I failed.
There’s no softer way to say it. I set a five-year plan, held it tightly, built my whole life around it, worked hard for it through sweat, tears, and blood, and when the fifth year arrived, I had failed at everything.
I failed in a way that makes you sit alone in the dark and wonder if you misread your entire life.
I failed in a way that makes you question who you are when the thing you wanted refuses to be yours.
I tried to adjust along the way, bending myself, stretching myself, forcing myself to keep going, but nothing changed. No matter how hard I pushed, the outcome stayed the same.
Admitting this is so hard because I have never failed at anything. I gave that dream everything: every drop of energy, every hour of sleep I sacrificed, and every relationship I neglected. I kept telling myself, “Just one more year, just a little more effort, It will all make sense in the end.” But the end came, and nothing made sense.
But the truth is simple.
Year after year, I tried.
Application after application, I hoped.
Attempt after attempt, I crashed.
And I failed.
There’s a different kind of heartbreak that comes from failing at something you believed was your purpose. It’s not loud, it’s heavy. It sits in your chest and whispers, “Was any of it worth it?”
For a long time, I held on, not because the dream was still alive, but because I didn’t know who I was without it. I was committed to a version of myself I had outgrown, a version built from pressure, perfectionism, and fear of letting others down.
Letting go felt like giving up on myself and disappointing those who had shared these dreams with me.
But holding on was hurting me even more.
So I stopped trying.
Not because I wanted to, but because I had nothing left in me to give.
I laid it all down, the dream, the pressure, the guilt, the version of me who kept pretending she was fine.
So I quit, stopped the applications and made a total pivot.
I said goodbye to the person I had built just to survive that season. I let go of the pride, the guilt, the heavy silence I carried each time something didn’t work out. I laid down the sadness I kept pretending wasn’t there.
And for the first time in a long time, I chose myself instead of the plan.
Letting go wasn’t defeat; it was clarity.
I finally understood that some dreams expire quietly, and that doesn’t make them failures; it simply means they’ve served their time. And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is step away.
So I gave myself a blank slate. A clean sheet. That sometimes hurts to look at but also fills me with excitement other times.
I’m undefined again.
I’m unwritten.
I’m rebuilding.
I’m choosing a new beginning instead of dragging the weight of the old one.
So here I am, starting from nothing.
Not with confidence, not with excitement, but with trembling hands and a heart that is still learning how to beat without breaking.
I’m rediscovering myself slowly.
I’m choosing smaller plans, shorter timelines, and goals I can carry without collapsing.
I’m learning to breathe without the weight of a five-year expectation crushing my chest.
No pressure, or at least that’s what I’m trying to teach myself. And if you know me, you know that’s a work in progress.
But I’m here. I’m healing. I’m starting over and putting my happiness first over ambition.
And that, in itself, is a victory.
And with that, Welcome to my Second Act.
With all my Love. Xo Deborah
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