Maybe I still had a Kenny wound. For a while, I thought I could just bury my feelings instead of facing them. I convinced myself that moving forward meant skipping the hard parts, avoiding the heaviness, and not sitting in what felt like negativity. But after reading through screenshots of texts between my sister Gena and my ex, I realized—there were still pieces of me I hadn’t faced.

He had reached out because my birthday was coming up and he wanted to do something “nice.” Gena wasn’t having it. She let him have it for the things that had transpired since I walked away. She’s the only person I really opened up to in detail about it, so she was locked and loaded with truth. That’s what I love about us—we don’t play when it comes to one another. We may have our moments amongst ourselves, but mistreatment from the outside? That’s not happening. Gena handled it, boss-style. Thanks, sis. I love you. You’re a real one.

But as I read through those texts, I noticed something I wasn’t expecting—growth. The words I read, whether from him or reflected back in myself, felt clearer. No chaos. No poetry wrapped around pain. Just straightforward communication. Progress, in its own way.

And still, even with that recognition, one truth remained: he is not my person. I have no desire, no purpose, no pull to bring him back into my life. The lessons have been received, the mirror has been honored, and I’ve outgrown the reflection.

For the first time in my life, I chose me. Truly chose me. And it shaped me into a remembered woman.

I remember who the fuck I am.
I’m Julie Renee. Period.