Waltzing Through Life: The Story of How I Kept Going

There was a time when life didn’t feel like a waltz; it felt like a battle.
A storm that never seemed to end. I learned early that the world can be unkind, that love doesn’t always mean safety, and that silence can carry more pain than words ever could.

I witnessed domestic abuse as a young woman, the kind of pain that rewires how you see love, trust, and yourself. I became good at pretending everything was fine, even when my spirit was quietly breaking. I learned to read a room like a soldier reads a battlefield, always alert, always braced.

For a long time, I thought survival meant never slowing down. I buried the fear beneath ambition, convinced that if I kept moving, I could outrun the past. But deep down, I was dancing with ghosts.

And then, one day, love found me again, the real kind.
Not the kind that controlled or hurt or silenced, but the type that waited. The kind that felt steady, patient, and true. For the first time, I could exhale. I could laugh without fear that joy would be taken away. I could trust that love wasn’t a weapon, but a home.

But life has its own choreography; just when I found my rhythm, I lost my father.
His passing cracked me open in ways I didn’t expect. Grief is a strange partner, heavy, unpredictable, sometimes leading when you want to stand still. I became the one my family leaned on, even as my heart quietly splintered. Being the strong one is a lonely dance sometimes, but I showed up anyway, for them, and for him.

And through it all, I began to see clearly who truly belonged in my circle and who did not. Some relatives and friends during that stage of my life chose bitterness over healing, envy over empathy, distance over love. It hurt, but I learned that not everyone dares to face their own reflection. Letting go wasn’t cruel; it was survival. You can’t build peace with people who are addicted to chaos.

Then came the chapter that nearly broke me, cancer.
The word itself changes the air in the room. It’s a moment that divides your life into before and after. The fear was real; the nights were long. But even in the darkest hours, I found something extraordinary: a will to fight that came from deep inside. I wasn’t ready to stop dancing yet.

Treatment took my energy, my hair, my sense of control, but it never took my spirit. I faced it with faith, lipstick, humor, and courage I didn’t know I had. I came out scarred but shining, with a renewed understanding of what truly matters.

And I often think of the voice from my past, the one who said I’d never amount to anything, that I was worthless, that I’d never make something of myself.
He was wrong.

Today, I’m the woman who rose.
A published blogger.
A fashion expert.
A Vice President leading with purpose and compassion.
A decorator, a mother, a Gigi, and a woman who has learned to create beauty out of every broken piece.

I lead with empathy because I know what it feels like to be unseen.
I design spaces, stories, and lives filled with color because I know what it’s like to live in the dark.
I waltz, not because life is easy, but because I’ve learned the steps that keep me moving forward.

There’s something sacred about arriving here, in this softer, slower season. I no longer sprint through life trying to prove anything. I move with rhythm now, intentional, graceful, and deeply aware of how precious each moment is.

Waltzing through life doesn’t mean it’s perfect. It means you’ve learned to keep your balance, through heartbreak, through loss, through healing. You let the music play, and you move anyway.

So yes, I’m waltzing now.
Through love, through peace, through every chapter that almost broke me.
And this time, I’m leading, head high, heart open, and heels clicking to the beat of survival and grace.

Because the dance never ends, it just gets more beautiful when you finally learn the steps.