Echoes of the Willow

How Would I Describe Myself to Someone Who Can’t See Me?

I’d begin with the moment captured in this photo—our last date night together. Darwin to my left, steady and soft-eyed. Joe to my right, wide-hearted and always growing. And me in the middle, wearing sequins and holding space for the past, the present, and the weight of knowing this night would one day matter more than we knew.

I’m someone made of quiet resilience. My laugh lives deep in my chest and finds its way out even after hard seasons. My hands are gentle but strong—they’ve folded letters, restored old wood, and held the ache of grief and the bloom of joy.

If you couldn’t see me, I’d describe myself as rooted like the trees on our land—weathered, welcoming, still reaching toward the sun. I’m the kind of person who still writes thank-you notes, who believes stories can heal, and who carries those I’ve loved within me, always.

I’m not flashy, but I shimmer in moments. Like this one. Sequins on a Judas Priest night. A mother, a wife, a widow, and still—someone who dreams.

📝 Journal Reflection:

If you were to look at this photo, you might see a woman smiling—framed by her husband and son, lit by the glow of a concert night. But if you looked deeper, you’d see more.

You’d see someone who’s carried generations. Someone who stayed through addiction, through grief, through moments that bent her spirit but didn’t break it. A woman who still chooses forgiveness, even when it feels like a stone in her chest.

People don’t always see the way I love. The way I hold space for those who are hurting, even when they can’t offer anything back. The times I’ve been taken for granted, but chose tenderness anyway. Not out of obligation—but because my heart was made to mend, not harden.

I am sequins and soul. I am strength stitched with sorrow. I am stories not easily told—but deeply lived. And even now, I try to believe that love, in its quietest form, is still worth offering.

🕯️ Reflection Continued:

Darwin and I shared nearly 38 years—34 of them married. His battle with pain medication addiction was long and painful. I tried to shield our children, but addiction isn’t quiet. It echoes through hallways, memories, and even the spaces where love still lives.

I stayed. Not because I had to—but because my heart believed in something stronger than the hurt. I held on with grace, even when it frayed me. Forgiveness still lives inside me, though it’s heavy. And now, as my middle son walks his own path through addiction, I hold space again—worn, aching, but never empty.

So if you were asking who I am…

I am sequins and sorrow. I am rooted like an oak and soft like a prayer. I show up when it’s hard, offer love when it’s not returned, and believe that healing grows best in wild places—in music halls, in backyard trails, and in the quiet corners of a heavy heart.

You may not have seen me fully before. But this is me.

🌿 Series Note: “Seeing Me”

This is the first in a reflective series where I open the door a little wider—sharing pieces of myself through photos, stories, and soul truths. Each post is a step toward honesty, healing, and connection.

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