Author: Kaleathia Murphy

Just because I can doesn’t mean I should. It’s a simple truth, yet one I’ve come to deeply appreciate over time. I have many liberties at my disposal—freedoms I could easily exercise. When I was younger, I thought adulthood was all about having the ability to do anything I wanted, as long as it didn’t break the law. And for a time, I shamelessly explored that mindset.

Yes, this girl has done some things. Things I’m not particularly proud of, but they’ve taught me valuable lessons. Those experiences helped shape who I am today—a person of restraint. Or maybe I should say it’s a journey of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. With each step forward, I’ve learned that knowing the right thing to do comes with a weight that’s impossible to ignore. Once you know better, it’s hard to go back.

Restraint isn’t about limitation; it’s about choice. It’s about realizing that just because I can doesn’t mean I should. It’s the understanding that some freedoms aren’t worth the cost, and some desires aren’t worth chasing. This kind of self-discipline didn’t happen overnight—it’s a lesson learned through mistakes, reflection, and, most importantly, growth.

Over time, I’ve discovered the beauty of boundaries. They don’t confine me; they protect me. They allow me to live intentionally, honoring the values I hold dear. Restraint isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it. Because when you know the right thing to do, and you choose to follow through, you’re no longer just living—you’re thriving.

Wisdom, once gained, can’t be undone. And for that, I’m grateful.

Imagine being surrounded by people who don’t truly know who you are. They might have an idea of you—perhaps even a concept of who they think you are—but they don’t understand the things that bring you joy or the moments that weigh your spirit down.

They don’t see how deeply you believe the world is better because of your presence. They don’t grasp how much you value humanity, the convictions you hold dear, or the grace you extend to others, even when it costs you.

But wouldn’t it be nice if they did?

Wouldn’t it be beautiful if they not only knew you but made the effort to try? To listen, to see, and to appreciate the fullness of your being?

There’s something profound about being known—really known. It’s more than recognition; it’s connection. It’s being seen, understood, and loved for who you are, not for who others think you should be.

And yet, how often do we truly try to know others in this way?

Perhaps the invitation here is twofold: to hope for those who will seek to know us and to become the kind of people who seek to know others. Because in knowing, we reflect the love and grace that we ourselves long to receive.

It starts with a question, a pause, or a kind word. It starts with the courage to say, “I see you, and I’d like to know more.”

Not every plan is one-size-fits-all. What works for someone else may not work for you—and that’s okay. You have to embrace the idea of working a plan that’s tailored to you, your strengths, and your circumstances.

We often get frustrated when we try to follow a plan that wasn’t designed with us in mind. There’s a big difference between theory and action. A theory might sound good in concept, but it’s only when you put it into action that you discover what truly works and what doesn’t.

It’s important to learn contentment where you are. This moment, this place—it’s where you’re supposed to be. Instead of striving to be somewhere else or comparing your journey to others, focus on making the most of where you are right now.

Learn to accommodate your current season. Stop looking around and concerning yourself with where others are. Their plan isn’t your plan, and their destination isn’t your destination.

Trust your journey. Work your plan. And remember, it’s okay if it looks different from everyone else’s—it’s yours for a reason.

This morning, I woke up reflecting on the idea that starting over is not a setback—it’s a privilege. It’s an opportunity to create the life I truly want, leaving behind what no longer serves me. All the old things are gone, and now I can move forward at my own pace, without pressure or haste.

Everything that comes to me now will be intentional, things I truly desire and value. I’ve seen this principle in action in my own life. There was a time I wished for the quality of people in my life to change—and it did. Another time, I decided I wanted to focus on quality over quantity—and that too became my reality.

These experiences taught me the incredible power of thoughts. A simple thought can transform into words, which in turn spark actions. What if starting over is not something to fear or regret, but a privilege?

What if it’s a privilege to walk away from people who don’t have your best interests at heart?

What if it’s a privilege to leave behind toxicity?

What if it’s a privilege to begin again, building from the ground up?

I see my fresh start as a gift. While I don’t have all the answers or understand every step ahead, I have the freedom to shape my life intentionally. My heart feels guided by the vision God has for me, and I trust that vision.

Starting over isn’t just an ending; it’s a powerful beginning. And what a privilege that is.

As I get older, I find myself becoming more empathetic toward my parents. I’m beginning to see them as simply human beings—people navigating life the best they can. They didn’t come into this world knowing how to be parents, grandparents, or even elderly individuals. They’re learning, just as we all are, and they deserve a lot of grace for that journey.

Forgiving our parents and seeing them as people is powerful. They aren’t superheroes, nor are they flawless; they are simply human beings, just like us. I came across a beautiful tribute that an adult daughter wrote about her mom. She shared that she tries to remember her mother is not just “Mom” but a woman with her own dreams, a woman who wants to be loved and to experience all that life has to offer. That perspective struck a chord with me. As a mother myself, I realize that I, too, am just a woman trying to figure things out. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m still learning along the way.

This realization has deepened my appreciation for my parents. They may not have done everything perfectly, but neither do I. We are all doing the best we can, with what we know at any given moment. Embracing this view helps me offer more patience, forgiveness, and understanding toward my parents—and perhaps even toward myself.

Who created this life timetable, anyway? It seems as if there’s an unspoken rulebook: you should be married by this age, have children by that age, own a house by this age, and have a certain amount in your investments by that age. The list could go on forever. And honestly, it can be overwhelming, especially if you’re nowhere near meeting these milestones. Society’s expectations often weigh us down, leaving us questioning our worth or purpose if we don’t measure up.

In a few years, I’ll be 50. Looking back, I remember how old that age once sounded to me. But now, as I approach it, I feel as if my life is just beginning. I’m becoming the person I’ve always aspired to be, even if, for a while, I thought that version of me was out of reach. Some people may laugh at the idea of “a better me” when I don’t have much tangible to show for it—I don’t own a home, I don’t have a car, and I’m not working in the profession I studied for in school. Instead, I’m blogging, writing a book, and, for the first time, I feel fulfilled. I’m happy because I’m finally doing what I believe I was created to do. I want to “die empty,” to pour everything I was born to do into this life, and I know I’m on the right path to do just that.

Society might say I should have more things in place by the time I reach 50—a career, a home, investments. But I have time. If or when those things happen, it’ll be the right time for me.

“Don’t be sad because it ended. Smile because it happened.” When I heard this, it sparked something inside me, a glimmer of hope that I hadn’t felt in a while. I had been feeling a bit down about no longer living in Los Angeles. For over two years, it was a true privilege to call LA home, especially given that we managed it with zero income. It’s hard to believe we made it there without the support of our business income, and yet, month after month, we somehow covered our rent until we didn’t. But that’s a story for another time.

Now, I’m learning to smile at the thought of all the new possibilities that Georgia has in store. I’m seeing Georgia through a fresh, new lens, appreciating it in a way I hadn’t before. There’s something exciting about starting over and embracing a new chapter, and I’m ready to see what unfolds here with an open heart and mind.

Being the first in my family to break generational trauma has been a journey with no map, no guide, and often no support. It’s like stepping into the unknown, where every move can feel awkward, uncertain, even “crazy.” Without breadcrumbs to follow, I’ve had to learn by making mistakes, sometimes big ones. And those mistakes can feel overwhelming, especially when they come with criticism or mocking from people who doubt that healing this trauma is even possible.

But I’ve learned that being first also means being the one to take the weight of the disbelief, to push through it, and to let faith lead the way. Every wrong turn, every lesson learned, is what’s shaping the path forward. Faith has become my vision, guiding me when I can’t see what’s ahead. It’s taught me to believe in what I feel within, even when there’s no evidence around me. Faith doesn’t rely on sight; it relies on conviction.

So now, I’m okay with making mistakes and taking risks because I’ve seen how those so-called “wrong” turns have turned out for the good. I’m at peace with the path I’m on, knowing that being the first is a calling and one that’s worth every step, every lesson, and every ounce of faith it requires.

In my mid-twenties, I got a call that I’ll never forget. A young girl was on the line, and she told me she was my sister. She explained that her dad had shared stories about me, and she said I even looked like his sister. It was a shock, to say the least. We talked a few more times, and I eventually spoke with her mother as well. They wanted to meet, and I decided to go forward with it, though the whole thing felt surreal and, honestly, a little uncomfortable. I felt like I’d walked into a story that wasn’t mine—or, at least, one I didn’t fully know.

Afterward, I asked my mom if there was any truth to it all. Her response left me with more questions than answers. She didn’t say “yes” or “no,” and I was left wondering: Who’s my daddy? For most of my life, I’d known one man to be my dad, and now there was this new, unexpected possibility.

Reflecting on it, I realized something important: not having a dad had never made me feel incomplete. I’d taken my family situation at face value; it was simply what it was. I didn’t see it as a loss or a void. And that was largely because of my grandfather. He was the constant, the father figure who checked every box I ever needed in a man. In every way that mattered, he filled that role for me.

My grandad was present, supportive, and dependable. He was there for the big moments and the small ones, giving me the kind of guidance and security that a father typically provides. He was my “dad” in all the ways that truly counted, even if we didn’t label it that way.

This experience didn’t end with a neatly wrapped answer. I still don’t know for certain who my biological father is, and that might always be the case. But instead of focusing on the “what ifs” or feeling unsteady because of the unknown, I find peace in what I do know. I know who has loved me, who has been there, and who has shown me what a strong, good man looks like.

So, while that call may have stirred up questions, it didn’t shake my sense of who I am or where I come from. My grandfather taught me what it means to be steady, present, and loving. And that’s more than enough.