#incestsurvivor
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King David is my favorite author of the Old Testament. He was a man that was real, honest, and raw with God. He mused and fussed with God, praised Him, and thanked him — all three rather quickly sometimes. An awesome man of God and King David asked God to keep him “as the apple…
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There is a point in every long road where the body simply gives out. Not dramatically. Not with some noble collapse. It just wears down quietly, the way stone wears down under years of water. You keep moving because life demands it. Children still need feeding, the house still needs tending, the problems of the…
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Showing Up Without a Net There was a time when the wound was not a metaphor. It was a secret. A child’s body carrying what it should never have had to carry. Sexual abuse & physical does something violent to your sense of order. It scrambles trust. It teaches you that love can harm you…
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For a long time, I lived without discipline and called it freedom. It wasn’t. It was decay. Addiction thrives where structure collapses. My days had no spine. Sleep came whenever it came. Promises bent. Routines dissolved. I could not uphold the smallest order, which meant I could not build anything that lasted. Nothing worthwhile survives…
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Modern psychology loves the term self-actualization. It sounds noble: becoming the best version of yourself, realizing your potential, living authentically. Maslow built his pyramid around it. Therapists sell it. Influencers turn it into morning routines and affirmations. But strip away the language, and you’ll see an old hunger dressed in new words, the same longing…
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Childhood trauma is an inheritance no child asks for. A ghost sewn into the seams of small, trembling bodies. It lingers in the marrow, in the hush of a locked door, in the filth of hands that should have protected but instead desecrated. Incest—an unspoken horror—warps time, fractures identity, leaves a child stranded in a…
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Oh, my love, I know. The world is a dark theater, and the players lie so beautifully, so effortlessly, that you begin to wonder if truth is just a ghost story we tell to comfort ourselves. The cynics whisper in your ear like tired prophets, saying: Nothing changes. The liars win. The strong devour the…
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The world expects you to sew the seams of your torn childhood with dainty stitches, as if the needle were your wand and the thread your redemption. They say, “Rise above,” as though survival were an airy thing, a kite unspooling freely into the ether, instead of this iron weight chained to your ribs. To…
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Childhood trauma is often described as a thief—stealing innocence, trust, and safety. But what if we reframe it? What if trauma, instead of being a thief, is an unskilled cartographer, handing us maps of the world that are skewed, incomplete, or even cruel? When you’ve endured abuse, the map you’re handed as a child may…
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The ghosts linger, don’t they? They nestle in the marrow, whispering their truths through the bloodline. Trauma isn’t just a word; it’s a tide that laps at the edge of every generation, rewriting our stories with ink invisible yet indelible. It hides in the small gestures: in the sighs between sentences, in the silences that…