To anyone out there living through pain, loss, and uncertainty—this is for you, and for the version of me who’s still learning to breathe through it all.

Right now, I’m walking through something I never thought I’d have to survive. I’ve lost people I love deeply—the the family who were my anchor, my history, my heart my mom and brother—your names are the rhythm in my silence, your love the warmth I still reach for. The ache of your absence is something I carry every day, like a shadow that follows me everywhere.

On top of that grief, I’ve lost something else: the ability to walk. It’s hard to explain how much that changes everything—how it forces you to learn your body again, your worth again, your identity again. It’s not just the physical pain. It’s the loss of freedom, the isolation, the slow and quiet grief that settles into your bones.

But even in all of this, I dream. I dream of making a difference in the lives of others who live like me. People who feel unseen, unheard, left behind by a world that rarely makes space for us. I want them to know they matter. That their lives are still beautiful. That their stories deserve to be told.

I’m afraid, too. Afraid of what the future holds. Afraid of more loss, more pain, more silence. But I’m still here. I still wake up and hope. I still try. And maybe that’s what strength really is—showing up in a life that hasn’t gone to plan and still daring to believe in something better.

If you’re reading this and carrying your own version of pain, I want you to know: you are not alone. We are not broken. We are becoming—something softer, stronger, more human than we ever thought possible.

This is for the ones we’ve lost, and the ones still fighting.