Tag: mental-health

I love the person I am—

the one I’ve fought to become.

Through pain and sorrow, joy and tears, I’ve evolved. My heart is pure, my intentions are good, and I no longer shrink to be palatable. I’ve learned that sometimes my role in someone’s life had nothing to do with me—and that’s okay. Not every chapter was meant to be mine to finish.

I’m still growing. Always will be.

I remind myself often: pain changes me, but it won’t harden me. Even in the thick of it—when I feel like giving up, when hope feels like a ghost—I know I’ll rise.

Maybe bruised.

But never broken.

June 4, 2025

addiction, blog, life, love, mental-health, passion, recovery, sobriety, spiritual
“You Knew—and You Let Me Love You Anyway”

How long did you know?

How long were you going to let me think we had a future—while you were already walking away in your mind?

How long were you going to let me believe I was something real to you, something steady, something safe?

How long were you going to stand there, let me look you in the eyes, and pour out everything inside me—while you quietly braced to leave?

I said things to you I had never even let myself say out loud. Things I never planned on giving away to anyone, let alone someone who saw them as disposable.

How long were you going to let me love you with everything I had, while giving me only the parts of you that cost nothing?

You let me believe in us.

You let me dream.

You let me build a life in my head that you had no plans of staying in.

That’s the part that guts me.

You didn’t just break my heart.

You watched me hand it to you, trembling but honest, and you still took it.

Knowing damn well you were going to drop it.

You could’ve stopped.

You could’ve been real.

You could’ve told me before I buried pieces of myself in you.

But you didn’t.

And now I’m standing here in the wreckage you left, wondering what parts of it were ever real.

So here’s what I’m done doing:

I’m done romanticizing confusion.

I’m done accepting crumbs and calling it care.

I’m done mistaking “almost” for effort.

Next time, I’ll trust the silence more than the words.

I’ll trust the patterns more than the promises.

And I’ll trust myself more than I ever trusted someone who couldn’t choose me with their whole chest.

Because I loved with my whole damn heart.

And you? You played pretend with someone else’s future.

But I’ll heal. I’ll rebuild.

And you’ll always be the one who knew—and didn’t stop me.

May 23, 2025

heartbreak, life, love, mental-health, recovery
To the girl with the Barbie pink bus and the wild imagination,

The one who planned weddings for dolls and built empires from flower crowns and mud pies—

You didn’t need the world to tell you what was possible, you already knew.

You believed in love, in magic, in talking to birds.

You sat on hills like a little queen of your own universe,

and yes, you cried over the silence of a cat,

because your heart was that open.

You weren’t afraid to fall—you were too busy climbing.

Too stubborn to settle, too brave to back down.

You made a tree trunk into a launching pad

because no one was going to shrink your dreams down to size.

And I want you to know something:

I never forgot you.

Not when the world got loud, not when life got heavy,

not when the sparkle dimmed.

I didn’t trade your wonder for realism.

I didn’t bury your bravery.

I carried you with me through every heartbreak,

every storm, every late-night prayer I wasn’t sure would be answered.

You were the beginning of everything good in me.

And I never gave up on our dreams.

Not once.

Not ever.

I promise you—I’m still building the life we imagined.

Brick by messy, beautiful brick.

For both of us.

May 21, 2025

blog, dreams, god, health, life, love, mental-health, passion, prayer, recovery, spiritual, writing
“I Didn’t Make It In Time”

I didn’t get to you before the world settled in—

before your innocence slipped away,

quietly buried beneath years of pain and survival.

I didn’t make it in time.

Our souls missed each other by inches,

before you hardened, before you learned to hide behind

strength, silence, and steel.

But I still see him—

the boy you once were,

flickering in the shadows of your eyes.

The one who never got to fully come out and play.

I can feel the ache of him—

wanting to run barefoot through wonder,

to feel safe enough to be soft,

to be loud without fear,

to be held without suspicion.

I wish I’d seen the sparkle in your eyes

the first time something truly amazed you.

The nervous thrill of your first touchdown.

The clumsy joy of learning your first chords.

The wild belief that you were allowed to dream.

But I didn’t make it in time.

And God, I wish I had.

May 21, 2025

addiction, blog, dreams, health, life, love, mental-health, passion, prayer, spiritual, writing
Unmasking Your Life: What If You Stopped Playing Roles You Never Chose?

Do you really want to spend the rest of your life—or what’s left of it—questioning every time you closed off, played it safe, bit your tongue, or wore a mask just to make other people comfortable?

Because here’s the truth:

You don’t get those years back.

The years you spent shape-shifting to fit.

The decades you lived for someone else’s approval.

The moments you ignored your own needs to keep the peace.

And for what?

For being called “good”? “Polite”? “Successful”?

For belonging in a system that taught you love is earned, needs are weak, and your worth is measured by how much you produce, how little you complain, or how perfectly you perform?

Yeah… no.

What if you stopped to ask yourself:

Who gave me these beliefs? And are they even true?

Was it a parent who only said “I’m proud of you” when you achieved something?

A teacher who shamed you for speaking your truth?

A religion that taught fear instead of freedom?

A partner who made your needs feel like burdens?

A society that said your value disappears if you’re not young, polished, or productive?

Now flip it.

If no one expected anything of me, who would I be?

Would I still chase the job, the body, the hustle?

Would I still be the peacekeeper? The responsible one? The overachiever? The fixer?

Would I still perform “good girl” or “good guy” while my real self shrinks in the corner?

Or would I finally speak out?

Get messy.

Live slower.

Love louder.

Feel fully.

What if you gave up the identities that were handed to you?

What if you stopped being the rebel just to prove a point… or the caretaker just to feel needed?

What if you stopped clinging to the roles you were rewarded for playing and punished for abandoning?

You were not put here to live a life that looks good on the outside while you starve on the inside.

You were not born just to hustle, please, perform, and obey.

One day, you’ll be 80. And your soul won’t care how many gold stars you earned.

It’ll care if you ever said, This is me. Raw. Real. Untamed.

If you ever felt what it was to be deeply, wildly, truly alive.

So here’s your invitation:

Burn the damn blueprint that never fit.

Grieve the roles you outgrew.

And ask yourself—every single day—

“Is this mine… or was I trained to carry it?”

Then choose again.

Not based on fear.

Not based on applause.

But based on truth.

Your truth.

Because the moment you stop pretending…

That’s the moment you start becoming.

May 21, 2025

addiction, blog, dreams, god, life, love, mental-health, passion, recovery, sobriety, spiritual
What If

What if everything we’ve ever been taught about love, strength, and vulnerability was backwards?

What if the real strength isn’t in holding it together, but in letting it fall apart in someone else’s hands—and still being loved in the rubble?

We’ve been conditioned to keep it surface-level. Smile politely. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t bleed on the floor. But what if we want more than that? What if we’re aching for a connection that goes so deep, it scares us?

Yes, society gives us the manual—how to act, what to want, how much to reveal—but what if we set it on fire and wrote our own?

Could I be brave enough to be seen—really seen—without the filters, the polished version, the curated calm?

Could you be the one who holds space for that? Who doesn’t look away when the light hits the parts of me I’ve always tried to hide?

Could you sit with me, not fix me—not need to fix me—but just be there, soul to soul, heart to heart, fear and all?

Could you let your walls down too, not just peek over them?

Because I don’t want a halfway kind of love.

I don’t want pretend.

I don’t want almost.

I want real. Unedited. Holy.

Just us. No spectators. No roles. No masks.

So maybe the better question isn’t “is it possible?”

Maybe it’s—“are we willing?”

To go there.

To stay there.

To choose that kind of love—every damn day—even when it’s messy, even when it hurts, even when it demands more than we thought we could give.

Because maybe that’s the point:

To love each other not in spite of the fear, but through it.

May 20, 2025

blog, health, life, love, mental-health, passion, recovery, spiritual, writing
See me

What parts of me don’t I want you to see?

The ones that ache quietly. The ones that whisper “I’m not actually okay” while I smile and say I’m fine. The parts that still carry shame from years ago—shame I’ve dressed up as sarcasm and strength so no one gets too close. The overthinking, the fear of being a burden, the twisted guilt for wanting to be wanted. The part that sometimes feels unworthy of real love, even though I give it away like it’s oxygen. The jealousy. The fear of being forgotten. The way I sometimes sabotage good things because I don’t believe I deserve them.

The thoughts I’m ashamed to say?

What if they only love the version of me I show them?

What if they knew the ugly, unfiltered truth—the days I feel nothing, the nights I feel everything, the moments I want to disappear just to see who would come looking?

But God, don’t I want someone I can trust with all of it?

Not just the cleaned-up version.

The mess.

The raw, uncut footage.

The nights I break and the mornings I pretend I didn’t.

Someone who says, “You don’t scare me. I’m not here to fix you. I’m here to love you.”

Who doesn’t need me to shrink or stretch to fit what they need, because they just want me.

What would that feel like?

Like coming home to a place I never thought I deserved.

Like exhaling without realizing I’d been holding my breath.

Like knowing—deep down, no matter how I twist or unravel—there is one person who will stay.

No matter how heavy.

No matter how complicated.

No matter how much of myself I finally let them see.

That’s the kind of love that heals what shame tried to bury.

That’s the kind of love I crave.

The kind that doesn’t flinch.

The kind that chooses me, even when I’m not sure I would.

May 20, 2025

addiction, blog, health, heartbreak, life, love, mental-health, prayer, recovery, sobriety, spiritual
I Don’t Wanna Hear—Teach Me to Listen

Most of us go through life hearing but never really listening. We pick up the noise, the words, the expectations—but we don’t stop long enough to understand.

We say we want change, but we cling to what’s comfortable.

We say we want truth, but we drown in distractions.

We say we want direction, but we ignore the signs right in front of us.

I don’t wanna hear—teach me to listen. Because real listening isn’t just about sound. It’s about stillness. It’s about shutting out the noise, silencing the fear, and tuning in to something deeper.

I Don’t Wanna See—Give Me a Vision

Seeing isn’t the same as having vision.

I can see the way the world works. I can see the cycles, the struggles, the same mistakes playing out over and over again. But vision—that’s different.

Vision is clarity. Vision is purpose. Vision is knowing that even when everything feels like chaos, there’s still a path forward.

I don’t wanna just see what’s in front of me—I want to see beyond it. To see what’s possible. To see what matters.

Move This Heart to Be Set Apart

This world will try to shape you. It will tell you who to be, what to believe, how to live. It will make you think that fitting in is the goal.

But I don’t want that. I don’t want to trade who I’m meant to be for something easier, safer, or more familiar.

I want to be set apart. Not in some holier-than-thou way, but in a way that says—I refuse to be numb. I refuse to be stagnant. I refuse to let the world make me bitter.

I want to feel deeply, love fully, and walk in God’s purpose for me.

I Wanna Be Different—I Wanna Be Changed

Change isn’t comfortable. It’s messy. It’s painful. It means letting go of things you once clung to, stepping into the unknown, and trusting that something better is on the other side.

But I don’t want to stay the same. I don’t want to trade something real for something familiar.

I wanna be different. I wanna be changed.

I live in this world but not of it .

March 31, 2025

blog, god, life, love, mental-health, passion, prayer, recovery, spiritual
Did You Ever Write a aBucket List as a Kid?

I didn’t.

Wasn’t really my thing.

I didn’t sit around imagining my wedding day or what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was too busy getting dirty, running wild, and dodging crazy 🤪

But last year, I finally wrote one. A bucket list. A real, tangible, “ these are some of the things I wanna experience list. And honestly? It felt good. Like I was finally giving myself permission to want something more than just survival.

Here’s what I wrote:

• Go ax throwing

• Ride a horse under the stars

• Learn how to shoot a bow and arrow correctly

• Learn how to shoot a gun

• Learn how to ride a motorcycle

• Go four-wheeling

• Build furniture out of wood with no screws (because apparently, I like a challenge)

• Skydive (why not?) guaranteed to throw up

• Make an effective herbal medicine

• Study human behavior (because people are weird, and I need answers)

• Go muddying

• Learn a stupid TikTok dance (and hate every second of it)

• Start a podcast (in progress—stay tuned) when I learn to do it afraid

• Have a cute movie date in the back of a pickup truck

• Wreck a splatter room (because throwing paint at walls sounds therapeutic)

• Learn a different language (probably bad words first)

• Write a book (one that makes people feel something)

• Raise only halfway fucked-up kids (because perfection is unrealistic)

• Go to a fancy-ass tea party (Bridgerton looked really cool)

• Visit Ireland (with my handsome Irish man, kiss a rock, the usual)

• Learn to make my own clothes (everything I love is expensive, and I’ve always thought it was cool to be self-sustaining)

Why Write It Down?

I like keeping little notes in my phone—snapshots of where I was at a certain point in my life. They remind me of what I wanted, what I was feeling, and how far I’ve come. Sometimes, I look back and think, damn, I really did that. Other times, I laugh because I was clearly delusional about how much free time I’d have.

But that’s the thing about dreams. They aren’t always practical. They aren’t always urgent. But they matter.

I spent so much of my life just trying to make it to tomorrow that I never let myself think about the things that would make me happy. I never thought about what I actually wanted. Now? I do.

So, here’s my challenge to you: Write your list. It doesn’t matter if it’s big or small, if it makes sense or seems impossible. Just write it. Because when you stop living just to survive and start living with intention, things start changing.

And who knows? Maybe one day, we’ll be ax-throwing, tea-drinking, motorcycle-riding badasses together.

One dream at a time.

March 29, 2025

blog, dreams, life, love, mental-health, passion, recovery, sobriety
When Home Wasn’t Safe

Remember the abusive aunt from my mom’s story? I wish I could say it ended with her. But it didn’t.

By the time my mom’s drinking, divorces, and self-destruction caught up with her, she was no longer able to keep us. One day, we were just dropped off at my dad’s house like a package he wasn’t expecting. He had no idea what to do with three kids, so three days later, we were passed off to my grandmother—who just so happened to be closely connected to my abusive aunt and her husband (yes, that husband).

So no, things did not get better. If anything, they got much worse.

The Duality of Childhood

It’s strange how a child’s brain works—how it can compartmentalize pain in a way that lets you survive it. Because despite everything, I still have good memories. Running around the neighborhood with my friends. Playing in the fountains downtown in Atlanta. Finding little moments of freedom between the nightmares.

But the abuse? That was a very real, normal part of everyday life.

I don’t know the clinical terms for what was done to me, but if I had to summarize it in a CliffsNotes version, it would include:

• Extension cords

• Broom handles

• Whips

• Spicy food punishments

• Dirty diapers used as weapons

By the age of 13, I had already tried to end my life. That’s how I ended up in my first psych unit, where I stayed for two months.

I told my psychiatrist about the abuse and said I didn’t want to go back. But where else was I supposed to go? My dad was drowning in his own alcoholism. My mom was probably on her third prison sentence. There was no safe option, so I got shipped off—three hours away—to a group home that only had one child.

Me.

Learning to Survive in the System

If you ever want a crash course in toxic behaviors, spend time in group homes and psych wards. You learn real quick how to adapt, how to lie when necessary, how to read people’s moods like your life depends on it (because sometimes it does). I was sent to an alternative school for a while, though I didn’t learn much there either. Some of the foster care workers were nice, but nice doesn’t fix trauma. It doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t change what you go home to when the system decides they’re done with you.

And that’s exactly what happened.

It was Thanksgiving when I was sent home for a short visit. But this time, I wasn’t going back empty-handed. I had gathered evidence. Pictures. Proof of the abuse. I turned it all in to the foster care workers, believing—hoping—that it would finally stop.

Instead, about a week later, I found out my aunt had gotten hold of the original file. She knew everything I had said.

And the state? They hadn’t done anything to protect me.

She still had guardianship. She still had the power to come pick me up at any moment.

The Breaking Point

I don’t know how to explain the kind of panic that sets in when you realize the person who has hurt you the most now knows you tried to expose them. That they could show up at any time, take you back, and make you pay for it.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

And before I even realized what I was doing, I had grabbed something sharp and sliced my right arm open—deep enough to land me right back in the psych unit.

Because at least there? I knew what to expect.

Ps. The story has a happy ending so if you’re sad from reading the last few parts, I’m sorry. But eventually, it does get better.

March 28, 2025

addiction, blog, life, life story, mental-health, parenting, recovery, sobriety