Dear Reader,

September 15th, 2026

Another blog post, another apology for disappearing.

Maybe I’ll start writing more again. Maybe I won’t. But maybe, secretly, writing these posts and knowing that some of you read them has helped me more than I’ve wanted to admit.

So I’m going to admit something else.

I have been struggling these last few months more than most people know.

Really struggling.

There have been days when I genuinely don’t understand how I’m supposed to keep going. How am I supposed to heal when every time I finally feel like I’m getting my head above water, someone is there trying to push me back underneath?

That is the part of healing from trauma that I don’t think people talk about enough.

How do you heal from people who are still hurting you?

How do you convince your nervous system that you’re safe when you don’t feel safe?

How do you rebuild your self-worth when the same people who helped destroy it still have access to your life?

Sometimes you can’t just block someone and move on. Sometimes you had children with them. Sometimes there are court orders, obligations, finances, schedules, and circumstances that mean the person who hurt you doesn’t simply disappear from your life.

And sometimes they continue to be cruel.

Mentally. Psychologically. Financially.

And you’re expected to somehow keep healing through it.

Let me give you an example of what I mean.

If you’ve read my blog from the beginning, you know that I can never have another child.

What I haven’t always explained is just how sick I became.

After having my last baby, my body went through hell. My bleeding became so severe that I needed medical treatment and transfusions. No joke. I was literally bleeding out every month during my menstrual cycle. Menstrual cycles that were 23 days apart. Eventually, I needed a hysterectomy. It wasn’t something I wanted. It wasn’t an easy decision. It was something my body needed.

I was already grieving what that meant for me as a woman and a mother.

And while I was trying to survive that physically and emotionally, people mocked me for it. People actually talked about how it was a good thing I couldn’t have any more children. The same people who caused me so much trauma in the first place.

Think about that.

Something that broke my heart was entertainment to someone else.

Something I had to grieve became ammunition.

How do you heal from things like that?

This last year has been one of the hardest years of my entire life, and that is saying a lot.

I have survived a lot in 33 years. More than I probably even realize because surviving became so normal that I stopped recognizing it as survival.

I have lived in survival mode for almost my entire life.

I know how to figure things out.

I know how to keep moving when I’m exhausted.

I know how to take care of everyone else while falling apart privately.

I know how to wipe my face, walk into a room and act like everything is okay.

What I don’t know very well is how to feel safe.

And this year, when I was already struggling, it felt like certain people fed off of it.

My health information has been shared in attempts to embarrass me. My struggles have been discussed. My lowest moments have been used as evidence of who I supposedly am instead of evidence that I was a human being going through an unbelievably difficult season.

And recently, something happened that made me realize just how exhausting healing can be when you’re surrounded by people who refuse to hold the right person accountable.

Someone who has caused me significant trauma chose not to tell another person about something they had done to me. They left out something incredibly important that could affect someone else. 

Eventually, that person found out the truth.

You would think that would have been the end of it. You would think the anger would have been directed toward the person who wasn’t honest with them.

Instead, somehow, I became the problem.

They learned that this person had hidden something serious from them, yet rather than questioning the person who wasn’t truthful, they turned their anger toward me. They chose to humiliate me, talk badly about me, and even discuss me with another person who has caused me significant trauma.

How do you continue to heal from situations like this? I wasn’t the person who kept the truth from them. I wasn’t the person who created this situation. I wasn’t the person who owed anyone honesty. Yet somehow, after the truth came out, I was the one who became the target.

That’s such a painful thing to experience when you’re already trying to heal.

Because what are you supposed to do when the truth finally comes out and somehow you’re still the one being punished for it?

What are you supposed to do when someone discovers that a person they trusted wasn’t honest with them, but instead of confronting what that means, they decide it’s easier to attack you?

Again, every time I felt like my head finally broke through the surface, it felt like another hand pushed me back underneath.

And eventually, you get tired.

Not regular tired.

The kind of tired that reaches somewhere deep inside of you.

The last few months, I’ve questioned my purpose more than I want to admit.

What do I bring to this world?

Do I have value?

Am I really the person these people say I am?

That’s another part of trauma people don’t always understand.

When someone tears you down long enough, their voice doesn’t disappear when they leave the room.

It follows you.

Their words start playing inside your own head.

You know logically that cruel people don’t get to determine your worth. You know their opinions shouldn’t carry weight. You know someone who intentionally hurts you isn’t a reliable narrator of your life.

But trauma isn’t always logical.

Eventually their voice starts sounding like your own.

“Maybe I am the problem.”

“Maybe I really am difficult.”

“Maybe everything is my fault.”

“Maybe I don’t deserve better.”

“Maybe I am crazy.”

That last one has played in my head more times than I can count.

“Am I crazy?”

I have asked my therapist that question.

I’ve been consistently going to therapy for over a year, and I’m incredibly thankful for her. I will tell her what happened, what was said, what I did, what they did, and then I’ll ask:

“Am I being crazy?”

And even when I’m reassured that my feelings and reactions make sense, there is still this tiny voice inside of me wondering if maybe the people who have hurt me were right all along.

That is what repeated emotional and psychological harm can do to a person.

It can make you stop trusting yourself.

And lately, one of the hardest things for me has been realizing how little safety I feel like I have in my personal life.

I want somewhere to run when life gets heavy.

I want someone I can tell the ugliest, saddest, most vulnerable parts of myself to without wondering whether those words will eventually be thrown back in my face.

I want to know what it feels like to be protected instead of constantly preparing myself for the next thing I have to survive.

I want comfort.

I want peace.

I want stability.

I want a normal, boring, safe life.

And sometimes I get angry that those things feel like such huge things to ask for.

Because I’m tired of drowning.

I’m tired of finally reaching the surface just to feel another hand on my head.

But here is the part I’m trying desperately to remember:

I am still here.

After everything, I am still here.

Maybe surviving isn’t the life I want forever, but surviving got me this far.

And now I want more than survival.

I want to learn what living feels like.

I want to learn what peace feels like.

I want to build a life where I don’t wake up waiting for something bad to happen.

I want my children to see that a person can go through hell without deciding that hell is where they belong.

And maybe somebody reading this feels like they’re drowning too.

Maybe somebody has spent so long hearing everything that’s supposedly wrong with them that they can’t hear their own voice anymore.

Maybe you’re wondering whether you matter.

You do.

And I’m writing that for myself just as much as I’m writing it for you.

Maybe healing isn’t getting far enough ahead that nobody can ever knock us down again.

Maybe healing is slowly learning that being knocked down doesn’t mean we have to stay there.

Maybe it’s learning to recognize which voices were never ours to carry.

Maybe it’s choosing, one painful day at a time, to believe there is still a life waiting for us beyond survival mode.

I don’t have that life yet.

I’m not going to lie to you and pretend I’ve reached the inspirational ending where everything suddenly makes sense.

I’m still in it.

I’m still hurting.

I’m still trying to figure out where I belong and what my life is supposed to look like.

I’m still trying to believe that I’m worthy of the same safety, love, stability and kindness that I’ve spent so much of my life giving to everyone else.

But I’m still here.

And for right now, maybe that’s enough.

If you’re still here too, maybe that’s enough for today.

We can figure out tomorrow when it gets here.

Love always,

Kelsey