33 Candles, One Flame🕯️

July 4th. This birthday wasn't about cake — it was about clarity.

Today, I turned 33.

Not a milestone in the way people talk about 18 or 21 or 50. But it is a milestone—for me. For the woman who has walked through fire barefoot, with her back straight, hips swaying to the rhythm of lessons learned the hard way. For the woman who has burned bridges just to light her way forward. For the woman who chose to stay soft when the world kept trying to turn her into stone.

Thirty-three.

Double threes. My favorite number—twice.

That feels intentional. Divine, even. Like the universe whispered, "Here. You’ve earned this alignment.”

Three has always felt like magic to me—balanced, spiritual, powerful. So, to wear it twice, back-to-back like mirrored wings, feels like a symbol. A confirmation. That this is my year. Not because someone said it should be, but because I say so.

Year 33 in the California sun.

The sunlight here touches you differently. It doesn’t just shine—it lingers. I stood in it for a moment, letting the warmth kiss my shoulders and soak into my collarbones like it knew me. Like it remembered every storm I walked through to get here.

There’s a hush to this age. A quiet knowing. The loud declarations of who I was trying to be have softened into whispers of who I already am. I don’t need to be seen as strong anymore—I just am. I don't need to be chosen. I choose myself, daily, with intention and tenderness.

This morning, I woke up before the sun. No alarm, no obligation—just instinct. Something inside me wanted to sit with the silence. I made coffee the way I like it—sweet, bold, unapologetic. I poured it into my favorite mug, the one with the little chip on the handle. The one that’s been with me through late nights, love letters, and hard truths.

I didn't cry today. Not because I wasn't moved. But because the tears that used to fall out of pain now rise as mist in my eyes—full of pride, of release, of the beauty in becoming.

My phone buzzed all day with love and light, and I smiled, feeling the energy wrap itself around me like silk. Still, the real celebration happened in quiet moments:

—When I looked in the mirror and didn’t critique.

—When I held space for every version of me that brought me to this one.

—When I forgave myself… again.

Today, I wore something that made me feel like art. I kissed my reflection, twice. I wrote a few lines of a poem I don’t know if I’ll ever finish. And I whispered thank you to the version of me that never stopped showing up.

Thirty-three.

And I feel it—this glow that doesn’t ask for permission.

This joy that doesn’t require validation.

This woman who knows—what she brings, what she’s worth, and what she’s no longer willing to carry.

My favorite number twice.

A double blessing.

A mirrored flame.

A woman reborn—coated in California sun and soft intention.

Happy birthday to me. 🎂

I don’t just celebrate a new year.

I celebrate the masterpiece that is still being painted—one brushstroke of softness, fire, and fierce love at a time.

33 and flame-fed. Still rising. Still soft. Still dangerous. 🔥