One of the best laughs I've enjoyed within the first few minutes post-introduction happened when my new acquaintance asked if I liked sports.

I told her my fondness for any sport was the backstory of the players, coach, and team rather than the competition itself. She found my answer strange and hilarious and regarded me as " a little different."

Scored goals and penalties do not hold my attention; I want to know the narrative of the people in the game.

Why do I love the New York Rangers? The story of the 1994 Stanley Cup Championship was the hook; a forty-year cruse, an unexpectedly magical season under one of the greatest NHL players, and the first Stanley Cup win in fifty-four years!

Nothing is more beautiful, pure, or sacred than a person's narrative. All parts.

I am wholly fascinated by humanity and the infinite forms of self-expression. My West Indian and Irish ancestors understood and mastered the art of storytelling. My love of narrative exists on a cellular level; it nourishes my craft and my soul.

Stories hold our collective humanity; they reflect our distinctions and commonalities in our difficult losses and sublime moments of triumph.

Sometimes, personal narratives are hard to carry and even harder to withstand. For many, their stories include deeply traumatic experiences that profoundly define their lives. During most of my adult life, I wavered in accepting my complete narrative and thus made significant life decisions from a state of disempowerment. Without a full sense of self, I repeatedly committed my energy to unhealthy relationships.

In my heart, I knew chapters of my story needed acknowledgment. I did not feel deserving of the effort and instead created false narratives to survive.

Despite my best efforts to avoid the pain, mothering triggered a reckoning that would save my life. Eventually, I began to diffuse the emotional mechanisms and workarounds I'd created for survival. I taught myself how to thrive by learning how to identify the people and tools that supported wholeness.

I found my way home to the words, and after my decades-long writer's block, I began to compose once more. Writing my story unearthed lifelong pain and enabled the loving work of healing my soul. I've worked for years, recovering my self-worth. I've accomplished this by gathering all the taken and cast pieces of myself and weaving them home into my narrative.

Today, I'm experiencing wholehearted self-love and joyful living. My life is not without struggle or sadness; however, they no longer hinder healthy choices or prescribe who I attract into my life.

Reclaiming my worth has empowered me in many ways.

I'm a fully present mother and wholeheartedly myself in every way,

I found my voice and enabled self-advocacy,

I've authored a book and have published essays in online magazines,

I've released toxic relationships and instead have attracted healthy bonds.

I am my story, and gratefully so. I own the painful losses and divine triumphs—every beautiful chapter. I'll continue writing, upending false narratives, revealing my heart, and embracing wholeness. As I consider life's stories in the arena around me, I'll remain enthralled by our collective humanity and infinite forms of self-expression.