My little piece of gold armor.
There’s something about a pair of gold hoops that makes me feel like me—bold, grounded, and just a little untouchable. They’re not just an accessory. They’re a ritual. A reminder. A quiet defiance. I’ve worn them when I felt powerful and magnetic, walking into rooms like I owned the air. I’ve worn them when I could barely look at my own reflection, clinging to something—anything—that reminded me I still existed beneath the heaviness.
They’ve seen me laugh until I cried, and cry until I laughed.
They’ve heard whispered prayers and loud curses.
They’ve held it all.
And in a way, The Gold Hoop Diaries is the same.
It’s my voice when I’m ready to shout and when I can barely speak.
It’s my yes.
See, for years, people who know me—really know me—have said, “Deborah, you need to write a book.” And I’d nod, smile, toss out a “maybe one day,” and then tuck the thought away behind all the other things that felt more urgent: bills, school permission slips, prescriptions, appointments, grief, life.
But this is me finally showing up to that maybe. Finally saying yes to telling the story I’ve been living all along. Not because I have all the answers. Not because I’ve figured it all out. But because I’m still here. Still standing. Still putting on my hoops and doing the damn thing.
Right now, I’m in a season that feels like walking barefoot through fire. I’m raising a teenage daughter who is fierce in every sense of the word. She loves God, loves her people, and reminds me every day of who I’m doing this for. She’s my why and sometimes my what the hell, all wrapped in one miraculous, growing soul. And then there’s Zara—our kitten with the heart of a lion, who loves napping in the sun, but then with the energy of a toddler on espresso—always underfoot, always watching, always reminding me that life refuses to be too quiet.
At the same time, I’m caring for the love of my life, my best friend, my person, as he fights stage 4 cancer. I’m watching someone I adore walk through something that no one should have to endure, and I’m trying—desperately, daily—to show up for him in all the ways that matter. I change meds. I catch appointments. I decode medical jargon and make jokes in waiting rooms that smell like bleach and fear. I hold his hand while pretending mine isn’t shaking.
I’m learning that strength isn’t loud.
Sometimes it’s just breathing.
Sometimes it’s just staying.
There’s no manual for any of this. Just me, trying to piece together sanity from leftover minutes and whatever’s in the fridge. Trying to remember who I was before caregiving and taxi driving became my full-time job, and who I still want to be after.
This blog—this space—isn’t curated or polished. It’s not here to make you feel better with soft lighting and feel-good mantras. This is where I lay it all down. Where I tell the truth, even when it’s not pretty. Especially when it’s not pretty.
This is where I breathe.
Where I bleed a little.
Where I write the things I never said out loud.
It’s not a memoir. It’s not a manual.
It’s more like a late-night voice note to your best friend.
It’s a scribbled journal entry on the back of a grocery receipt.
It’s a sacred space for anyone who’s ever smiled through the pain or cried in a Walmart parking lot.
If you’ve ever felt stretched thin, invisible, held together by dry shampoo and divine grace—then you are my people.
This is for the girls who grew up fast with complicated hearts.
For the women we’ve become.
For the ones we’re still becoming.
This is for you.
This is for me.
This is The Gold Hoop Diaries.