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When I look at this picture, I don’t just see two women smiling. I see two little girls who survived something neither of us fully...
When I look at this picture, I don’t just see me. I see the little...
Lately, something has been shifting. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not in a “everything...
There are days when I don’t feel like who I used to be. Days when...
When I look at this picture, I don’t just see two women smiling.
I see two little girls who survived something neither of us fully understood at the time.
What makes it harder to explain is this:
We didn’t know he was hurting both of us.
Not really.
We each thought we were the strong one.
We each thought we were the protector.
We each thought, “If I just hold it together, she’ll be okay.”
There’s something heartbreakingly beautiful about that.
Two children trying to carry weight that was never theirs.
I remember moments when I would look at her and think,
“I’ll take it. I can handle it. Just don’t let it touch her.”
And I know now she was thinking the same thing about me.
We didn’t talk about it then.
We didn’t have language for it.
We didn’t even fully understand what was happening.
But we felt it.
The tension.
The silence.
The unspoken knowing.
We grew up believing we were shielding each other.
And maybe, in some small ways, we were.
Not because we could stop it.
But because we never let the other feel completely alone.
There’s a kind of survival that doesn’t look loud.
It looks like passing glances across a room.
It looks like sleeping in the same bed because the dark felt heavier that night.
It looks like, “I’m fine,” when you’re not because you don’t want her to worry.
We were children trying to be armor for each other.
Now, when I see this photo, I don’t just see adulthood.
I see proof that we made it.
Not untouched.
Not unchanged.
But still here.
Still choosing each other.
Still standing side by side. Only now, we know the truth.
We don’t have to protect each other from it anymore.
We get to heal together instead.
When I look at this picture, I don’t just see me.
I see the little girl I used to be.
The one who didn’t understand what was happening.
The one who learned to be quiet.
The one who thought survival meant shrinking.
The one who counted breaths just to get through moments no child should have to endure.
When I look at this version of myself now, leaning against a tree, standing in the light I don’t feel fearless.
I feel protective.
Not just of my future.
Not just of the life I’m building.
But of her.
The eight-year-old who didn’t have anyone step in.
The teenager who was told she was “too sensitive.”
The young woman who confused chaos with love because it was familiar.
I don’t hate the version of me who tolerated too much.
She was surviving.
But I am not her anymore.
I am the woman who would stand between her and anything that tried to harm her.
I am the voice that says, “No.”
I am the boundary.
I am the exit.
I am the safety.
Healing isn’t becoming emotionless.
Healing is feeling everything and choosing differently anyway.
I still have nightmares.
I still get triggered.
I still shake sometimes.
But now when I feel fear, I don’t abandon myself.
I hold her.
I tell her:
“You’re safe now.”
“I’ve got you.”
“No one is allowed to hurt you anymore.”
There is something sacred about realizing you have grown into the very person you once prayed would show up.
I am not the little girl waiting to be saved.
I am the woman who saves her.
And I will never let someone treat her the way I once allowed.
Not again.
-Samantha ❤️
Lately, something has been shifting.
Not in a loud, dramatic way.
Not in a “everything is fixed” kind of way.
But in small moments.
I’ve started noticing the way sunlight hits the trees again.
The quiet feeling of morning before the world wakes up.
The way my body softens when I feel safe.
For a long time, I was surviving.
Then I was numbing.
Then I was fighting.
And now… I’m feeling.
And feeling is complicated.
There are days where I genuinely feel peace.
Where I see beauty in small things and think,
“I’m going to be okay.”
And then there are moments where it all rushes back.
A memory.
A courtroom.
A tone in someone’s voice.
A flash of the past that tightens my chest before I even understand why.
Old versions of me would have run from it.
I would have distracted myself.
Smiled.
Pretended.
Pushed it down.
Told myself I was being dramatic.
But now, when it comes, I try something different.
I sit.
Even if it’s uncomfortable.
Even if my body feels shaky.
Even if tears come.
I let the wave move through me.
And then I get back up.
That’s the part people don’t talk about.
Healing isn’t about never feeling triggered again.
It’s about not abandoning yourself when you are.
It’s about recognizing,
“This is a memory, not my present.”
“This is my nervous system trying to protect me.”
“I am safe right now.”
And instead of spiraling, I breathe.
Instead of running, I ground.
Instead of shaming myself, I offer compassion.
Some days it’s messy.
Some days I still cry more than I want to.
Some days I feel strong.
Some days I feel raw.
Healing is not linear.
It doesn’t move in a straight line upward.
It moves in waves.
Forward.
Back a little.
Forward again.
But each time I sit with it instead of escaping it, I realize something.
I’m not crazy.
I’m processing.
And if you’re in that space right now
where you’re starting to feel again
where beauty is returning in small pieces
but the past still knocks on the door sometimes
You’re not regressing.
You’re integrating.
That’s actually growth.
I’m writing my book and this blog for one reason:
Because I remember what it felt like to think I was the only one reacting this way.
To think I was too emotional.
Too sensitive.
Too affected.
I want you to know you’re not alone in this.
You’re not broken because healing isn’t smooth.
You’re not unstable because your body still reacts.
You’re not weak because you cry.
You’re healing.
And sometimes healing looks like sitting in the middle of the storm for a moment…
and realizing you don’t have to run anymore.
Then standing up, brushing yourself off, and continuing forward.
One breath at a time.
-Samantha ❤️
There are days when I don’t feel like who I used to be.
Days when everything feels closer to the surface.
When sounds are louder, emotions are heavier, and I wonder why I can’t just “hold it together” the way I once did.
If you’re reading this and feeling the same, I want you to know something important:
You are not broken.
You are not regressing.
You are not weak for feeling deeply.
Sensitivity is not a flaw. It’s often what shows up when your body finally believes it’s safe enough to feel.
For a long time, survival required numbness. It required pushing things down, staying composed, being strong, being quiet, being okay even when you weren’t. And that version of you did exactly what it needed to do to get you here.
But healing doesn’t look like numbness.
Healing looks like tears that don’t make sense.
Like irritability without a clear cause.
Like tenderness where armor used to be.
It can feel terrifying to soften after so much hardness.
It can feel embarrassing to need rest.
It can feel confusing to feel everything at once.
But none of this means you’re losing yourself.
It means you’re coming back.
There is nothing wrong with needing gentleness.
There is nothing wrong with crying more than usual.
There is nothing wrong with being affected.
You are allowed to feel without explaining yourself.
You are allowed to be sensitive without apologizing.
You are allowed to take up space in your own experience.
If today you feel unlike yourself, maybe it’s because you’re no longer living in constant survival mode. Maybe your nervous system is learning a new language. One that includes safety, presence, and honesty.
That learning process is messy.
And it’s okay.
You don’t have to rush yourself back into who you were.
You don’t have to perform strength.
You don’t have to minimize your emotions to make others comfortable.
Let yourself feel.
Let yourself rest.
Let yourself be human.
This version of you the one who feels deeply is not a problem to solve.
It’s a truth to listen to.
And you are allowed to take your time finding your way back to yourself.
-Samantha đź’•