Healing is a scam. It’s just a fancy word for being riddled with grief and hate while you try to act like you’re “growing.” I’d take a total drug blackout over this mental exhaustion any day. Fuck the soft stuff; this is a war.

I hate rest. I fucking hate it. I try to be still, but the guilt is a parasite. My demons just pace the floor of my head, relentlessly whispering that a “good girl” never stops. Fuck. I’m exhausted, but I’m too haunted to sit down.

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Work was a goddamn circus this week. Chaos everywhere, and instead of crashing, I thrived.

It was a fucking flashback with that motherfucking “idle hands” trauma clicking into gear. That rush of being a “good girl” earning her keep hit my veins like cocaine. I was hooked on being noticed for the grind.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m addicted to the very thing that’s killing me.

I tell everyone else to put down the “coke” of the grind. I preach that rest is part of the journey. But behind closed doors, I’m the biggest addict of them all.

I’ve got a needle in my arm before the flame even dies out. I’ve always been terrified of the prick, but the rush of erasing the demons in my head is worth the faint.

Hypocrite. Junkie for the hustle. Anything to keep the noise quiet.

But the noise won’t stop.

I’ve built a life that hides the syringe, but there’s one person who won’t let me forget where it’s buried - pressing it against my skin every goddamn day, begging me to let the poison back in.

“Cut them out” is a lie for people with easier lives. I wish it were that simple. Instead, the anxiety buckles my knees. I fight like hell, I promise you, but I’m human. And humans fail. Sometimes the needle just wins.

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The paranoia is a terminal itch.

I’m constantly scanning for the trapdoor, waiting for the world to realize what I am and drag me into the light. I live like there’s a blade pressed to my throat in the dark, twitching at every shadow in the corner of the room.

My hyper-vigilance isn’t a gift; it’s my guardian demon. A cold, black weight stitched to my spine, feeding on my pulse and making sure I never, ever feel safe enough to breathe on my own.

Thirty-four years, five kids, and a history so jagged it makes my therapist look at me like I’m a miracle or a corpse. “How the fuck do you even get out of bed?” they ask.

I don’t have an answer. Because inside, the clock stopped a lifetime ago. I’m thirty-four on my license, but I’m twelve in the dark - small, useless, and waiting for a blow that already landed. I’m a ghost in a grown woman’s skin, playing house while I rot and somehow .. bloom.

I’m locked in a room with healing, and it’s a slow-motion rape. Motherfucker.

I’ll let it have its way with me. I’ll stay open and take the “growth” like a good girl until the needle starts to glimmer in the dark again. As soon as that steel hits the light, I’m gone. I’m just a warm body for the ‘growth’ to feed on until the steel finds my vein again and I can finally go cold.

Okay, here we go - Rod is gonna straight-up loathe me for this, and I’m probably kicking off World War III in our relationship by posting it. But hey, isn’t it way easier to beg for forgiveness than ask permission? Am I right, or am I just delusional?!

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For the last eleven months, I’ve been straight-up banned from unleashing this photo on the world. Like, full-on embargo.

But let’s be real: this is my all-time favorite shot of my man that I’ve ever snapped. It’s the reigning champ in my camera roll. Hell, it’s my favorite photo, period. No contest.

And get this - it’s from my absolute peak moment of our whole European escapade. You’re probably clutching your pearls right now, wondering how in the actual hell it’s some random AirBnB vibe and not, I don’t know, the Eiffel Tower gleaming like a tourist trap, those oh-so-charming cobblestone streets that destroy your ankles, or the magnificence of Spain . ( Great questions, I suppose, if you’re into that clichéd postcard crap.)

Truth? I could crash under the stars with this guy, or hell, even in a ditch and I’d be obnoxiously content. Our 7-11 Slurpee “dates” are my guilty pleasure high point. Dancing under sketchy streetlights? Chef’s kiss. It’s the dumb, everyday nonsense that hits hardest and sticks around like a bad tattoo.

We snagged some midnight Paris street food from this hole-in-the-wall joint where no one spoke a word of English. A bunch of young Parisians outside chain-smoking and pretending their lives are a Wes Anderson film as we wandered in.

Back at the AirBnB, we both cannonballed onto the bed like overgrown kids, cackling our asses off. I shoveled in a bite, and my face basically screamed “what sorcery is this?” before I could even form words. Once my jaw unlocked, I was all but forcing it on him - begging, really - because those flavors? Utterly alien, in the best “mind-blown” way.

Even typing this out, I’m smirking like an idiot.

He leans in, chomps down, and boom, his face mirrors mine exactly. “Oh my gawwwwwd,” he drawls, diving back in with these guttural moans straight out of a caveman documentary. That’s when I stealth-snapped this gem. I lost it, giggling till tears streamed down my face like I was in a rom-com montage.

He jumps in on the laughter, then fake-tackles me, and honestly? I didn’t know happiness could hit that obnoxiously high note. Or safety. Or just pure, unfiltered chill. Or, gag me, that level of love.

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Finding someone who amps up your real-deal self instead of dimming it? Yeah, that’s some rare unicorn shit. It is priceless, if you’re into that Hallmark card nausea. (I am!)

Babe, forgive me (or don’t, your call), but the world desperately needs this sappy tale to balance out all the doom-scrolling.

I love youuu ❤️❤️❤️

Sometimes.

Sometimes I wish my goddamn neural pathways weren’t scarred to shit by all that toxic bullshit stress.

Sometimes I wish my body could fucking figure out that the danger back then isn’t lurking in every shadow now.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t nail every single box on that cursed ACE test like a punch to the gut.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t jolt like a scared animal at the slam of a door.

Sometimes I wish survivors weren’t left bleeding out emotionally and physically for someone else’s crimes.

Sometimes I wish men actually got slapped with real goddamn consequences for their actions.

Sometimes I wish healing was a swift kick in the ass overnight, not this torturous, lifelong crawl through hell.

Sometimes I wish, but fuck, those wishes just evaporate into nothing.

Sometimes.

Oh, friends, gather ‘round because I’ve got a story that’s been bubbling up in me like a warm cup of tea on a rainy day. It is equal parts eye-opening and “oh, honey, that explains so much.”

For more than a decade, I stayed stuck at 119 pounds, even after carrying and welcoming five little ones into the world. I’d “bounce back” so quickly that I was slipping into my old clothes before the hospital doors even swung shut behind me. Everyone saw it as some kind of magic trick, but deep down, I wondered what the real story was.

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The compliments came pouring in, sweet as pie but sometimes stinging like a paper cut you didn’t see coming. “You look incredible - what’s your secret? Those genes of yours are gold; you’re so fortunate!” Or the one that always made me chuckle inwardly: “You? A mom? No way, you’re far too slim for that!” Well, yes, these kiddos are very much mine, birthed and beloved. What else could I say? A quick laugh and a nod usually did the trick.

In those moments, I held back from sharing the fuller picture: “You know, I grew up navigating religious hell - childhood adversity, teen pregnancy, and an abusive marriage; I’ve been carrying echoes of trauma that keep my stress levels humming like a busy beehive. That high cortisol? It’s why my body stayed lean. It is not from luck or effort, but from the weight of what I’ve been through.” Maybe spilling that would have turned the tide on those offhand remarks, inviting a bit more kindness instead.

But here’s the beautiful twist, the part that’s got me smiling through happy tears these days: I’m finally softening up, quite literally. These gentle rolls you see in the photo? They’re new arrivals, and they’re whispering tales of healing.

I began diving into “The Deepest Well” by Nadine Burke Harris, M.D. this week, which has been like finding a map to buried treasure. The book explains how toxic stress from repeated or prolonged adversity hijacks the body’s fight-or-flight response. This floods the system with stress hormones like cortisol, altering brain development, immune function, and even gene expression (epigenetic changes that can pass to future generations). It literally “gets under the skin,” contributing to diseases like heart disease, cancer, diabetes, autoimmune disorders, and mental health issues decades later.

It’s not about “bouncing back” to who I was; it’s about growing forward into who I’m becoming, with a little more cushion and a lot more peace.

Healing isn’t always linear or picture-perfect, but it’s worth every step. Sometimes, a few extra curves are just your body’s way of saying, “We’re safe now - let’s live.” I know that’s what mine is saying!

So here’s to my education while holding space for the heartache and grief as I heal.

Oh, sure, he balks at the idea of twinning in matching jackets like we’re some cutesy couple from a rom-com, but slap some permanent ink on his skin? Yeah, that’s a total no-brainer. Men - eternally baffling, aren’t they? 😏

And let’s talk about that rock-bottom bar for romance: A guy actually bothering to ask, “How are you?” instead of the lazy-ass “WYD.” Groundbreaking, right? The standards are practically buried in the ninth circle of hell.

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Enter Rod Maldaner who basically face-planted into my existence right when I was scraping the bottom of my personal dumpster fire. I’m not exaggerating - timing couldn’t have been more impeccably awful if he’d planned it.

But oh, wait for it… he hits me with “You’re the most intriguing, amazing human I’ve ever met.” Cue the eye roll.

Me? I just shrug and go, “Nah, I’m just Bre.” He loathed that humility schtick, and honestly, he still does. Tough luck, buddy.

Yet every damn time he’d pop the “How are you?” question while we’re in the same room, I’d sling my arms around his neck and purr, “Better Now.” It became our little ritual. Clingy? Maybe. But it stuck like gum on a hot sidewalk.

Better Now. Sounds cheesy as hell, doesn’t it? But dig a little, and it’s got layers deeper than your average Instagram quote.

Babe - yeah, my life’s marginally less of a trainwreck with you in it. You don’t just slink off to the shadows while I hog the glow; nope, you’re the one cranking up the spotlight, making me feel like I’m the star of my own bad reality show and honestly? I wouldn’t trade that chaos for anything less messy. Here’s to more ink, fewer jackets, and keeping that bar just low enough to trip over.

The biggest thank you to Esther Duval of Duval Studios for our tattoos.

Oh, the thing about abusers?

It’s their adorable little refusal to take even a smidge of accountability for their oh-so-charming actions, which conveniently leads to all that delicious blame and manipulation. You know, the kind that whispers, “Oh, Sweetie, if only you, the poor victim, would just blindly follow their lead and nod along to their sacred instruction manual, everything would magically be fixed! *puke

And control? Pfft, that’s their precious carcass - the rotten core they gorge on just to keep shambling along in their sad little existence. Cut off their precious supply chain, and watch them morph into hangry teenagers without boundaries - relentless pathetic teenage behaviour emails. Hungry, anyone? Bon appétit, I guess.

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Just listen to the ex, wax poetic about this oh-so-enlightening “control” in those charming little emails he bombards me with: “It’s control, I get it,” he scribbles, as if he’s just dropped some profound bombshell.

First off, darling, the projection of an abuser isn’t some subtle whisper, it is a full-throated scream blasting out of a megaphone, echoing for all to hear. How original.

Secondly, he had his golden, can’t-miss opportunity to rebut, rant, and have his precious say during the divorce process.

Oh, wait a hot minute - dammit, that pesky, not-so-little annoyance known as ‘default’ just had to crash the party and shut it all down. How utterly inconvenient… for him.

Oh, a default divorce? That’s just the court’s cute little way of saying one spouse files all the paperwork, serves it up nice and proper, but the other genius (the respondent) decides to play hide-and-seek by not bothering to respond or show their face in court within the oh-so-generous legal timeframe. Boom - divorce granted, along with all the fun stuff like custody, support, all based on the petitioner’s (my) requirements, as long as it’s vaguely fair and not totally bonkers.

But what if I told you he strutted around spouting, “Default means nothing,” like it’s was his new favourite mantra, over and over again? Because ignoring reality makes it vanish… right?

What if I told you that he pens these profound emails claiming court orders just… expire on their own, no variations needed? Poof, gone! Because who needs legal tweaks when you’ve got wishful thinking?

But what if I told you he couldn’t be bothered to grace us with his presence on our court-appointed days? Shocking, right?

What if I told you he’s popped in exactly once in four and a half years to see the kids? Even though the court order spells it out crystal clear: one weekend a month, with three weeks’ notice to little old me. But nah, it’s all “blah blah blah control,” he whines.

But what if I told you zero Christmas gifts? Not even a half-hearted “happy whatever” card or email. Festive spirit? What’s that?

What if I told you child support is court-mandated, yet Maintenance Enforcement has to play full-on detective just to squeeze a single dollar? Because voluntary responsibility is so last season.

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He chose to pack up and hightail it out of province? How thoughtful of him to make such a bold, independent move and he keeps on choosing to actively ghost every opportunity to show up! What a consistent overachiever in the absentee department.

That “control” he imagines I’m wielding like some evil puppet master? Yeah, that’s totally not a direct byproduct of his own brilliant life choices.

Yes, I’ve got that shiny sole-decision responsibility - aka sole custody locked in, thank you very much.

And no, sweet cheeks, I won’t be bothering to vary the order. Why mess with the perfection I “blood, sweat and teared,” for.

Actions have consequences, after all, and if owning that makes me a bitch, well, hand me the crown and I’ll wear it with pride and a smirk.

After all, if his version of “control” means me stepping up where he bailed, then fuck yeah, call me the queen of it.

Let me say this loud and clear: Abuse doesn’t stop just because the divorce papers are signed. I’m closing in on my second anniversary of the damn thing being final, and the bullshit is still hitting as hard and as often as it did back then.

Once the divorce is done, you’re not some familiar face hanging around the courthouse anymore. All the forms are filled out, filed away, the court order is in place, and now you’re just another file number in the system, buried under hundreds of thousands of others getting processed every year.

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But our abusers don’t give a shit, they keep strutting like nothing happened. Through whatever bullshit communication channel the judge picked, they double down on their narcissistic crap.

I get nonstop threats. Threats to call child services, and the latest gem: him bragging he contacted Substack to shut down my blog for “violations.”

The relationship’s dead and buried, but his control freak addiction is raging harder than ever.

Since I booted his ass out, I’ve battled through my trauma, fought like hell, and built real strength. I’ve scraped my way to some wins, and this is just the kickoff to the fat career I’m building.

So, my dreams? They’re a fucking warzone, clashing the nightmare of my traumatic past against the peace I’ve scraped into my present and future. Not every night, but damn sure on the ones those emails hit, my brain drags me back to the black hole, forcing me to fight my way out.

Nearly eight years since I escaped that cult nightmare and four since I dumped my ex-husband’s toxic ass, and my dreams are still straight-up haunted. Anxiety’s dialed up to max, blood pressure’s spiking like crazy, and every damn gust of wind or creaky floorboard sends me diving under the covers, heart pounding like the goddamn monster from my childhood storybooks is about to lunge out from under the bed. I’m locked in that freeze trauma response way more than you readers and followers probably realize, paralyzed, stuck, while the world keeps spinning.

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It doesn’t grip me as long as it used to, that exhausting freeze survival mode shit, but it still crashes in like an uninvited motherfucker. No matter how hard or far I sprint, he’s right there on my heels, spewing his same old threatening abuse. That shadow ain’t some harmless ghost, it’s real as fuck, and it’ll snag me if I don’t stay eight goddamn steps ahead, grinding through healing every single day.

Perpetrators get off scot-free, like the justice system’s handing out candy on Christmas morning to some wide-eyed six-year-old kid Santa’s got pegged as an angel.

Meanwhile, us victims? We get dumped a lifetime supply of coal, year after fucking year. Trauma on top of trauma, piling up like a goddamn avalanche. You scrape your way to some healing, and bam, it crashes right back in, knocking you flat.

My abuser’s fucking CONVICTED, and yet… that changes jack shit.

So next time you’re tempted to spout, “You’re divorced and free”, cut the “free” bullshit, because we’re trapped in a nonstop hell where the abuse doesn’t quit; it just ramps the fuck up.

Oh, and to every armchair expert who’s warned me to watch out for my Prozac and Ativan? Fuck that noise, let me spell it out: the straight-up miracle of modern science has saved my ass through countless freeze-fueled nights where all I craved was curling into a tight ball, chanting to myself that the goddamn ghost isn’t real.

Because, yeah, nothing says “healing” like popping a pill to outrun the shadows - thanks, science, for being the real MVP while the system plays favorites with the monsters. Watch me rise anyway, you jealous fucks; my empire’s just getting started.

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Today was one of those brutally heavy days, the kind that dragged me straight back into the dark, suffocating depths of old abuse, where every thought felt like a trigger and my nervous system was screaming.

Then he walked through the door.

Without a word, he wrapped me in his arms - tight, steady, grounding; holding space for every shattered piece of me. In that embrace, the chaos started to quiet. He stepped in seamlessly, taking over with the kids he’s chosen to show up for day after day, handling bedtime routines and little voices with calm, loving presence.

And just like that… the depths began to recede.

I’m no longer drowning in the past. My body remembers safety again. My breath evens out. I’m regulated, held, seen — and so deeply grateful for the man who turns a trauma storm into quiet peace with nothing more than his arms and his steady love. ❤️

To those who endure similar, you’re not alone in this healing.

If I ever rubbed a vodka bottle and a genie popped out offering three wishes, I’d tell him he’s late - 2025 already handed them to me on a silver platter.

My thirty-third year wasn’t some gentle “light at the end of the tunnel” bullshit. It was finally crawling out of the goddamn tunnel, standing up, brushing the dirt off, and flipping the bird to everything behind me. Hallelujah and pass the fucking amen.

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I stared down a $450,000 lawsuit from the cult and basically told them to shove it straight up their ass.

Then I walked into a free consultation with this lawyer - just kicking tires, seeing if anyone out there could handle my level of unfiltered, and within minutes this pearl-clutching woman leans in and whispers that I should stop swearing on my blog because it’s “off-putting.”

Off-putting. During a free meet-and-greet. Before I’d even decided if she could handle the case, she’s already trying to sand down my edges.

“Sweetheart, I don’t give a single flying fuck whether you read this or not.

She also suggested I stop calling it a “cult.” Cute. Real cute.

Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Fucking cult.

In their twisted little story, I’m the psychotic, demonic, worldly whore who sold her soul for lipstick and independence.

And you know what? The second I refused to bow my head, roll over, and play the quiet, submissive bitch they trained me to be, it absolutely shattered their fragile little dicks.

I’m such a Jezebel - picking out my cleavage-spilling top and the tiniest mini skirt that’s basically begging 2026 to notice my ass cheeks.

Call me the whore, the temptress, the devil in heels. I’ll own it.

Your midnight New Year’s Eve sermons - tonight’s the big “rapture night,” right? - always were complete and utter bullshit anyway. We were sitting there in those endless midnight services, eyes glued to the clock, literally pinching our babies just hard enough to make them cry so we’d have an excuse to bolt out of the sanctuary. And yeah, the whole time we were fantasizing about sneaking off to McDonald’s for a Big Mac. Glamorous, right?

But fast-forward to the lawsuit, when that half-million-dollar threat was hanging over my head - and holy shit, the cavalry showed up. I had an incredible team rally around me like nothing I’ve ever seen. I met the most badass, powerful woman I’ve ever known; we clicked instantly, became real friends, and she’s still a massive part of my life. People from all over the world reached out, reached their own lawyers, sent resources, and held the fucking line for me without hesitation.

Looking back now? Damn. I am so deeply supported. I am hella, ridiculously, overwhelmingly loved.

And I didn’t even have to pinch anyone to fucking prove it.

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Fast-forward a few months and suddenly I’m frolicking through France and Spain like some cliché Eat Pray Love sequel I asked for… publicly hard-launching the dreamiest, sexiest man alive.

No, he’s not your standard-issue European heartthrob with cheekbones sharp enough to slice baguettes and an accent that makes panties evaporate.

But let’s be honest - he might as well be. The man’s racked up so many trips to Europe I stopped counting after “a fuckton.” Fourteen hundred? Sure. Fourteen? Probably. Nine? Whatever. At this point he’s basically got dual citizenship with croissants.

All I know is he’s ridiculously hot, he’s mine, my panties evaporate, and I’m posting him like it’s my full-time job.

Sorry to disappoint the peanut gallery who had me pegged as permanently single, bitter, and buying cats in bulk. Turns out, I twisted the plot, bitches. And we’re just in April.

May rolled in like the ultimate factory reset - full-body rebirth, baby - slate wiped cleaner than a sinner’s tears at altar call.

Hey, maybe the evangelicals were onto something with all that “rebirth, reclaim, return” bullshit after all… except mine didn’t involve tearful confessions and a dunk in lukewarm water.

Mine was me, bent over a hotel railing in Spain, mid-orgasm, screaming into the void while the whole damn Mediterranean watched. Also, eighteen hours of kid-free uninterrupted sleep.

Sorry mom, I’m not sixteen anymore. I fuck and get fucked.

Oh wait -

Pretty sure that’s not the kind of “born again” they were selling on Sunday mornings, evenings, and Wednesday nights.

My bad. Mine worked better anyway. 10/10, highly recommended.

Summer cranked up the heat with nonstop concerts, string bikinis, and a glorious parade of cocktails - straight-up “defiling the temple” if you ask the old crowd.

I’m finally living my reckless seventeen-year-old era: crowd-surfing vibes, sun-kissed skin, shots lined up like soldiers, and not a single fuck given.

All while being the fully locked-in, RESPONSIBLE mother of five kids. Turns out you can crush motherhood and still crush a bottle of Sugar Puss.

Adulthood just hit its peak, and it is tasting like freedom with a lime wedge.

Autumn rolled in and slapped the title “Award-Winning Thrifter” right on my ass.

Yes, you heard that correctly - I snagged “Fashionable Finds” winner for the entire goddamn province.

I’ve got an actual plaque gathering dust on my shelf to prove it, plus a camera roll full of proof shots and a whole new crew of equally obsessed friends.

I am, unapologetically, a thrift store whore.

September through December turned me into a student again - secondary internship, because clearly I needed one more hoop to jump through like the good little overachiever I am.

And! Big surprise, I passed - Straight A’s. Wow. Such shock. Much wow. Who’d have thought?

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And then, just when I thought 2025 couldn’t get any better, I gained a work family.

Like, an actual crew of ridiculous, supportive, ride-or-die humans who show up, crack jokes, have my back, and make the daily grind feel like anything but.

I couldn’t love these weirdos more if I fucking tried.

Then, exactly one hour after I graduated, a full-time job offer popped up like it was embarrassed to keep me waiting any longer.

Yeah. Your girl is a success. Obviously. As if there was ever any doubt.

Next.

I’m staggering into 2026 with all twelve periods dutifully clocked in (yes, the uterus is still open for business, praise be), one disgustingly secure relationship that makes everyone else’s look like a Tinder swipe, a full-time career practically begging me to come boss it, a shiny new community volunteer gig because apparently I LOVE. an overflowing schedule - five absolutely feral yet somehow astounding children (ages 13 down to 6 - send help and vodka), multiple stamps in my passport from places that aren’t church camp, endless passionate (snip-snip vasectomy-safe) fucking that could power a small city, a rediscovered love for reading books that aren’t about submission, a whole-ass friend group I didn’t even know existed twelve months ago, and more partying like it’s 2010 and I’m still convinced vodka doesn’t have calories!

I couldn’t limp out of 2025 without shouting out all you beautiful weirdos who still show up for this hot mess of a blog - posted as consistently as the child support e-transfers I get (which is to say: sporadically and with a side of eye-roll).

You keep reading, liking, commenting, and holding space for my chaos, and I’m genuinely obsessed with every single one of you.

Real talk: even if I had just one loyal reader left, I’d still be this unhinged. Probably more.

But a huge, MASSIVE, sloppy-kiss thank you to those of you who actually pay every month or drop the full-year sub - your money isn’t just “nice to have,” it’s the difference between “we’re eating cereal for dinner again” and “holy shit, a full tank of gas and a pizza party for the kids.”

You catch my drift. You make my real life easier, and I don’t take that lightly.

HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR, PEEPS!!!

May your 2026 be half as wild, half as healing, and twice as unapologetic as my 2025 was.

Advice: Rub a vodka bottle.

Cheers to us, you glorious bastards. 🥂

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I want to pull back the curtain for a moment on something that’s been happening quietly in my life: media interest.

Since 2021, I’ve been approached by outlets across Canada, the U.S., and internationally, all wanting to turn my story into a television program.

I’ve filmed multiple projects. Every single one collapsed. Most just ghosted me without a word, all except one without compensation.

The problem is simple: the media wants to tell the story on their terms, with their spin, their framing, their hand-picked “characters.”

Survivors’ stories aren’t raw material for someone else to mold. Real storytelling starts with listening, and the media has shown, over and over, that they won’t do that.

No matter how many times I lay out my truth plainly and completely, it comes back rewritten, twisted, and repackaged into something unrecognizable.

We’re not here to be your tidy “inspirational” arc or the next sensational “sex scandal.” We’re real people staring down life-or-death decisions every day. We make choices that cost us our families, our friends, our safety - leaving us isolated, terrified, and exposed.

Many survivors stay silent because they face direct threats from family members or the cults themselves.

Remember the $450,000 lawsuit I was hit with? This isn’t a Disney movie.

That’s the reality the media keeps trying to exploit, and the one I will never let them erase.

When an outlet is finally ready to listen to survivors without distorting our truth, I’ll still be here.

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This dude William Branham, some old-school cult prophet who swore he heard God’s voice in a tree when he was seven, once said, “Don’t defile your body in any way.”

Yeah, okay. Delusional much?

Anyway, I don’t take advice from random men, especially not ones chatting with trees.

As a lot of you know, I officially wrapped up my internship on Monday, something I’m damn proud of. And on the exact same day, I scored a full-time gig starting January 5th.

So naturally, I celebrated the only way that felt right: by “defiling” my body with my sixth tattoo.

It’s not some impulse flash piece either. My friend Esther Duval drew it, and the second I saw it, I knew it had to be mine. It’s a dark, twisted spin on Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam: the divine hand reaching out, but skeletal, dead, clutching a pencil while barely missing the living fingertip.

To me, that bony hand is God dying in my world. Dead. Gone. The living human hand is mine, because I’m the one writing my own damn story now.

Rewriting the old scripts, rewiring the bullshit I was fed, and yeah, this blog is part of that too.

The linework is so clean it almost hurts to look at, minimal but loaded with meaning. Every time I glance down at my arm, I feel this quiet rush of power: I did this. I chose this. I reclaimed this skin that was never really mine to begin with.

No regrets. Just fresh ink, healed edges already forming, and zero fucks given.

This one feels like the period at the end of a very long, very toxic sentence, and the wide-open blank page for whatever the hell I want next.

Tattoo created and done by @duval.studio on Instagram

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To the girl who thought her whole future was just popping out babies and saying “I do”— turns out that was just the prologue.

To the teenager who got told “school’s not for you”—that was just the prologue.

To the twenty-something who spent seven years pregnant or nursing, five kids deep, while everyone else was “finding themselves”— prologue.

To the bride who realized too late that “love, honor, and obey” came with fists and fear - still just the prologue.

To the 29-year-old suddenly single with five kids, zero money, and whatever fit in a couple of trash bags - prologue.

To the 30-year-old who cried into her pillow wondering if the electricity would stay on another month — yep, still prologue.

Now, at 33, after the religious guilt trips, the teen marriage, the beatings, the assault, the rock-bottom restart with literally nothing but the clothes on my back...

I just earned my secondary school diploma, and pinned on the title Educational Assistant.

Done. Official. Mine.

I didn’t just crawl out of hell, I built a whole damn ladder and climbed.

And because the universe apparently has a sense of humour, exactly one hour after graduation my phone rang with a full-time, permanent job offer.

I’m not emotional, you’re emotional.

No, seriously, I am proud as hell!

Do it anyway.

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You’ll have no degree because the cult said school was for sinners and Jesus was coming back by 2011.

Do it anyway.

You’ll lose the house, the church, the friends who call you Jezebel behind your back.

Do it anyway.

You’ll stand in the welfare office shaking while the clerk asks why your husband’s income is blank.

Do it anyway.

You’ll tell five tiny humans their daddy isn’t coming home and watch their faces break in real time.

Do it anyway.

You’ll be too proud to ask for help and too broke not to.

Do it anyway.

You’ll feel like the biggest failure that ever lived.

Do it anyway.

Because staying would have killed the last living part of you.

Because one day you’ll wake up and the air won’t taste like terror anymore.

Because your daughters will grow up knowing they never have to shrink for any man.

Because your sons will learn what respect actually looks like.

I’m the cautionary tale they warned you about in Bible study.

And I’ve never been freer.

Get divorced anyway.

I saw this Facebook post the other day titled “How to Teach Gratefulness.”

Some mom was bragging, well, basically bragging, that she almost “slapped” her twelve-year-old for ruining the Santa magic because her kid didn’t compliment her hard work, rather the kid just asked, “Are you proud of yourself?” and the mom lost her shit.

Eight years ago I would’ve been in the comments like “YES girl, give her something to cry about.” Today I read it and felt sick.

I know spanking. I got it. I gave it. A lot.

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In the cult I grew up in, you had kids who could sit dead-still and silent in church by eighteen months. That shit doesn’t happen by magic. It happens because you beat it into them: red asses, thighs, palms, flicked lips if they dared talk back.

You teach a nine-month-old to wave and say “hi” to every adult who speaks to them or they get a “lickin’.” Babies are born deceitful little sinners, obviously, so thank God for the rod of correction, right?

My oldest caught the worst of it. Cold showers, spankings, the whole fundamentalist starter pack before he even hit kindergarten.

I’m telling you this because I was that parent. Deep-in-it, brainwashed, smug parent who rolled my eyes at anyone talking about “validating feelings.” I literally laughed in people’s faces. “What that kid needs is a good smack across the mouth,” was standard dinner-table talk in our house.

Turns out the only person who needed the smack was me. A hard, educated, wake-the-fuck-up smack.

When they finally kicked me out of that cult, I was still so twisted up I didn’t even know what I’d done. I thought I was keeping my kid from turning into some “worldly brat.” In reality I was just passing on the same trauma that had been beaten into me.

Fear doesn’t teach. It just breeds more fear.

I was spanked once in my childhood and I remember it like it was yesterday. Trauma lingers.

I was the problem, not my kids, and yeah, it’s possible to crawl out of that hole, admit you fucked up, and do the long, ugly work of changing. I’m proof.

But getting free? That shit is brutal.

I didn’t just stumble into that cult; I was born drowning in it. The brainwashing was my oxygen. By the time I was thirty and finally saw daylight, my wiring was so fucked I had to rip it all out and start over from scratch. Undoing thirty years of “spare the rod, spoil the child” programming is some of the hardest, ugliest work I’ve ever done.

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The reflex to swing, to demand instant obedience, to treat kids like basement gremlins who should be seen and not heard; that’s the path of least resistance. It’s easy. It’s muscle memory.

Choosing the other road (naming feelings, sitting in them, teaching my kids how to feel them without imploding) was not some cute Pinterest moment. It took me getting educated first, because you can’t teach what you don’t know. There was no fairy-godmother switch flip. It was slow, messy, exhausting.

The one thing that did change overnight? I stopped putting my hands on my kids. Cold fucking turkey. That part I could control the second I decided it was over.

What replaced the hitting was time. So much time. Hours on the floor, hours perched on dressers, hours parked in my car in random parking lots or driving aimlessly while my kids unloaded everything they’d been holding in. We cried, screamed, laughed, sat in silence, said the uncomfortable shit out loud; hour after hour after hour; until there was nothing left to hide.

That’s where the real healing happens. Not in some perfect parenting handbook. On the floor, in the car, in the middle of the goddamn night when nobody’s watching and you finally let yourself feel it all.

And I’m still doing the work. Every damn day.

I’ve taken courses on how the brain actually develops. I’ve done internships in child education. I keep choosing; actively, deliberately choosing; to be the parent I never had and to burn the generational fundamentalist fear playbook to the ground.

My kids talk back. They say no. They don’t wave or say hi if they don’t feel like it. Nobody gets to touch them without enthusiastic consent. They can name every feeling on the Feelings Iceberg and a dozen more nobody ever taught me existed. And my hands? They stay in my own goddamn pockets.

What my hands do now is wrap around my kids in hugs they actually asked for.

Education does the teaching.

Love does the hugging.

Connection does the raising.

But the cult always said, “Too much learning makes you proud, and our God is a consuming fire of wrath,” so yeah, it all tracks.

By the way, in reference to the start of this blog, I responded to the mom on that Facebook group with this:

As I look back on 2025, I am usually in the December crowd of “what the actual fuck was this year” but not this time. This year was the brownie layer of the ice cream cake, the best part of the whole party which is my life.

And it is because of one man. You, Rod Maldaner

I am a writer and still my mind cannot summon enough words to match what I feel. Facebook would not even let me upload half the photos I wanted. Fucking Meta.

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People say the honeymoon phase fades and honestly with stress, kids, and life, it usually should. But ours just keeps getting better. Every single day. With five kids in the mix, it should have ended before it started and yet here we are, stronger, sweeter, and funnier.

I was once told by the man who “loved” me for twelve years that no one would ever want me and that I was impossible to love. He said that as I was driving to the RCMP to turn him in for domestic violence. Those words lived rent free in my head for far too long. They lingered. They hovered. They poisoned everything, especially believing anything good you said or did. My brain had been wired to think I was worthless, ugly, and unlovable unless I was being yelled at or hurt.

And then there is you.

You show me every single day that I am easy to love. You tell me you are the luckiest man alive. You yearn in a way that feels unreal. Sometimes I catch you staring at me with your baby blue eyes and I forget how to breathe. How is this my life. How is this possible when I was told no man would ever love me, remember?

You never yell at me. When shit hits the fan, you laugh, roll up your sleeves, and help clean the mess without belittling, without raising your voice, without threats, without fear, without violence.

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Oh, the way you make me laugh. Real, ugly, beautiful belly laughs. I can count on one hand how many times my abuser made me laugh in twelve years. I cannot count how many times you have made me laugh because the number does not exist. Every giggle scrubs away another eggshell of anxiety I have carried for thirty two years.

I tell people you saved my life and maybe it sounds cliché but my body is the proof. I have gained twenty pounds since we started dating. I went from a size zero to a size ten. Some people would spiral over that. Not me. I admire it and you worship it with your hands, your eyes, your mouth, and your whole body.

Trauma is evil. Trauma steals. Trauma kills.

But your love, your patience, your kindness, your laughter, your honesty, your communication, your emotional intelligence, your sex, your admiration, your gratitude, and every piece of you has healed parts of me I did not know were bleeding, broken, and missing.

You took me to Paris and Spain this year. While other men are dragging their women into the deepest and darkest pits of hell, you took me to Europe and to a version of myself I did not even know could exist. You hold me tight every night. You never beg for sex. You never say anything like “I have a right to your body because you were made in my image and out of my rib.” You simply say, “Babykins, lay on me and fall asleep. I am here.”

You lay beside me as I slept for eighteen hours straight in Spain. You were not upset that we were not out exploring the cities. You watched in real time as my body reset to factory settings before the extremist cult and the abusive ex carved their damage into me. You kissed my forehead, held my hands, and kept me safe in your arms.

We experienced concerts this year that lit us up from the inside out. We devoured food that woke every sense in our bodies. We drank slurpees like teenagers and partied like it was 1980, sharing bottles and Prozac. 😜

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You push the cart when we go thrifting for date nights. You open every door before my hand even reaches the handle. You hold my purse and my jacket without me needing to ask. Your jaw drops every single time you look at me, whether I spent an hour getting ready or I am in mismatched jammies with a slicked back bun.

You have been my biggest supporter when it comes to my career. While my ex beat down doors and punched holes in walls two inches from my head because he could not handle the idea of me working with men, you did the opposite. He “knew what men wanted” and he could not survive the thought of me being anything other than a locked up hostage in his house.

You keep pushing me to be the best version of myself because you see me in ways I am too trauma blind to recognize. You tell me how proud you are of me every single day. I struggle to believe it because it feels impossible that someone could mean it so honestly.

I have fallen hard. I am madly, deeply, and obsessively in love with you. In the chaos that is the modern dating world, I am the luckiest woman alive to be chosen, loved, respected, and adored by you. A man who feels like he was written by a woman.

As long as you are mine. ❤️

If there is a God, it’s me. Cocky? No. I’m just fucking done watching people hand all the credit to some him or her or they in the sky while I crawl through hell, bleed, cry, and still rise like a goddamn phoenix every single day.

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“All things are possible through God who strengthens thee.”

Bullshit.

Do you see these photos. Do you see my family?! This isn’t a miracle. This is proof. Proof that I fought every morning when my body screamed stay down. Proof that I stared fear in the face and laughed. Proof that I built a life from ashes, from trauma, from betrayal, from a world that tried to erase me. This is what happens when you refuse to break.

Last year, I wrote about how impossible it all felt. Single mom of five, navigating abuse, divorce, an extremist cult, brainwashing, emotional trauma, financial chaos, and the relentless grind of trying to survive and thrive. The world expected me to collapse. The universe expected me to stay small.

A year later, impossible doesn’t exist. The word is possible, and no, not because of luck or some deity. It is possible because of me. I did the work. I faced the dark. I clawed my way to the light. I rebuilt every damn day.

Every morning I forced myself up. Every morning I chose to fight. Every morning I said fuck fear, fuck pain, fuck the limits they tried to put on me. I didn’t wait. I didn’t plead. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t make excuses.

I survived domestic violence. I survived sexual assault. I survived divorce. I survived the kind of brainwashing that twists your soul. I survived heartbreak, betrayal, and trauma that should have destroyed me, and every single time, I rose. Every single time, I rebuilt. Every single time, I claimed my power.

I raised five kids in the middle of chaos. I held them when the world failed them. I taught them strength when everyone else tried to teach them submission. I taught them truth when the world whispered lies. I didn’t just survive for me. I survived for them. I survived to show them what impossible really looks like.

So no. God didn’t do this.

I did.

I do.

I will.

“Do you want to join the young people at the Legislature grounds?” he asked, turning left toward the elders’ house.

Little did I know he was about to propose… matrimony.

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“Uh, I’ll have to call and ask for permission.”

Because obviously, at eighteen, three months shy of nineteen, practically ancient, I couldn’t possibly make my own decisions. The elder and his wife were in the Acura ahead of us. We weren’t allowed to drive anywhere alone, unless we were directly behind them, and only when the planets aligned perfectly. Lucky us.

It was 10:30 p.m. on a Wednesday. Cult service? Done. Post-cult grocery shopping? Check. Time to head home. The night was young, but I sure wasn’t. Living the dream: me, my chaperones, and a fiancé I didn’t know I had yet.

I had no idea I was about to sign up for a decade plus tour through the ninth circle of hell. Eighteen years old, self-proclaimed “adult,” deep in a cult, terrified of becoming a washed-up spinster by 21. My judgment? About as clear as a snowstorm. But hey, he had a full head of dark brown hair. Priorities, right?

I remember “rocking out” to southern gospel like the sheltered little rebel I was while he chauffeured us. I may or may not have given a scandalous little shoulder shimmy, fully covered, hold your sanctimonious panic, but honestly, who can not shimmy when “It’s Shouting Time in Heaven” comes on? It’s practically a reflex. Don’t Spotify it. Not worth your time.

We got there and… crickets. Not a single “young person” in sight.

“Uh, where the hell is everyone?” I asked.

Then he hits me with, “If you could be proposed to in a gazebo or under the street lights, which would you choose?” His voice was shaky, like he already knew this was a terrible idea.

Still blissfully shimmying through life, I laughed, “Street lights. Obviously.”

We walked the path, six inches apart, because God forbid we get closer than the holy handbook allowed, despite already having had sex in the passenger seat of his car. The “sex glands” are apparently in the lips, not my pussy, so clearly we were still safe from divine retribution.

I, the certified chatterbox, was rambling about nachos when I noticed he wasn’t beside me. I turned and there he was, on one knee, ring in hand, no box. Why bother with presentation?

“You’ve pulled me out of my darkest days, you’re the perfect girl for me, I can’t imagine life without you, will you marry me?”

Ah yes. A poetic way to say, “Please sign up to be my emotional punching bag.” Honestly, he should have been a screenwriter.

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Before the vibrato of my shaky little “yes” even faded, he added, “Just because we’re engaged now, don’t expect me to always hold your hand.”

A walking, talking red flag, waving itself in my face like a deranged cheerleader. But what did I know about red flags? I barely knew what an emotion was, let alone a flashing neon run, girl sign.

“Oh, of course not,” I croaked, heart sinking to my stomach, tears performing their best internal Olympic routine.

But sure, JOYOUS GODLY NEWS, let’s spread it around.

First stop: his parents. They already hated me. Now their precious son was “locked down” by me? I was their villain origin story.

Their response?

“Oh wow.”

…followed by an awkward silence thick enough to spread on toast.

Next up, the elder and his wife, my actual landlords.

“CONGRATULATIONS, WELCOME TO THE FAMILY P! WE’RE WAITING UP FOR YOU BOTH AT HOME!!”

Finally, some enthusiasm.

I didn’t hold his hand on the drive home, obviously. But priorities: I updated my BlackBerry Messenger status.

“BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE,” I typed, slapping on a photo of the ring. Cue the flood of messages.

We were the poster children for cult romance. I was the elder’s “daughter.” Every eye in the room was on me, now on us.

At the next service, everyone hugged me and shook his hand like we were royalty. He had swooped up the most eligible bachelorette and suddenly achieved elite cult status, so shiny, so blinding, everyone tiptoed around us, unsure whether acknowledging our existence was sacrilege or honor.

More power, more problems, am I right? Inside, I was in the deepest, darkest pits of hell; outside, strutting down streets of gold like I owned the place.

So what did we do? We kept fucking. Somehow, nobody found out. I had the Angel-and-Devil act down to a science. Sex? Me? Never. 6:00 a.m. sessions on dirt roads? Totally doable if you’re motivated, and oh, we were. It was my escape from the prissy poster-child act. Honestly, hasn’t changed a bit. My life? Always a rebellion.

Four months later, I strutted down the cult aisle, the elder’s elbow digging into my hip: behave. Yes, he “gave me away.” No, my biological parents weren’t there; they had been kicked out the year before.

And me? Poster-child, godly princess me said no thanks. Couldn’t have worldly filth on my big day. Who needs mom and dad when you are about to hand over your rights to an abuser? Not me.

And with my “your needs will never be denied” and his “’til death bullshit,” I walked straight into 10.5 years of domestic violence and sexual assault, trapped, silenced, stripped of escape.

God doesn’t allow divorce, you know. But slapping women with a 2x4? Totally fine. Charming. Prince Charming, of course.

I drive by those street lights often, flashbacks hitting like a damn movie. I should have picked the gazebo. The happily-ever-after always comes from the gazebo.

Fuck. My bad.

Sit up straight, but not too proud.

Stand tall, but not threateningly tall ~ we wouldn’t want your posture to scream “self-respect.”

Avoid eye contact, unless you can do it meekly, then immediately look away and pretend to be fascinated by the floor.

Keep the baseboards spotless (God sees dust, you know).

Hold a baby, bonus points if you can juggle two, one on each hip, because nothing says “godly woman” like chronic back pain and emotional suppression.

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Worship your father, adore the cult leader, and for the love of all that’s holy, keep those opinions deep, deep inside.

Be meek. Be mild. Be as natural as the dirt you’re apparently equal to.

Cover your knees (scandalous little joints), wear your skirts flirty but wholesome, and for heaven’s sake, don’t pull at your tank top, the boys might spontaneously combust.

Because, of course, their erections are your problem. Their purity? Also your responsibility.

Laugh at their jokes, but not too loud.

Be available, but not obvious.

Be chosen, but don’t you dare do the choosing.

When you’re finally picked ~ like produce at a farmers’ market, thank God above that you’re not an old spinster at twenty-one.

Amen.

So at twenty-six, freshly booted into the “real” (read: worldly and sinful) world, how in the ever-loving hell was I supposed to start choosing myself, when I’d never actually made a choice in my entire life?

It’s the question so many of us, the ones who’ve been “out” for fucking years, still whisper to ourselves in the dark.

Because the act of choosing yourself, of unlearning obedience, isn’t romantic or empowering at first.

It’s terrifying.

It’s messy.

And it’s the kind of work no one claps for.

A survivor told me recently, “I don’t even know what you mean when you say choose you.”

And honestly? Fair.

How do you explain self-trust to someone who’s only ever been taught to defer, submit, and smile pretty?

Choosing yourself isn’t about lighting a candle, journaling, or pretending you’re on a self-help Instagram feed.

No, it’s standing in front of the mirror and realizing that everything you thought you were, every “quirk,” every “talent,” every damn thing you call you, was meticulously assembled by the very hands that abused you.

Then… deciding, with zero fanfare, to bulldoze it all anyway, because that’s where authenticity emerges from.

Allow me to tell you that stepping into authenticity after living a life carefully curated by men?

Yeah… it’s uncharted territory.

And yes, it comes with nervous-shit-level anxiety.

WHAT IF I DON’T RECOGNIZE OR LOVE WHO I REALLY AM?!

Here’s the kicker: that panic? Totally unfounded.

You’re not failing yourself, you’re finally waking up from a decades-long performance you didn’t audition for.

The truth is, you don’t recognize the lie you’ve been shoved into.

You’ve just been expertly trained to recognize and adore the damn facade.

And now… surprise! It’s time to figure out what’s actually behind the curtain.

Let me put it this way: the first time I masturbated, I was twenty-six.

Twenty-six!

And it was awkward as hell. Weird is an understatement, and so unbelievably wrong that I nearly called the ER for a panic attack.

Because, my entire life, no one was allowed to touch my body, except for my husband, and that “hands off,” included me.

Me!

Can you imagine? Your own hands are apparently criminal evidence.

Mind. Completely. Fucked.

But here’s the kicker: once I finally went for it, that one tiny rebellion flipped a switch.

Suddenly, my eyes were open.

My body was awake.

And my soul was like… cue Aladdin and Jasmine soaring through the sky.

Welcome to a whole new world, honey, and it only took twenty-six years to get the memo!

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We were the “good girls.”

The rule-followers.

The sit-still-and-smile types.

The ones who cooked, cleaned, and blushed at the mere sight of an Adam’s apple.

We were the silent ones.

The knee-covered Handmaids.

The long-haired, do-good creeps.

Our bodies? Oh, just tools for redemption.

We traipsed behind our husbands like tiny shadows and served supper by 5:00 pm on the dot, because punctuality and well-fed male bellies is our one-way ticket to the promised land.

So yeah… that little, nagging itch that doesn’t go away?

That’s called choice.

Wild concept, right? How do you even do it?!

Here’s my two cents: you break the rules.

You rebel.

You say “BYE, FELICIA” to everything and everyone who thinks they get a vote in your life.

You kiss the old scripts, the do’s and don’ts, and the mansplained “guidance” goodbye, and you never look back.

You become the nightmare of everyone who ever had a hand in assembling the obedient little robot you’ve been.

You say, “screw your system,” and then you actually do it.

You do the things that make the Puritan ghost in your head shriek,

“OH MY GOD, I AM SINNING, THIS IS WRONG ON SO MANY LEVELS!!!”

…. and all you’ve done is, you know, show your knees or feel a breeze on your lower back.

God, the first time I felt air hit my skin as my shirt rode up while bending over?

I gasped.

I knew, in that holy, bone-deep way, that I had singlehandedly sent every man within a five-mile radius straight to hell.

Absolute whore, right? Someone call the elders!

Talking to another survivor the other day, we both sighed and said:

“I hate that I’ve been trained to automatically question my own reality, to double- and triple-check that I didn’t do anything wrong, even when I know I didn’t , because keeping other people comfortable and happy always comes before, you know, existing for myself.”

Ahhh… trauma. That charming little life-long roommate that crashes every victory party.

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So again: Break. The. Rules.

Have. Fun.

Be a Cleopatra. Be a whore. Orgasm thirteen times in one night just because you can. Explore every inch of your own damn body and call it science.

Say “brain fart” without apologizing.

Swear like a sailor.

Don’t you dare lower your voice for a man who couldn’t handle your volume anyway.

Wear the pants that hug your glorious ass.

Wear the skirt that makes it sway.

Let your cleavage have its own fan club.

Listen to rap. Rap it loud. Rap it badly. Bonus points if it makes a deacon uncomfortable.

Be unhinged.

Be a psycho.

Fuck being calm.

Be the chaos they tried to pray out of you.

AND when men start their usual Olympics ~ flip it back.

Confuse them. Outsmart them.

Mark your territory with eyeliner, confidence, and a smirk that says, “Try me.”

Do not back down. Ever again.

So here’s the memo nobody handed you, ladies:

You are not a project.

You are not a Handmaid.

You are not a cautionary tale.

You are a fully chaotic, gloriously uncooperative human being who gets to choose herself, every messy, terrifying, orgasmic, swear-word-laden, “holy shit am I really doing this?!” step of the way.

Choice isn’t polite.

Choice isn’t demure.

Choice isn’t sitting there nodding while the patriarchy lectures you about your knees, your voice, or your orgasms.

Choice is bending the rules.

Choice is letting your back breathe and showing your knees.

Choice is laughing too loud and swearing too much (well, according to weak men).

Choice is making all the people who tried to “train” you gasp in horror.

It is what YOU want it to be.

The world may have built you to obey.

BUT congratulations, you have officially upgraded to chaos.

Laugh when you want.

Cry when you want.

Gasp at your own body when it decides to feel pleasure.

Stand up, and not fucking meekly, flip off the nonsense, and raise hell with a smirk.

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Risk it all.

Never surrender.

Feel it all.

Love hard.

Make mistakes.

Get drunk at 2:00 a.m. ~ because if the world’s going to judge you, might as well do it spectacularly.

Stop hiding yourself like you’re some embarrassing antique.

Hike that skirt up.

Enjoy sundress sex on a European patio (yes, I may or may not have done that, and yes, it was glorious).

Wear the pants.

Be the breadwinner.

Be the “woman burned at the stake,” in someone’s narrative.

Climb the career ladder.

Break glass ceilings, making the patriarchy choke on its own rules while you rise

Eat whatever the hell you want ~ dessert for breakfast? Sure. Taco at midnight? Go for it.

Dance like your weirdness is an art form, because guess what? It is.

Chop your hair. Dye it neon. Wear glitter in your armpits if that’s your vibe.

Be so unapologetically weird that the right people can’t help but flock to you.

Scream when you need to.

Laugh at the absurdity.

Find your voice.

And here’s the best part, actually listen to it.

For once, stop letting everyone else’s rules, fears, and ejaculations of control dictate how you exist.

Welcome to the REAL.

Welcome to your revolution.

Welcome to choosing you.

And yes, it’s entirely, unapologetically, gloriously yours.

BREAK THOSE RULES!! Good girls never wrote history.

And make sure your iron levels are not low. 😉

I was raised to ask questions, just not to question. But if you did, suddenly you were questioning, and that was a problem. The end result? I became a “do as you’re told” robot, I shut up.

I’ve spent my whole damn life being infantilized, intimidated, manipulated, questioned, and controlled, so of course I question myself eight hundred and seventy-three times a day.

“Am I the problem?”

Or my personal favourite: “God, I probably sound so fucking stupid,” right in the middle of a sentence.

I’m 5’8” barefoot, but the second I’m in a meeting, any meeting, anywhere, I swear I shrink to about 2’2”. The deacons, elders, and so-called “leaders” of the cult trained that into me, and no matter how many hours I spend in therapy untangling it, that smallness still creeps in.

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I was raised to avoid compliments. Don’t accept them, don’t let them explode your head, and if anyone ever found out I didn’t swerve? Emotional beatdown. Humble pie. Modest milkshake. Subservient sundae. Less-than latte.

My therapist says when someone gives a compliment, it’s because they want to. Sure, maybe. But I’ve got a wall so concrete I’ll always downplay it, turn it around, deflect, say no, or just laugh in that painfully awkward way. You know the laugh, right? Or wait, maybe you’re normal.

People invite me to their tables. They want me there, and I’m like… why?

These are my inner rumblings, unfiltered. Maybe oversharing, maybe a little too vulnerable, but hey, that’s me.

Why me? How do people even manage to say the nice things they say about me?! For the love of all things, I’d take negativity any day, it’s comfortable, familiar. But nooo, exposure therapy, growth, yada yada.

The more I grow, the more trouble my trauma thinks I’m in. My brain keeps forgetting it’s 2025, eight years past being kicked out of a cult, and not 2013, being hauled into another goddamn cult slap session.

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At work, I sit in meetings, important meetings. People ask for my opinion. My point of view is actually listened to, heard, and still… the stupid cult voice pops up in my head, nagging, “You’re in trouble, bitch.”

I’m not in trouble. My thoughts matter. My voice matters, and yet… I don’t know what it will take to actually believe that.

The wild thing? I’ll preach all of this to everyone around me. I believe it for them, but my trauma? It won’t let me believe it for myself. Fucked, huh? Like, thanks brain, love the pep talk.

I don’t even know what the point of this blog is. It’s basically built-up feelings vomited onto a page. Maybe someone else feels the same? Or maybe it’s just therapy disguised as public humiliation.

Or maybe it’s a message for those who want to tell my story: it’s not the survivors a year or two out who are the most worn down. It’s us - 8, 15, 25, 40 years plus out, still fighting these silent battles, most of the time alone, because our trauma has convinced us we’re alone, and because we refuse to give up the deconstruction fight. Basically, we’re like the annoying cockroaches of cult recovery, survivors that just won’t die, no matter how many times you try to squish us.

A year from now… my brain will probably have found a new, even more ridiculous way to make me doubt myself… or maybe, just maybe, it’ll actually believe.

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My Love Letter to my man, or maybe, to anyone still waiting to be chosen right.

Choose your best friend. I can’t emphasize this enough.

Choose the one who makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts, the one who makes you gasp for air between fits of laughter, begging them to stop because you just can’t breathe.

Choose the one who doesn’t just know you, but sees you, even before you see yourself. My boyfriend somehow knows what I need before I do, and it’s hauntingly beautiful. To be seen that deeply is something I’ll never take for granted.

Choose the one who makes the world stop and turn their heads with an unsubtle, “What the fuck.”

I haven’t touched a door handle since dating this man. I haven’t put on my own jacket ~ he holds it for me to slip in. He opens every door, and holds it with intention. He walks two steps ahead, with his hands in mine, and fuck, it’s a panty soaker. When people stare, I hope they walk away realizing how deeply they deserve to be treated.

Choose the one who isn’t afraid to be silly, to be loud, to be passionate. There is nothing more masculine than a man who embraces his inner child, the one who laughs loud, dances hilariously, and chases you up the stairs.

Choose the one who matches your freak ~ in the sheets, on the counters, wherever life takes you. 😏

Choose the one who writes love letters, post cards or uses any excuse to simply write you their love.

Choose the romantic. The soft kisses, the kitchen dances, the midnight slurpees, the photographs.

Choose the one who listens. Not the one who waits to reply ~ the one who listens to understand. My honey will listen to me for hours, without impatience, without distraction, simply because he loves me enough to care about what’s on my mind, eating me alive.

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Choose the one who communicates ~ openly, honestly, and without ego. The one who doesn’t raise their voice to be heard, but knows how to speak to be understood.

Choose the one who wants you to live life fully, to leave an impact and impression. The one who isn’t afraid to break a few rules.

Choose the one who trusts you completely, who never gets jealous, well, unless it’s roleplay. 😜

Choose the one your pet chooses. Trust me, they always know.

Choose the progressive one ~ the one who welcomes growth, even when it’s uncomfortable. The one who’s not afraid to evolve, to question, to learn.

Choose the one who goes to therapy because emotional intelligence isn’t just attractive, it’s everything.

Choose the one who makes your underwear wet, not your eyes from crying.

Choose the one who pushes the cart and knows the cost of groceries. My man knows the sales, walking the aisles like they’re his runway. God, it’s hot.

Choose the one who wants to learn your hobbies, who wants to be part of your world, and lets you be part of theirs.

Choose the one who loves your children, who wants to know them, see them, and be part of their story.

Choose the one who never rushes you when you’re getting ready, the one who wraps their arms around your waist while your curlers are still in and tells you they can’t wait to see your final look.

Choose the one who keeps your favorite treats in their car for “emergencies.”

Choose the one who makes the bed every morning because they know your plate is already full.

Choose the one who can’t walk past you without a playful slap on the butt ~ just to remind you that they see you, even in passing.

Choose the one who shows you off ~ proudly, joyfully, unapologetically.

Choose the one who heals you. The one who settles your nerves instead of setting them off. The one who feels like safety, not someone you have to tiptoe around.

Choose the one who plans date night knowing the importance.

Choose the one whose hug is your favourite place in the whole wide world.

Choose the one who, without question, without hesitation, without fear, chooses you.

Every single day.

Because when love is right, it’s not a performance, it’s peace. It’s laughter. It’s partnership. It’s knowing you’re home, no matter where you stand.