In 1980, at eighteen, I cast my first vote in a presidential election. That moment in the booth was my first claim to the world, a spark of owning my voice, like planting my bare feet on Southern soil. It doesn’t matter so much who I voted for, what matter is I have the right to vote as I choose. I’ve been stereotyped all my life by people who make snap judgements. People who don’t really know me.
Life’s taught me promises don’t always hold. In 2020, hoping for change, but it didn’t land as I’d expected. Now, I’m skeptical of any party’s grand talk. My vote is my own, guided by my gut, not slick words. It’s my way of standing tall, like a sunset over my Texas porch.
People see my flowing dresses and barefoot walks and assume “hippie.” Nope—I’m just a Southern woman who loves the earth under her toes and a breeze in the heat. My style doesn’t spell out my politics or my heart. I’ve learned to shrug off those snap judgments, just as I’ve gotten good at setting boundaries. My go-to? A reliable friend like Quinn, who steps in when I need space to breathe—
Speaking of space, my cat George just sauntered over, gave my screen a sleepy stare, and flopped down like he’d read enough. That’s my life now—single, free, and laughing with my pets. Forty-five years ago, I was this woman—bold, unapologetic—and I’ve found her again. My vote, my truth, my life—they’re mine, and that’s pure joy.
When have you trusted your instincts or found freedom in a moment? Share below or on X—let’s inspire each other.
