I have been watching Matlock — the new series starring Kathy Bates and Skye P. Marshall — and I am completely captivated.

If you grew up the way I did, staying home sick was secretly a gift, because it meant reruns of the original Matlock with Andy Griffith filling the hours of a quiet day. That version holds a particular kind of warmth for me. But this new series has taken the story somewhere entirely different — somewhere bolder, more complex, and deeply human. It’s providing striking commentary on difficult subjects: racism, age discrimination, substance addiction. All wrapped in a stunning teal visual palette that I cannot stop thinking about.

The cast has brought these characters to life in a way that feels rare. They carry indescribable pain. They celebrate improbable wins. They betray each other with the best of intentions — which might be the most human thing of all.

When a Show Becomes a Mirror

I came to this series as a viewer. I stayed as someone who was seen.

Growing up with an alcoholic father who also self-medicated with prescription drugs — all of which eventually took his life when I was 17 — gave me an intimate and painful education in what it means to love an addict. The confusion of it. The grief that arrives long before the loss does. The way their pain becomes woven into yours, whether you ever wanted it to or not.

This show holds that experience with care. It highlights what it looks like to live beyond someone who’s passed from addiction — the scars that remain, the stories you carry, the ways their shadow shows up in your own life long after they’re gone.

I’ve spent many years healing from my experiences with my father. And I still have days when those shadows feel closer than on others.

That’s the truth of grief. It doesn’t resolve so much as it transforms. It softens. It becomes something you carry differently over time, rather than something that carries you.

I’ve fought through depressive episodes, trauma, and self-destructive patterns to become the woman I am today. And I am so proud of every version of me who was strong enough to go through what she did. Even the versions who didn’t know they were strong. Even the ones who were just surviving.

I have never loved myself as much as I do now. And I wouldn’t be here without my past.

The Locket

The episode that stopped me in my tracks was titled “The Cavalry Isn’t Coming.”

I won’t go into detail in case you’re watching and haven’t caught up, but there’s a moment near the heart of the episode where Maddy Matlock notices a heart-shaped locket around a woman’s neck and asks if it’s a picture locket.

The woman replies simply: “Reminds me who I’m fighting for.”

And when she opens it — inside is a photograph of herself.

Tears fell down my cheeks before I even fully understood why.

It was said so simply, and yet it held so much meaning and depth. In an instant, this woman had shown me one of the most profound acts of self-devotion I had ever witnessed. Not in a grand gesture or a lengthy declaration, but in a quiet, physical reminder she kept close to her heart. A literal love letter to herself, worn around her neck.

A reminder for when the doubts creep in. For when old patterns rise up and ask you to abandon yourself. For when the world goes quiet and the only voice left is the one that says you’re not worth fighting for.

She knew the answer before the question could fully form. Because she had made it impossible to forget.

The Belief That Kept Me Small

I have done a lot of self-abandoning in my life.

For years — more years than I can neatly count — I placed others before myself without question, regardless of the cost to me. I believed, somewhere beneath conscious awareness, that my happiness took from others. That I was meant to hurt so that those around me wouldn’t have to. That my purpose in this lifetime was to be the sacrificial lamb.

It wasn’t a belief I chose. It was one I absorbed, quietly and completely, before I had the language to name it or the awareness to question it.

It was so deeply ingrained that even once I finally knew it was there — once I could see it clearly for what it was — it still took years to no longer be controlled by it. There are moments even now when it wants to take center stage again. When it rises up and reaches for the old familiar patterns, the old familiar smallness.

But I have gained tools. I have built a practice. And I have learned how to find my way back to myself.

The Practice of Return

One of the tools that has changed everything for me is leaning into gratitude. Not as a productivity hack or a journaling prompt, but as a genuine act of devotion.

I’ll thank my home. My desk. My phone. My food. My pen. I’ll thank the wind moving through the trees outside and the butterfly that pauses at the window. These small acknowledgments are not about forcing positivity, they’re about presence. About choosing to notice what is here, what is good, what is holding me.

And when that old belief surfaces — the one that says I am meant to sacrifice myself for everyone else — I’ve learned to thank it too. I thank it for how it protected me once upon a time, when I was small and didn’t know how else to be safe. I show it love instead of anger. And now, every time, it releases its grip and fades.

That shift — from fighting the old story to loving it into release — has been one of the most quietly revolutionary things I’ve ever done.

I am grateful for every past version of myself who fought, even when there seemed to be no reason to. Even when hope felt like a story other people got to live. I am grateful they were strong enough, and I am grateful they led me here.

Who’s in Your Locket?

I keep thinking about that image — a woman opening a heart-shaped locket to find her own face looking back at her.

Reminds me who I’m fighting for.

What would it mean to carry yourself that close? To make it that impossible to forget that you are the one worth showing up for. Not someday, not after you’ve earned it, not once things settle down. But now, in this moment, exactly as you are?

What small, physical reminder could you create for yourself? What daily practice could become your version of the locket — the thing you return to when the doubts rise and the old patterns knock?

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to be willing to remind yourself, again and again, who you’re fighting for. Who you’re staying devoted to. Who you’re transforming for.

Yourself. It has always been yourself.