Not Every Story Is Meant for You…Yet

July 8, 2025 · 4 min read

Why I have to honor the private parts of public healing.

I have asked everyone in my circle not to read my writing. At least not yet.

Because my habit — deeply ingrained and often unconscious — has always been to back down to other people’s wants and opinions. To shrink myself to keep the peace. To bite my tongue to avoid rocking the boat. To let their comfort take priority over my truth.

But not here. Nothing has been fabricated, but it’s all coming from my perspective. I honor theirs, but this is not their space. This space is still mine.

This is my space to tell my side of the story. Without interruptions. Without sidequests, unless I choose to take them. This is my space to heal. Without their eyes.

I am telling my truth so that others feel a little less alone in theirs. That’s what I’m doing. That’s my why.

And it’s a ginormous relief — one I thought would never come — that I finally know my why. Why I had imaginary friends instead of real ones. Why I’ve moved over 30 times in 45 years. Why I battled addiction, misdiagnoses, and debilitating heartbreak. Why I was blessed to raise my children as a single mom. Why they had to see me at my worst. Why I struggled to pay even the most basic of bills for decades. Why I lived in chronic pain for over five years. Why I couldn’t hold down a job. Why I couldn’t hold on to friendships. Why I always stayed in places I didn’t belong.

It sounds devastating written out like that. But it’s my truth.

I Am Not Here to Be Sad

I am here to talk about the sad. To live it again with you, my dear reader. To show you how it broke me and how I’ve used the pieces, along with countless new coping tools, to build something stronger. Tears may fall for the girl I used to be. And that’s okay. Because those tears mean compassion. Real adoration for the woman who sits typing these words. It’s taken me nearly five and a half decades to arrive at this moment.

So, now I know my why. The relief is freeing. The weight is gone. The knowing is strong.

My pattern would be, now, to get stuck in the next question: How will this knowing shape my life? Will it finally provide for me? Will it open the right doors? Yes. Yes to all of it. And I won’t even entertain another option. Radical faith, baby. Radical faith that everything has already worked out.

We are the masters. The builders. The rescuers of ourselves. No one is coming to save us. No one else can fill the void of our grief-stricken hearts. No one can mend the scars of a lifetime of being wired to exist within society’s standards. Only we can do that.

And if everything has already worked itself out… why not quit the job that’s killing your soul? Why not move to a quieter corner of your city? Why not end the relationship that brings more pain than peace? Why not dye your hair red? Why not say no to the friends who make you feel small? Why not?

None of that happens before the movement. It only happens when we start walking forward… with the weight still strapped to our backs.

The Luggage Exercise

Close your eyes. Picture yourself standing face-to-face with your second self. It’s an identical replica of you. Now hand her a suitcase:

One filled with every embarrassing moment you can recall. Another packed with the ones you can’t. One more stuffed with every time you lashed out in anger. Another with every time you stayed silent to keep someone else comfortable.

Add two more for the words you said that you wish you hadn’t. And a dozen more for the things you never said but still carry. A whole set for your foolish drunken nights. A giant one labeled “Parenting Regrets.” A vintage trunk marked “My Own Childhood.” A duffel bag of every unmet need. A carry-on packed with shame.

Have her stack it. All of it. Her shoulders buckling. Her back aching. Your second self is buried beneath it.

Until… you decide it’s time for her to put one down. And the only way to do that is by YOU taking a single step forward. Let one suitcase drop. Let the contents spill. Let it be ugly if it must — but let it out. Face it.

Then pick up the tools you’ve gathered: deep breathing, EFT tapping, brainwave music, meditation, grounding, energy clearing, movement. Use them to take another step… lighter, steadier, stronger. One step closer to being able to drop the next one.

This Space Is for Alchemy

The people in my real life might not be ready to see me open my luggage. And that’s okay. Most of them aren’t. My healing journey doesn’t demand that everyone understand. It just asks that I keep going. Keep showing up. Keep being real.

If I know they’re watching — reading — I’ll start editing myself. I’ll start second-guessing my truth, padding the edges so it doesn’t make them uncomfortable. I’ll start worrying about their reaction to my recounting of my life. And that defeats the entire purpose.

I still crack under pressure at times. I still stumble under the weight.

But now… I’m learning to take one bag — just one — unzip it, and let it breathe.

No more stuffing it down. No more pretending it’s not heavy.

Sometimes I will even place it in front of you. I’ll show you what was inside. I name it. I grieve it. I honor it.

Because this ritual of unpacking, naming, and releasing — this is how I heal. This is how I move forward. This is how I reclaim my voice, my space, my sanity, my soul.

I’m not here to be fearless. I’m here to be free. One bag at a time.

(And if you know me IRL — I ask you kindly, block me.)