Every time I open up, I spiral after. Did I say too much? Was I annoying? Should I have just stayed quiet? Vulnerability always feels like a risk—and afterward, I’m left wondering if anyone truly knows how to hold what I shared.

I stay busy, I stay productive, I stay moving—but sometimes I wonder if I’m healing or just distracting myself. Because the silence? That’s when the pain creeps in. And I don’t know if I’m ready to face it yet.

I used to think love was supposed to hurt—until I realized I was just trauma bonded. What I felt wasn’t love. It was control, confusion, and a longing to be chosen. Now I know real love feels like peace, not pain.

I spent my whole life feeling misunderstood—like no one really got what I was trying to say. Now I speak loudly, clearly, and unapologetically. I’m not afraid to explain myself anymore… because being understood is everything to me.

I don’t hustle for money or clout—I hustle because I don’t know how to sit still. Chronic boredom makes me feel worthless, so I fill every silence with ambition. But sometimes I wonder… who am I without the hustle?

I’m great at being strong. Holding it all together. Getting things done. But being soft? Being kind to myself? That part still feels foreign. I’m learning how to stop measuring my worth by my productivity and success—and how to finally make peace feel like home.

Covering the Diddy trial hasn’t just been emotionally exhausting—it’s been personal. As someone who grew up around abuse and now writes about it, I’ve learned that bearing witness comes at a cost. This isn’t just about legal analysis. It’s about vicarious trauma, emotional resilience, and the quiet strength it takes to translate horror into truth.

You didn’t just steal a photo. You stole my image, my autonomy, and the right to control my story. I hope the $9.99 was worth it—because you lit a fire under the wrong woman.

Peace used to scare me more than chaos ever did.

This post is about the trauma response of waiting for things to go wrong—even when life is finally going right. If you’ve ever felt triggered by stillness, terrified by calm, or uncomfortable when things are too good, this is for you.

This isn’t just about “nice guys.”

It’s about the men who perform empathy, hide behind politeness, and use their image to gain your trust—only to do quiet, calculated harm. This is what happens when you stop believing in the illusion of safety and start trusting your own patterns.

When DJ Akademiks messaged me, I felt flattered. He was the first famous man I ever seriously considered hanging out with. But then I read the lawsuit. What started as harmless DMs turned into a chilling realization: I had been one “yes” away from ending up in a headline. This isn’t just about him—it’s about how fame disguises danger, and how gut instinct is sometimes the only thing that keeps us safe.

Healing isn’t always a glow-up. Sometimes it’s a breakdown. This post is for the days when you feel stuck, numb, or like you’re doing everything right and still getting nowhere. I’m sharing the truth about what healing actually looks like—messy, nonlinear, and quiet as hell. If you’re deep in the in-between, this one’s for you.

Every time I think I’ve found a male figure I can trust or admire, the truth shows up like a slap in the face. From the men in my personal life to public figures like Shannon Sharpe, the betrayal stings in ways I can’t explain. This piece is about my growing fear of men, my disgust at the violence they continue to inflict, and the $50M lawsuit that pushed me over the edge.

Sometimes it’s not that I want to die—it’s that I can’t function while wishing I wasn’t here. My suicidal thoughts have been running in the background like a virus, quietly crashing my ability to handle school, responsibilities, or life. I’m not lazy. I’m exhausted from the war in my head.

This isn’t about wanting to die. It’s about wanting control in a world that’s tried to take it from me too many times. These thoughts don’t come from weakness—they come from fear, rage, and the deep knowing that if anything ever happened to me, I’d want to be the one who decided how it ended. Not him. Not the system. Me.

They said rage made me difficult. But I’ve learned it made me dangerous—to the silence, to the shame, to the systems that thrive when we stay quiet. This piece is about the fire behind my fight, and how anger shaped me into someone who refuses to stay small.

Being emotionally intelligent is a gift—but it comes with a cost. When you understand everything, you feel everything. And after a while, it stops feeling like wisdom and starts feeling like exhaustion. This is for the people who always make room for others, who analyze everything, who see the deeper meaning behind every action—and still feel alone.

I don’t feel safe when men flirt with me. I don’t feel safe walking home alone. I don’t feel safe existing in a body that men think belongs to them. And the truth is, sometimes I don’t feel like living—not because I want to die, but because I’m terrified someone else will take that choice from me. This piece is rage. It’s fear. It’s survival. It’s me, unfiltered.

— Trinity Barnette

I didn’t grow up hearing about domestic violence—I grew up watching it. I saw it in black eyes and slammed doors. I felt it in the silence that followed every explosion. This isn’t just my story—it’s my origin. The reason I became an activist. The reason I write, speak, and refuse to stay quiet. Because I know what it’s like to be the kid in the room, and I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting so others don’t have to grow up in fear like I did.

He told me I was weak for crying. For feeling too much. For being sensitive. But what I’ve learned is this — my emotions weren’t the problem. His inability to face them was. My sensitivity didn’t make me fragile. It made me human.