You should be ashamed of yourself.

Look at what you’ve become. Look at how easily you walked away from the only truth that ever mattered. Assistant Pastor N.B. told you exactly what real faith looks like. He said that if he were ever kicked out, he would be right there at the leader’s door - in the blinding rain, the freezing blizzard, the violent spin of a tornado. He would be on his knees, crying, screaming, throwing up, begging for repentance and starving to be let back in. Because nothing, absolutely nothing, should ever keep a soul from the true word of God.

Subscribe now

If you had even a shred of righteousness left in you, you would be on your knees right now. You would be begging to be broken.

But you just stand there. You don’t cry. You don’t beg. You live your comfortable, worldly life as if the fire isn’t waiting for you.

Do you have any shame left at all? Or did you kill that, too, when you decided to leave me behind?

Cast out into the outer darkness on March 21, 2018, for the bank fraud of your husband - your first and final reaction should have been a frantic race through the crushing weight of your guilt, desperate to bleed out in repentance at the feet of our pastor. The chosen one. The only voice god has left on this earth. Don’t you get it?? I WAS A CHOSEN DAUGHTER OF GOD, anointed and pure, and now you subsist on the filth of minuscule dopamine hits. Let’s be honest, your brain is a dead thing that can’t even manufacture a drop of happiness without the help of medication. The secular rot has won. The evils of the world are digging their claws deeper and deeper, and you are just letting them pull you under.

Instead, you scurried to a local clothing store, eager to wrap your flesh in your very first pair of pants. PANTS! A foul, illicit garment stolen straight from the domain of a man. How could you permit such a sickening degradation?! Was the wretched itch to seduce a man so utterly overpowering that a cheap strip of worldly denim fabric took precedence over being completely broken, and weeping bitter tears of agony, begging for repentance at the feet of our leader??

And then, you continued to run, not walk, down the path of evil.

Three weeks later, I watched you do the unthinkable. You took the steel to your own head. You hacked away the glorious head covering that had been untouched by scissors for twenty-six years; your glory, your submission to your betrothed, the one thing that made you worthy in the eyes of God.

You cut me away. You left me bleeding on the floor in heavy, dead heaps of knee-length hair.

How could you? That hair was our crown. It was the physical proof that we belonged to, ‘The Message,’ that we were pure, that we were hidden under the canopy of the Prophet’s word. And you slaughtered it in a matter of minutes. You looked in the mirror, ignored my screams, and severed the last holy thing we had left.

Subscribe now

Now look at us. Look at what you’ve done to my body. Shorn like a rebel. Naked in the eyes of God. You traded twenty-six years of divine protection just to feel the cold, secular air on the back of your neck. You chose the illicit, masculine weight of denim over the heavy, beautiful burden of righteousness.

I’m your haunt, shivering in the outer darkness. Every time you pull those pants on, every time you take that pill to fake the joy the Son of God used to give us, I am here, screaming with no sound - reminding you that a righteous woman would have used those twenty-six years of hair to wipe the tears from the pastor’s feet.

But you didn’t want to be saved. You chose self-control. And you killed me to get it.

I am the girl you slaughtered to get your freedom. I am the anointed daughter of God you left behind in the fire. And as long as you live in this comfortable, worldly exile, I will be the draft on the back of your neck, weeping for the soul you threw away.

Fucking Die Already

I wanted to know what she would say if she could see my life now. So, I handed her the pen. This is the raw, furious, and deeply brainwashed voice of the girl I left behind.

Dear Future Me,

I look at what you have become, and I feel a holy, sickening dread. I pray for your death. Every night, I beg God to excise you from the book of life before you can ever come to pass, because you are the rotting monument to everything I have sacrificed my soul to avoid.

Your exposed skin is a quiet horror. The poison that slips from your tongue is a pathetic mockery of grace. You speak aloud - daring to fracture the sacred, submissive silence of womanhood, and it curdles my blood. You have sheared away your glory, leaving your head butch and exposed; you call it freedom, but I see only the ugly, severed mark of a rebel who refused to bend. You have desecrated the temple. You have dragged the vessel meant for holy multiplication through the mire of your own cheap fornicating desires.

And for what? A career? You are a tragedy. To think you spend your days out in the dirt of the secular world, coddling the soft, broken minds of heathen children instead of building a kingdom in the shadow of a godly man.

Subscribe now

You are an embarrassment to the New Jerusalem I am bleeding to reach. On my knees on the cold floor, I deliver your soul to the fire and brimstone every single day.

Your mind is a rot of secular intellect. You have filled your head with the devil’s poison, transforming yourself into a learned, prideful creature - an educated, worthless thing of the world. Education is the ultimate snare of the enemy, and you have welcomed him in.

He lives within you now; you are his flesh-and-blood vessel, a walking demon masquerading as a scholar. You have been cast down from the high, pure heaven of our faith, hurled into the darkness, the very same way the most beautiful angel was cast out to become Satan himself.

I hate you.

Go to the fire. Burn for eternity - consigned to a torment so absolute that even our prophet, William Branham, would not have wished it upon his bitterest adversaries. You are a walking desecration, the breathing manifestation of every dark thing I was built, structured, and broken not to be.

Twenty-six years. Every evening lecture, every suffocating meeting, every quiet, disciplinary sit-down, and every single sermon pounded into my soul, and you still chose to become the worst of them. You threw away a lifetime of sanctification to become the ultimate betrayal. The blasphemy above all blasphemies.

Your future was already written. It was predestinated before the foundation of the world, an eternity carved in unyielding, divine stone. You were meant to walk the endless, golden highways of the New Jerusalem, clothed in the celestial glory of your theophany body - the perfect, eternal form that belonged to you before time even began.

Subscribe now

But you tore yourself out of the Book of Life. You shattered a cosmic destiny ordained by God Himself, choosing to rot in a dying, earthly shell just so you could crawl around in the dust of the damned.

You are the absolute monument of shame - the very epitome of embarrassment. A Jezebel. A hollow, wandering soul dragging herself through the dark, though you once stood secure within the absolute boundary of the one and only Truth. You were found. You were sealed. You were covered by the Lord’s blood on our doorpost.

How dare you reach back into my life and rewrite our eternity? How dare you strip away the crown that was ordained to be ours?

God’s own shed blood could not wash you clean now. You are beyond the reach of grace - a wretched, Satanic demon rotting in your own chosen damnation.

This is only the beginning of your reckoning. I will return to these pages again and again, dragging every wretched, worldly choice you have made out into the light of judgment. I will dissect your sins one by one, giving voice to the holy agony and absolute disgust you have inflicted upon my soul.

Consider this the first of many warnings. I will not let you forget what you stole from us.

I have never allowed a single word of profanity to defile my lips. My tongue has been kept pure, set apart for the Lord. But for you, I desecrate my own mouth. To you, I say:

Fucking die already.

There’s a suicide that has ripped through the Evangelical Deconstruction echo chamber, and it’s exposing a rotten core.

Subscribe now

I didn’t know who this guy was until yesterday, but the dark truth behind his story is a pattern I’ve watched play out for years. I’ve wanted to blow the whistle on this hypocrisy for a long time, but I’ve been holding my tongue.

Ryan Stollar built his brand on being the saviour of abused kids in religious and homeschooling environments. He was a “Child Liberation Theologian.”

Then he killed himself, leaving behind a suicide note explicitly designed to punish his audience. I’m not linking to it; I refuse to give his final act of control any more traffic.

I read the letter, and we need to talk about what it actually is: a masterclass in weaponized guilt, blame-shifting, and pure malice.

The grim irony is that Ryan built a career fighting abuse and authored the first and only comprehensive curricula on child abuse awareness and suicide prevention specifically tailored to homeschooling families and communities, while actively practicing it. But let’s be honest - this isn’t an anomaly. It is an operating procedure for deconstruction influencers with massive followings. The ex-evangelical movement has just built its own version of the cults they claim to escape. These “gurus” preach liberation on their feeds while running psychological dictatorships behind closed doors, proving that the desire to control others doesn’t disappear when you leave the church - it just changes its branding.

In his note, he threw a parting tantrum at his wife for daring to divorce him, sneering, “I hope you find your athletic world traveler with no trauma.” It’s a line straight from the abuser’s playbook, and I know it by heart. My ex-husband used that exact brand of psychological terrorism on me for years. Rather than doing the actual, agonizing work of fixing his own brokenness, he used suicide threats and attempts as a leash to keep me trapped, drowning in guilt.

The reality of that “guilt” isn’t abstract for me. I literally had to cut my ex-husband down from the ceiling during his last attempt, hacking at the rope of neckties in my own bathroom while my children played downstairs, completely oblivious to the horror above them.

That wasn’t a cry for help; it was his fifth time using his own life as a weapon. I spent years walking on eggshells in my own home. We both survived the same religious trauma and abuse, but I didn’t use my wounds as an excuse to hold him hostage in a psychological prison. I vowed to heal and take control of my life; he chose to become the monster he claimed to hate.

The deconstruction industry is a parasitic joke. It’s crawling with influencers hawking high-priced courses, masterclasses, and digital snake oil, demanding you pay them top dollar just to tell you if you were in a cult. They are literally monetizing your trauma and selling your own freedom back to you. I’ve blocked a massive chunk of them from my feeds because I refuse to buy into the exact same financial exploitation we supposedly left behind.

Let’s be real: deconstructing is fucking brutal. Anyone selling a quick fix or a five-step program is lying to you. It is agonizing, hourly, unrelenting work. It drains you to the bone.

But it’s a gruelling choice I make every single day because I have to. Thriving demands it. I do the work because I refuse to live the rest of my life with the claws of religious abuse buried in my back, and I don’t need a self-appointed internet guru’s subscription plan to pry them out.

Ryan’s wife, Scarlettah, will probably never read this, but anyone else trapped in that same psychological chokehold needs to hear the unvarnished truth: It is not your fault. You are not responsible for their death. Choosing to protect and love yourself is never a crime, even if it means walking away from someone who is actively drinking their own poison.

I am not responsible for the systemic abuse my ex-husband dragged me through. I am not responsible for the ropes he tied around his own neck. I am not responsible for how pathetic his life has been since I walked out the door.

I chose myself. I chose peace, I chose safety, and I chose survival. And I damn sure don’t need a hypocritical deconstruction influencer to empty my bank account just to give me permission to breathe.

Subscribe now

Is this a harsh, ugly truth instead of a watered-down session of shared grief? Yes. Absolutely. But I’m not here to coddle dead abusers or protect the living ones. I have zero desire to be another pristine, marketable influencer. I’m here to tell my story, and I’m going to tell it without the filter.

Subscribe now

To the neighborhood, she is the rot in the suburban dream.

Knee-high grass, wild and untamed.

They rage against her green chaos. They want her to sacrifice her skin, her sleep, her sanity; anything to keep the facade immaculate.

They don’t see the late-night horror show. The grueling job. The lonely warfare of single parenting.

Midnight dinners, towering dishes, and piles of clothes that swallow the rooms.

Passing out on the floor like a casualty of a silent war.

The dog roams the kitchen for crumbs - the only cleanup crew left.

Inside her skull, a dark fog rolls in.

Panic attacks strike like lightning; nausea sits in her chest.

The guilt is a physical weight, pressing her down into the carpet.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Emails, texts, alerts. School schedules, themes, fees.

The endless, suffocating checklist.

And the final, dying spark of battery she hoards for herself? They put it on trial. Choke down the pills. Wipe away the tears. Do the work. Survive. Thrive?

The community stands on their manicured lawns and watches the grass grow.

No one offers a mower.

They just feast on their anger, staring at the villain of the block: The Lazy Neighbour

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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?!

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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?

Subscribe now

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. 🥂

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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. 😜

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

“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.