Last year, after the summer had cracked me wide open, I made a decision that would change everything. My life as I knew it—everything I had worked for, fought for, prayed for, envisioned—was over.

There was no big announcement, no grand ceremony of closure. Just a quiet knowing deep in my bones during a long, soul-searching car ride:
“You cannot heal in the same place that broke you.”

That truth hit hard. I knew I had to leave. Not just the physical space, but the patterns, the attachments, the memories that had me shackled, the comforts that were slowly poisoning me.

I had to listen to that still, small voice that kept whispering: “Trust. Move. Leap.”

Within exactly thirty days, I packed three suitcases and let go of everything else I had accumulated over 56 years. Every book, every piece of furniture, every symbol of a life I once loved—but no longer fit inside. I left behind the familiar and flew to Puerto Rico, not because I had a plan, but because I had faith.

I didn’t know what I was stepping into.
I didn’t have a job waiting.
I didn’t have all the answers.
I only had this unwavering pull from the Divine that said:
“This is the way. Walk in it.”

And it was hard. So hard. I cried. I doubted. I grieved the life I left behind. But I also breathed. For the first time in a long time, I felt my own breath again.

Healing is not a one-time choice. It’s a series of brave decisions, day after day, even when you’re terrified. Especially when you’re terrified. Most importantly when you realize you need to live, not just survive.

And for so long I was just existing.

It’s almost a year now.

And in that time, I’ve reclaimed my worth. I’ve fallen in love with silence, with simplicity, with who I’m becoming. I’ve been held by the land, by the ancestors, by the arms of family who didn’t need explanations—just presence.

They will never know how their kindness, love and support catapult me into who I am now.

In all that surrender I found love. For myself. For my beloved. For life.

Five years ago, I started the journey. But those thirty days?

Those were my rebirth.
Those were my firewalk.
Those were the Divine’s way of asking:
“Do you trust Me now?”

So if you are standing on the edge of your own unraveling—if you’re staring into the unknown, afraid of letting go—know this:

Sometimes, the plan isn’t something you hold.

Sometimes, the plan is to surrender.

Sometimes, God doesn’t show you the whole path because you’re meant to walk it in faith, not certainty.

I’m not saying it will be easy. But I am saying: It will be worth it.

Listen to that voice.
Trust it.
Move when it says move.
Don’t analyze or question it.

Let it take you somewhere you never imagined—
but always deserved.

With all my love and trust,
Millie

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