Nothing remains the same when you take a look in the mirror of time. And neither do we. I am not the same. I have changed. I have transformed—like a larva breaking free from its cocoon, becoming a butterfly. That is the remarkable thing about time.

I wrote an article the year I turned 25. Back then, I was swimming in a sea of emotions, pain, stress, confusion. I was not in a good place. I felt stuck. Stagnant. I took a long, honest look at myself and decided to become more intentional about my energy and who I was becoming.

I reread that post yesterday, trying to make sense of where I am now, and I thought, wow. I’m proud of myself.

That post reminded me how vital it is just to be. To exist. To honour the process. When I wrote it, I was restless. My soul was yearning for more. It knew I had more in me, even if it didn’t know where to begin.

Reading it again showed me the power of journaling, how it holds your evolution in words, how it helps you take stock. It allows you to appreciate where you’ve been so you can welcome where you are.

I am proud of myself.

The woman I am now would hug the 25-year-old me tightly and tell her to stop brooding over those who mistreated her. I’d tell her she is brilliant, beautiful, and brave for being able to confront herself and name her truth without flinching.

There is deep joy in growing older, in watching myself become, in finding steadiness in all aspects of my life. The assertiveness that now clothes me fits like silk. I move like a swan, fluid, graceful. No longer the energy-charged girl overwhelmed by a flood of emotions and ideas. No longer unable to sit still. I have become stillness itself.

I listen more, to my intuition, to that quiet voice that once felt too subtle to trust. For years I questioned whether it was divine guidance or just another figment of my overthinking. But now, I lean into it with calm assurance. I’ve learned to step back and let life unfold. And that, in itself, is peace.

Gone are the days of needing the last word or replaying conversations in my head. I let things go now. I hold space for grace. I choose ease.

Nineteen-year-old me couldn’t have imagined this kind of peace, the kind that doesn’t need to be performed. She would be wide-eyed, wondering why I’m not fazed by little things. She’d marvel at how I command my life, even as I keep growing. She would be proud of me. She would want to learn from me. She’d ask if she’s made me proud, not knowing I am doing everything I can to honour her too.

She would see me as her safe space, her shield, her soft place to land, her fixer. And I would be all that for her.

There is no greater joy than realizing the person I was a decade ago could only dream of who I am today. This is why I honour time. This is why I am devoted to change, to movement, to becoming.

What is pain? What is heartbreak? What are silent tears shed in solitude? What are crashouts, mental fog, or doubt, if they all led me here?

What is greater than this? What brings more fulfilment? What brings more serenity than healing and the gentle magic of time?

I’m at rest now. Everything that brought me here still echoes, but it no longer rattles me.

I feel more deeply. I know myself. I tell myself when to pause. And above all, I can always run to God, the one who endlessly shows me mercy. What then should I fear in this vast, ever-spinning world?

As long as I trust Him, I’m good.

No more am I disturbed by buzzes and whispers. I no longer care who is watching or who is judging. I simply and honestly do not care. This is the peace I prayed for.

There will always be noise, distractions, chaos, but God remains constant, and He’s got me. And frankly, I cannot be bothered by anything outside that truth.

This is growth.
Happy Birthday to me.