Honest storytelling as a form of healing.

Tag: healing

  • Access Denied

    Being true to myself means locking doors

    that once stood wide open 

    doors that let in anything disguised as concern,

    but were only vampires

    thirsting for my light.

    Access denied.

    I’m learning to change my face,

    to guard the sacred  me.

    They may search for the old version,

    but she’s gone.

    She gave until nothing was left.

    Now she lies in a coffin,

    and no resuscitation can revive her.

    A new seed has been planted 

    and it will be protected

    at all costs.

    Without that protection,

    my lifeline dies.

    Access denied.

    Access denied.

    I forgive myself

    for giving too much

    and receiving so little.

    I refuse to fill my days

    with emptiness and fillers.

    Only sincerity

    may walk this path with me now.

    Access denied.

    Access denied.

    I won’t mourn wasted time 

    I’ll face what’s left

    and pour into myself

    what I always needed.

    However much time remains,

    I will spend it wisely.

    Access denied.

    And now, I begin again 

    slowly, surely,

    tending to what is genuine

    and true.

  • Return to Self

     I woke up before dawn with a thought I couldn’t shake how many parts of me I’ve silenced just to make someone else feel comfortable. 

    How many times I’ve swallowed my own light to be the version of “enough” someone else needed.

    The most important relationship you have is with yourself

    It’s heartbreaking to admit how easy it was to disappear piece by piece. And even harder to face the truth: none of it ever worked. Because the people I kept contorting myself for? 

    They still found me too much, or not enough, or somehow both at once.

    Now I’m doing something different. I’m calling those missing parts back.

    I’m asking myself for forgiveness for betraying my own heart while trying to keep others happy. 

    For neglecting the things that made me feel alive. For forgetting that the love I was searching for has been here, within me, all along.

    I’m relearning the things I once loved the joy of pen and paper, the ritual of capturing memories, the art of telling stories simply because they matter to me. 

    And every time I pick up a forgotten piece, I feel a little more like myself again.

    This return is tender. It’s clumsy. It feels a little like being reborn fragile and uncertain, but full of hope.

    Happiness shines from the inside

    And maybe that’s what healing is: coming home to yourself after a long absence and promising you’ll never leave again.