Chap­ter 48 marked a pow­er­ful shift in reclaim­ing auton­o­my. After over a decade of forced silence and legal con­trol, I final­ly acknowl­edged what every­one around me already knew—it was time for a change. Real­iz­ing I need­ed new legal rep­re­sen­ta­tion was the first true step toward tak­ing back my pow­er. I reached out to Cade and my social media team for guid­ance, and that’s when I found Math­ew Rosen­gart. A respect­ed for­mer fed­er­al pros­e­cu­tor with clients like Keanu Reeves and Steven Spiel­berg, he imme­di­ate­ly brought hope. We spoke sev­er­al times before meet­ing in per­son, and once he was onboard, I felt a shift—like some­thing mon­u­men­tal was about to unfold.

Rosen­gart was stunned that I had been denied the right to choose my own attor­ney for so long. He said that even con­vict­ed crim­i­nals had that basic right. Know­ing he viewed my expe­ri­ence as unjust gave me reas­sur­ance that I wasn’t overreacting—what had hap­pened was wrong. He filed a motion in July to remove my father as con­ser­va­tor, and by late Sep­tem­ber, the court agreed. When the rul­ing came down sus­pend­ing him, the news broke faster than he could even call me. A life­time of fear and con­trol was lift­ed in that one deci­sion. I felt light again.

With my father gone from his role, we had momen­tum. Math­ew moved quick­ly to file for the end of the con­ser­va­tor­ship alto­geth­er. I was in Tahi­ti when I got the call. Math­ew told me I was offi­cial­ly free. It didn’t feel real until I heard him say the words, and even then, it took a while to sink in. After 13 years of being treat­ed like some­one inca­pable of run­ning her own life, I had my inde­pen­dence restored. The tears, the pain, the silence—it had all been for this moment.

He told me some­thing I didn’t expect: that the real vic­to­ry belonged to me. Not to him, not to the court, but to me—because I’d spo­ken up. He believed my voice, my courage in tes­ti­fy­ing pub­licly, had not only freed me but would inspire oth­ers trapped in sim­i­lar legal arrange­ments. After years of being told I owed my suc­cess to oth­ers, hear­ing that I made the dif­fer­ence felt rev­o­lu­tion­ary. I wasn’t just surviving—I was reclaim­ing every­thing that had been tak­en.

In the months that fol­lowed, I tried to live life fully—on my terms. I took time for myself, allowed space for joy, and re-learned how to feel safe in my own choic­es. On a trip to Can­cún, I went jet ski­ing again—something I hadn’t done in years. Instead of rid­ing at high speeds like before, I had some­one dri­ve me. It gave me a chance to breathe, to feel the ocean air and the free­dom in choos­ing my own pace. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t need to per­form or prove any­thing.

Music became my ther­a­py again. I’d sing around the house just because it made me feel hap­py. Not for a show. Not for a pay­check. Just for me. That joy remind­ed me of when I was a lit­tle girl, singing because it felt good and right. It was sacred again. Singing, pray­ing, and even mov­ing my body—all of it helped me recon­nect with myself. Music and faith became my sanc­tu­ary, remind­ing me that I still had a voice and a pur­pose beyond the stage.

An unex­pect­ed oppor­tu­ni­ty rekin­dled my cre­ative fire. Elton John reached out to col­lab­o­rate on a reimag­in­ing of “Tiny Dancer,” and I was hon­ored. I’d admired him for years. Record­ing “Hold Me Clos­er” with him brought back some­thing I hadn’t felt in ages: excite­ment about music. We record­ed the track in a Bev­er­ly Hills home stu­dio, and the expe­ri­ence was unlike any­thing I’d done before—intimate, raw, and on my own terms. The song’s suc­cess was over­whelm­ing. It hit num­ber one in 40 coun­tries. After six years of not releas­ing new music, I’d returned with some­thing that felt com­plete­ly mine.

Even with the musi­cal high, I knew I had more heal­ing to do. These days, I don’t feel the need to be on stage. I’ve found peace in soli­tude and a deep­er con­nec­tion with God. I still pray every day, often with Hesam, who has been a pil­lar of strength in my life. His steady pres­ence has helped me build a new life—one where I final­ly feel safe and seen. Our mar­riage was more than a cel­e­bra­tion; it was a sym­bol of start­ing fresh, no longer defined by restric­tion.

The end of the con­ser­va­tor­ship came with com­plex emotions—relief, sad­ness, anger, and joy. I was hurt not just by my father but also by my fam­i­ly. My sister’s book felt like a betray­al, twist­ing per­son­al mem­o­ries into pub­lic spec­ta­cle. It’s painful when pri­vate vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty is used against you. I don’t think she tru­ly under­stood the extent of the trau­ma I endured. But even with that pain, I’m learn­ing to replace bit­ter­ness with empa­thy. I’m not there yet—but I’m try­ing.

Phys­i­cal symp­toms now man­i­fest the weight of those years. Migraines hit hard, leav­ing me unable to move or speak. I nev­er used to get them, and now they feel like the body’s way of express­ing what words some­times can’t. I’ve devel­oped a fear of doc­tors after so many years of forced appoint­ments. So I man­age on my own as best I can. Pain isn’t just emotional—it’s some­thing I car­ry phys­i­cal­ly every day. Yet I try to move for­ward, lit­tle by lit­tle.

For over a decade, I wasn’t allowed to choose what to eat, what to wear, how to spend my mon­ey, or even drink cof­fee. But today, those choic­es are mine again. No more wait­ing for per­mis­sion. No more silence. No more being told when to speak or what to say. I’m here now—free, flawed, heal­ing, and final­ly in con­trol of my life.