Swipe Left On Perfection

When I was 41, I lit the cake like constellations—landed the perfect job, auditioned for my dreams, and trust that what I seek is already mine.

When I was 40, I learned I am Autistic, loved truly, broke open, and stitched myself with accountability—never broken, only becoming. Found my feet grounding and learned to just be.

When I was 39, I went to therapy to “fix” myself and instead learned to tend myself like a tidal garden. Unfinished business.

When I was 38, I called my intensity by its real name: devotion that doesn’t drift.

When I was 37, my secrecy became sanctuary; privacy turned to a room with soft lamps and open windows.

When I was 36, my grudges became boundary stones—memory guarding the edges of the heart.

When I was 35, ADHD arrived with comets and spark—my wiring a star map; my hyperfocus, a forge to rebuild all that I’ve ever known.

When I was 34, I kept pockets of shiny rocks and impossible questions—child hands, ancient eyes.

When I was 33, I chose the deep end because depth is where Scorpios breathe.

When I was 32, I found fitness—alchemy of muscle and will—and became a trainer, learning passions through lifting iron.

When I was 31, I chose a childless life and found the world itself was my wild godchild.

When I was 30, I danced through midnight confetti—dirty thirty—learning where the shadows end and I begin.

When I was 29, I held the mirror steady and promised to meet my own gaze kindly. Backfiring wildly, it wasn’t yet time.

When I was 28, jealousy turned into a compass: protect what matters, don’t possess it.

When I was 27, stubbornness learned patience and grew into steadfastness – a rigid spine

When I was 26, silence became a love language; listening, a vow.

When I was 25, I learned my stinger, once a tool for self sabotage can also be a needle, mending the seams.

When I was 24, I swam under multiple moon phases, choosing truth even when it burned through fog.

When I was 23, I kept confidences like pearls—loyalty heavy and bright in my palm.

When I was 22, I laughed with my whole body—childlike thunder and unapologetically carries.

When I was 21, I realized intensity is a hearth if you feed it wood, not gasoline.

When I was 20, I broke a heart and learned power is a door that must close softly.

When I was 19, I carried my own name like a blade I was learning to sheath.

When I was 18, the first serious boyfriend, the first heartbreak—relationship training wheels, phoenix rising in multiple lives, with smoke in my hair.

When I was 17, I drew lines on sand, learning to keep them when the tide came.

When I was 16, my diary was a lockbox—secrets as self-respect, not stone walls.

When I was 15, I mistook fire for direction; later I would call it passion.

When I was 14, the worst parts of me raised their hands; I taught them jobs.

When I was 13, I learned how a glance can be a promise and a shield. A warning to come, weapons to dodge.

When I was 12, loyalty chose me first—I stayed, even when staying meant standing alone.

When I was 11, I met Sabrina—sat practically in her lap, an ear to her headphones with curiosity, no idea of space, only wonder. The start of a life long friendship.

When I was 10, I bought my first album—Weezer—and sang like the birds at the first hint of Spring. Loud, proud, unafraid to be seen.

When I was 9, I kept jars of lightning in my chest and called them plans for the future.

When I was 8, Christi stood up to a bully and chose me—friendship like a ring I never take off. My oldest friend. So deep, she became my ‘cousin’. Family.

When I was 7, I built blanket forts, little Scorpio caves with a peephole, my hidden world of safety.

When I was 6, I collected secrets like marbles and rolled them between my fingers in the dark.

When I was 5, I laid out my school outfit on a Friday night—found Saturday waiting and cried because I loved learning that much.

When I was 4, carrying the love of my favorite cat, shadow, in my blanket, we spun together. Nothing else mattered.

When I was 3, I fell in love with my “chocolate” great-grandmother, bed‑ridden and brave—she called me close, pressed See’s candy into my palm, a sweet farewell.

When I was 2, my father left; my mother tried to do it all, and I learned the weight and wonder of a woman’s spine.

When I was 1, I clung like a barnacle to the shore of the person who stayed. Mom.

When I was 0, I arrived under the Scorpio sign —saltwater heart, bright sting, already loyal to the bone.

And today, again, I circle the sun: My worst traits polished into secret weapons, the best traits worn openly like a crown—loyal, devoted, a little wild, and still that child with pockets full of stars, thankful of the desires manifested through the night sky.