This journal entry is a love letter to the woman I’ve fought to become. It’s not about perfection or performance—it’s about presence, peace, and the quiet power of finally feeling at home in your own skin. It’s about the joy of liking who you are, not for anyone else’s approval, but because you know how hard you worked to get here. If you’ve ever doubted your worth, if you’ve ever shrunk yourself to be accepted, I hope this piece reminds you of what’s possible when you choose to take up space, live boldly, and love yourself without apology.

This entry is a celebration—of growth, of grit, of everything I’ve built with nothing but determination, creativity, and an open heart. It’s not about proving anything to anyone. It’s about pausing long enough to breathe in the beauty of a life I created entirely on my own terms. If you’ve ever needed a reminder that you’re allowed to feel proud, allowed to shine, allowed to love the person you’ve become—this is it. This is joy in motion. This is self-belief made visible. Welcome to the life I built with my own hands.

This entry is for anyone who’s ever been scapegoated, silenced, or painted as the villain in a story they didn’t write. It’s a reckoning—with betrayal, with gaslighting, with the unbearable weight of being blamed for someone else’s cowardice. It’s about a father who refuses to see the damage he enables, who listens to venom and calls it truth. It’s angry, yes—but more than that, it’s done. This is the moment I stop begging for clarity, stop trying to fix what was never mine to repair. This is the moment I finally say what needed to be said. Loudly. Clearly. Without apology. This is also the end.

This entry is one of the hardest things I’ve ever written—and one of the most necessary. It is a farewell, not with anger, but with the exhausted tenderness that comes from decades of hoping for something that was never mine to hold. It’s about a daughter who begged for love at the feet of a man who only knew how to withhold it. It’s about heartbreak, yes—but more importantly, it’s about healing. About releasing the weight of someone else's silence, shame, and smallness. I wrote this to set myself free. And if you’ve ever had to walk away from someone who was supposed to love you, maybe it will help you feel free, too.

You Don’t Get to Be the Hero Now is a journal entry forged in fury—a raw, unfiltered reckoning with the people who arrive late to the story and demand to be cast as the saviour. It’s for every self-appointed guardian who watched from a distance and then tried to rewrite history to centre themselves. This entry calls out that delusion with blistering honesty, tearing down the façade of performative care and exposing the truth beneath it: you weren’t there. And no matter how loud you lie or how desperately you posture, you don’t get to claim the title of hero.

Today is lucky number thirteen. Thirteen years with the love of my life—the kindest, sexiest, most generous-hearted man I have ever known. I wanted to write something that captures the enormity of what this love means to me. This entry is a celebration—not just of the years we’ve spent together, but of every laugh, every challenge, every quiet moment and wild adventure that has shaped our story. It’s not just about being in love—it’s about being held in love, every single day. If you’ve ever wanted to know what real, soul-deep partnership looks like, this is it. And I’m so incredibly grateful to live it.

This entry is a celebration of resilience. It’s a reminder that even when darkness claws at your ankles, you can rise rooted in light. It’s not about the one who tries to tear me down—it’s about everything and everyone lifting me up. From reconnections that feel like miracles to the thrill of creating art that lives and breathes in the world, this is a reflection on the beauty, the abundance, and the relentless forward motion of a life that will not be dimmed. I wrote this to remember where my power lives—and to honour the fire that no one can take from me.

Some writing costs you something. This piece did. It’s about the kind of love that sacrifices without question—the kind of mother who would step into the path of harm just to spare her daughter the heartbreak of betrayal. The Bullet She Took is a raw and personal reflection on loyalty, blindness, and the truth I refused to see—until my mom uncovered it for me. If you’ve ever been saved by someone who loved you more than they loved their own peace, I hope this one finds you. Please read it. Let it sit with you. And hold space for the ones who take the bullet so we don’t have to.

This entry is a raw, unflinching reflection on what it means to survive cruelty inflicted by someone who chooses to harm rather than heal. It’s not about the abuser—it’s about the aftermath, the wounds carried in silence, and the process of reclaiming one’s voice. Written from the perspective of the victim, it captures the invisible weight of being targeted by someone who finds power in breaking others. This is for anyone who has endured manipulation, emotional violence, and the slow erosion of self-worth at the hands of someone who was supposed to love them. It’s not just a release—it’s a reckoning. A refusal to stay silent. A promise to keep rising.

I have a front-row seat to one of the greatest performances of our time. It’s a one-person show, running indefinitely, starring someone who has mastered the delicate art of self-importance with a finesse that almost—almost—deserves applause. There is no conversation too small, no moment too insignificant, that cannot be expertly redirected to highlight their imagined intelligence, their pretend achievements, and delusions of their unparalleled existence. And the best part? They truly believe we’re all lucky to be in the audience. So, in honour of this truly dazzling display of ego, I present to you: a masterclass in delusions of grandeur.

Love is often spoken about in grand declarations, in fleeting moments of passion, in words that try—but so often fail—to capture its depth. But this? This love is something else entirely. It is not just poetry or promise; it is motion. It is the way I am held, the way I am heard, the way I am chosen, every single day, without hesitation. It is the kind of love that exists not just in words but in action, in unwavering presence, in the spaces between the moments that seem too small to matter but somehow mean everything. This entry is a reflection of that love—of what it means to wake up every morning beside a man who embodies it in every touch, every look, every breath.

There comes a point in every writer’s journey where they have to stop and acknowledge their own power—not in whispers, not in hesitance, but in bold, undeniable truth. This entry is that moment for me. For years, I questioned myself, battled doubt, and let fear convince me that I wasn’t enough. But I have fought too hard, written through too much, and carved my words into existence with too much fire to doubt myself anymore. My writing is my victory. It is my battle cry. It is proof that I have endured, that I have risen, that I am exactly who I was meant to be. This is not just a reflection—it’s a declaration. A moment of fierce, unshakable certainty.

There are places that stay with us, not because we choose to hold on to them, but because they refuse to let us go. Places where laughter once lived alongside sorrow, where walls absorbed both whispered dreams and unspoken pain. The house I grew up in was one of those places. A structure that stood against the elements but could never keep the real storm—the one that raged inside—at bay. It was a place of contradictions, of light and shadow, of moments I wish I could preserve and others I would give anything to forget. And yet, the past does not ask permission to linger. It echoes, it vibrates, it waits. This is my reckoning with that place. A reflection on what was left behind, what was lost, and what I must now choose to release. And when the remembering is done, when the weight of it has settled, I will say goodbye in the only way I know how—with a eulogy, not for a home, but for a house that was never one.

Time is a strange thing. We track it, measure it, chase it—but we never seem to hold it for long. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how it moves, how it stretches and compresses in ways that feel impossible. How the years slip through our fingers like water, yet some moments linger, sharp and vivid, refusing to fade. I’ve been thinking about the selves we leave behind, the ghosts of who we used to be, scattered across the years like echoes in an empty room. And I wonder—where does it all go? What do we become when time has taken everything but the bones?