of Charles Dickens, the giant himself, through my great-grandfather Carlyle Gordon Dickens. That lineage doesn’t define me, but it feels like a whisper from something deeper. That storytelling is part of my blood. That maybe, just maybe, I’m not crazy for believing that words can change lives, starting with my own.
I don’t know exactly where this path will lead, but for the first time in a long while, I feel aligned. Writing here feels like a homecoming. Like I’m remembering something I forgot I knew. This blog isn’t just a hobby. It’s art. It’s a soft rebellion. It’s a mirror. It’s me.
No one asked me this summer what fuels my passion, but if they had, I’d say: living.
Raw, intentional, sometimes chaotic living. Living to feel. To ache. To laugh. To yearn. To admire. To imagine. To create. To collapse and begin again-over and over, because that’s just part of it. We grow, we remember, we forget, and we try again. That’s what it means to be alive. And I think that’s what it means to be an artist, too. To let life shape you and still have the courage to shape something back.
It’s messy. But there’s meaning in the mess.
Especially when you’re the black sheep. When your path doesn’t look like anyone else’s. When you grow up learning to dim your light to be digestible. When your choices confuse people. When you’re the one who questions, leaves, resists, returns. It’s not an easy path, but it is a powerful one. I spent years trying to mold myself into someone who could be accepted, someone who checked the boxes. But it never fit. It never felt like me.
And that’s where accountability comes back in. Because part of healing is telling the truth. Not just about what others did, but about the roles we played in abandoning ourselves. It’s in noticing when I silence my voice, when I ignore my boundaries, when I hold back in fear of being misunderstood. And then choosing differently. Gently. Repeatedly.
Another lesson? You have to put yourself first.
I always think of the oxygen mask instructions on a plane-“Put your mask on first before assisting others.” That used to feel selfish. Now I understand it’s sacred. You cannot pour from an empty glass. You cannot breathe life into others while forgetting your own.
For a long time, I wished I had an older sister- someone to guide me, to answer my questions, to remind me that I’m not too much or too late or too lost. But I am the oldest sister. And in learning how to mother and to mentor myself, I’ve discovered that I can become the person I once needed. And that is one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done.
I can do anything. I can reinvent myself as many times as I need to. I just have to keep choosing courage. I have to keep choosing me. The real me, not the watered-down version I once thought was safer.
Becoming isn’t a one-time thing. It’s a constant unfolding. Some days I feel ahead. Other days I feel like I’m starting from scratch. But even in the mess, I’m learning to hold space for the version of me who is still figuring it out. I’m learning to love her, not for what she accomplishes, but simply because she’s still here, still trying.
That’s who this blog is for-for the ones in the middle. Not quite at the beginning. Not anywhere near the end. Just… becoming. Quietly. Bravely. Softly. On your own terms.
So if you’re reading this feeling behind, or uncertain, or heavy with the weight of all the “shoulds”-come sit with me. You’re not late. You’re not broken. You’re not lost. You’re in the middle of your story.
We’re all just trying to be a little more honest. A little more kind. A little more ourselves than we were yesterday. And honestly, that’s more than enough.
Here’s to starting over, again and again.
-L
Lanalefay 