This is what it feels like to vanish while still being alive. This is what it looks like to survive by shape-shifting. This a raw descent into the emotional contortion act so many of us master. This post is the slow unraveling of a soul starving for safety, the ache of becoming invisible in rooms full of people who claim to love you. It’s about the exhaustion of translating your own heart to be understood, and the devastating cost of performing daily to be ‘loved’. It’s the confession of what it costs to exist in a world without emotional safety. And it’s the reminder that real safety doesn’t require you to be less, it invites you to be fully. This is for the ghosts with pulses, the too-much souls, and the ones still searching for a place to finally be seen. A reminder that you will never be too much. You’ve just never given a place safe enough to be all of you. Be willing to let go to fall into it.

Grief doesn’t always come in the form of death. Sometimes, it manifests in a choice that slowly guts you. This post is the unraveling of love that betrayed and saved in the same breath. It’s for the ones who had to choose between what they wanted and what was right. It’s the ache of doing the right thing and watching it fracture the person you were trying to save. It’s the quiet devastation of being cut off while still loving someone with your whole, breaking heart. This is what it feels like to grieve someone still alive. It’s the grief of loving someone who couldn’t see that love as loyalty. It’s about the impossible weight of doing the right thing when the right thing costs you everything. This isn’t just about adoption or addiction or even estrangement, it’s about love that changes shape, love that lingers, and love that refuses to give up even when the door is slammed closed. It’s about letting go and still holding on. This is the ache of forever… and the cost of choosing it.

Grief has a thousand faces, but none haunt quite like regret. This post is a reckoning with the silence that screams the loudest… the moment you didn’t go, the words you didn’t say, the gut feeling you swallowed. It’s about the kind of grief that crawls into bed with you at night and whispers, you should’ve known. The kind that doesn't just ache, it accuses. This is the heavy, breath-stealing sorrow of what if. The ghosts you can’t outrun. The hindsight that slices deeper than any goodbye. It’s not just about losing someone, it’s about losing the chance to save them. This is what it feels like when guilt wraps itself around grief and refuses to let go. When surviving becomes a form of penance, and healing means learning to carry the ache with both hands. This is the kind of pain that changes how you breathe… and the quiet, unrelenting hope that maybe, somehow, it also teaches you how to love louder.

This is a raw confession from the bloody frontlines - where words cut deep and surviving the war inside yourself is the hardest victory you’ll ever claim. This is what it means to be too loud, too fierce, too unruly, too much for hearts not built to carry the weight. It’s the brutal, unvarnished truth about what love demands when you’re a wildfire raging beyond control. This post is born from the edge of exhaustion… from the fierce, trembling hope that maybe even if loving me is a war, I’m still worthy of being loved - fierce, raw, and unyielding.

Grief doesn’t always start with silence. Sometimes, it begins with a scream… yours or the world’s, it’s hard to tell. This post is about the day everything split open. The day I watched my mother’s body be pulled from a car while her soul had already left. It’s about the moment my baby pointed to a running engine and unknowingly rewrote my entire life. It’s about the horror of seeing blue skin, the weight of collapsing into your brother’s arms, the helplessness of watching strangers try to restart the heart that raised you. This is what it means to be orphaned in adulthood. To be old enough to know what death means, and still feel like a lost child in the wreckage. It’s the first moment time broke, and grief became the air I breathe.

Grief doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it whispers in the dark, soft and seductive, until you can’t tell the difference between breathing and breaking. It takes you piece by piece until you can’t tell if you’re still here at all. Sometimes, it’s suffocating. A heavy, choking darkness that wraps around your throat and whispers things you’re afraid to say out loud. This post is what it feels like to beg the night not to let you wake up. To stare at the ceiling so long you start looking for cracks in reality. It’s a window into a time when I couldn’t trust my own thoughts, when every breath felt like punishment, and surviving felt like betrayal. This is the dark side of the veil… where grief doesn’t just hurt, it writes itself into your bones.

Grief isn’t always quiet. Sometimes, it’s a wildfire. A rage you can’t put out. This post is about the anger, the kind that doesn’t pass politely. The kind that sinks its teeth into your chest and doesn’t let go. It’s what it feels like to hold the child your brother left behind while trying not to scream at the sky. It’s the unbearable tension of missing someone and hating them in the same breath. This is what grief looks like when love and fury live side by side. When surviving feels more like burning alive than healing.

Generational curses aren’t always loud. Sometimes, they look like little girls learning to swallow their feelings to survive. This post is about breaking that. About creating a space where my daughter’s feelings are not only allowed, but welcomed. Where she doesn’t have to earn safety, she just gets to be held in it. It’s a glimpse into cycle-breaking, the soft rebellion of listening, and the quiet pride of raising her differently.

Anxiety isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s the quiet ache of wearing a body that feels like armor, always braced for the blow that never comes. It’s the tension you carry in your shoulders, the breath you didn’t know you were holding, the spiral hidden beneath a practiced smile. It’s the ache of feeling like too much and never enough, all at once.

Healing isn’t linear. It’s loud and messy and out of order. Some days I revisit every stage of grief before lunch. Others, I’m frozen in one for weeks. This post is a raw unraveling - a glimpse into the storm, and a reminder that even when we’re doing the work, we’re allowed to struggle. I’m not sharing a story of ‘healed.’ I’m sharing what it looks like to keep going when the healing is still happening.