I was ten years old, sitting alone on the school steps, trying to make myself as small and invisible as possible.
We had just moved from Darien, Connecticut to Kingsport, Tennessee, and everything felt unfamiliar. That first week, my dad promised to pick me up from school each day—no buses, no confusion, just a gentle transition into this new chapter. But midweek, something went wrong.
He forgot.
The buses had pulled away. The parking lot was nearly empty. And I was still there. Waiting. Watching shadows grow longer. Trying not to cry.
Until a kind teacher noticed and sat beside me.
“Do you want me to call your dad?” she asked gently. “I’m sure he just forgot.”
I nodded.
Minutes later, I saw our old station wagon come flying down the road. My dad jumped out, ran to me, scooped me up in his arms, and said the words I still remember:
“I’m so sorry. I forgot.”
It’s funny how a memory like that can sneak up on you decades later. I could feel it this week like it had just happened—where I was sitting, how scared I felt, the way I tried to disappear.
So I sat with it. I asked God, What do You want me to learn from this?
And in the quiet, I heard a whisper:
“You can be a victim or a victor of any circumstance. The story is yours. You tell it.”
Those words sank deep. And I knew what I needed to do.
I rewrote the ending—not the event, but the identity it tried to shape in me.
I wrote:
- I am an OVERCOMER
- I am UNDEFEATED
- I am a WINNER, not a loser
- A PRIZE, not a problem
- CHOSEN, not forgotten
- LOVED, always
And so are you.
No matter what your story has been… the pen is still in your hand.
You tell it.
You get to choose what you carry, what you rewrite, and what you leave behind.
You get to turn pain into power, fear into fuel, and waiting into wisdom.
You’re not stuck. You’re just in between pages.
And the next one? It’s full of life.
Choose it.