Not much, you?

 "They asked me what I’ve been up to, and I almost handed them the polite brochure version. Then my spirit side-eyed me like, girl, do not shrink. I have been running a full-time revolution inside my chest. I’ve been rewriting my DNA with prayer and boundaries, exfoliating my lineage with saltwater tears and sacred laughter, and turning every hush into a hymn. I’ve been spinning straw into gold and tipping myself for the labor, because I am both the magician and the miracle, and my receipts are stamped by thunder.

I’ve been handling generational business like a CEO with a halo and hoops. I called a board meeting with my ancestors, told them the family myths are getting audited, and replaced the scarcity department with overflow. I uninstalled the old program called “suffer quietly” and uploaded “prosper loudly.” I corrected the accounting books where love was filed as a debt. Now it’s an asset with compounding interest, and I pay myself first in peace, second in joy, and third in silence that no longer bleeds.

I’ve been bench-pressing my nervous system out of survival mode like a gym goddess with incense burning. Breath in for four, out for eight, and watch me grow new receptors for delight. I’ve been teaching my body that alarms are not prophecies, that rest is not a crime scene, and that safety can be a steady home, not a rare hotel room. I invite my pulse to sit beside me on the porch, lemonade in hand, and we practice not sprinting toward imaginary fires.

I’ve been throwing tea parties for my inner demons with assigned seating and clear house rules. I let them talk, but I hold the microphone. I made peace with the one who calls herself Perfectionism and assigned her a smaller job: proofreading my hope, not my worth. I hugged Fear long enough to hear her childhood. I told Shame to pack her bags because we are renovating and her aesthetic is not welcome in this century.

I’ve been parenting my inner child like the mother she always deserved: snack before meltdown, nap before nonsense, honesty before obligation. I paint her nails with glitter courage and tuck her in with fairytales where the girl rescues herself and still gets the castle with an excellent spa. I do not negotiate her safety. I do not underprice her magic. I let her choose the playlist, and guess what—healing actually dances better with joy.

I’ve been kissing the forehead of every past version of me who kept us alive with duct tape and grit. No slander for the survivor I was. I retired her with honors and threw her a parade. Then I hired the visionary. She negotiates in silk, signs contracts with moonlight, and answers emails with “no” when “no” is holiness. My standards got promoted. My boundaries got tenure. My peace got a security detail.

I’ve been turning my rage into a sacrament, not a scandal. I sanctify my fire. I cook with it, I craft with it, and I refuse to apologize for being warm in a world that profits off women staying cold. I don’t do small flames anymore. I do contained infernos that light the path for anyone ready to step out of their own shadows. Match in one hand, water in the other, crown secure, conscience clear.

I’ve been flirting with destiny and ghosting distractions. If it does not amplify my calling, it can watch from the cheap seats. I am not chasing what cannot pronounce my name correctly. I attract what is trained to love me. I am busy collecting green lights from the universe and speeding only toward alignment. Detours try to flirt; I wink, wave, and keep it sacred.

I’ve been practicing spiritual petty, which is really just enlightened selectivity. I bless from a distance. I release with a smile and a block. I light candles for folks and still lock the door, because forgiveness is not a weekend pass for repeat offenders. I pray with one hand and sign boundary papers with the other. Even my angels wear sunglasses around me because the glow is blinding and the shade is strategic.

I’ve been making my life taste expensive in ways money can’t buy. I season every morning with gratitude that bites back. I iron my self-respect and wear it sharp. I arrange my days like altars: fresh fruit for sweetness, clean floors for clarity, a playlist that tells the truth in bass. My calendar is a spell. My routines are holy choreography. My joy is no longer a guest; she pays rent and has a key.

I’ve been harvesting miracles from places no one thought to look: the quiet at the bottom of my exhale, the yes that echoes when I stand alone, the way my intuition texts me in full paragraphs now. I moved into the center of my own life and discovered the view is breathtaking—panoramic, oceanfront, and paid in full by resilience. The neighbors are peace and purpose. We share a fence made of gold standards.

I’ve been choosing words like blades and balms. I speak to cut cords, not people. I speak to stitch wounds, not hide them. I use my voice like a lighthouse: steady, tall, and visible to those who need it. If someone prefers me dim, that is a personal preference, not my problem. I turned down the shame and turned up the wattage. Consider this a surge warning and a love note.

I’ve been unlearning urgency and unhooking from applause. Quiet accomplishments are my favorite flex now. I measure progress by how quickly I return to myself after I wobble, by how kindly I treat me when nobody’s watching, by how often I choose the long-term sacred over the short-term shiny. Discipline is my devotion. Grace is my glide path. Results show up fashionably late but unmistakably mine.

I’ve been luxuriating in the art of “no.” Full-sentence, velvet-lined, iron-backed no. No to the role of emotional landfill. No to performing softness for people who weaponize it. No to selling my peace for discount validation. My no is not an apology; it is architecture. It builds the house where my yes can throw parties that last generations.

I’ve been mastering the weather inside me. Storms still form, but I sit at the command center now. I schedule rain where it grows roses and redirect lightning to power my vision board. I read the forecast of my feelings and dress accordingly—boots for boundaries, silk for self-love, armor optional because my spirit is already Kevlar and kindness.

I’ve been loving outrageously without fundraising from my self-worth. I give from overflow, not from scar tissue. I can hold you without dropping me. That is not cold; that is mature fire. The people who meet me here are hydrated, healing, and honest. The ones who don’t can catch my postcard from the future: wish you growth.

I’ve been courting silence like a lover who knows all my names. In the hush, I hear the curriculum. The universe writes in margins, and I finally left room to read it. I stopped making myself loud to be legible. I became legible to myself and everything else started translating just fine.

So when they tilt their heads and ask, what have you been up to lately, I feel the choir rise in my ribs, the halo roll its eyes, and the crown sit a little heavier with satisfaction. I could give them the whole sermon, the syllabus, the soundtrack, the throne room tour. But their curiosity is tiny and my truth is tall.

I smile like I swallowed a sunrise and learned its language. I shrug like thunder in silk. I sip my water like it is holy and earned. And because not every masterpiece needs a narrator, I let the understatement wear my perfume and walk out first.

Not much, you?"

-Steve De'lano Garcia