Author: Still Becoming Amber

The Voice in the Mirror

June 25th, 2025

“You are so kind to others.
Why are you so cruel to yourself?”

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, how easily the harshest voice becomes my own.

It’s automatic, almost.
A glance in the mirror turns into a running list of everything I wish I could change.
Your face looks puffy today.
Are you bloated or just gaining weight?
Why can’t you just get it together?
You’d look better if you were more disciplined.
It spirals quickly. Before I even realize what’s happened, I’m tearing myself apart over a bad angle or a passing thought.

I don’t talk to myself the way I talk to people I love.
If someone I cared about said they hated the way they looked, I’d remind them how beautiful they are when they’re laughing. How kindness lives in their eyes. How their worth has nothing to do with angles or lighting or bloat.
But when it’s me?

I zoom in on every flaw. I replay every misstep. I weaponize my own reflection and call it honesty.
I would never speak to anyone else the way I speak to myself.
And yet, I’ve made cruelty a habit. I’ve dressed it up as accountability… as self-awareness… as “tough love”.
But it’s not love.
It’s shame. It’s fear. It’s conditioning. And it runs deep.

So I’m trying to interrupt it.
To notice when the voice in my head starts getting sharp and ask:
Would I ever say this to someone else?
And if the answer is no, I pause. I breathe. I try again.
Not perfectly. Not always. But more than I used to.

It’s not about loving every part of yourself overnight.
It’s about choosing not to tear yourself down every time you look in the mirror.
It’s about learning to speak to yourself the way you speak to the people you love.
Not because I’ve earned kindness… because I deserve it.

If you wouldn’t say it to someone you love, maybe it’s time to stop saying it to yourself.

Reflective Question:
What might begin to heal if you started speaking to yourself the way you speak to the people you love?
For My Father, On Father’s Day

June 15th, 2025

If love had a face, it would look like yours. Tired eyes that never missed a moment, calloused hands that held too much, a heart that made space for both roles when the world asked too much of you.

You didn’t just raise me, you carried me through a storm you never asked for. When Mom passed, the world changed in ways we couldn’t name. But somehow, in the wreckage, you stood up and became both the anchor and the sail. You didn’t have a guidebook for grief or a blueprint for raising a daughter alone, but you did it with a strength that was quiet and constant. You never flinched.

You braided my hair with trembling fingers.
You showed up to every cheer competition, screaming louder than any other parent in the stands.
You cooked dinners, helped with homework, made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.

You made sure I never felt the emptiness you carried. And somehow, in the absence, you built presence. A love so big it filled the whole house. A laughter so loud it echoed through the lonely parts.

You were selfless when it would’ve been easier not to be.
Kind even when the world was unkind.
Dedicated in ways most people will never see.
And funny… God, thank you for the funny. The way you made space for joy when we needed it most.

I don’t know how you did it.
But because of you, I know what strength looks like.
Because of you, I know that love doesn’t always look like two people, it can look like one person doing everything they can, with everything they have, for someone they love.

You were both my mother and my father. You still are. And on this Father’s Day, I hope you feel what I’ve always known:

You were never “just enough.”
You were everything.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
You are, and always will be, my first home.
The Days That Stayed

June 9th, 2025

Most days, I don’t remember.

They blur together, folding into a rhythm I moved through without much thought… morning alarms, text messages, grocery store runs, dinner plans… moments of joy and pain caught up in the flow of everyday life.

But some days stay.

The ones where everything shifted, or nothing did, but I felt it anyway.
A song playing for the first time, catching me off guard… mid-laugh, mid-tears, or somewhere in between.
There’s something wild about how music marks time in me… like I can always trace it back to the exact moment I first heard it.
A strange, permanent timestamp. A memory hooked to a melody.

I remember the summer I felt infinite.
The one where the world felt like it belonged to me in all its chaos and color.
It was loud and hard and messy and magic.
And it cracked me open in ways I didn’t know I needed.
That summer taught me how to become myself.

I remember Halloween of 2017.
The day I stopped waiting for someone to save me.
The day I realized I could begin again… and so I did.
It took me seven months.
Seven months to soften, to rebuild, to learn what it meant to choose myself every day.
Seven months to remember I was worthy.
And seven years to that day, I married someone who never lets me forget it.

I remember porch light sun and the wind through open car windows.
The first dip into a cold pool at the start of summer. The scent of a new book.
The warmth of a laugh I didn’t know I needed.
The way shadows danced on the wall during slow afternoons.
I remember the way aliveness sometimes sneaks in through the simplest things… not the milestones, but the moments in between.
The ones that asked for nothing.

Most days, I don’t remember.

But the ones that stayed…
They gave me everything.

Reflective Question:
What are the days that stayed with you and why do you think they did?
I Sat Down With My Younger Self for Coffee

June 2nd, 2025

I sat down with my younger self for coffee today.
She ordered something sweet, like always. I smiled, because of course she did.
We found a quiet corner. She had questions… all the ones I knew were coming.
And I did my best to answer them, gently. Honestly. The way I wish someone had answered them for me back then.

She wanted to know if I ever figured out who I am.
I told her I’m still figuring it out, but that maybe that’s the whole point. That every season uncovers new layers, and none of them are wrong.
I said the goal isn’t to arrive, it’s to keep going.
She liked that.

She asked if I ever stopped being so hard on myself.
I paused for a while.
I told her I’m learning. Slowly. That I’ve gotten better at offering myself the kind of grace I so freely give to others.

She wondered if I still think about our mom.
I said, “Every day.” But now I do it with more softness than ache.
She didn’t cry, and neither did I, but we held the moment like we both knew what it meant.
(We did.)

She asked about him, the person she always hoped she’d meet.
I told her yes.
Yes to the kind of love that makes you feel safe to breathe.
Yes to someone who chooses me, over and over again, in all my forms.
She sighed, relieved. “I was starting to worry,” she joked.
I told her not to. That some of the best things take their time and require some distance.

She asked if we ever stopped feeling behind.
I told her the timeline she’s chasing doesn’t really exist and the moment you stop comparing, life gets a little lighter.
She asked if I really believe that.
I told her I’m trying to.

She asked about Dad.
And I told her…
He’s still our hero.
But now I understand even more of what he gave up to give us everything.
We’ve only gotten closer. He still shows up, still sacrifices, still finds ways to make us laugh when life feels heavy.
She smiled wide, the kind of smile that comes from deep, steady love.

She asked if I’m happy.
I said yes. Not all the time. But in the ways that count the most.

And just before she left, she looked at me one more time searching for something she couldn’t quite name.
I smiled and said, “Whatever you’re hoping this life will be… it’s even better than that.”
She believed me.

Reflective Question:
What would happen if you sat down with your younger self for coffee? What would they want to know and what would you want to say?
Things I Know For Sure (and the Things I Don’t)

May 20th, 2025

There are truths I hold firmly. Truths that have anchored me through storms, through stillness, through all the moments of doubt.

I know that rest is sacred. It’s necessary, but it doesn’t always come easily. I still wrestle with guilt when I slow down, as though I’ll be judged for not doing enough, for not being enough. Even in moments when my body begs for reprieve, the weight of expectation holds me in place. It’s a battle to unlearn the idea that my worth is tied to my pace, to my productivity. I know that rest, true rest, is not a luxury… it’s a lifeline.

But I don’t know why it feels like I have to earn it first.

I know that love should feel safe. There are times when I’ve allowed myself to stay in places that felt uncertain, unsure, because somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought love was supposed to be difficult. But love should be a place where you’re seen, where you’re held.

But I don’t always know how to let go of the fear that safety might disappear the moment I settle into it.

I know healing is not linear. It’s never as simple as “getting better.” There are days when I feel as though I’m moving forward, making progress, only to be pulled back into old wounds. And yet, those setbacks teach me something too. That healing is not about perfection. It’s about showing up, again and again, with the broken pieces, and allowing them to be enough.

But I don’t know how many times I’ll start over before I finally feel whole.

I know that some people are meant to be temporary, but it doesn’t make their absence any less significant. The spaces they leave behind are felt in the quiet moments, in the milestones they won’t witness, in the emptiness of their chair at the table.

But I don’t know why we lose people when we do, or how to stop missing them in the moments they mattered most.

I know that my body holds wisdom I often ignore. It tells me when it’s time to rest, when it’s time to fight, when it’s time to let go. But I don’t always listen. Instead, I push it to its limits, ignoring the warnings until I can’t anymore.

But I don’t know why I keep treating it like something to overcome instead of something to honor.

I know that being soft in a hard world is a kind of strength. It’s not about being fragile or weak, it’s about allowing yourself to be vulnerable, to show up with an open heart even when the world feels cold.

But I don’t know why that strength is so often overlooked, or why we feel like we have to harden to survive.

I know that I am not the same person I was a year ago, and I’m not the same person I was five years ago. The changes are subtle, but they’re there. And I know that I’ll keep evolving, keep growing, and keep learning.

But I don’t know who I will become or how to be at peace with the parts of myself that I will leave behind.

I know that I want to be present. I want to show up fully in my life, in my relationships, in my work.

But I don’t always know how to let go of the fear of the future, the anxiety of what’s to come.

I know that joy and sorrow can exist side by side. That they are not opposites, but companions. They intertwine, each one making the other more profound. I know that they are both parts of life, parts of me, and I will continue to carry them both, even as I navigate the space between them.

But I don’t know how to hold both without feeling like I might break in the balancing.

I know that I am still becoming and that becoming isn’t always beautiful. I’m learning to trust the unknown, to trust the unfolding. To trust that I am enough, even in the moments when I feel like I’m still figuring it out. We talk about growth in glowing terms, about how we should embrace the changes life brings with open arms. I know that sometimes becoming is painful. Sometimes it’s messy, and sometimes you feel like you’re falling apart before you can come back together.

Maybe the point is never to know it all.
Maybe it’s enough to keep going, to keep listening, to keep learning.
Maybe it’s not about what I know or don’t know, but about the willingness to stay with myself through all of it.
And somewhere in the middle of the knowing and the not knowing maybe that’s where I find who I really am.

Reflective Question:
What if the not knowing isn’t a flaw to fix, but rather a path to follow?
The Weight You Learned to Carry

May 15th, 2025

You don’t remember the first time you felt like you weren’t enough, only that once the question arrived, it never really left. It found its way in early, latching onto grades and glances, threading itself through mirrors and moments where you longed to feel seen. You’ve spent years trying to outrun it, hoping the next milestone, the next win, the next nod of approval might finally be the thing that soothes the ache. But it never is.

And maybe that’s the real truth… not that you’ve failed to measure up, but that the measuring was never yours to begin with. That somewhere along the way, the world convinced you that worth had to be earned. But what if it doesn’t? What if being enough isn’t a finish line you fight toward, but something you’ve carried all along, even when it was buried beneath doubt?

Maybe the best thing you can do is stop running and turn back toward yourself. Not the self you’ve performed into being, but the one you were before anyone told you who to become.

For most of us, the story we’ve been told is that worth comes from achievements, applause, milestones. We learn early on that validation is the currency of belonging, and we chase it, thinking it’s the key to feeling whole. But how often have we chased something only to find that it didn’t fill us the way we thought it would? How many accomplishments have been followed by a familiar, unshakable sense of dissatisfaction?

Somewhere deep within, you know that the truth is different. That the space you’re seeking has always been there, waiting to be recognized. Being enough doesn’t need validation from anyone or anything else. It exists beneath all the noise, beneath all the pressure, beneath the constant measuring. You’ve been enough all along, and the key isn’t chasing it, it’s acknowledging it.

This isn’t about stopping your pursuit of growth or goals, it’s about shifting the lens. It’s about seeing yourself as worthy of everything you desire, right now, not as something you’ll become once you’ve met all the expectations set for you. It’s about realizing that your worth is intrinsic, not external.

The work becomes less about proving yourself and more about releasing the burden of needing to prove anything at all. That’s the most selfless act of all: to rest in the truth that you are enough, just as you are.

And once you begin to believe that, everything starts to shift.

You begin showing up differently in relationships, in your work, in the way you speak to yourself. You stop shrinking to fit someone else’s idea of who you should be. You start choosing things because they feel aligned, not because they make you look impressive. You let go of the pressure to constantly improve, and instead, you begin to uncover. Not fix. Not perform. Just return.

This is the rebellion: not in loud defiance, but in choosing gentleness in a world that profits off your insecurity. In pausing when the world tells you to speed up. In saying, “I am enough,” even when no one claps for it. Even when it feels unfamiliar. Even when you don’t fully believe it yet.

Because learning to believe it is the work. And that work takes time. Patience. Practice.

But every time you offer yourself that belief, even just for a moment, you’re building something unshakable. A foundation that won’t crumble every time you fall short. A home inside yourself that doesn’t need anyone else’s permission to stand.

So maybe the goal isn’t to become someone new or someone else. Maybe it’s to remember who you were before the world told you you had to be more. To return to the parts of you that were never broken, only buried. And from that place, to live as if you’ve always been enough. Because you have been.

Reflective Question:
What would change if you stopped trying to prove your worth and started believing in it instead?
I Thought I Was Lazy

May 13th, 2025

It’s strange how easily we forget we’re human. That we were never meant to perform endlessly, never built to stretch ourselves thin in the name of being “good enough.” I didn’t notice it at first, the way my days filled to the brim, the way my body stiffened in protest. Rest became something I had to earn, prove I deserved. And by the time I realized I was unwell, I’d long been applauded for the very pace that was breaking me.

My body began to rebel in ways I couldn’t ignore. Back pain that anchored me to my bed, illnesses that showed up like clockwork, anxiety pressing in like a weighted fog. I was exhausted, but still convincing myself I hadn’t done “enough” to justify a break. The idea of slowing down felt indulgent, even weak. But what if the real strength is in the slowing?

There’s something radical about choosing rest. Especially in a world that rewards your productivity more than your presence. It felt like swimming against the current… canceling plans, letting dishes sit in the sink, leaving texts unanswered until I had the capacity to respond with intention rather than obligation. I had to unlearn the lie that rest is laziness, and instead learn that rest is how we reclaim our wholeness.

Emotionally, the hardest part was the guilt. That gnawing feeling that if I paused, I would be perceived as less capable, less motivated, less worthy. But that guilt didn’t come from truth. It came from a culture that equates value with output, a world that expects you to be everything to everyone while asking nothing of yourself.

So I started small. Saying no without apology. Letting silence stretch a little longer. Making space to breathe without rushing to fill it. I began tending to the kind of rest that doesn’t just restore your energy, but your sense of self. The kind that makes you feel like you again, not the version of you that gets things done, but the version that remembers what matters.

And what I’ve come to understand is this: choosing rest isn’t giving up, it’s rising up. It is resistance in its softest, fiercest form. In a world that worships urgency, choosing stillness is a rebellion. It’s a refusal to be emptied for approval, a complete act of self-devotion. It’s saying: I will not sacrifice my body for productivity. I will not trade my peace for performance. I will not abandon myself to be more digestible to a world that thrives on burnout. Rest is not a luxury. It is your right. And reclaiming it unapologetically and intentionally, is how you begin to remember who you are.

In choosing stillness, you’re not falling behind, you’re finally catching up to who you were always meant to be.

Reflective Question:
What would change if you stopped trying to prove your worth and started honoring your need for rest?

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Grief That Has No Name

May 8th, 2025

Grief has a strange way of keeping time. It doesn’t follow calendars or clock hands, it arrives in shadows, in stillness, in moments that should be whole. Sometimes it shows up years later, uninvited, folding itself into joy. It lives beneath even the brightest moments… not always visible, but always there. Then something sacred happens, a celebration, a milestone, and it crashes through you. The joy is real, but so is the ache. Because someone should be standing next to you, and they’re not. And that kind of absence has a shape all its own.

For me, that someone is my mother.

She passed away when I was eight. Cancer took her body, but grief took its time. In the beginning, it was obvious… the funeral, the quiet stares, the absence that echoed in every room. But as I got older, grief softened and spread. It found new corners to settle into. It whispered itself into birthdays, holidays, and most recently, into my wedding… where an empty seat stood in place of her, and a silence where her laughter should’ve lived.

And yet, alongside the ache, there has always been beauty. I often think about the life I might’ve had if she were still here, but I also recognize the beauty in the one I was given instead. I wouldn’t be who I am without that loss. I wouldn’t have the deep, unwavering relationship I now share with my dad. It’s a bittersweet kind of gratitude, one that doesn’t erase the pain, but softens its edges.

What’s helped me the most has been giving myself real space to feel. To let the grief wash over me when it needs to, without rushing it or trying to control it. Solitude. Quiet moments. Allowing myself to let it fill the silence without trying to push it away. Not forcing myself to be okay when I’m not. Not apologizing for the times when I’m still carrying it, still in the thick of it. Sometimes it’s about simply being and letting myself exist as I am, unburdened by expectations to be anything else.

Here’s the truth I’ve learned: grief doesn’t get easier in the way we often hope it might. The missing never stops mattering. The moments they should’ve been there still sting. But over time, you learn how to live alongside the ache. It weaves itself into your ordinary days, into the parts of life that move on without them. It doesn’t ask permission… it just stays. Sometimes quiet, sometimes sharp, but always there. You don’t conquer it. You learn to coexist. To breathe around it. To carry it not because you’ve healed, but because it’s yours to carry.

If you’re navigating a grief that feels unnameable, I hope you remember this: not everything in life has to be wrapped in joy. You are allowed to mourn what could have been. You are allowed to sit with your sadness without rushing to escape it. And you are allowed to feel deep love and deep loss at the very same time.

Reflective Question:
What part of your story have you been quietly carrying and what might shift if you gave yourself full permission to feel it?

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The Quiet Work of Healing

May 6th, 2025

No one warns you how lonely healing can feel at first.

It doesn’t always arrive with a grand revelation or some cinematic release. Sometimes, it shows up in silence, in the space after a friendship ends, in the deep breath you take before choosing not to reach out again. It lingers in the quiet, asking you to sit with the truth you’ve known for a while: that not everyone gets to stay.

Over the last few years, I’ve let go of friendships I once thought would last forever. Some faded slowly, like steam lifting off a morning mug… unspoken, inevitable. Others ended sharply, severed by dishonesty, self-centeredness, or just the slow ache of being around people who took more than they gave.

At first, I was angry. Angry that I had shown up with my whole heart, only to realize some people had no intention of offering theirs. I kept replaying conversations, questioned my instincts, wondered how I missed the signs. I felt foolish. Hurt. Worn down by the weight of disappointment.

But slowly, gently, something softer settled in.

I began to see that not everyone is meant to come with you.

Everyone is fighting their own battles, walking their own path, and sometimes, that path didn’t align with mine. It doesn’t make them bad people, it simply means we were no longer the right fit for each other.

I’m 32 now and what I’ve learned is that sometimes, releasing those connections that don’t add value to your life is the most loving thing you can do for yourself and for them, allowing both people to continue growing in the directions you need to go.

And the beautiful thing is: I feel lighter.

I feel rooted.

I feel more myself.

These days, I am incredibly intentional about who I give my time and tenderness to. The friends I have now are the ones I’ve grown with… some for a decade, others since childhood. We hold space for one another without conditions. We listen. We show up. And that matters more than numbers or group chats or how many people are around.

That is the quiet work of healing.

Right now, I’m not chasing new connections. I’m pouring into myself. Into my marriage. Into the slow, quiet work of becoming the version of me I’ve always needed.

And in all of that stillness, writing has saved me more than once.

There is something sacred about putting pain on paper. Something powerful about naming what you feel without ever having to say it out loud. Writing gives shape to the mess. It allows me to process without performing, to be honest without interruption. It’s the only place where I don’t feel the need to soften my truth or make it palatable for someone else.

And then there are books… the kind that don’t just entertain you, they rearrange you. When I needed to feel seen, when I felt hollow or unsure, I escaped into the pages of stories that reminded me of my strength. I read words that mirrored my own thoughts back to me, only gentler. More forgiving. More whole.

One book that met me right in that space was The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest. I underlined whole paragraphs like prayers. But there’s one truth that has stayed with me more than any other:

“You are going to have to decide that you love yourself too much to keep settling for less than what you really deserve.”

And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Not all at once. Not loudly. But steadily.

I can’t point to one singular moment when I knew I was healing. It was more like a quiet unfolding. A growing awareness that I no longer felt obligated to stay in draining rooms. That I no longer needed to be validated to feel valuable.

It’s the choice to pick up a book instead of a phone.

To write your way through the ache rather than ignore it.

To stop proving your worth to people committed to misunderstanding it.

To create peace in your own life, even if it means leaving behind the noise of someone else’s.

It’s subtle. Soft. Often invisible from the outside.

But you’ll feel it.

In the friendships you protect.

In the boundaries you keep.

In the way you speak to yourself on a slow, ordinary morning.

It’s quiet work. But it’s everything.

And it’s yours.

Reflective Question:
What would happen if you fully trusted your own peace and began letting go of the things that no longer serve you?

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