I Am Not Who I Was. I Am Who I Chose To Become Because Of Who I Was.

I used to say I’d always be there for my boys. But the truth? I left.

Let that sink in. I abandoned them—not physically at first, but emotionally, spiritually, in all the ways that matter most when you’re a child just trying to feel safe and loved. And that truth? It was a beast I ran from for years. I wrapped it in excuses, numbed it with distractions, and buried it under layer after layer of shame, denial, and “what else could I have done?”

But in 2014, everything cracked.

After an ugly fight with my husband, I sat alone in the dark—no wine, no distractions, just me and the mirror I’d been avoiding for decades. It wasn’t pretty. Beyond the streaked mascara and the sobbing tears, I finally saw the common denominator in all the pain, all the choices, all the resentment: me.

I didn’t own my voice. I didn’t stand up for myself. I said “yes” when I meant “hell no.” I played the role everyone else wrote for me and then resented them for it. Plot twist: I was the one handing out the scripts.

Facing that hurt. A lot. But you know what hurt worse? Realizing that the boys I left behind were carrying my pain like it was their own. Because it was their own. I had been their safe place. Their mama. Even when I wasn’t perfect, I was their center. And when I left? That center vanished. And so did their sense of stability and idea of love.

They lashed out, sure. At the world, at each other, but mostly at themselves. I could see myself in their anger, in their self-doubt. And I knew—they didn’t love themselves because they didn’t feel loved. Because I left.

I used to believe the lie that they were better off without me. That my presence would only remind them of my mistakes. So I stayed away, thinking I was doing the noble thing. (Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.) What I was really doing was avoiding my shame, using it like a weighted blanket I couldn’t shake off.

Eventually, I had to face them—not with more excuses or promises—but with the truth. I said it out loud. I let them be mad. I let them feel it. I told them, “You’re right. I left. And I was wrong.” And God, it hurt. Every angry word. Every tear. Every time my youngest couldn’t look at me. But I stayed. I didn’t run. I let the pain be the bridge instead of the wall.

And you know what? Slowly—so slowly it hurt to hope—things started to change. My oldest forgave me quicker than I deserved. My youngest? That took years. But I showed up. Again and again. No cape. No promises. Just me. Present. Owning it.

Healing didn’t show up wearing a cape and carrying a gratitude journal. It started with tiny sparks—moments of awareness, pain, and truth that kept whispering, “You don’t have to stay here.”

It looked like getting radically honest about my role in the pain. That didn’t mean drowning in guilt and shame—because guilt keeps you stuck and shame is living in the dark and the only things that live in the dark are mushrooms and shit, and while I can be a fun-gi, I’m not shit. Responsibility, though? That’s the power. Responsibility says, “You may not have caused it all, but you’re the one who gets to choose what happens next.”

I began to own my choices. My reactions. My mindset. I started practicing what I now call Radical Ownership:
Choices. Decisions. Actions.

It was messy, awkward, and often sounded like me yelling, “Seriously? We’re still dealing with this?” I began meditating—surrounded by the opinionated committee in my head who clearly didn’t get the memo that this was not an actual staff meeting. I started journaling, moving my body like it mattered, and eating like I actually gave a damn about my health – physically and mentally. I swapped self-loathing for self-help books, surrounded myself with people who lifted me up instead of draining my will to live, and learned to breathe—on purpose. Wild, right?

The inner shift was the real game-changer. I stopped treating myself like a broken thing that should be thrown away or needed fixing and started seeing myself as a battle-tested, badass woman who made it through hell and chose to plant flowers there.

I was never just a victim—I was a resilient little girl turned full-grown warrior. And if I was going to keep carrying this sword, I might as well start cutting through the bullshit I used to believe about myself.

And you know what? When I stopped pretending to be the woman everyone else was comfortable with, I started becoming the woman “I” respected.

That’s when the magic started with my boys.

I know now: I can’t undo the years I abandoned myself—or the pain that created distance between me and my sons. But I can show up differently today. I can be the kind of mother, partner, and woman that leads with love, integrity, and presence.

Now they call me for advice (I know—me, right?), they’d show up when I invited them, and they started trusting me with their real-life adult stuff. Those were my sacred “hell yes” moments. Not loud, but deep. They weren’t just letting me back in—they were letting the real me in.

I’ve let them know, I’m not perfect (as if they didn't already know) or will never be. I’m being intentional. I’m modeling what healing looks like—not just the highlight reel, but the messy middle, too.

My hope? That my boys—despite everything—will know their worth. That they’ll see, through me, that no one is too far gone. That change is possible. That self-worth doesn’t come from what the world tells you; it comes from what you choose to believe and embody every single day.

And then, of course, there’s Mark.

God love this man, but the “new Shawn” was not on his vision board. He did not sign up for me saying “no” or setting boundaries—or questioning traditions like “let’s sweep this under the rug and pretend it never happened.” We fought. I threatened to leave. He pushed back. But here’s the plot twist: he stayed. He showed me that true love isn’t just about liking the easy parts of each other. It’s about holding on during the messy, in-between, “who the hell are you becoming?” parts, too.

Mark didn’t always understand the changes, but he respected the hell out of the woman I was becoming. And in return, I learned that love—real love—can stretch. It can bend. And if you’re lucky? It grows.

So, if I had to sum up my transformation mindset in one sentence? It’s this:

“Get curious with your thoughts. Ask yourself, ‘Is this a fact or just a story I’ve been dragging around like an emotional carry-on?’ And if it’s just a story? Rewrite it. Make it a good one.”

That’s transformation. Not glamorous. Not Instagram-worthy every day. But it's real. And it’s mine.

If you’re carrying regret, shame, or pain—know this: You’re not alone. And you’re not broken. You’re just at a crossroads.

Radical ownership isn’t about fixing the past. It’s about reclaiming your future.
You don’t need permission. You need courage.
You don’t need to be perfect. You need to be willing.

So here’s the challenge:
Own it. All of it. The pain, the choices, the growth, the power.
Let your legacy be rewritten by the version of you who finally realized:
You’re not what happened to you. You’re what you choose to do with it.

And if that means journaling in old sweatpants while ugly crying to Adele—welcome to the club. You’re in good company.

Owning your shit isn’t just a catchy phrase. It’s a damn blueprint. It’s the difference between surviving and thriving. It’s how we heal. How we lead. How we live.

So if you're ready to stop shrinking and start showing up—good.
Because your legacy is waiting.
And trust me, it looks real good on you.

Until nest time, own your shit and ask yourself it it's time to rewrite YOUR legacy.
Shawn

#OwnYourShit #RadicalOwnership #RewriteYourLegacy #SelfAwareness #ThoughtPartner #HumaningIsHard #MentalHealthAwareness #MothersHealing #EmotionalIntelligence #BreakingCycles #CycleBreaker #RealTalk