There’s no need to have regrets about the things you didn’t say, you did say, you didn’t do, or wish you did. They call it the past for a reason. Those mistakes, missed opportunities, or blessings are in the past for a reason.
Now is the time to get it right. Say what you feel and say it with confidence. But, on the flip side, are those words even worth saying?
Before you say it, think about what your intentions are and what it is you are looking to accomplish.
It’s stability, reassurance, and clarification.
I bought my own home a little over a year now. My sister had helped me move in. We wiped out the cabinets, did some organizing, rearranging. But at one point she asked me, “why don’t we put the contact paper down now before you put the cups and dishes away?” I said, “no, I’ll get to it at another time, it’s no big deal.” She looked at me a little perplexed and I myself had feelings of uneasiness and uncertainty about doing it.”
For the past 13 years of my life, I have spent it on the go and trying to make a stable life for me and my boys. To make a long story short, I went through an exhausting and heartbreaking divorce, a house fire, two horrifice relationships after my divorce. Which yes it was my bad for trying to get the life I wanted for them and me. I just wanted the “white picket fence.” But I lived and I learned.
Which brings me to what this post is all about. After going through this for the past 13 years, my hopes and dreams finally came to fruition. I can rest. I can put my dishes and cups away without having to worry about what my next move is going to be. I am settled. I am in a better state of mind and place, physically. I’m not saying that my life won’t still have its ups and downs, but I can take those challenges head on and not have to worry about uprooting my whole life to try and make a go of it again.
I am here, grounded and safe.
That is all I ever wanted in life.
Whoever is reading this, never give up. Stay positive, have a purpose and a goal in mind. Never waver from your hopes and dreams, even in your lowest moments, when life feels at its most unforgiving. Please trust me on this.
There’s a certain kind of morning you don’t plan too hard you just show up and let it unfold. That’s what the Troy Farmers Market feels like. My girlfriend and I went to the first opening day, which starts in May the first Saturday and then every Saturday there after. We arrived about 9:30. I suggest you get there early because it tends to get a little crowded mid afternoon and you want to get a jump on the good stuff in the morning.
Tents stretch down the street, white canopies lined up against old brick buildings, the kind that have seen a hundred versions of the same Saturday. People move slowly here. Not lazy just unhurried. Coffee in hand, dogs weaving between legs, conversations that don’t feel rushed.
The first thing that pulls you in is the color.
Bouquets stacked in wooden baskets, wrapped in brown paper like small gifts. Deep reds, dusty pinks, wild textures that don’t look overly arranged just gathered. Behind them, wreaths hang in rows, each one slightly different, like someone took the time to make sure no two were exactly alike.
You keep walking, and it shifts from flowers to food without warning.
There’s a table with cheese pull-apart bread from a vendor called Ideals. It’s the kind of thing you don’t overthink you just know it’s coming home with you. Warm, soft, the kind of bread that pulls apart in layers and disappears faster than you expect.
A few tents down, the smell changes again. Something savory, heavier. That’s where Lidia’s Empanadas is set up. You order without much hesitation. They hand it to you hot, and you realize pretty quickly this isn’t a “save it for later” situation. You eat it standing there, half paying attention to the crowd moving around you.
Then there’s the quieter side of the market.
A produce stand stacked with greens bok choy, radishes, bunches of herbs still smelling like the ground they came from. I made roasted garlic and radishes as a side dish and it was delectably wonderful! You pick up basil and cilantro, not because you had a plan for them, but because they looked too fresh to pass up. That’s how a lot of decisions get made here.
Not everything is food.
There’s a small thrift setup tucked between vendors racks of vintage clothes, simple and a little unexpected in the middle of everything else. You flip through without urgency. It’s less about finding something and more about the act of looking.
And then there are moments you almost miss if you’re not paying attention.
Someone shaping pottery right there at their booth, hands steady, turning clay into something useful in real time. Tables of handmade goods. Old glassware arranged carefully on wooden shelves inside a shop just off the street quiet, warm lighting, a contrast to the open air outside.
The market isn’t loud in the way you’d expect. It’s full, but not overwhelming. People sit at small tables in the street eating, talking, staying longer than they probably planned.
You don’t rush through it. This is the type of place where you want to take your time browsing and leaving no stone unturned. I was in heaven.
You wander, double back, pick something up, put it down, then go back for it anyway. By the time you leave, you’ve got a mix of things you meant to buy and things you didn’t but somehow all of it makes sense together.
That’s the thing about places like this.
You don’t just go for what you need. You go because it feels good to be there. I actually lost myself there for a bit which was exactly what I needed.
Some of the strongest people you know aren’t strong because life was easy. They’re strong because, at some point, they learned they had to be.
Hyper-independence is often mistaken for strength. On the surface it looks attractive and desirable to someone who handles everything themselves, asks for nothing, and keeps moving forward no matter what. But hyper-independence isn’t just independence. It’s a learned way of surviving in a world where, at some point, relying on other people didn’t feel safe.
For many of us, it starts early. A difficult childhood teaches us how much space we’re allowed to take up in the world and whether someone will show up when we need them. I was a latchkey kid, the youngest of four girls. By the time I came along, my parents were, in many ways, already spent. The house wasn’t always peaceful, there was a lot of yelling/screaming, and my father’s extra-curricular activities left cracks in the foundation of our family that a kid can feel even if she doesn’t fully understand them yet. So I did what a lot of kids do in those environments: I learned to take care of myself. I played alone. I figured things out on my own. And like many children growing up in complicated homes, I learned some lessons about trust and safety far earlier than I should have. Maybe that is why people mistake my mistrust for hyper-independence/”being strong.”
When independence becomes the only way you know how to live, it follows you into adulthood. You become capable, resilient, and outwardly strong but relationships can feel complicated. Sometimes we choose solitude not because we truly want to be alone, but because being close to someone requires a level of vulnerability we never learned how to trust. Sometimes we sabotage good things without meaning to, pulling away just when connection begins to feel real. It isn’t because we’re broken. It’s because the part of us that learned to survive alone still thinks it’s protecting us. Is this something that we will ever be able to get over? Will we ever allow ourselves to welcome a new healthy relationship into our lives?
If you recognize yourself in this, I want you to know something: you are not strange, and you are not alone. Many of us learned early that the safest place to stand was on our own two feet. That instinct kept us going when we needed it most. But it doesn’t mean we were meant to walk through life alone forever. Understanding where hyper-independence comes from is the first step toward loosening its grip toward letting people in, little by little, without feeling like we’re giving up our strength.
And if you’re someone who has built a life around doing everything yourself, who sometimes pushes people away even when your heart wants connection, I see you. Truly. There are more of us out here than you realize.
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