For most of my life, I believed that success and wealth weren’t meant for someone like me. I carried the weight of a story I didn’t even know I was telling myself, a story that said I wasn’t smart enough, not capable enough, not enough.
It wasn’t anything anyone ever said directly, but it was there, in the quiet comparisons, the subtle decisions, the roles assigned in childhood. My sister was seen as the smart one, the responsible one. I was the emotional one. Sensitive. Expressive. Deep. I grew up believing that meant I was less.
My mother and I were very close. I loved her deeply, and I know she loved me. We shared a bond that was tender and real. She was a powerful woman who shaped me in so many ways, and I will always be grateful for her presence in my life. At the same time, there were moments, like when she chose my sister to be the successor trustee, that reinforced the idea that I wasn’t the one to be trusted with logic or leadership. That decisions should be left to the one who could “keep emotions out of it.”
I internalized that. I made it mean that I wasn’t capable of success, leadership, or building wealth. That I was too emotional to be powerful. Too feeling to be respected. Too soft to be strong.
But life has taught me otherwise.
Over time, I began to unravel the threads of that old story. I started to see that my sensitivity is a strength, not a weakness. That my emotions are not obstacles, they are gifts. That my way of understanding the world, of seeing people deeply and loving fiercely, holds a kind of wisdom and intelligence that isn’t always recognized in traditional ways, but is just as real and just as valuable.
The truth I once kept hidden is this: I possess a unique brilliance. A deep, intuitive knowing. While my sister and I walk different paths, my strength is no less powerful, it’s simply different. And that difference deserves to be honored.
Even now, there are days when old doubts try to creep in. I still feel the pull of that old identity, the one shaped by family dynamics and childhood roles. I still wrestle with the ache of wanting to be fully seen, not just for my heart, but for my insight, my leadership, my brilliance.
There are pieces of my story that I used to avoid writing. The parts about feeling invisible in moments that mattered, or the silent grief of craving recognition from someone I loved so deeply. But I’ve learned that writing the truth sets it free. It doesn’t erase the past, but it reclaims the power I once gave away.
Today, I know who I am. I am a woman of depth and fire, of tenderness and tenacity. I am emotionally gifted, intuitively wise, and more capable than I ever believed. I’ve done the inner work. I’ve released the lies. And I’ve stepped fully into my own light.
Success and wealth are no longer things I chase from a place of proving, they are things I welcome from a place of knowing. Knowing that I am worthy. Knowing that I am ready. Knowing that I am no longer defined by the roles of my past.
This is my truth. This is my voice. This is my rise.