I used to be so sure of who I was.

Not in a deep, existential way—just in the small, everyday preferences that feel fixed. The kinds of things you don’t question because they’ve always been true.

I wasn’t a fantasy person.

I liked things grounded in reality. Stories that felt possible. Relatable. Familiar. I would’ve told you, without hesitation, that dragons and magic and fae courts just… weren’t for me.

And then, somewhere between the chaos of motherhood and the quiet moments I could steal for myself, I picked up A Court of Thorns and Roses.

Not expecting much.

People kept talking about it. I was on Spring Break. I wanted to try something new to read.

But somewhere in those pages, something shifted.

Not all at once. Not in a way I could name right away. It was quieter than that. Like something in me leaned forward instead of tuning out. Like I was paying attention in a way I hadn’t in a long time.

And it wasn’t even really about the fantasy.

It was the feeling.

The intensity of it. The transformation. The way the characters weren’t just moving through life—they were becoming something. Shedding old versions of themselves, stepping into power, into softness, into something more whole.

And I realized, almost uncomfortably at first…

I’ve been craving that.

Not magic, exactly.
But the feeling of it.

The permission to be both soft and strong.
Grounded and a little wild.
Capable of holding everything I already am… and still becoming something more.

It’s strange, the things that wake you up.

Because after that, I started noticing it everywhere.

The music I wanted to listen to changed.
The way I wanted to move my body shifted.
Even the energy I was drawn to felt different—less polished, less performative… more raw, more powerful.

I didn’t want workouts that felt like punishment anymore.
I didn’t want to shrink.
I didn’t want to “get back” to anything.

I wanted to feel strong.

Not in a numbers or aesthetics way—but in a way that felt almost… primal. Like my body was capable of something beyond surviving the day.

I wanted movement that felt like training.
Like intention.
Like I was preparing for something—even if that “something” was just my own life.

And then I did something that, even a few months ago, I would have laughed at.

I signed up for Whimsy Forge.

Specifically, a program called The Assassin’s Ascent.

Even typing that still makes me smile a little, like—who am I?

But I leaned into it.

I read through the program. The themes. The language. The idea of training your body like you’re stepping into a stronger version of yourself—not shrinking it, not fixing it, but building it.

And then I saw the suggestion:

practice weapons.

Foam daggers. Training blades. Things meant to make the experience feel more immersive.

Part of me immediately thought, this is ridiculous.

And another part of me—quieter, but steadier—thought,

or maybe this is exactly what you need.

So I bought them.

Not because I plan on becoming a weapon-wielding warrior in my backyard… but because something about it felt playful. Embodied. Different.

And maybe that’s the piece I’ve been missing.

Because somewhere along the way, adulthood—especially motherhood—became so serious. So functional. So focused on keeping everything running.

And play?

Play became something I facilitated for my kids. Not something I allowed for myself.

But the research is clear on this, even if we usually only apply it to children:

“Play is often talked about as if it were a relief from serious learning. But for children, play is serious learning.” — Fred Rogers

And I can’t help but wonder…

When did we decide that stopped being true for us?

Because this—this slightly ridiculous, slightly magical, slightly out-of-character step into “fantasy fitness”—doesn’t feel like escape.

It feels like learning something again.

About my body.
About joy.
About what it feels like to choose something just because it lights me up.

And maybe I didn’t suddenly become a fantasy person.

Maybe I just stopped editing myself down to what felt acceptable.

Maybe I’m remembering that I’m allowed to be:

a little softer,
a little stronger,
a little more rooted,
and a little more wild.

And honestly?

It feels less like becoming someone new…

and more like coming home.