When the Dust Settles and It’s Just You – Reconnecting with Your Dreams The house is quiet. Too quiet. The sound of my own steps bounces off walls that used to hum with laughter, arguments, and homework chaos. For years, my whole identity was wrapped up in one word: Mom. Now, without a child at my side, I barely recognized myself. I’d spent nearly two decades pouring every ounce of love, energy, and purpose into raising him. My own dreams, the little sparks of ambition I once carried, had been tucked away, safely stored like forgotten treasures in the attic. In that deafening silence, I realized that the person I had spent so long caring for wasn’t the one who needed me most anymore. It was me.

What started as harmless online flirtation became a $5,000 emotional scam. This is what happened to my friend and how easily it could happen to someone you care about.

I’ve worn a lot of titles in my life: Professional ones like analyst, negotiator, supervisor. Personal ones like daughter, sister, cousin and my favorite of all: Mom . Until recently, I never really considered myself a “writer,” at least not in the career or professional sense of the word. Even though writing is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s what I’ve always loved doing. And now, it’s what pays the bills. I’ve kept a journal for as long as I can remember. Made lists of lists. Took detailed classroom / meeting notes. And don’t get me started on school supplies—oh lawd! The nerd comes out of me. It wasn’t until I turned 40 that I started to truly claim the title of “writer.”

I want to talk about the dreams we shelve, those aspirations we tuck away in the attic of our hearts while we're busy building a life for someone else. For me, that someone else was my son. And for about eighteen, maybe nineteen years, my answer to "Who are you?" was simple: " I'm his mom ." That was my identity, my purpose, my everything. He still is my everything, just in a different way now.

The resilient dandelion. Photo sourced from Canva Pro and edited by the author. Be like a dandelion, Stand tall, stay bright. You’ll bend in the storm but reach for the light. They’ll call you a weed, try to pluck you away, But you were built for the cracks so dance in the rain.  Most won’t see your roots run deep, They’ll judge your bloom when you’re fighting to keep, A piece of the sky, a patch of the sun, You’ve always been many things wrapped in one. You’re softness and steel, wild and wise, A stubborn bloom they still criticize. But you aren't here to just fit in, Be confident, be unique and never give in. If my words resonate with you and you’d like to support my writing, you can leave a tip by clicking here . Every little bit helps me keep creating and sharing stories that inspire.

What a Dandelion Taught Me About Growing, Surviving and Standing Strong When No One’s Watching Most people see a weed. I see a warrior . When I chose the dandelion as the profile picture for this blog, it wasn’t just because it was pretty (though I do love the look of a wild bloom standing alone in a sea of green). It was because I see myself in that flower.

Welcome to DarlynDreams. My name is Chrissy, and I’m a Southern girl, woman rather, in my mid-forties. For years, my whole identity was wrapped up in one word: Mom . It wasn’t just a role; it became the very definition of who I was.