Let this week be about shedding, softening, and starting fresh.
New City, New Chapter, New Me
I’ve officially landed in Philadelphia.
After a lifetime in my small country town of Corydon, I packed up my past, my grief, my hope—and moved into a whole new phase of life.
I’m here with my sister as I prepare for the next steps in my medical journey. But this shift is bigger than just surgeries…
It’s a soul reset.
For years, I lived in survival mode—fighting, masking, and losing pieces of myself just to get by. But I’m done just getting by.
I’m letting go.
I’m starting fresh.
I’m allowing myself to feel the fear and still choose the new.
🌨️ Philly has welcomed my weird, my truth, my messy magic—and I’m finally showing up fully as Jillienne, not just “Cameron’s Mom.”
I’m rebuilding my rituals. Creating new rhythms. Discovering parts of myself I didn’t know existed outside of pain.
And yes, it’s scary. But it’s also sacred.
So if you’re walking through your own transition, let this be your reminder:
👉 You’re allowed to start again.
👉 You’re allowed to be more than who you had to be to survive.
👉 And you’re allowed to be weird AF while doing it.
Let the soft reset begin.
Letting go isn’t weakness. It’s the gateway.
“Let it go. Let it flow. Let it be.”
🔄 Reflection Prompt:
What are you ready to release this month? Write it. Burn it. Dance it out. Cry it out. Breathe it away.
📝 Try this journal prompt:
“I’ve been holding on to ____, and I no longer need it because ____.”

What Letting Go & Moving On Feels Like
Letting go doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. It means it mattered so much that I’m finally setting it down with love.
It’s standing there, holding something heavy that used to feel like home—even if it hurt—and finally whispering:
“Thank you… but I don’t need you to survive anymore.”
It’s not some cute little “positive vibes only” crap either.
It’s crying. Grieving. Screaming into pillows.
It’s ugly. It’s necessary. It’s freedom.
Letting go is me unclenching my fists after a lifetime of white-knuckling pain.
It’s me saying, “This version of me got me here. But she doesn’t have to take me the rest of the way.”
Moving on?
That’s the part where I wipe my tears, fix my messy bun, and take a shaky-ass step into the unknown anyway.
Even if my legs tremble. Even if my heart breaks a little more.
Because I know:
I can’t carry it and fly at the same time.
So no, I’m not “over it.”
I’m just finally choosing me.