Living a Created Life

A love letter to the remembering within us all.

Some mornings, before the world fully wakes, I catch myself suspended in that soft space between dreaming and rising. It’s here, in this liminal moment, that I remember—not with my mind, but with my being.

I remember that I am not just what I do.

Not just what I’ve survived.

Not the successes, the titles, or the thousand ways I’ve tried to get it “right.”

I remember the barefoot girl who spoke to the stars and trusted the wind to carry her questions. I remember how she used to dance with shadows and sing to rivers. I remember that before I ever knew the word “worthy,” I was it.

This remembering has not come all at once. It has arrived over time—in fragments, through tears, in the voices of my children, in the fierce love I feel for Matthew, Caeman, Kayla, Gabriel, and Keagan. Each of them mirrors some lost part of me I once forgot how to name. Each of them reminding me of what it means to live close to wonder.

And that is what a created life truly is.

It’s not a grand performance.

It’s not aesthetics.

It’s not about being better or more productive or finally getting “there.”

It’s about returning—again and again—to what is true.

Remembering

To live a created life, we begin with remembering.

This is not the kind of remembering that happens in the mind. It is the body remembering how to soften. The soul remembering its own rhythm. It’s the ancient self we all carry waking up inside our present-day bones.

We remember who we were before the world asked us to trade magic for survival. Before we were handed roles to play, masks to wear, scripts to follow. We remember the sound of our own longing and the shape of our joy.

For me, remembering comes in flashes—watching the sun fall across the kitchen floor, listening to the laughter of my children echoing down the hallway, sitting in silence long enough to hear the truth rise like a tide in my chest.

It is not loud, but it is unmistakable.

Reweaving

Once we remember, the next sacred act is to reweave.

We take the frayed threads of our lives—the heartbreaks, the triumphs, the things we thought disqualified us—and we begin to make something beautiful from them.

Reweaving is not about erasing the past. It’s about giving it a place in the tapestry we now choose to create. It’s about shifting from living by default to living by design.

Sometimes, reweaving means letting go of relationships that no longer meet you in your becoming. Other times, it means asking for help, forgiving yourself, trying again, or daring to want something different. Often, it means sitting in the discomfort of not knowing—and not rushing to fill the space.

It is both deeply sacred and deeply human work.

We are all weavers. Whether we remember it or not.

Returning

And then, there is returning.

This is the daily choice to come back. To realign. To stop and ask, “Is this true for me? Is this what I want?”

Not once, but over and over again.

Returning is not a failure. It is the practice. The path. The heartbeat of a created life.

We return not to who we were, but to who we are when we are most honest. Most alive. Most free.

We return to the breath.

To the body.

To the sacred in the ordinary.

To the wisdom that lives inside the very things we were once taught to overlook.

We return to love—not just the sentimental kind, but the courageous, soul-forging kind that insists we are worthy of belonging. Of rest. Of joy. Of building a life that feels like truth, not performance.

Living a created life is not about having all the answers. It is about asking better questions.

Who am I when no one is watching?

What do I long for beneath the longing?

What would I give myself permission to want if I truly trusted I was enough?

This is what I want to remember. What I want to reweave. What I vow to return to. Every single day.

For my children.

For myself.

For the world I believe is possible.

And if something inside you is whispering me too, then maybe, just maybe, this remembering has already begun.