Spend my birthday with me 'cause I might be pregnant, and I’m questioning everything — including who the hell I even am. This week, I spiral on late periods, unmet expectations, and the unsettling thought that maybe we’re all just mosaics of everyone we’ve ever loved, lost, or envied. Are we even original, or just patchworks of borrowed traits we convinced ourselves were “us”?

It’s messy, it’s raw, and it’s the kind of self-interrogation that feels like both a breakdown and a breakthrough. Because if you can’t be honest with yourself, who’s left to lie to?

It’s not just my uterus in limbo — it’s my entire life.