• My Journey đź’ś

    I Am Still Here. Surviving the Ones Who Were Supposed to Love Me

    April 2, 2026 - By 

    There’s a specific kind of damage that comes from being hurt by the people who were supposed to love you.

    Not strangers.

    Not the world.

    But the ones closest to you.

    The ones who were supposed to be safe.

    Abuse doesn’t always look like what people expect. It’s not always loud, obvious, or easy to explain. Sometimes it’s layered in lies. Sometimes it’s hidden in manipulation. Sometimes it’s disguised as “love” so convincingly that you don’t even realize what’s happening until it’s already shaped you.

    It’s being told one thing and shown another.

    It’s being made to feel like you’re the problem.

    It’s being hurt, then comforted by the same hands that caused the pain.

    It’s confusion becoming your normal.

    And when that happens young, when your brain is still learning what love is, what safety is, what you are. It doesn’t just hurt in the moment.

    It builds you around it.

    Your mind adapts in ways you didn’t choose.

    You learn to read people carefully. Too carefully.

    You learn to stay quiet to avoid conflict.

    You learn to take blame just to keep the peace.

    You learn that love can come with fear and that becomes something you carry.

    You don’t grow up feeling safe.

    You grow up feeling prepared.

    Prepared for disappointment.

    Prepared for lies.

    Prepared for pain.

    And the hardest part?

    You still crave the very people who hurt you.

    Because they were your “home,” even when that home didn’t feel safe.

    That kind of contradiction does something deep to a person. It splits you in ways that are hard to explain. Part of you wants to run. Part of you wants to stay. Part of you knows the truth. Part of you still hopes for a different ending.

    That’s what manipulation does.

    That’s what repeated hurt does.

    It doesn’t just break your trust in others—it makes you question yourself.

    Your thoughts.

    Your feelings.

    Your reality.

    But here’s the truth that took me a long time to understand:

    Just because something shaped you… doesn’t mean it gets to define you.

    Yes, what happened changed me.

    It affected my mind.

    It affected my body.

    It affected the way I see love, trust, and even myself.

    I carry things I didn’t ask for. Reactions I didn’t choose. Wounds that didn’t come from me.

    But I’m still here.

    After everything

    the lies,

    the manipulation,

    the confusion,

    the pain

    I am still here.

    Still breathing.

    Still learning.

    Still trying.

    Still choosing to wake up and face another day.

    And not just any day. A day I want to live.

    That matters more than anything they did to me.

    Because survival isn’t just about making it through.

    It’s about deciding, at some point, that you deserve more than just surviving.

    That you deserve peace.

    You deserve honesty.

    You deserve a life that doesn’t feel like something you have to endure.

    And maybe I wasn’t given that in the beginning.

    But I’m building it now.

    Piece by piece.

    Day by day.

    Choice by choice.

    I am not what they did to me.

    I am what I chose to become after.

    The ones that make life worth it đź’™
  • My Journey đź’ś

    The Women I Needed When I Was Little.

    February 26, 2026 - By 

    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 ❤️

  • My Journey đź’ś

    For the Days You Don’t Recognize Yourself

    February 9, 2026 - By 

    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’•

  • My Journey đź’ś

    When The Strongest Person You Know Starts To Hurt.

    February 7, 2026 - By 

    There’s a moment in healing that no one really warns you about.

    It’s not when you leave.
    It’s not when you finally see the truth.
    It’s when the part of you that always “had it together” quietly collapses.

    I’ve spent most of my life being the strong one.
    The dependable one.
    The one who stayed calm, kept going, and handled things on her own.

    And lately, I don’t recognize myself.

    Everything hurts not in a dramatic way, but in a deep, quiet way that lives under the skin. The kind of pain that comes from holding too much for too long. From surviving things you were never supposed to survive alone.

    I want to say this clearly, for anyone who might need to hear it:

    If you feel like you’re falling apart after years of being “fine,” you’re not broken. You’re exhausted.

    There’s a difference.

    When you’ve lived in survival mode for most of your life, your strength becomes automatic. You learn how to keep going even when things are unbearable. You learn how to minimize pain, rationalize behavior, and stay functional no matter what’s happening around you.

    Until one day, your body and heart say, “I can’t do this anymore.”

    That doesn’t mean you failed.
    It means you finally stopped abandoning yourself.

    A lot of us were taught that strength looks like silence. Like independence. Like not needing anyone. So when we reach a point where we feel lost, emotional, or overwhelmed, shame creeps in.

    We think:
    “Why can’t I just handle this?”
    “Why am I falling apart now?”
    “What’s wrong with me?”

    Nothing is wrong with you.

    What’s happening is that the pain you were never allowed to feel is finally asking to be seen.

    I know what it’s like to want the pain to stop. Not because you want to disappear, but because you’re so tired of carrying it. I know what it’s like to feel confused by your own reactions, to grieve people and versions of yourself at the same time, to wonder how you can be so strong and so broken all at once.

    If that’s where you are, please know this:

    You are not weak for hurting.
    You are not dramatic for needing rest.
    You are not failing because you can’t hold everything together anymore.

    Sometimes healing doesn’t look like becoming stronger.
    Sometimes it looks like finally letting yourself be human.

    If you’re in the middle of this. The unraveling, the grief, the exhaustion. You’re not alone. And you’re not losing yourself.

    You’re meeting yourself.

    And that is painful.
    But it’s also where real healing begins.

    — Samantha 🤍