Unaltered Voices

Realizations they come to open our eyes, but sometimes, I want to close them again. They hurt. They’re sharp. They are truths wrapped in barbed wire that tear through illusions you prayed would stay intact. Realizations they sit heavy in your chest, an ache prescription painkillers can’t even touch. The doctor thought ibuprofen would do the trick, but they only “practice” medicine while I practice breathing through heartbreak. Realizations they can freeze a heart that once overflowed with grace. Knowing you were good to people only to be played that kind of betrayal activates a side of you you sometimes can’t come back from. Realizations they make you question everything: every “friend,” every “I love you,” every moment you thought was safe. They make you question yourself, too, and the parts of you that tolerated, that forgave, that kept hoping. But here’s the thing about realizations: they are not stumbling blocks, though they trip you. They are not...

As I cleaned up my Canva creations, I stumbled across so much of myself. Wisdom tucked into graphics. Jewels hidden in unfinished workbooks. Journal pages I left behind. I once created entire coaching materials for clients who wanted to turn their expertise into books. I paused. Memories surfaced, both good and not so good. I remembered the team of coaches I once built, the books we wrote together, and how my anthology process was unmatched. Smooth. Organized. Clear. If anyone felt lost, it was never because the system failed; it was because they didn’t read the posts, expected me to do the work for them, or simply didn’t care enough to follow through. And then the sting hit me: I had given people everything they needed to succeed, and yet some still refused to take hold. Some saw me not as a guide, but as competition. That season was wild. I worked alongside business owners who claimed they wanted to help others, yet couldn’t create their own content. Many wanted everything handed to ...

There’s a kind of praise that doesn’t feel like love; it feels like a setup. It’s praise laced with poison. I didn’t realize this was a thing until I slowed down and paid attention. The truth is, we will always find what we need to liberate us when we get quiet and observe. But before I learned to do that, I used to mistake every hand clap as encouragement, every smile as support, and every “you’d be great at this” as genuine belief in me. But some praise doesn’t come from a pure place. Have you ever had someone constantly praising you for something you never said you wanted to do? They bring it up in every conversation, encouraging you to pursue it, even though you only ever treated it as a passing interest. And strangely enough, the things you know you’re truly good at, the passions that keep you up at night, they never mention those. Almost like they don’t see them… or maybe don’t want to. I fell for this trap more times than I’d like to admit. I allowed praise to divert my course. ...

  I never want anyone to say I am a good person and then describe me as a woman who "held on" while I was being dragged through the mud. That is not strength, that is survival at the expense of my soul. And honestly, it is more frightening than holding on out of fear. When I sat down and really thought about it, asking myself why I kept holding on, the truth hit me: I didn't want to lose. The humiliation of betrayal made me feel like I was already losing, and holding on, no matter how destructive, felt like a way to soften the blow. I don't fully understand the correlation yet, but I know this: I equated letting go with defeat. I thought staying meant I still had control. But let me tell you this, there is no victory in bleeding out while clutching the very thing that cut you. I am not writing this to dwell on pain, but to help you heal as you read. To help you recognize the same pattern in yourself if it's there. Because once you see it, you can free yourself. Ye...

Why must my scars be the proof of my resilience? Why must I bleed just to be seen as unbreakable? I am tired of strength being measured in bruises, in silence, in how much hell I can endure without collapsing. Strength is not swallowing pain until it drowns me. Strength is spitting it out, naming it, and refusing to carry what was never mine. You call me strong because I “survived you.” But survival is not the badge you think it is. It is evidence of war, a war I never signed up for. My strength is not in patching wounds you created. It is in refusing to let you cut me again. Strength is not carrying dysfunction on my back like a twisted inheritance. It is breaking generational chains so my daughter will never confuse pain with love, and my son will never call control protection. Strength is not forgiveness without accountability. It is boundaries without apology. It is walking away without looking back. You thought I stayed because I was tenacious. No, I stayed because I wa...