My journey has taken some time, but I'm so glad I'm here.

 

For years, I've been open—sometimes even transparent—but true vulnerability? That's been harder. I've kept parts of myself guarded because vulnerability means laying down your heaviest burdens and trusting they'll be met with understanding. In the past, when I let my guard down, I experienced pain. But this year, I'm choosing to release that fear. So here we go.

 

In June 2023, after 10 years of amazing business, I closed my photography studio. My photography studio was more than just a business for a decade—it was a space where memories were captured, stories were told, and moments were preserved. It was where I witnessed the joy of families growing, entrepreneurs stepping into their power, and countless milestones frozen in time. Every session was an opportunity to connect, celebrate, and create something meaningful to outlive the moment. Closing the studio wasn't just about ending a business; it was about letting go of a chapter that had shaped me in ways I never expected—one filled with passion, creativity, and deep human connection.

 

Fast forward to August 2024—I packed up my daughters, hugged them tightly, and watched them step into their futures at The Alabama State University and The Southern University. The drive home felt different this time—quieter, heavier like I was leaving behind more than just my girls; I was leaving behind a version of myself that had existed for so long. Walking into my house, the silence wasn't just absence—it was deafening. The echoes of years filled with school drop-offs, college applications, late-night talks, and the beautiful chaos of motherhood suddenly faded into stillness. I sat down, looking around at a space that once felt so full, and realized I didn't know what to do with myself. For the first time in decades, there was no one to check on, no schedules to juggle, no urgent tasks pulling me in different directions—just me. And in that moment, I had to face a question I had been avoiding: Who am I now?

 

 

Becoming an empty nester is a transition no one fully prepares you for. It's a bittersweet mix of pride and joy as you watch your children step into their futures, but it also brings a deep sense of loss, uncertainty, and the daunting task of rediscovery. For years, my identity had been intertwined with pouring into others—my daughters, mother, students, and work. But when the house fell silent, I felt the weight of an emptiness I wasn't ready for. I had given so much of myself away that I barely recognized the woman staring back at me in the stillness.

 

That's when I turned to writing—not for work, not for others, but for myself. You may not know this, but I've spent years as a ghostwriter, and my ability to craft words and bring ideas to life led me to places and spaces where I've built and shaped content that has contributed to developing brands and launching concepts for persons of walks of life. But this time, the words weren't for a client or an audience. This time, they were for me—my emotions, truths, and healing.

 

What started as scattered notes soon became something deeper—prayers whispered in the quiet, reflections on who I was becoming, and revelations I wasn't ready to face but desperately needed. Writing became my lifeline, grounding me when everything felt unsteady. Each word on the page was a piece of me trying to find its way back home, a way to make sense of a season I hadn't expected to be so heavy. I wasn't just journaling—I was searching, grieving, rediscovering. And in the process, I realized something powerful: I wasn't alone.

 

I couldn't imagine being the only woman trying to navigate the silence. I wasn't the only one wondering, What now? Who am I beyond the roles I've played?

 

That's when I knew I had to share it. So, I created a journal.

 

But not just any journal—a Lenten Journal designed to guide me through the process of releasing what was never mine to carry and embracing what was.

 

Traditionally, Lent is a time of fasting and spiritual renewal. But this journal isn't about giving up things—it's about surrendering the weight of intrusive thoughts, limiting beliefs, and anything holding you back from fully stepping into faith, peace, and purpose. It's about releasing fear, self-doubt, and past burdens to make space for healing, clarity, and God's promises.

 

In Case No One Told You Today, Lenten Journal is filled with daily reflections, affirmations, and words that remind you of your strength, resilience, and the beauty of transition. This journal helped me see myself beyond the roles I had played—it permitted me to heal, to dream, to redefine who I am on my own terms. I want to share it with you.

 

This journal isn't just for Lent—it's for any season when your soul is calling for reflection, renewal, and release. I've created 46 days of journal exercises for you to explore during your Lenten season or whenever you need space to reconnect with yourself.

 

If you're in a season of transition—whether it's an empty nest, a significant life change, or simply feeling lost—I see you. I am you. And I hope this journal brings you the same clarity and peace it gave me.

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​No matter what you decide, thank you for reading and allowing me to share this moment with you. If you're curious or ready to embark on this journey of rediscovery, click the link below—I'd love for us to do this together.

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                                                                                                                          xoxo,