Showing up for yourself can be one of the most challenging—and most powerful—acts of self-love. We often show up for others, offering our time, energy, and care without hesitation. Yet when it comes time to show up for ourselves, we can struggle with feelings of guilt, shame, and unworthiness. But what if we redefined “showing up” not as an obligation but as a form of deep, nurturing self-care?

True self-care is about more than pampering; it’s about prioritizing your well-being, setting boundaries, and honoring your needs. It’s about taking intentional moments to check in with yourself, practicing self-compassion, and creating space for rest. When you show up for yourself, you lay the foundation for everything else in your life—your relationships, your work, your growth.

Showing up for yourself doesn’t require perfection. It’s about being present and gentle with yourself, recognizing that you deserve the same love and care you so freely give to others. Every small act of self-compassion counts, and each step brings you closer to the truest form of self-care.

Am I a writer who mothers, or a mother who writes? Am I a sailor who mothers, or a mother who sails? These questions often swirl in my mind, like a boat unsure of which direction to go. We all try to define ourselves by the roles we play, but maybe the real answer isn’t in choosing one role over another—it’s in accepting that we can be many things at once. Life, like a backpack we carry, holds both light and heavy moments. As we grow and our children grow, we realize that we are constantly evolving. There’s beauty in the journey of motherhood and self-discovery, in all its messiness and wonder. The most beautiful part? We’re never truly finished. There’s always more to uncover, more to learn, and more to embrace. And in that constant unfolding, we find our true strength—not in being one thing, but in being all of who we are.

Every night, I stood at the edge of the brown shag carpet, staring at the towering canopy bed, my heart racing as shadows twisted into shapes that seemed to come alive. I would take a deep breath and leap, certain the monsters hiding beneath would grab me if I didn’t.

But the jump wasn’t just about bedtime. My whole life felt like one long leap into the unknown—moving to Amarillo, starting a new school, living with Mama Jean and Daddy Bud. Everything was new, strange, and unsettling. The only constant through it all was the rhythmic clack of the typewriter, its steady sound grounding me when everything else felt uncertain.