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.

I try to educate. I try to inform. But some days, I’m just trying not to scream. In this piece, I break down how I balance sarcasm and seriousness in my writing—why I joke, when I don’t, and how blogging became the only way I’ve ever truly learned to process anger without burning everything down.

People think I’m cold, but really—I’m just guarded. I’ve learned that emotional detachment feels safer than vulnerability, and trust feels like surrender. In this post, I unpack what it really means to be a sensitive person who’s built walls out of logic, control, and fear. Because I’m not emotionless. I’m terrified of what might happen if I let it all in.

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.