There was a time when I believed healing meant forgetting.
That one day I’d wake up and the past would simply stop following me.
Instead, the safer my life became, the more memories found their way back.
Not the obvious ones.
Tiny ones.
One memory at a time, my nervous system began handing me pieces of a life I had survived but never fully understood.
For years, I believed something was wrong with me.
I searched for answers everywhere except inside myself.
I blamed stress.
ADHD.
Depression.
Marriage.
Religion.
I worked harder.
Apologized more.
Became smaller.
I spent years trying to become someone I could finally feel at peace being.
Then everything unraveled.
I left an emotionally abusive marriage.
I came out as gay in my mid-thirties.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized something I wish I’d known (or listened to) decades earlier:
My body already knew.
It had been trying to tell me the truth long before I had the courage to listen.
So I started writing.
At first, it was just lists.
A page full of one-line moments.
Fragments.
Questions.
Stories I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Eventually, they became these scattered essays.
This isn’t a place where I’ll pretend to have everything figured out.
It’s a place where I’ll tell the truth as honestly as I know how.
About abuse that didn’t leave bruises.
About religious shame.
About motherhood.
About grief.
About falling in love with a woman after believing my entire life that I couldn’t.
About learning that survival and living are not the same thing.
Mostly…
it’s about learning to trust myself again.
If you’ve ever questioned your own reality…
Minimized your own pain…
Or wondered if it’s too late to become who you’ve always been…
I’m really glad you found your way here.
Welcome.
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