I write to reflect.
With every word poured onto the page,
the weight inside me gets a little lighter.
The shadows lose their grip.
The pain loses its voice.
I write to stay free.
To release.
To breathe again.
I write in hopes that my truth
might echo in the hearts of those
who need it the most.
I write to remind myself—
I am not the story they tried to write for me.
I am not the lies I once believed.
I am not my worst mistake.
Every word I write reclaims a piece of me.
love given is never lost.
Not a single kind gesture,
not a single selfless act
was ever wasted.
Even if it wasn’t received the way I hoped.
Even if it didn’t come back the way I gave it.
It all mattered.
It all planted something.
And it was never in vain.
Every ounce of love I poured out
was part of something greater—
a purpose bigger than just me.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Let all that I am praise the Lord; may I never forget the good things he does for me.”
It stops me in my tracks. Because, let’s be real, when life feels like a shit show, gratitude isn’t exactly the first thing that comes to mind. I’m more likely to be an Asshole with an attitude.
But here’s the thing—I have survived every single one of my worst days. Every dark moment, every heartbreak, every time I thought I couldn’t possibly take one more hit… I made it through. Not because I’m some kind of superhero, but because God showed up. Maybe not always in the way I wanted, but always in the way I needed.
The Art of Remembering
It’s easy to forget the good things when life gets tough. When you’re drowning in bills, stressed about your kids(2 Teen boy), or just feeling like you’re running on fumes, it’s hard to see the blessings. But they’re there.
• The roof over my head.
• The laughter in my home.
• The strength to face another day, even when I don’t want to.
• The moments when God placed the right person, the right message, or the right opportunity in my path when I least expected it.
I spent years lost in addiction, drowning in self-destruction, convinced that I was beyond saving. But God never forgot about me. And when I was finally ready to reach for Him, He was already there, hands open, waiting. Years into this recovery journey, I can tell you—God is faithful. He restores. He redeems. And when I stop long enough to remember that, even my hardest days don’t seem so impossible.
Praise in the Mess
Praising God isn’t about pretending everything is perfect. It’s about choosing to trust Him even when it’s not. It’s about recognizing that He’s still good, even when life isn’t.
So today, even in the crazy, I’m choosing to remember. I’m choosing to praise. Not because my life is easy, but because my God is faithful.
And if you’re struggling, if you’re feeling like God is far away, let this be your reminder: He’s closer than you think. And He hasn’t forgotten you.
Take a deep breath, look around, and find something—anything—to be grateful for. Because even in the storm, there’s always something worth praising Him for
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 .
Raw.Real.Recovered. 