I’ve been telling my story more lately. And even now, pressing “submit” or “send” sometimes still feels like stepping into a fire.

Not because I’m unsure of the words—but because of what they represent.

Some of these stories I’ve carried alone for a long time. Some I’ve processed in private—in therapy, in prayer, on long drives, or while folding laundry in the middle of the night.
And now I’m offering them—out loud. On purpose. With my name on them.

It’s vulnerable.
And it’s freeing.

I was talking with my coach about it recently, and she said something that stuck:

And she said if it’s both, then you’re doing it.

So here I am—offering both.

This week has been messy.

Emotionally.
Logistically.
Spiritually.

It’s been one of those weeks where you feel cracked open and held together by the same thin thread.
And still, the message is clear:

Not just the pretty parts.
Not just the breakthroughs or the moments that make for a satisfying story arc.

Be here for the knots.
The unraveling.
The slow rebuild.

Be here for the humanity of it.

I’ve made a decision.
I’m going back to North Carolina to deal with this in person.

I don’t know exactly how it will go yet. I’m still mapping out the plan.
But I do know it’s time.

There’s no part of me left that wants to bypass, delay, or keep doing emotional triage from a distance.

And what’s wild is—this time, I’m not approaching it with dread.
There’s no storyline about being the good daughter or the sacrificial lamb.
There’s no score to settle. No resentment to recycle.

This time, I’m walking into it like I would walk into any strategic challenge I’ve helped clients through.

I’m looking at her like a person.

A person who is overwhelmed.
A person who is hurting.
A person who is trying—really hard—to make sense of her life.

And that’s something I know how to navigate.
I do it all the time.

Here’s the reframe that’s changing everything for me:

What if I’m not the little girl anymore?
What if I’m just a capable adult stepping into a moment that needs my skillset?

When I leave all the “mom stuff” at the door, this gets a lot easier.
It becomes as easy as I allow it to be.

And lately, our conversations have been… different.

Not always smooth.
But there’s something softening.

The other day, she said something that just leveled me.

We were talking about her past, and out of nowhere she said:

And I just sat there.

Because I believed her.
And it broke my heart.
And I understood her—maybe more than I ever have.

Because I know what it feels like to keep showing up with no one to catch you.
I know what it’s like to navigate the world as someone who learned too young how to fend for themselves.
I know the kind of hyper-independence that grows out of that.

And in that moment, we weren’t mother and estranged daughter anymore.

We were just two people who had both learned how to survive on our own.

And in that moment—something shifted.

Because shared humanity will do that.

It quietly dismantles anger.
It lets a little bit of grief in.
It makes room for compassion without having to condone the harm.

That one sentence from her didn’t fix everything.

But it did soften something in me.
And that softening is making all the difference.

The truth is, I’ve spent years minimizing how much this has affected me.

I’ve said things like:

“It is what it is.”
“It doesn’t define me.”
“I’ve already done my healing around that.”

But if I’m being radically honest?

This has always been a factor.
Even when I pretended it wasn’t.
Even when I convinced myself I’d moved on.

It has taken up space in me.

Space in my nervous system.
Space in my decisions.
Space in my sense of safety and self-worth.

And now—finally—I’m getting curious:

What if I get to stop carrying the version of me that’s always bracing for rejection?
What if I get to retire the identity of “the wounded girl with a complicated relationship with her mother”?
What happens when that’s no longer part of the math?

Who do I get to be on the other side of this?

That’s the question that’s keeping me going right now.

Because there is another side of this. I can feel it.

Just because something has always been hard
doesn’t mean it always has to be.

I’m not here to “fix” the past.
I’m here to free my future.

And I want to know:

How much more emotional bandwidth will I have when this stops being a source of tension and fatigue?

What kind of love, creativity, and connection becomes available to me
when I’m no longer managing the silent grief of a mother wound in the background?

What kind of woman do I become
when I stop needing to prove I’ve healed—
and simply move forward as someone who knows she has?

I don’t know how this next chapter will unfold.
I don’t know what will come of the conversations, or the plans, or the attempts at connection.

But I do know who I’m becoming through the process.
And I really like her.

She’s grounded.
She’s resourceful.
She’s not afraid to be seen—mess and all.

She doesn’t need to win the past.
She’s too busy building a future.

So if you’re in a season like this too—
where old identities are crumbling and new ones haven’t fully arrived yet—
I want you to know: you’re not alone.

It’s tender.
It’s weird.
It’s also sacred.

Because maybe healing isn’t just about letting go.

That’s what I’m fighting for.

Thanks for being here with me for all of it.
—Sunny

Here are a few questions I’m sitting with—maybe they’ll serve you, too:

P.S.
There’s an elephant in the room. I talk about tapping but you’ve never seen me do it.

I’ve been meaning to start an EFT tapping YouTube channel for a while now—just simple, short taps for everyday stuff.
Quick, real, and accessible—even if you’re brand new to tapping.

I’ve put it off long enough.
And when I put something in writing, I follow through.
So… here we go. It’s happening. 🎥💫