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I’m tired of turning hard things into lessons. I don’t want to grow through loss. I want peace. I want softness. That’s not bitterness. It’s honesty. And I’m allowed to want that now. And I do.

After months of holding it all together, I broke. Not from rage—but from longing, from truth, from the weight of everything I hadn’t let myself fully feel. This is the story of the tidal wave that undid me—and the quiet courage that followed. A story of grief, reckoning, and slowly remembering that I get to choose what comes next.

We picked these berries together last summer. It was a good day. And yet, being in a loading zone behind him a year later, I realized how heavy even the sweet moments can become. I saw him. I saw everything. And it all came rushing back.

This weekend was filled with simple things—family, sunflowers, blueberry buckets— and somewhere in the middle of it, Peace and Joy walked beside me again.

The brutality isn't just what he did to me. It's that I had to become someone I never wanted to be.

He called me Kitten, soft, sweet, and easy to control. For a while, I played the part, quiet and grateful for scraps of affection. But my voice was never gone. It was hypnotized.

It didn’t demand my destruction. It didn’t steal my breath. It simply let me be.

Safety is a fundamental human need. I didn't know I needed emotional safety until I fell in love with a man who promised it to me. When that promise dissolved into a bucket of lies, I created it inside of myself.

I miss my sweet, grumpy boy.

I loved him and his dogs so deeply. It didn't have to be this way....

For a long time, I believed I was broken. At twelve, I asked to go to “Fat Camp,” thinking if I could just shrink, I’d finally be enough. I smiled through the shame, but inside was chaos. This is the story of how I stopped trying to disappear, and started creating myself instead.

It wasn't just me who thought so.

Fully stocked pantry, backups of everything... I didn't know what those things really meant.

What happens when your body still craves the person who hurt you? This raw piece explores the somatic aftermath of a trauma bond and how the body remembers touch, even when the mind knows the truth.

After my dad died, I didn’t fall into stillness. I fell into a storm, grieving one kind of loss while surviving another. Only now, in the quiet after, has the weight of his absence truly landed. But so has something else: the quiet strength he passed on. Not in words. In essence. This piece isn’t just about grief. It’s about what lives on. What was quietly left behind. What I carry forward.

When the truth surfaced, it wasn’t just the relationship that ended. It was the reality I thought I was living. This is a story about the wreckage, the reckoning, and the quiet rebuilding of a self I almost lost. Breath by breath. Wave by wave. Back to what was always real.

There comes a moment, quiet, sharp, unmovable, when something inside you finally says no more. For me, it wasn’t the lies I uncovered or even seeing him with someone new. It was when he asked me to be kind.

For a long time, I thought it was me. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too needy. But now I know the truth: I was drafted into a war I didn’t know existed. What I brought was love, belief, and open-hearted hope. What I received was betrayal. I didn’t deserve a war. No one does.

This wasn’t just heartbreak, it was psychological warfare. I didn’t survive it with grace or ease. I survived it breath by breath, scream by scream, learning to let the fire burn through everything false until only truth remained. This is what it looked like to live through the pain and come out the other side.

He replaced me before the truth even surfaced. But the pain didn’t mean I wasn’t worthy. It just meant I loved deeply. And now, I choose me.