I would’ve convicted Diddy of everything and sued him for emotional distress after watching 40 minutes of his “Freak Off” footage. The jury had a chance to deliver real justice — and they fumbled. Acquitting him of sex trafficking and racketeering wasn’t mercy. It was a failure.

I’m not dramatic—I’m expressive. I don’t hide my sadness well, and I’ve stopped feeling bad about that. In this unfiltered reflection, I open up about what it’s like to feel everything out loud, why vulnerability shouldn’t be mistaken for a cry for attention, and how I’m done apologizing for emotions that refuse to be quiet.

I used to be the girl who didn’t speak up, who wanted everyone to like her, who confused being nice with being safe. But healing forced me to harden. I’m not cold—I’m just finally protecting myself. In this unfiltered reflection, I talk about how boundaries, detachment, and no longer caring what people think made me stronger, safer, and more myself than ever.

I don’t want a “perfect” body—I want a body that doesn’t send me into a spiral every time I catch the wrong angle. In this unfiltered reflection, I open up about the pressure to fix what’s never felt right, how OCPD impacts the way I see myself, and why I’m tired of pretending confidence is easy. This isn’t about vanity. It’s about peace.

I know some of you saw I reopened my OnlyFans and immediately started praying. But before you judge me,let me explain. This time isn’t like before. I’m not chasing fast money—I’m funding my future. College costs money. My blog costs money. And this time around, I have a plan, a budget, and the wisdom to do it right. This isn’t a relapse—it’s a redemption arc.

When I was 13, I found a man bleeding out from a gunshot wound on the side of the street in Edgewood, Maryland—and it changed everything. I later learned the man died, and one of the suspects was the older brother of a girl I once loved, who’s now been missing for years. This is a story about violence, survival, and the unbearable truths we’re forced to carry far too young.

Designing my own merch wasn’t just a creative project—it was a milestone. I opened the packages and saw my vision in real life for the first time, and it hit me: I’m building something real. The Raw Reflections merch store is coming soon, and I’ve never been more proud.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually healing—or if I’ve just become really good at feeling nothing. In this post, I open up about the emotional numbness that hides under high-functioning survival, and how easy it is to confuse dissociation with growth. If you’ve ever felt “fine” but disconnected from yourself, this one’s for you.

I’ve spent years being pushed by a voice in my head I now call the Overbearing Parent. It’s critical, cold, and relentless—but it was born from a childhood where I never felt good enough. In this post, I unpack the perfectionism, the pressure, and the part of me that believes I have to earn my worth through success, thinness, and achievement. I’m trying to free myself—softly.

Healing doesn’t always look like closure—it sometimes looks like glancing at the door even when you know no one’s coming. This piece is about the quiet kind of grief, the stubborn hope that lingers, and learning to love yourself through the parts of you that still wait.

Some people leave your life, and it’s like a window finally opened. Others leave, and it’s like the whole house collapsed—even when they were the ones leaking in the mold to begin with. This is for the messy breakups, the situationships that never even started, and the toxic bonds you still secretly mourn. I’m not here to judge you for struggling. I’m here to walk you through how to finally let that shit go—one petty, painful, healing step at a time.

I used to love out loud. I used to believe that if you were good, the world would be too. But the more I gave, the more I lost—and somewhere along the way, the softness got replaced with steel. I wasn’t born this cold. Life made me this way.

Sometimes we grieve things that never officially began—people who never chose us, moments that never happened, versions of ourselves we never got to be. And sometimes, no matter how hard we try to move on, the pain lingers like a song stuck on loop. This isn’t weakness. It’s proof that we cared. And caring isn’t something I’m ever going to apologize for—even if it haunts me.

There’s a special kind of grief in outgrowing what once kept you alive. When the things that once brought you comfort—people, habits, identities—start to feel suffocating, you’re left with a brutal choice: cling to familiarity or save yourself. I chose myself. And it broke my heart.

There was a time I lived for approval. Now, I live for peace. People call me a bitch, but the truth is—I’m just real as f*ck. I’m not here to be digestible. I’m here to be honest. And if that’s intimidating? Good. That means I’m doing something right.

They say I’m overreacting. But what they really mean is: how dare I feel so deeply? I’m not overreacting—I’m reacting to a world that’s relentless in its harm, unapologetic in its injustice, and exhausted by my truth. Every tear, every outburst, every quiet withdrawal is a response to pain this world keeps pretending doesn’t exist.

I’m not yelling. I’m not slamming doors. I’m not writing paragraph-long texts begging to be heard. I’m quiet now—and that scares people more than anything. But what they don’t realize is that I’m not angry anymore. I’m exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually depleted from carrying rage that was never mine to hold in the first place. It’s not that I stopped caring—it’s that caring started killing me.

There’s a quiet kind of grief that comes with awareness—when you see injustice clearly, name it out loud, and realize most people would rather look away. In this raw reflection, I explore how knowledge, truth, and emotional depth can isolate you—and why I choose to keep speaking anyway.

I’ve always craved control—but I’ve always needed freedom. This piece unpacks the inner war between those two truths and how my birth chart helped me make sense of it. From my Capricorn rising to my Aquarius moon, astrology gave me the language to explore the contradictions I live with every day—and why I’m not just complicated. I’m layered.

It didn’t “go all the way.” But it went far enough to leave a mark. In this piece, I open up about the moment I froze while someone I trusted crossed a line—and how that fear stayed with me long after he stopped. This is about the weight of what almost happened, how it shaped my understanding of consent, and why I speak up now. Because silence might protect your peace—but the truth is what helps you heal.