The Woman in Me

The Woman in Me

A Journey of Wild Hearts and Quiet Strength

If someone told me at sixteen that life would take me from a small town with one traffic light to dancing barefoot in Moroccan deserts, I would’ve laughed and said, *“Only in the movies.”*

But here I am—thirty-two, standing at the edge of the Sahara, wind in my hair, the past behind me, and the woman in me finally wide awake.

Let me tell you how I got here.

I was born in a town called Willow Creek. Population: 3,206. Life there was quiet. Predictable. You were either a waitress, a nurse, or someone who moved away and never looked back. I was the girl with big dreams and no clue how to reach them.

I used to sneak out of my bedroom window at night just to lie in the grass and stare at the stars. I’d whisper secrets to them like they were old friends. My mom would always find me eventually. She’d lean against the porch and say, “You’ve got fire in you, baby. Just don’t let this place drown it.”

She died when I was seventeen.

That fire almost went out.

For a while, I was stuck. I did the usual. College. A job I didn’t love. A boyfriend I didn’t really like but kept around because it was easier than being alone. The world taught me how to shrink myself—how to be small, polite, soft-spoken.

But the woman in me... she refused to stay quiet.

She showed up in flashes. In the way I would hum songs I hadn’t written yet. In the way I cried after finishing a book that made me feel something real. In the way I said no when I wanted to say yes to myself.

She waited patiently.

Until one day, she didn’t.

I remember the exact moment I changed my life.

It was a Tuesday. I was twenty-six. I was sitting in a gray cubicle, typing up an insurance report, eating leftover pasta from a plastic container. Outside, the rain poured. Inside, I felt hollow.

And then something in me snapped.

I didn’t even pack up. I just stood, grabbed my jacket, and walked out. No tears. No drama. Just this overwhelming sense of *this is not my life*.

I bought a one-way ticket to Greece that night.

I didn’t have a plan. Just enough money for a month, a worn-out journal, and a fire in my chest I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager lying in the grass talking to stars.

What followed were years of searching.

I backpacked through Europe. I got lost in alleyways in Venice, danced at rooftop parties in Lisbon, learned how to make chai from a woman in Jaipur, and swam in the Aegean Sea under moonlight.

I fell in love. Twice.

The first was a French photographer named Luc who taught me how to see the world through light and shadow. He kissed like he was memorizing a song. But he belonged to the wind, and I wasn’t ready to fly yet.

The second was a Brazilian artist named Léo who painted my soul in color. We lasted a year, until I realized I needed to love myself more than I loved someone else.

Each place, each person, showed me a little more of the woman I was becoming.

The turning point came in Morocco.

I had taken a train to Marrakech on a whim and ended up in a van with four strangers driving into the desert. We stayed in a Berber camp where the stars looked like they were close enough to touch.

One night, a sandstorm rolled in.

Everyone hid inside the tents, but I stepped out.

Something about that storm called to me.

The wind howled. Sand stung my skin. My scarf flew away. And yet I laughed—this deep, wild laugh I didn’t know I had. It was like the girl I used to be and the woman I was becoming met right there, in the chaos.

I realized in that moment that strength isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s in the quiet way we choose ourselves. The way we keep going. The way we leave when we’re not being seen. The way we *become*.

I stayed in Morocco for two months.

I worked with a women’s cooperative, teaching English and learning to weave rugs. Those women—strong, fearless, grounded—they taught me more than any book ever had. One of them, a woman named Amina, once told me, “The world tries to tame women. But a wild heart makes the world more beautiful.”

I wrote that in my journal. I underline it often.

Now, I live differently.

I’m a writer. A traveler. A teacher. I’ve published my poetry. I lead workshops for women who are trying to find their voice again. I don’t have a five-year plan or a 401(k), but I have stories. Scars. Laughter that comes from my belly.

And peace. God, I have peace.

The woman in me—she’s no longer hiding. She’s the one who makes the choices now. She wears red lipstick without apology. She cries without shame. She knows when to stay, and when to walk barefoot into the unknown.

She’s not perfect.

But she is *free*.

People ask me if I’ll ever go back to Willow Creek.

Maybe.

But not to stay. Just to visit that old bedroom, lie in the grass again, and whisper to the stars.

Only this time, I’ll tell them:

“I became her. The woman you saw in the sky. The one who dreamed. The one who burned. I became her.”