I spent my whole life running.
After diplomas, beautiful things, and silent approvals in strangers’ eyes.
I ran to escape the shame of not being enough. The voice inside whispering I had to work twice as hard to matter. That I had to climb. Arrive. Prove.
And I climbed. With blisters on my feet, a lump in my throat, thousands of checked boxes and countless hours spent proving I could. That I was worthy. That I was someone.
I got my degrees, my house, my dream job… I bought designer clothes, Haute Couture… I collected books, social status, validation. I even bought the Chanel bag I had dreamed of. A beautiful bag, yes. But more than that—a bag that promised. Like a magic totem, it promised I’d finally feel valuable. Stylish. Womanly.
But when I zipped up that final item on my dream list, it didn’t sound like victory. It sounded like emptiness.
Not because things don’t matter. But because I had asked them to give me something they could never provide: an internal Haute Couture state—a luxurious feeling, a sense of worth. The story sold by every luxury brand, which I had confused with objects.
The truth is, I had spent my entire life chasing a feeling: peace, stillness, that “I am exactly where I’m meant to be.”
But after all the effort, all the trophies, that feeling didn’t come.
Because I didn’t know what it looked like.
I wouldn’t have recognized it even if it had slapped me in the face. I didn’t even know how to open the door and let it in.
I even wondered if this “luxury state” I was chasing existed inside me at all—or if it was something I had to build consciously, from scratch.
I burned out.
A burnout that no longer let me lie to myself. That shut my mouth and opened my soul.
What followed was indescribable chaos and flailing in quicksand. Then: acceptance. And peace.
And in that peace, at first, terrifying, I began to hear. To feel. To live, differently.
Writing brought me back to myself. Like a hand on my shoulder. Like a quiet “be yourself” from deep within.
I began shifting the source: from outside, to within.
Word by word, I started rediscovering myself.
Step by step, I began following my own dreams.
And since then, I’ve started having small revelations. Sparks.
I now call them Haute Couture moments.
Not because they involve luxury, but because they offer what I used to look for in things I believed were valuable:
A feeling.
But they cost no money.
They cost presence. And connection.
The first conscious moment happened after I started the Write The Truth Space program.
It was early Saturday morning. The house was still asleep. I was in the kitchen, the window open, flipping pancakes in two pans.
It was quiet. I could hear the birds singing.
I felt safe. Valuable. Though I was doing nothing “productive.”
I felt a strange sense of peace. Maybe even happiness.
Not a loud, attention-seeking peace.
It settled into me like a thin, warm blanket that smelled like childhood, vanilla, and rain long gone.
Every pancake rising in the pan was a promise:
That today, I didn’t have to fight.
I could just be.
The open window brought in the cool April air.
Sometimes, it’s enough to feel the wind on your ankles and a sparrow tapping on the window ledge to remember you’re alive.
Not productive.
Not important.
Not indispensable.
Just alive.
The kids were sleeping. The kitchen felt like an island.
The pans were sizzling softly, like a slow breath.
I didn’t need to prove anything.
I didn’t need to save anyone.
That morning, being a woman didn’t hurt.
That morning, it was just me and my pancakes.
And God, who was sitting in the corner of the window, smiling.
Haute Couture moments are cracks where the light gets in.
They are a form of return. A wordless prayer.
I’ve decided I want to recognize them. Prioritize them.
Because they are my meaning, not the reward.
They are wholeness, not a bonus.
When you spend your whole life working for a feeling—and one quiet morning, it arrives, uninvited, immeasurable—that means you’ve finally begun to live.
I no longer want to run.
I no longer want to climb.
I no longer want to prove.
I just want to be here.
In my kitchen. With the window open.
And with my heart finally whole.