Sometimes I Have to Water Myself
I spent years hoping someone would see I was parched. I whispered my needs, softened my voice, and made myself small—hoping someone would notice I was running on empty. That love would show up and pour into me.
There’s a quiet truth I’ve learned during recovery: sometimes, I am both the garden and the gardener.
I spent years hoping someone would see I was parched. I whispered my needs, softened my voice, and made myself small—hoping someone would notice I was running on empty. That love would show up and pour into me.
But healing doesn’t always arrive through someone else’s hands.
There are days I walk outside, neck brace on, heart heavy, body aching… and I water my plants. Slowly. Silently. Tenderly. And in that moment, I realize—I’m really watering myself.
I’m showing up for myself.
I’m choosing softness.
I’m making space for peace.
This is what rising looks like when no one is clapping.
It’s what healing sounds like when the world is loud, but you choose quiet anyway.
If you’re in a season of becoming, I hope you remember: the most beautiful things grow in silence.
Even you.
💭 Journal Prompt:
Where in your life have you been waiting for someone else to pour into you? How can you begin to water yourself today?
👉🏾 This reflection pairs with the Healing Through Reinvention journal prompt “Pouring from a Full Cup”—available now inside the Watch Me Rise Journal.
Take your time.
Breathe through it.
And if you’re ready, write your way through it.
What Real Support Looks Like–And What It Doesn’t
Not all support is real. Some of it’s performance. Some of it disappears when you need it most. In this personal reflection, I unpack what healing taught me about people, pain, and showing up. #WatchMeRise
This post started as an Instagram reflection — but it’s really a journal entry for anyone who’s ever felt abandoned during hard seasons.
In the wake of my surgery and healing journey, I’ve seen firsthand the difference between people who show up out of love and those who disappear out of convenience.
Support isn’t just about being present when it's easy.
It’s about being present when it's inconvenient.
It’s action — not empty "thoughts and prayers" with no intention behind them.
After surgery, I learned that some people were only “supportive” when the spotlight was on me. But when the silence set in, so did their absence.
Real support checks in without needing to be reminded.
It doesn’t just check the box — it checks on you.
I’ve learned that true support feels safe. It’s quiet, it’s consistent, and it doesn’t always need to be public.
It simply says: “I’m here. Even now.”
I’m not writing this out of bitterness.
I’m writing it because someone out there needs the reminder:
You weren’t crazy for feeling let down.
I felt it too.
But I also found new people — unexpected ones — who made me feel deeply seen.
Those are the ones I’m building with.
Those are the ones I’m healing with.
💬 “Support isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet, consistent presence. That’s what saved me.”
This was just one chapter of my healing.
If it spoke to you, you’re not alone.