Lost in Translation (But Not Anymore)

Gloria,

the saguaro.

I sent my husband a text this morning that felt like a tiny revolution:

“I feel like I just unlocked this whole new world, where I can put my thoughts into words without someone having to proofread me.”

“Like I’m no longer lost in translation…”

And that—right there—is the kind of quiet, personal freedom that hits harder than any “live, laugh, love” manifesto could ever dare to.

I’m laying in the grass in the sacred shadow of my saguaro cactus, Gloria—who, let’s be clear, is less a plant and more a spiky version of the grandmother willow tree from Pocahontas.

We talk often. Today she said, “Finally.” And I said, “I know.”

It’s wild to realize how long I’ve been shape-shifting. How many years I spent trying to translate my own essence into something… more palatable. Softer around the edges. Spell-checked. Something that wouldn’t make people squint or tilt their heads. Something that wouldn’t take up too much space.

But lately, there’s been this shift. A cracking open. A sacred defiance.

I don’t need a translator anymore.

Not for my voice. Not for my feelings. Not for the strange way I make sense of the world with metaphors, messy emotions, and the occasional profanity-laced prayer.

For the first time in a long time, my words are mine. Unedited. Unapologetic. Unafraid.

And maybe no one reads them. Maybe no one claps or comments or turns them into an Instagram quote. But I do. I hear them. I feel them. And that’s enough.

No, scratch that—that’s everything.

I think there’s something deeply sacred about letting yourself be “too much” and “not enough” in the same breath—and still choosing to speak anyway.

Because this isn’t about finding the right words. It’s about trusting that your real ones—the raw, wrinkled, belly-deep truths—are the right words. Even if they don’t land for anyone else.

Even if they never make it past your cactus.

Anyways, catch me outside (under Gloria), emotionally processing like it’s a sport.

— Jenn