Love Her. You Fought to Become Her.

I recently bought myself a personalized necklace.

Now, if you know me at all, this is mildly concerning because I am not a jewelry person.

If I wear jewelry, it means something.

The few pieces I wear every day all carry their own reminder.

My open hearts necklace reminds me to keep my heart and mind open, even when life gives me every reason to slam both shut.

My wedding band is exactly what it should be—a steady reminder of commitment.

My Claddagh ring, with the crown, heart, and hands, has always represented trust and loyalty to me.

And now there’s this one.

It says:

Love her. You fought to become her.

And for whatever reason, that one hit differently.

Because when I was younger, I thought strength looked like Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Obviously.

She fought the bad guys, saved the world, sacrificed herself when she had to, and somehow still managed to have emotional depth, great hair, badass outfits and occasionally get rewarded with a devastatingly beautiful dance scene in a pretty pink prom dress.

That was strength to me.

You fight.
You win.
You walk away with a few scratches and bruises, maybe some strategically placed dirt on your face for dramatic effect, and life rewards you with closure.

Very realistic expectations. No notes.

Somewhere along the way, I thought I’d grow into that kind of strength.

But real life had other plans.

Turns out there’s a lot less badass-ary and a lot more legal documentation.

A lot fewer dramatic victories and a lot more sitting at your kitchen table stress-eating ice cream while organizing evidence files and muttering things that would absolutely not hold up well in court.

Honestly, false advertising is the worst.

I also never exactly fit the “pretty princess” mold.

Even now, I’m not some perfectly polished version of femininity.

I’m usually in jeans and a shirt.

Sometimes a dress, especially when humidity makes pants feel like a direct act of aggression.

I’m fairly certain six-year-old tomboy me is deeply offended by this development.

And honestly, she has every right to be suspicious.

This is the same child who once got dressed for Easter in a white dress, white shoes, matching hat, white pantyhose—the full aggressively impractical experience. My mother insisted we all match for the event.

And then immediately went down to the creek. Because apparently even then, I believed formalwear should be tested against mud.

I still remember standing under the sink afterward, trying to scrub the mud out of those white pantyhose like I could somehow undo what had already happened.

Spoiler alert: I could not.

My mother was absolutely livid.

And looking back, that story feels weirdly symbolic.

I was never meant to stay clean enough for someone else’s version of who I should be.

I was always going to end up in the mud.

Always going to test the limits.

Always going to ruin the neat little picture.

For a long time, I thought that meant I wasn’t strong in the “right” way.

Because for five years, my fight didn’t look anything like Buffy.

There were no dramatic one-liners.

No final showdown.

No perfectly timed victory.

There was just me, dealing with someone determined to create chaos.

There were so many moments I wanted to snap.

To scream.

To match energy with energy and just let loose.

And honestly, there are probably several moments where that would have felt deeply satisfying for approximately seven seconds.

But I didn’t.

I documented.

I recorded.

I wrote everything down.

I called the police.

I called the lawyer.

And then I did it all again.

Over and over.

Which, let me tell you, is not exactly the warrior aesthetic younger me had in mind.

No one is making an inspirational montage out of color-coded evidence folders and printer ink warnings.

My soundtrack would just be aggressive sighing and the sound of me opening another pint of stress-induced ice cream.

There were so many times I wanted to give up.

So many times I wondered if any of it was making a difference.

So many times I wanted to fight louder.

But I didn’t.

Because I was protecting my family.

And looking back now, I realize something.

That was the fight.

Not losing control when I wanted to.

Not giving chaos more chaos.

Holding the line when it would have been easier to break it.

Choosing restraint over reaction because my family needed protection more than I needed temporary release.

That kind of strength is quieter.

And honestly?

A lot harder.

It doesn’t come with a soundtrack.

It doesn’t come with a pretty pink dress and emotional closure.

Sometimes it doesn’t even come with justice that feels satisfying.

Sometimes it just comes with exhaustion and the choice to keep going anyway.

And maybe that’s why this necklace matters so much.

Because when I read those words, I don’t see some fearless, flawless version of myself.

I see every moment I wanted to quit but didn’t.

Every time I kept records instead of losing my mind.

Every time I chose discipline when chaos would have been easier.

I see a woman who fought in ways no one sees at times.

And I’m learning to be proud of her.

Because becoming her wasn’t accidental.

I fought to become her.

And I think she’s worth loving.