April 05th, 2025

This year, my story is called The Legend of the Pretty One.

Not “pretty” like polite or perfect or petite.
Pretty like powerful.
Pretty like hot pink lightning over bathwater chaos.
Pretty like a feathered serpent who also moonlights as a snack-fetcher and baby-bouncer.

They said I might disappear into motherhood.
But I didn’t disappear—I just traded eyeliner for dragon fire and learned to breastfeed with one hand while answering emails with the other.

This year, I shed layers like a serpent in spring.
I burned through expectations like a dragon who’s over it.
I flowed like water, even when I felt like I was actually just crying in the shower.
I honored the sacred number seven—rest, mystery, alignment, and the daily miracle of getting through 7 PM with our collective sanity.

I nourished a child and my creative fire.
I danced between diaper duty and divine downloads.
My choreography included lullabies, leaky bras, and moments of sparkling clarity between naps.

And when I doubted—when I felt dim or crumb-covered—I looked up.

Because I’m stunned to stars.
They remind me that beauty isn’t something to “bounce back” into.
It’s what you become when you show up radiant and ridiculous, sacred and sleep-deprived.

This is the year I reclaimed the legend.
I let “pretty” mean present, powerful, a little bit puffy, and totally magic.
I let my fire be weird. My softness be strong. My story be written in glittery sharpie and crescent moon tears.

So if you’re reading this and wondering if you’ve lost yourself in the swirl of becoming…

You haven’t. You’ve just gone mythic.

You are The Pretty One—feathered, fiery, fabulous, and occasionally feral.

Thanks for being another amazing part of the legend.