The Summer I Finally Chose Myself

Ahhh, summer…

The comforting hum of katydids and crickets. Fireflies blinking like tiny lanterns across the yard. The sweet scent of watermelon slicing through thick air.

Of course, if you grew up near a mushroom farm like I did, the smells weren’t always sweet—but they were familiar. They smelled like summertime.

Back in those elementary and high school years, summer meant sleeping in late, finding a pool, beach, or lake to escape the heat, and staying up past midnight because mornings didn’t matter.

It was also the season of chore lists left by parents—mowing the lawn, trimming the church yard, cleaning your room.

Sometimes it meant hauling hay bales, picking watermelons or loofahs, shelling peas, feeding livestock, or babysitting your siblings.

It was work, yes—but still, it felt softer. Simpler. Slower.

And now here I sit, glass of wine in hand, katydids serenading the dusk from my patio—and I miss those days.

I miss being annoyed that I had chores before I could go to the pool. I miss rubbing baby oil and Sun-In into my hair, chasing that perfect golden glow.

But more than anything, I miss how easy everything felt—before I became an adult. A wife. A mother. A state worker.

I had so many dreams once. Big, beautiful plans.

I was going to be an artist like Georgia O’Keeffe and attend art school in New York. But I let fear stop me—the fear of becoming a starving artist, of feeling like a failure.

So I changed course.

I dreamed of becoming a forensic psychologist, profiling people, using my gift for reading others to help the world.

But I started to doubt that gift. Instead of embracing and honing it, I questioned it. I let fear creep in—fear that I wouldn’t be good enough, or make a real difference.

And then I let someone else’s disbelief in me reinforce my own.

My ex-husband didn’t believe in my dream. And slowly, I didn’t either.

So I settled.

I earned a degree in Psychology with a minor in Criminology—not because it lit a fire in me, but because I was going to get a degree. Because everyone in our family had degrees.

But back then, a degree meant something. Not everyone had one.

Once I got my diploma, I started working for the State. Got married at 21—after only ever dating two people, one of them my husband.

I had kids. I got divorced. I jumped into another relationship. Another marriage.

And through it all, I never paused long enough to admit the truth: I didn’t believe in myself. Not really.

I settled—again and again.

Until recently.

For most of my life, I believed if others saw value in me, then I must be valuable. If others thought I was worthy, then I must be.

But the truth is: worth doesn’t come from others. It comes from within.

It’s how you see yourself. It’s what you choose to believe about who you are.

And today? I’m really fucking proud of the woman I’ve become.

I’m not perfect. But I’m self-aware. I’m healing. And I’m done—done allowing people, even family, to project their pain onto me.

For years, I felt like I had to chase love. That I had to shrink, twist, or mold myself to be acceptable. That I was “a problem.” Or, as I’ve come to call it, “a situation.”

But tonight, sitting on my patio with a glass of wine, the katydids are telling me what I finally know in my bones:

I was never the problem.

I’ve just been waiting—too long—to choose me.

This is my turning point.

I’m finally choosing me.

To love and accept myself, no matter what anyone else sees—or doesn’t. I will no longer chase.

And somewhere nearby, a barred owl hoots its approval.

The night echoes back: hoot hoot.