It’s been weeks since I finished Dexter—and I’m still angry. Not because it was bad, but because it was tragic in the quietest, most haunting way. Dexter didn’t vanish to protect the people he loved. He vanished because he couldn’t forgive himself. This post dives into the heartbreak of the finale, his relationship with Hannah, and why exile was never survival—it was punishment.

We love stories of survival—but only when they end in strength. Nobody wants to talk about the in-between. The days when you’re still grieving something you ‘should be over,’ still angry about things the world expects you to forgive. Survivor’s guilt is quiet, but it cuts deep. It’s the weight of being alive when others didn’t make it. It’s the pressure to inspire when you’re still hurting. Healing isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes it’s just breathing through the ache and trying again tomorrow.