Writing from the Spiral Staircase

What I’ve learned descending from the tower of silence, shame, and survival.

Healing isn’t soft. It’s savage. It’s standing in the ashes of who you were and choosing to speak anyway.

It’s Day 7 of writing, and I am definitely not running out of ideas — or truths. But as I crossed the one-week mark, I found myself reflecting on how showing up for this commitment — writing every day for the month of July — has already changed me.

Let’s start with the most unexpected, empowering realization: writing about my life is so much easier than talking about it.

For five years, I’ve dipped my toe into TikTok here and there, trying to share. But every attempt came with a flood of shame. Embarrassment. Hesitation. Somewhere along the line, my throat chakra — my voice — got completely shut down.

The Voices That Silenced Me

It’s the father of my children, who never listened when I brought up concerns about our kids. It was always his new wife’s opinion that mattered. I was just a problem to be managed.

It’s my mother, who still says, “You were brought into my life to teach me because I just don’t understand you. You’re so different than everyone else.” That might sound like a compliment to some. To me? Those words were daggers. Even now, her voice carries the weight of old wounds. She doesn’t mean harm. But the trauma lives in every syllable.

It’s the man I adore telling me I’m brilliant, but wondering why I’d want to be so public. It’s the job where I raised my voice about a toxic culture… and was met with silence.

It’s what happened five years ago, globally and personally. I stood in my truth about natural health and healing, and I was ridiculed. Flagged. Targeted. I was attacked for not conforming. Ostracized for not falling in line. And no one talks about that part… how people like me were treated.

And then… it was my current relationship. The chaos. The avoidance. The silence. The exhaustion of feeling like I have to carry all of the emotional weight. That was the cherry on my mental health sundae.

I fell. A full collapse. Severe depression. The kind that eats your voice and numbs your soul. Or, for my spiritual folks, you’d call it a dark night of the soul. I stopped speaking. Stopped creating. Stopped caring. It was too much. Everything was too much.

I stopped job hunting. Not because I was lazy, but because I couldn’t stomach the idea of walking into another toxic space pretending to be okay. Every morning was a curse. Another day. Another damn day of being silent.

I Am the Beast. And the Prince.

It’s easy to say I locked my voice away in a tower, waiting for someone to come fight the beast and save me. But here’s the truth: I am the beast. And the prince. I am the rescue. I had to learn that. The hard way.

I had to sit in the silence long enough to finally hear myself. Not my mother’s criticisms. Not the voices of men who couldn’t carry my truth. Not the judgment of a society that wants me quiet.

This week of writing has been a slow descent from the tower. It’s reminded me why I had to live in that isolation. Why I had to face myself. Why I had to unbury the parts of me I shoved deep out of reach.

Each day this week, I sat at my computer. Closed my eyes. Met the little girl who lived through all of it. And I didn’t flinch. I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t gaslight myself. I didn’t numb. I didn’t flee.

I stayed. I listened. That is healing. My nervous system, after all this time, is finally strong enough to hold space for my truth.

This writing? It’s not polished. It’s raw. It’s journal-like. It’s me. It will evolve as I do, but for now, it’s exactly what it needs to be: heard.

Of Course, Healing Isn’t Linear

Writing this much has also unearthed some fire. Case in point: a friend called me a “lovely lady” on a day I was deep in the chaos. The day I wrote about being raised in fire. About survival mode. About how “lovely” didn’t live here. So I lashed out.

That was the storm speaking. But what matters most is what came after. My friend didn’t run. They didn’t recoil. They didn’t shame me. They saw my pain. And the work I’ve been doing to heal it. They met me with kindness. With conversation. Clear communication is sacred.

And that’s what I feel here, writing these words. You are my listener. My reader. My mirror. You receive my lashing, not because I aim it at you, but because you hold space for the truth of it.

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