I’M FINALLY CHOOSING MYSELF: MY BECOMING STORY

I packed everything I owned into my car on October 1, 2024.

At 56 years old, I was leaving the only life I’d known for 16+ years—leaving my mother, leaving our home in Savannah, leaving the woman I had to be to survive.

I didn’t know where I was going. Denver first, maybe. My son was there. Then Vegas called to me in a way I can’t fully explain.

But what I did know was this: I was finally choosing myself.

Not because I stopped loving others. Not because I gave up. But because I couldn’t keep sacrificing myself and call it love.

This is my becoming story. And maybe, if you keep reading, it’s your invitation too.

The Life I Lived

In November 2008, my mother’s health started to decline. We moved her from Alabama to live with us in Savannah so I could care for her.

Six months later—in May 2009—I lost my husband, James, to sepsis.

This should have been a joyous season. My son was two weeks away from prom and four weeks from graduating high school. Instead, I was planning a funeral while trying to hold our family together.

I became a widow, a full-time caregiver, and a single mother overnight. And I still had my wedding and event planning business to run.

For the next 16 years, I juggled it all. Caring for my mother. Serving clients. Executing events. Showing up for my son. Making sure everyone around me was okay.

My body was a tool—for lifting, bathing, feeding, serving clients, creating beautiful experiences for other people’s celebrations while my own life felt like it was falling apart.

My time wasn’t mine. My energy wasn’t mine. My grief had nowhere to go because survival required everything I had.

I wore my ability to keep going as a badge of honor. Look how strong I am. Look how much I can endure. Look how I never complain, never quit, never ask for help.

But that wasn’t strength. That was survival mode. And I didn’t know the difference.

When Death Came for Me

Then, in 2016, I survived sepsis myself for the first time.

The same illness that took my husband nearly took me.

I remember the hospital. The fear. The choice I had to make: fight for life or let go.

I chose life. I came home. And I got right back to caregiving as soon as I could stand.

In 2020, sepsis came for me again. Twice.

Three times total, I walked through death’s door. Three times, I had to choose life.

But here’s what I didn’t understand then: surviving wasn’t the same as thriving.

I was alive. But was I living?

My body was telling me something I refused to hear. It was saying, “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep sacrificing yourself. You can’t keep treating me like a tool instead of a temple.”

But I didn’t listen. I couldn’t listen. Because if I stopped, who would take care of my mother? Who would hold everything together?

So I kept going. Kept pushing through. Kept making myself last priority.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

The Decision

August 27, 2024.

That’s the day everything changed.

I was pushing my mom from the bathroom when she fell face-forward out of her wheelchair. I couldn’t lift her by myself. My only choice was to call 911 for emergency lift assist.

Unfortunately, this was now a recurring situation.

It took emergency responders over 45 minutes to talk my mother into going to the hospital. Forty-five minutes of reasoning, negotiating, pleading.

During that time, I lost all patience. I was exhausted beyond comprehension. Listening to the emergency responders reason with my mother pushed me over the edge.

Finally, she agreed to go.

While she was being evaluated, I shared my weariness with the doctor, who connected me with a social worker.

Something broke inside of me.

I had to make the hardest decision of my life: I had to choose me.

I was no longer physically able to take care of my mother by myself. My body—already broken from caregiving and sepsis—was screaming at me. And this time, I finally listened.

The guilt was crushing. The grief was layered and complicated. But underneath all of that was something I’d never let myself feel before: the courage to say, “I can’t keep doing this.”

The social worker went to work immediately to find my mom a bed in a skilled nursing facility. Within days, my mother was transferred from the hospital to professional care.

This was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. But it was the right one—not just for me, but for her care and well-being.

This wasn’t abandonment. This wasn’t giving up. This was finally listening to my body when it said, “I can’t.”

And that admission—that honest, vulnerable admission—was the first step toward choosing myself.

Looking in the Mirror

With her in skilled nursing, I finally had a chance to think. To evaluate where I was.

I looked in the mirror and I didn’t see Karen.

I had aged a decade in just a few years. There were bags under my eyes that wouldn’t go away. My hair was thinning. My skin looked gray.

I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

It was at that moment I decided: I had to move. I had to figure out who Karen was.

So I packed up my personal items. I emptied out our home. I gave away most of my possessions—things I’d held onto for years, memories wrapped in furniture and dishes and photos.

And I left.

On October 1st, I set out for Denver. My son was there, and I thought maybe that’s where I’d rebuild. I spent eight weeks trying to make it work, trying to convince myself this was home.

But it wasn’t.

In November, I set out for Las Vegas.

And the moment I hit the city limits, something inside me settled.

I knew. I was home.

Not just geographically. But spiritually. Emotionally. This was where my becoming would happen.

What I’m Discovering

What I’m most proud of building is something nobody can see: my relationship with my own body as sanctuary, not sacrifice.

For 57 years, I’ve only known my body as a responsibility. A vessel for serving others. A battleground during illness. A thing to manage, maintain, or push through.

I’ve never known what it’s like to inhabit my body as mine—to steward it, honor it, rest in it, feel powerful in it.

That’s what I’m building now. And nobody sees it.

They don’t see the mornings I wake up and practice being in my body instead of immediately doing for someone else.

They don’t see the grief I’m processing—not just the loss of James and the complicated feelings about my mother, but the grief of the woman I could have been if I hadn’t spent decades postponing myself.

They don’t see the small, sacred moments when I catch myself in the mirror and think, “I don’t know her yet. But I want to meet her.”

I’m learning what embodiment really means. Not just positive thinking. Not just self-care bubble baths. But the physical, spiritual, and emotional practice of fully inhabiting your body as a temple, not a tool.

I’m building what I call the sovereign soft life. And it’s not what the internet has made “soft life” mean—finding a man to fund your lifestyle or luxury consumption.

The sovereign soft life means:

Soft because you’ve removed the unnecessary weight, not because someone else is carrying it

Soft because you’ve built a life that doesn’t require constant hardness just to survive

Sovereign because you’re stewarding your body, time, energy, and calling with wisdom and discernment

I’m teaching this through a Kingdom lens. Your body is a temple (1 Corinthians 6:19). Sabbath rest—Friday sundown through Saturday sundown—isn’t optional; it’s commanded. The Proverbs 31 woman wasn’t exhausted; she was embodied, building from overflow, laughing without fear of the future.

That’s the model I’m following. That’s what I’m teaching.

I’m not teaching what I’ve mastered. I’m teaching what I’m living.

I’m building businesses that honor Sabbath rest. I’m creating offerings that protect sacred rest, avoid emergency-responsive models, and prioritize presence over productivity.

I’m discovering who I become when I’m completely healed, fully embodied, and living from rest instead of exhaustion.

Who I’m Becoming

I’ve never known myself as a whole, healed, strong woman in my full power.

I’ve only known survival Karen. Caregiver Karen. Grief-carrying Karen. Making-it-work Karen. Getting-by Karen.

But who is thriving Karen? Powerful Karen? Sovereign Karen?

I don’t know her yet. And I want to meet her.

That’s what I’m doing. That’s what this whole journey is about.

I help women heal from trauma, embody their sovereignty, and build Kingdom-aligned businesses that honor faith, rest, and legacy instead of hustle, performance, and self-abandonment.

I teach women to stop performing and start becoming. To build lives where rest is sacred, bodies are honored, and legacy is intentional.

This is my metamorphosis at 57. It’s messy. It’s slow. It’s sacred. And it’s absolutely worth it.

Some days I feel clear and embodied. Some days I doubt everything. Both are part of becoming.

I’m giving myself permission for this to be imperfect.

Metamorphosis doesn’t happen all at once. The cocoon breaks open in stages. And that’s okay.

What I know for sure is this: I’m not circling anymore. I’m not stuck in survival mode. I’m standing at the threshold of my own becoming.

And I’m finally ready to cross it.

The Invitation

This isn’t just my story. It’s an invitation.

An invitation for women who’ve spent their lives giving, serving, sacrificing—and then wonder why they’re depleted, disconnected from their bodies, and burned out in their businesses.

An invitation for women who are tired of performing strength when they long to actually be strong.

An invitation for women who want to finally choose themselves without guilt, without shame, without feeling like they’re abandoning everyone they love.

You don’t have to wait until you’re broken to choose yourself.

You don’t have to survive sepsis three times to give yourself permission to rest.

You don’t have to lose everything to rebuild.

You can start becoming right now. Right where you are.

At 57, I’m finally choosing myself. Not because I’ve stopped loving others. But because I’ve finally learned that choosing myself IS an act of love—for them, and for me.

This is my metamorphosis. This is the sovereign soft life. This is my becoming.

And maybe, if you’re reading this and something inside you is stirring, it’s yours too.

If this resonates with you—if you’re ready to stop performing and start becoming—join my email list. Starting in January 2026, I’m teaching women embodiment and Kingdom-aligned business building. I’m showing women how to create the sovereign soft life: businesses that honor rest, bodies treated as sanctuaries, legacy over hustle.

Your becoming is waiting. Let’s walk this path together. 🦋💜