I’ve always lived somewhere in the middle.

Not between right and wrong, or good and bad—but between softness and fire, stillness and movement, quiet and color.

I’m an introvert who loves people, an extrovert who needs solitude. I come alive in laughter-filled rooms… and in the gentle hush of being alone.

Ask my husband and he’ll smile in that knowing way—the kind that says, I’ve seen all your moods and I’m still here. He says it’s like being married to two different women. And honestly, he’s not wrong.

Some mornings I want my hair dyed the color of midnight—dark, bold, full of mystery. It feels like armor. Like control. Like a version of me that doesn’t flinch.

By nightfall, I might be reaching for the bleach, chasing lightness—something that whispers softness and a fresh start.

One day I crave long, sweeping layers that move like breath, the next I ache for a sleek bob that feels like shedding what no longer fits.

It’s not about vanity. It’s about becoming—on the outside and within.

Even as a child, I held this quiet tension.

I played with dolls and trucks, wore tiaras and scraped knees. I rode four-wheelers with my cousins through backfields, dirt clinging to my legs, then pulled my hair into a bun and stepped into ballet class, weightless and poised.

No one told me I had to choose. So I didn’t.

That same rhythm followed me into adolescence. I moved between friend groups depending on the mood of the day. Sometimes loud, bold, full of laughter.

Other times hushed and introspective, lingering in quiet corners with people who understood the beauty of stillness. It wasn’t indecision. It was instinct—honoring the version of myself that needed space to breathe.

As a woman, that duality has only deepened.

I’m jeans and pearls. Chunky boots with soft cardigans. Long, tailored lines paired with bows and sparkle. I don’t dress to make sense—I dress to feel. To match the moment. To bring the inside out in whatever way it asks to be seen.

There’s a quiet kind of strength in living layered.

It means accepting that I am not just one thing. That I don’t have to be. It’s learning to let go of the pressure to arrive fully formed, and instead embracing the sacredness of becoming.

Like brushstrokes on canvas, each layer adds texture—even when the colors don’t perfectly match.

I’ve stopped trying to smooth it all out. My life is textured. Messy. Honest.

And it’s mine.

Living layered means carrying stories no one sees, and dreams that shift shape with the seasons. It means that joy and grief can sit at the same table. That I can be soft and fierce, steady and spontaneous, weary and wildly hopeful—all in the same breath.

Psychologists call this the Dual-Self Model—the idea that we each carry within us two selves: one impulsive and emotional, craving immediacy, and the other reflective and rational, holding space for what matters most in the long run. I know them both intimately.

One part of me wants to leap. To say yes, now. To rearrange the furniture, dye my hair, buy the boots, book the trip. The other says wait. Listen. Remember what you’re building. They aren’t enemies. They speak in turns, depending on the day, the ache, the need. And I’m learning to hold space for them both.

Especially as a woman—where we’re so often expected to be all things at once. Strong, but not too loud. Beautiful, but effortless. In control, but nurturing. Ambitious, but humble.

The world asks us to shapeshift constantly.

But what I’ve come to believe is this: The goal isn’t to choose which version of ourselves to be. It’s to be known and loved through them all.

My husband has loved me through so many seasons. He’s seen me quiet and fiery, grounded and restless. He’s loved me with black hair and blonde hair, in fitted dresses and oversized sweatshirts, when I was bursting with confidence and when I couldn’t quite find my footing. And I’m learning—slowly and gently—to offer that same love to myself.

I am not one or the other. I never was. And I am no less for it.

Because I am both. Always.