When did we take away permission to put the dress on and live? When did we resort to being viewers at a wake – onlookers at a funeral of dress displays, remembering "when and if" and convincing ourselves that the "when and if" is only for other people? When did we make ourselves relics or Cinderellas locked away with no chance of becoming the woman in the gown?

My pieces showed up.

The messy little girl who dreamed.
The teenager who believed I was gold.
The young mother who found purpose in love.
The thirty-something divorcée who rallied through devastation.
The forty-something woman who found love again and mothered five children from hard places.

All of them. Every version of me.

THE RELEASE

We all have our cycles. We all cope in our own way.

For me, at first it looked like survival.
Then self-care.
Then fear.
Then maybe hope.

And then — mother-fucking eruption.

You’d think that after surviving heartbreak, hormone shifts, motherhood, trauma, identity breakdowns, career chaos, grief, and the absolute shitstorm of recent years, we’d know better than to turn on each other.

But it happens. Even in spaces meant for softness. Even in circles built for healing. Even — heartbreakingly — when someone desperately needed to feel safe.

You deserve to exude that sensuality. You deserve to walk into rooms and have the air change. You deserve to feel your own power so deeply that people bow to the vibe. You deserve to climax — yes, physically and metaphorically — in your own damn life.

So fuck the acid rain of 2025. Let’s dance in it anyway.