NO ONE'S COMING TO SAVE YOU
Admitting It Was a Hard F***ing Year
I won’t sugarcoat it: this year was brutal. And maybe you felt that too. Maybe you found yourself holding onto a version of yourself that no longer fit, or relationships that had outlived their season. There’s something profoundly freeing about admitting it’s been hard. No more pretending. No more I’m fine. Just raw honesty: This year broke me.
Each loss added weight, threatening to pull me under. It wasn’t just the physical things I lost but also the sense of security, our plans for the future, and the identity I had built around them. But the hardest part was losing myself. I didn’t recognize me anymore. I felt like a robot, going through the motions, putting everyone else’s needs before my own. Fighting for the life I used to have. But no one was fighting for me.
That realization hit me hard: I had to fight for myself.
Seriously, No One Is Coming To Save You
That was a hard truth to swallow. For so long, I held onto the hope that someone—anyone—would step in, see my struggles, and fix what was broken. I wanted someone to tell me I was enough, to make the pain stop. But waiting for someone else to save me only kept me stuck—tied to the belief that my worth and healing depended on someone else’s actions.
Saving myself wasn’t about grand gestures. It started with small choices: trusting my own voice, setting boundaries, saying no despite the extreme amounts of guilt, and putting my needs first. Slowly, I uncovered the version of me buried under years of self-neglect.
Embracing self-love wasn’t a sweeping revelation. It was messy, imperfect, and deeply uncomfortable. But it was necessary. Showing up for myself daily—listening to my heart, offering myself the grace I so freely gave others—was the bravest thing I’ve ever done. I’m not there yet, but I’m discovering. As Brené Brown reminds us, courage starts with showing up by letting ourselves be seen. So, each day, I take one step closer to loving myself, even if it feels like I am just stumbling forward.
The Challenges Are Our Guides
When I reflect on 2024, I see how my hardest moments became my greatest teachers. Losing my mother to a rare and devastating cancer left scars I’ll carry forever. The strain on my marriage and my role as a caregiver for my father felt like unrelenting waves.
But beneath the chaos was a lesson: these challenges weren’t here to punish me—they were here to guide me. Every heartbreak, every tear forced me to ask: Who am I becoming through this? It wasn’t about forcing life to work the way it once did; it was about surrendering to what life was teaching me now.
Breaking the Patterns That Keep Us Stuck
it's easy to cling to old patterns—the desperate need for validation, love, and control. Whether it was seeking reassurance in my marriage, overextending myself as a caregiver, or trying to hold the unholdable, these behaviors came from fear, not love.
Growth only happens when we face the hard stuff. Not when we numb, avoid, or pretend—but when we look it straight in the eye and say, I see you. I’m ready to learn.
Growth isn’t supposed to feel good—it’s messy, chaotic, and sometimes downright unbearable. But staying stuck hurts even more—trapped in the same patterns, the same pain, the same smallness.
For me, embracing the challenges of 2024 meant stepping into the unknown with courage and vulnerability. It meant letting go of the need to control—releasing the grip on what felt safe and predictable—and learning to sit with discomfort. From navigating the profound loss of my mom and the weight of caregiving for my father, to facing the financial upheaval that changed everything, I had to trust that even in the darkest moments, I was being reshaped into someone stronger, braver, and more free.
One of my greatest accomplishments during this time was completing my mom's memoir. Writing Echoes of Helen was both heartbreaking and healing—a labor of love that demanded every ounce of my strength and honesty. Through every chapter, I revisited her life, her struggles, and her grace, weaving her story into something that I hope will honor her legacy and inspire others. Finishing the memoir wasn’t just about fulfilling a promise to her; it was a testament to my ability to persevere, to transform pain into purpose, and to embrace the unknown with open arms.
Redefining Love and Connection
A pivotal moment came when I stopped asking, Why can’t they hear me? and instead turned inward with the question, Why do I feel so desperate to be heard? It was a revelation that my sense of worth had become entangled with someone else’s acknowledgment. I had been seeking validation outside of myself, hoping their understanding would affirm my existence. But this desperation was a mirror, reflecting an inner need for self-recognition, for listening to the voice within that I had long ignored. It wasn’t about being heard by others—it was about finally hearing me.
Letting go of that need wasn’t about abandoning love or connection; it was about reclaiming it on truer, more grounded terms. Love and connection aren’t about shrinking yourself to fit someone else’s expectations—they’re about standing firmly in your own worth and showing up with courage and vulnerability, even when there’s no guarantee of being met in the same way. It’s a daring act of self-respect and trust in the power of authentic relationships, knowing that the risk of heartbreak is a necessary part of living a wholehearted life.
The Gift of Presence
Caring for my father taught me what it means to truly be present. Helping him navigate the grief of losing my mom was both heart-wrenching and humbling. Hearing him say, “What’s wrong with me? I have four Purple Hearts. I’ve faced death straight on—we didn’t have time to think in Vietnam,” reminded me that even the strongest among us are not immune to the weight of vulnerability. It's in these moments of reckoning, when grief cracks us wide open, that we confront the depths of our humanity.
Watching someone you love grapple with declining health and memory is a heartbreak that exposes you down to your core. It's a raw and humbling heartbreak, one that strips away any illusion of control. I wanted so desperately to take his pain away, to shield him from the weight of his grief. But the truth is, I couldn’t fix it or change the outcome. What I could do—what we can all do—was offer the most courageous gifts of all: my love, my presence, and the willingness to simply sit with him in his pain. It reminded me that showing up, even when it’s hard, is the ultimate act of connection and grace.
The Takeaway
Through it all, I’ve learned that growth happens when we stop running from the hard stuff—when we stop blaming, numbing, or avoiding and instead look at it straight on. Whether in marriage, friendship's, family, caregiving, or life itself, the lesson is the same: love needs action, trust needs proof, and healing needs courage.
Letting go of what I can’t control has been freeing, allowing me to focus on what truly matters—connection, authenticity, and showing up with an open heart. It’s not about finding the perfect solution or avoiding heartbreak; it’s about choosing courage over comfort, even when the path forward is uncertain. True connection requires us to step into the arena, imperfect and exposed, but fully present. That’s where transformation begins.
Settling is not an option—not in love, not in life, not in the way we show up for ourselves and others. Be all in. Love with everything you have, and when you’re faced with pain or loss, send love to those suffering and allow grace to guide you. It’s in this space of wholehearted living that we discover the power to truly heal and connect.
But what happens when others can’t or won’t meet you there? The truth is, you can’t force someone to step into the arena with you. Their choice to stay on the sidelines isn’t a reflection of your worth, but of their readiness—or their fear. Wholehearted living doesn’t mean waiting for others to join you; it means choosing to show up fully, even if you’re standing alone.
A Message for the Brave Ones
To everyone who felt the weight of this year, who questioned their worth, who wondered if they could keep going: I see you. I’ve been you. And I can tell you this—2024 didn’t break you. It broke you open. It’s okay to admit it was hard. It’s okay to cry, scream, and mourn what was lost. But don’t stop there. Embrace the breaking, the lessons, and the growth they’re calling you toward.
Grab life. Have fun! Laugh- smile -crank up your favorite song - dance your ass off - Embrace the things that light up you up! Because without the breaking, there’s no rebuilding. Without the pain, there’s no becoming. And without the challenges, there’s no change.
~ Regina <3
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Fire