Some people will name you their enemy
without ever asking who you are.
They’ll build a case from shadows,
from stories they told themselves
when the truth felt too heavy to hold.
You might be the villain in their healing arc
not because you chose harm,
but because you chose boundaries.
Not because you betrayed them,
but because you stopped betraying yourself.
And still, you don’t have to return the favor.
You don’t have to pick up the sword
just because they’ve drawn theirs.
You can be the quiet in their storm,
the stillness they mistake for silence,
the peace they call abandonment.
Because enmity is not always a shared flame.
Sometimes it burns on one side only
and you are free to walk away
without catching fire.
You can hold your dignity
while they rehearse your downfall.
You can bless them from a distance
while they curse your name in rooms
you no longer enter.
You can say,
“I’m not at war with you,
even if you are with me.”
And mean it.
That’s not weakness.
That’s sovereignty.
That’s what it means to be
unbothered by borrowed battles
and unshaken by misassigned blame.
Let them wrestle with ghosts.
You’ve got healing to do.
Trauma We Carry
There’s a silence that follows trauma.
Learning To Free Yourself of Things That Aren’t Ours To Carry
For a long time, I lived in the “why.”
Not Every Enemy Is Mutual
When Survival Becomes a Cage: Healing the Hidden Effects of Trauma
Unresolved trauma doesn’t just live in the past—it lives in the body. It shapes how we breathe, how we relate, how we protect ourselves. For years, I didn’t know I was living in a trauma response. I just thought I was “too sensitive,” “too much,” or “not enough.”
Not Knowing Might Be the Most Honest Thing We Do
There’s this quote from Agnostic Front that’s been rattling around in my head lately:
When Violence Feels Like Peace: A Letter to the Angry Ones
I know what it’s like to feel like peace is a luxury for other people. The ones who didn’t grow up with grief in their bones or betrayal in their blood. The ones who didn’t have to fight for every inch of safety, every scrap of dignity.
I used to think anger was my armor. That if I stayed sharp, stayed guarded, stayed ready to strike, I’d never be hurt again. But all it did was keep me alone. Numb. Exhausted.
There were days I wanted to burn it all down. Days I did. With words. With silence. With the kind of coldness that comes from too many broken promises and not enough apologies.
But here’s what I’ve learned, not from a book, but from the wreckage of my own life:
Violence might feel like peace in the moment. But it’s not peace. It’s a pause in the war inside you.
Science backs this up. That rush you feel? It’s dopamine. A hit of control. But it fades. And what’s left is more cortisol, more stress, more disconnection. Your nervous system stays on high alert. Your body forgets how to rest. Your heart forgets how to trust.
I’ve watched people I love choose destruction over healing. I’ve done it myself. And I’ve also chosen something different. Not because I’m better. But because I got tired of bleeding for people who never asked me to. I got tired of being the one holding the sword and the wound.
Healing isn’t soft. It’s savage. It’s choosing to feel what you’ve buried. It’s writing letters you’ll never send. It’s screaming into the desert wind and then whispering, “I’m still here.”
It’s forgiveness, not the fluffy kind, but the gritty kind. The kind that says, “I release you, not because you deserve it, but because I do.”
You don’t have to be soft to be kind. You don’t have to forget to move forward. You just have to decide that your peace matters more than your revenge.
And if you’re ready, just a little
I’ve got a ritual for you...
Ritual: The Burn That Heals
What you’ll need:
• A safe space (outside, or a fire-safe container)
• A pen and paper
• A candle or lighter
• A bowl of water or sand
Step 1: Write the truth.
Write down what you’re angry about. Be raw. Be honest. No filters. No shame. Let the page hold what your body’s been carrying.
Step 2: Speak it out loud.
Read it. To yourself. To the wind. To God. Let it echo. Let it sting. Let it be real.
Step 3: Burn it.
Light the paper. Watch it curl and blacken. As it burns, say:
“This pain is real. But it doesn’t own me. I release it. I choose peace.”
Step 4: Extinguish.
Drop the ashes into the water or sand. Let it be done. Let it be sacred.
Step 5: Breathe.
Place your hand on your chest. Feel the proof that you survived. Then say it like you mean it:
“I’m still standing. I’m not done. I’m building something no one can take from me.”
You don’t have to believe in healing to start moving toward it. You just have to be tired enough of the weight. If all you can do today is sit with this and not flinch thats sacred. If you feel the burn and still choose not to pass it on, that’s power. And if you’re still here, still breathing, still wondering if there’s more to life than pain, then you’re already on the edge of something sacred. Stay there. Let it rise.