I Was Hunted.

And no one believed me. So I started writing — not to prove it, but to survive it.

Twenty-six days in a row that I've either gone straight to the gym and then spilled my guts at the computer — or woken up and headed straight to this chair to write. No distractions. No doomscrolling. No excuses.

Just me. My thoughts. My hot-ass tea with fresh, local honey. And silence.

The kind of silence I used to run from. The kind of silence that used to feel like punishment but now feels like proof.

Twenty-six days I've sat in this exact chair, and let the thoughts that used to torture me pour out of me — instead of eat me alive.

Why is that a big deal? Let me tell you why.

I Wasn't a Writer

I wasn't a big writer in school. My mom tried to get me into journaling — said it would help me track my life. But all I ever filled those pages with were boys, drama, and half-hearted starts. I never saw the point of writing down what I didn't want to remember.

That changed in 2008.

I was pregnant with my third child — a boy — and I was barely surviving a full-blown battle with agoraphobia.

If you're not familiar: agoraphobia is when your nervous system decides the world isn't safe and locks you inside a cage made of fear. And for me, it wasn't wrong.

I had been hunted.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Psychologically. Spiritually. For years. Some unstable, emotionally constipated person with way too much time and unresolved rage decided I was their target.

Cardiff, California. 2002.

It started when I was bartending at a little hole-in-the-wall spot in Cardiff, California. One morning, after a long, late shift, I walked outside — half asleep — to take my daughter to the park, and found condoms scattered all over my car. And the word SLUT spray-painted across the sides.

My daughter was two. She sat in the backseat while I drove — mortified — to get paint remover.

And the cops?

"Well… what did you do to provoke it?"

It got worse.

The Calls

"I'm going to kill you and your daughter."

That's what the voice on the phone said a few days later. Muffled. Definitely male. I didn't know the number. This was back when you had to pay extra for caller ID and call waiting.

That first call terrified me. I lived on the first floor of an apartment. I had no idea who it was. No idea if they were watching me. I became obsessed with every window, every shadow.

Every night for two years: calls. Threats. And eventually, breathing. Just… breathing.

The police traced the calls to different payphones. No leads. No arrests. Just more subtle suggestions that I must have done something to deserve it.

Eventually, I moved. Changed my number. Tried to reclaim some sort of peace. But the damage was done. I went inward. Completely.

2007. Just Weeks Before My Wedding.

Same shit. New twist.

My fiancé came home from a golf day furious. His friend had found a Craigslist casual encounters ad — with my full name, a photo stolen from our wedding website, and an invitation for men to show up at my house. Not long after, there were follow-up posts with graphic images of women who looked enough like me to cause damage.

He believed it.

And when I filed another police report?

"What did you do? You must have done something. You're too pretty."

Like that's a crime. Like that justifies psychological abuse.

So I took it to the FBI. I still have the paperwork. They couldn't help. Or wouldn't. No one really believed me. My then-partner was too absorbed in his own life to put any effort into mine. So I dealt with it alone. And I went inward.

I stopped going to random places. I'd stick to the grocery store, my kids' school, Walmart and Target — and anywhere with my mom, usually just her house. My outside world became very, very small.

I did what trauma-trained women do. I survived. Alone.

But I Didn't Just Survive.

When I found out I was having a boy, something shifted. It dawned on me that I didn't want my son to see his mom as someone controlled by an emotionally unstable and immature stranger who was too pathetic to voice their distaste for me in a normal way.

I didn't want him to see me scared. See me cave to the pressure. See me let anyone knock me off my throne.

I reached out to my mom. To a couple of women I barely knew — girlfriends-of-friends. Not tight. But kind.

I made a plan. The goal: do something that brings me joy with the least amount of effort. Happy hour it was. I love the whole damn experience — getting a little buzzed, becoming best friends with strangers, taste-testing everything on the happy hour menu.

To keep it easy, I chose an upscale restaurant right by the beach and close to home. Somewhere I'd have to dress up, do my hair, wear makeup.

(My son was one month old at this point.)

My mom picked me up at my house so I wouldn't have to drive there alone, even though it was less than a mile away. We met the other women outside the restaurant and walked in together. I kept my head down as they surrounded me. I don't even know if they all understood how deep in it I actually was. I wouldn't look anyone in the eye. What if I caught the eye of the person tormenting me? Eyes down.

I had brought a pen and paper. And that's what I did with my hands while everyone else scanned the menus.

I wrote. Notes on the wine, the vibe, the food, the bathrooms.

And something shifted. I laughed. I exhaled. I felt like a person again.

The Blog That Became a Lifeline

I went home that night full of a healing energy I had nowhere to put. Late into the night, I sat in bed with my laptop on my thighs and started looking into Blogspot. Could I write about my experiences at restaurants with my friends? Yes, I could. And that's what I did. About the food, the decor, the staff. About the courage it took to get there.

And that blog became a lifeline.

Every month, I picked a new spot. The women invited more women. We laughed. We lived. And I wrote. My email list grew to thousands. Women who just needed a safe night out. Locally run restaurants that needed support. My little project helped all of us.

And my voice got sharper. I always wanted people to feel like they were experiencing the evening with me — not just a voyeur.

Until life got in the way again. Three kids, a schedule built for the committed, financial hardship. Writing disappeared. In its place: wine, men, scrolling, silence that wasn't healing.

For many years, my habit became drinking down or distracting the thoughts that desperately wanted out. Sometimes I'd sit at a keyboard and wish I could let the words flow — but those moments were rare. And eventually, I couldn't sit in silence at all. My thoughts remained locked inside, causing a nightmare in my nervous system.

So Yeah. Twenty-Six Days Is a Very Big Deal.

Twenty-six days in a row that my nervous system is proving all the work I'm doing is working. My brain is rewiring the trauma. So much so that I can sit here every single day and write what comes to mind.

Twenty-six days that I didn't freeze, scroll, drink, or disappear. That I let the words out instead of letting them control me from the inside. That I chose me.

And the craziest part? You're reading it. You're telling me you feel seen. That means something. It changes something.

Because surviving is one thing.

But learning to thrive because of what tried to destroy you? That's the real revolution.

And that's what I'm here to write.

— AudraHealing out loud, so you don't have to heal in silence.