✍ Fragments of Me, Entry 4: The Cost of Justice

The courtroom was never meant to feel like home, yet I’ve spent more time there than anywhere else in recent years. Not because I chose it, but because the system demanded it. Family court is supposed to be about fairness, about protecting children, about balance. But when you’re standing alone, trying to navigate laws that change from state to state, fairness feels like a word reserved for those who can afford it.

I’ve stumbled through statutes, case law, and endless paperwork, educating myself because I had no other choice. Each state has its own rules, its own language, its own traps. What should be straightforward becomes a labyrinth, and I am left to wander it without a guide. Meanwhile, she walks in with state-funded lawyers, free representation, and resources I could never dream of. She is financially stable, yet the system arms her with support, while I am left to empty savings accounts, cash in my 401k, and take out loans just to cover a fraction of what legal representation costs.

And still, it wasn’t enough. Money—or the lack of it—has been the greatest barrier between me and my daughters. It is not my love, not my commitment, not my willingness to fight that keeps them from me. It is the price tag attached to justice.

What unsettles me most is the conscience of it all. I am ordered to pay child support to the very woman who, in truth, should never have had them in the first place. She holds them through lies and manipulation, yet the law rewards her with financial support. Their father, who was once ordered to pay me child support in our divorce, has never been held accountable. I never received a dime. And now, somehow, the burden falls on me.

It feels like being punished twice—once by losing my daughters, and again by being forced to fund the person who took them. The scales of justice are not balanced; they are weighted by wealth, by access, by privilege. And when you stand on the side without those things, you are crushed beneath them.

Still, I keep learning. I keep reading. I keep fighting. Because even though the system is designed to break people like me, I refuse to let it define me. My daughters are worth every sleepless night, every dollar spent, every ounce of strength I can muster.

This is not just a battle for custody. It is a battle against a system that confuses justice with money, that mistakes resources for righteousness. And though I may stumble, though I may feel helpless, I will not stop. Because one day, the truth will matter more than the lies. One day, the scales will tip. And one day, my girls will know I never stopped fighting for them.

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For my Daughters, I fight

The weight of addiction heavy on my chest,

As I struggle to regain what I've lost,

My daughters, 

once with me, 

now gone,

Torn away by false accusations, 

at a great cost.

Incarcerated and stripped of liberty,

My mind races while my heart longs,

To hold my children, 

close to me,

But addiction, 

a battle that never ends.

Manic bipolar type 1, 

a double-edged sword,

In the grip of a frenzy, 

little control I have,

Taken away by highs and lows,

Unable to hold steady, 

life is a frantic dance.

This battle, 

a cyclical pattern,

The urge again, 

I must resist,

The memories of my past, 

a constant reminder,

A future without my girls, 

I cannot persist.

But the struggle continues,

One day at a time I must fight,

For the chance to earn back what I lost,

To be a mother again, 

shining bright.

Addiction may be my foe,

But the love of my children

will always take hold,

For them, I must face my demons,

And never let my heart grow cold.

So here I stand, 

with determination,

To walk the road less taken,

And with each step, 

I pray for strength,

To win this war and not be shaken.

For my daughters, 

my heart bleeds,

And I'll do whatever it takes,

To free myself from the grip of addiction,

And finally break free from its chains.

I know it won't be easy,

The road ahead is long,

But I'm willing to do whatever it takes,

To prove that I am strong.

Recovery is not a straight line,

There will be ups and downs,

But with the support of those who love me,

I know I can turn my life around.

I'll take it one day at a time,

And celebrate each small victory,

For every moment sober is a win,

And brings me closer to my family.

The weight of addiction may be heavy,

But I won't let it crush me down,

For my daughters, 

I'll keep on fighting,

Until the day they're back in my arms, 

safe and sound.

✍️ Fragments of Me - Entry 3: Love That Hurts

 I used to think love would save me. 

That if someone saw me—

really saw me—

they’d hold me together when I couldn’t do it myself. 

I believed in the kind of love that heals, 

that wraps around your broken pieces and says, 

“You’re safe now.”

But that’s not the love I got.

The love I got came with bruises. 

With manipulation. 

With promises that turned into weapons. 

I let people in who said they cared, 

and they hurt me in ways I still don’t know how to name.

Some of them used my vulnerability against me. 

Some of them disappeared when I needed them most. 

Some of them stayed just long enough to make me believe I was worth something—

and then left me questioning everything.

And the worst part? 

I still wanted to be loved. 

Even after all of it.

My parts don’t agree on how to handle this. 

One is angry, 

screaming that I should never trust again. 

Another is desperate, 

clinging to the hope that someone will love me right. 

Another is numb, 

refusing to feel anything at all. 

And I’m stuck in the middle, 

trying to make sense of how love became a battlefield.

I’ve been told I’m too much. 

Too emotional. 

Too broken. 

Too complicated. 

But the truth is, 

I’ve just been hurt too deeply. 

I’ve learned to protect myself in ways that look messy from the outside. 

I’ve learned to expect pain where there should be tenderness.

I want to believe in love again. 

I want to believe that someone could hold me without trying to fix me, 

without using me, 

without breaking me further. 

But right now, love feels like a risk I can’t afford.

I’m still healing. 

Still learning. 

Still trying to forgive myself for the things I allowed, 

the people I trusted, 

the wounds I carry.

This is what love has looked like for me. 

Not roses and poems—

but silence, 

confusion, 

and scars.

But I’m still here. 

Still writing. 

Still fighting.

And maybe one day, love won’t hurt. 

Maybe one day, it will feel like safety

✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 2: The Weight of Missing My Girls

There are days when the silence in my chest feels heavier than any burden I’ve ever carried. It’s the silence of absence—the silence of missing my girls. Their laughter, their voices, their presence—it’s all gone from my daily life, and the emptiness it leaves behind is unbearable.

I wake up with the ache already pressing against me. My parts argue about how to handle it. One tells me to be strong, to keep moving forward, to bury the grief under routine. Another collapses under the weight, whispering that I’ll never be whole without them. Another tries to numb me, to shut down the feelings entirely, because the pain is too sharp to survive. And I’m caught in the middle, exhausted from trying to hold all of these selves together while the grief keeps tearing me apart.

It’s not just missing them—it’s the guilt, the questions, the endless replay of what I could have done differently. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and every piece is connected only by pain. Nothing else. Just pain.

And while I carry this grief, the world doesn’t stop. Relationships keep breaking me. Men who claimed to love me left scars instead. People who said they cared disrespected me, hurt me, made me doubt my worth. Sobriety is a daily battle, and the stigma of my past—being a felon, having warrants—keeps slamming doors in my face even when I’m more than qualified. Every step forward feels like being shoved two steps back.

I cry constantly. Every minute, every hour, every day. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I feel alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. My parts keep me spinning, dragging me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing.

But even in the numbness, I write. I write because it’s the only way to give shape to the chaos inside me. I write because if I don’t, the grief will consume me whole. I write because maybe, just maybe, someone will read these words and understand that I am not careless, not uncaring—I am surviving a war that never ends.

Missing my girls is a weight I carry every second. It’s the heaviest part of me. And yet, it’s also the part that reminds me I am still human, still capable of love, still tethered to something real even when everything else feels broken.

This is the weight of missing them. This is the war of my fragments. And this is why I keep writing—because even shattered glass can catch the light.

✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 0: Naming the Battles

Most people don’t know the full story of me. They see pieces—forgetfulness, exhaustion, scattered thoughts, missed appointments—and they think that’s all there is. What they don’t see is the weight of the diagnoses I carry, the names that explain why my life feels like a war inside my own skin.

I’ve lived with parts of myself that don’t always agree, voices that pull me in different directions, memories that slip through cracks I can’t seal. It’s not laziness. It’s not carelessness. It’s the reality of a mind that doesn’t move in straight lines.

There are other battles too—depression that drags me under, anxiety that keeps me wired even when I’m exhausted, trauma that echoes louder than I want it to. These diagnoses aren’t excuses. They’re explanations. They’re the language for what I’ve been surviving all along.

I’m sharing this because silence has kept me misunderstood. People assume I don’t care, when the truth is I care so much it breaks me. People assume I’m unreliable, when the truth is I’m fighting wars they can’t see.

This isn’t about labels. It’s about honesty. It’s about saying: yes, I have mental health diagnoses. Yes, they shape my life. And yes, I’m still here, still trying, still writing.

If you’ve ever felt broken by your own mind, or judged for battles no one else can see, know this—you’re not alone. My fragments are mine, but the fight to be understood is something we share.

✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 1: The War of My Parts

I wake up already tired. Not the kind of tired sleep can fix—the kind that comes from being pulled apart from the inside. My parts are loud today. One is rushing, demanding, making lists. Another is quiet, hiding, curling into corners. Another is angry, another is numb, another is trying to hold it all together.

They all think they’re helping. They all think they’re right. And maybe they are. But they’re pulling me in opposite directions, and I’m the rope in the middle, fraying.

People see the aftermath. They see me forget things—appointments, errands, conversations I swore I’d remember. They see me scatter-brained, inconsistent, unreliable. They say I don’t care. But I do. I care so much it hurts. I just don’t know which part of me made the promise, and which part of me is supposed to keep it.

I’m exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I feel like I’m breaking.

And that’s not all. I miss my girls so deeply it feels like a physical ache. I carry that grief every second. I’m still trying to heal from relationships that left me bleeding—men who claimed to love me but only taught me pain. I let people in who said they cared, and they hurt me. I’m still trying to understand why I allowed it.

Sobriety is hard. Every day is a fight. And the world doesn’t make it easier. I’m more than qualified for jobs I’ll never get because of my record. Warrants. Labels. Stigma. It’s like dragging a boulder uphill while everyone else gets a paved road.

I cry more than I admit. Every minute, every hour, every day. I feel alone. I feel scared. And I feel like the only thing connecting all the parts of me is pain.

I’m numb to everything else.

But I’m still here. Still writing. Still trying.

This is the war of my parts. And this is only the beginning.

Fragments of Me — A Journey Begins

Fragments of Me is my raw, unfiltered I guess we can call- series about the battles I fight both inside and out.  

It’s about the exhaustion of being pulled in different directions by the parts of myself, the heartbreak of missing my girls, the pain of love that wounds, the struggle of sobriety, and the weight of stigma that keeps pushing me back.  

This series isn’t polished—it’s honest. It’s the fragments of my life, stitched together by pain and resilience that has shaped me towards becoming the woman I am  today, and I am always going to hope that even shattered pieces can catch the light. I will most-likely bounce back and forth between topics at times sharing my experiences in different ways that hopefully open new perspectives on those topics often considered to be sensitive, overlooked or simply not talked about at all. I am human. I have made MANY mistakes in my life- some were unintentional but there have been many that were made intentionally even knowing I'd face some sort of retribution, consequence or some type of chain reaction that potientionaly can erupt leaving me a huge mess, unnecessary financial problems, legal problems or it usually ruins close relationships/friendships. Living thru the consequences  of those choices I have made often leads me into a manic episode until i am ready to crash out. By me sharing the voices and parts of myself that I feel needs to be seen or heard has been an amazing form of therapy for me. If you or anyone you may know can relate to this "series"  i am sharing with everyone please share my space here with them! 

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Not everyone will approve and not everyone will back me completely in relation of some of the stories im going to share and 

If you’ve ever felt broken, unseen, or exhausted by your own battles, you may find yourself here too. Fragments of Me is not about answers—it’s about truth, survival, and the courage to keep walking forward.

Half-Love; Half-heart: How do we settle?

There are moments when I sit with myself and wonder why I accept less than I deserve. Why I stay in spaces where I’m treated like I’m not enough, even though I know deep down I am. Maybe it’s punishment I put on myself. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s the belief that I don’t deserve happiness until my girls are home. I don’t always know the answer. But I know the feeling.

I know what it’s like to give everything—love, loyalty, effort—while being told I’m not really “in” the relationship. To be expected to show up like a girlfriend, like a wife, while being denied the respect and commitment that should come with it. It feels like a punch in the stomach every time. And yet, I stay. I keep giving. I keep hoping.

I’ve settled for the minimum too many times in my life. I’ve accepted crumbs when I know I am worthy of the whole meal. I know how good of a woman I am. I know I should be appreciated, wanted, and loved fully. And still, I find myself questioning: why do I allow this? Why do I keep chasing after someone who doesn’t chase me back?

Maybe you’ve asked yourself the same questions. Maybe you’ve felt the same ache—the loneliness of being half-loved, the exhaustion of pouring yourself out without being refilled. If you have, I want you to know this: I see you. I hear you. I understand you. You are not alone.

We deserve more. We deserve effort, care, and consistency. We deserve to be shown off, to be chosen, to be loved without hesitation. And even if we don’t always believe it, even if we punish ourselves or carry guilt, the truth is still there: we are worthy.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve felt the sting of being treated like you’re less than, know that I’m standing with you. I’m fighting my own battles too, but I believe in us—I believe we can stop settling, demand the love we deserve, and one day stop questioning our worth because it will finally be honored.  

I’m always here. If you ever need a shoulder to lean on or an ear to vent to, message me. I’ll never pretend my decisions are always wise—I usually know the risks before I take them. But I own my choices, I carry accountability for the pain I’ve lived through, and I try to learn from every mistake and heartbreak.  

The truth is, I know what’s acceptable and what isn’t. I know what I should and shouldn’t tolerate. Yet depression and mental battles cloud my judgment, and too often I accept things I shouldn’t. I fight wars I know I’ll never fully win. And I’ve learned I’m not alone—so many of us do this. Maybe it’s because we don’t give up easily on those we love. Maybe it’s fear of being alone or starting over. Maybe it’s guilt, or the belief that we don’t deserve happiness until our children are home.  

I’ve seen how broken the system can be, how family court can strip parents of their rights, how lack of knowledge or money becomes a weapon against us. Even when you fight and win, the financial and emotional aftermath can break the strongest person. And the truth is, the battle doesn’t end when your kids come home—healing the bond takes just as much effort.  

So we cope. We cling to pain because it reminds us we’re still alive in a world that tries to numb us. We form trauma bonds that make it almost impossible to walk away. And if you can relate to any of this, I invite you to share your story—whether in the comments or privately with me. You are not alone in this indescribable pain. Sometimes just putting it into words is the first step toward relief, and together we can carry the weight a little lighter.  

Survival Mode

I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside. My parts keep pulling me in opposite directions, each one convinced it knows best, each one louder than the last. One rises up and takes control, only to vanish when another storms in. I never know which version of me will show up, and the constant switching is wearing me down to the bone. It’s not just confusion—it’s exhaustion so heavy I can barely breathe.

People around me see the fragments. They call me forgetful, lazy, scatter-brained. They think I don’t care when I forget conversations, appointments, errands, even something as simple as what I said I’d cook for dinner. But they don’t see the war inside me. They don’t see how each part is having its own conversation, making its own promises, and leaving me to pick up the pieces when none of it lines up. I’m not careless—I’m drowning in too many selves at once.

And then there’s the weight outside of me. Missing my girls is a grief that never loosens its grip. It’s a heaviness that presses on my chest every hour of every day. Relationship wounds pile on top of that—men who claimed to love me but left me broken, people who said they cared but disrespected me, hurt me, made me question my worth. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and the only thing connecting those fragments is pain. Nothing else. Just pain.

Sobriety is another battle I fight alone. Every day is a climb with no summit, every step harder than the last. And while I’m trying to hold myself together, the world keeps pushing me back—reminding me I’m a felon, reminding me of warrants, reminding me that even when I’m more than qualified, doors slam shut in my face. It’s like the universe keeps saying I don’t deserve to move forward, no matter how hard I try.

I cry so much it feels endless. Every minute, every hour, every day, every week. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I am alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. The war inside me never stops, and the war outside me never lets up. I am exhausted from fighting on both fronts, exhausted from trying to prove I care, exhausted from trying to survive when all I feel is heartbreak.

My parts keep me spinning, tearing me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing. I want peace. I want stillness. I want to stop breaking under the weight of myself and the world. But right now, all I have is the pain that binds me, the exhaustion that defines me, and the hope—fragile, flickering—that maybe one day I’ll find a way to gather all these pieces into something whole.

Why do I keep going back?

Why Do I Keep Going Back?

There are nights I lie awake asking myself the same question over and over: why do I keep putting myself in situations I know will end badly? Why do I keep going back to someone who has proven, time and time again, that he will never change?  

It’s not just the arguments. It’s not just the disrespect. It’s the way he hurts me—mentally, physically—and then flips the script, playing the victim. He finds justification for the things he does, while I’m left carrying the weight of his actions. And somehow, I still find myself drawn back.  

When I’m not with him, I think about him. I worry about him. I wonder if he’s okay. And when I am with him, I cater to him—pouring myself out, giving, bending, trying to meet his needs. But he doesn’t do the same for me. Sometimes he tries in his own way, but my mind is always on defense. The scars of the past make me suspicious of even the smallest kindness, because I’ve learned that there’s usually a motive behind it.  

The truth is, I need to stop. I need to break free before he destroys me completely.  

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Yesterday’s Breaking Point

Yesterday was supposed to be simple. I told him ahead of time that I had to leave for a few hours—to meet with my sponsor and complete an assessment for a housing voucher. Something that could give me stability, my own place, a chance to stop bouncing between couches and chaos. He said he was fine with it.  

But when I let him know I was on my way back, all hell broke loose.  

Suddenly, I was selfish. I hadn’t spent his whole day off with him. He told me to get my things and get out of his life. He threatened to keep my belongings, then changed his mind. When I went to collect them, he shut himself in his room—door closed, silence heavy. I left quietly.  

And then this morning, he told me to die.  

Do you know what that does to a person’s mind? To hear those words from someone you’ve given so much of yourself to? It’s insane. It’s breaking me down piece by piece.  

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The Cycle of Attachment

I know the sex is good—maybe too good. Maybe that’s part of the trap. But sex isn’t enough to justify being disrespected, degraded, and discarded. It isn’t enough to excuse the way he treats me.  

So why do I allow it? Why do I keep going back?  

The answer is complicated. It’s attachment. It’s trauma. It’s the twisted comfort of the familiar, even when the familiar is toxic. It’s the hope that maybe this time will be different, even though history keeps proving otherwise.  

There’s a part of me that believes he has a sex addiction, that the intensity of our connection is rooted in something unhealthy. And yet, I’ve let that intensity convince me it’s worth the pain. But it’s not.  

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Choosing Myself

I’m writing this because I need to see it in black and white. I need to remind myself that no amount of passion, no amount of “trying in his own way,” can make up for the damage he’s done.  

I need to choose myself. I need to break free before he kills me—whether that’s physically, mentally, or spiritually.  

Because the truth is, I deserve more. I deserve respect. I deserve peace. I deserve love that doesn’t come with conditions, manipulation, or cruelty.  

And the first step is admitting that I’ve been stuck in this cycle. The next step is breaking it.  

To Anyone Reading This

If you’ve ever found yourself in a cycle like mine—going back to someone who breaks you down, who makes you question your worth—please know you’re not alone. These attachments can feel unshakable, but they are not unbreakable.  

We deserve more than pain disguised as love. We deserve respect, peace, and safety. Writing this is my way of reminding myself—and maybe reminding you—that we don’t have to stay bound to people who thrive on our suffering.  

If you’re reading this and nodding along, take it as a sign: you are worthy of freedom, of joy, of love that doesn’t hurt.  

Self-Care Rituals for Busy Moms: From Chaos to Quiet

Self-Care Rituals for Busy Moms: From Chaos to Quiet

Before the girls packed their bags for New York and my son settled in at his grandma’s, my house was anything but quiet. Mornings were a symphony of cereal spills, missing shoes, and last-minute homework confessions. The walls echoed with laughter, arguments, and the kind of noise that only a full house can create. It was messy, exhausting, and beautiful all at once.

In those days, self-care wasn’t about escaping the chaos—it was about surviving it. My rituals were small anchors in the storm. A cup of coffee sipped slowly before the whirlwind began. A bath bomb fizzing in the tub after bedtime, reminding me that joy could be simple and affordable. Even folding laundry became a ritual, each shirt a quiet act of love, each meal a rhythm of care that kept us all steady.

Then the house grew quiet. Too quiet. Without the girls’ chatter and my son’s high energy, the silence pressed in. I realized that self-care rituals weren’t just about grounding me in chaos—they were about filling the spaces left behind. Lighting a candle, journaling for five minutes, or stepping outside for fresh air became ways to remind myself that presence matters, even when the noise is gone.

Self-care isn’t selfish, and it isn’t reserved for spa days or vacations. It’s the oxygen mask we put on first, whether we’re navigating the beautiful chaos of a full house or the aching quiet of an empty one. Rituals carry us through both seasons, teaching us resilience, balance, and the art of finding joy in the everyday.

So today, I invite you to choose one ritual—big or small—and claim it as yours. Because whether your house is bursting with noise or wrapped in silence, caring for yourself is the thread that keeps it all together.

Found Energy

Found Energy

Today I woke with found energy — a small, unfamiliar spark after a long season of quiet heaviness. Instead of celebrating, I moved. I turned toward the overdue chores, the warm hum of the stove, the leash clipped to the puppy’s collar, the laundry that’s been waiting longer than it should. I wrote a little. I kept myself busy with busy work, anything to keep my mind occupied.

---

What I noticed about the motion

I can name what I’m doing and why it feels complicated. On the surface it looks like productivity: dishes, laundry, a walk, a meal I cooked instead of ordering. Underneath, it’s doing several things at once.

- Protecting. Motion creates a buffer. If I keep moving, there’s less time to sit with the weight that lives in my chest.  

- Nurturing. Cooking and walking the dog are small, clear ways of proving to myself that I matter.  

- Reorienting. Completing overdue tasks stitches me back into a life that felt paused; each small win is proof that things can shift.  

- Measuring. There’s a harshness in checking off what I neglected, as if the list will tell me how far I’ve fallen or how much ground I need to gain.

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Why today, of all days?

Maybe this energy is a shield. Maybe it’s a hand reaching toward me, asking to be fed. Maybe it’s both. When you’ve been sad for so long that “normal” slips out of reach, sudden liveliness can feel dangerous — like it will break or vanish if I look at it too closely. So I blow on the ember with frantic breath, or I cup it and hold it, or I simply let it warm me for a moment. All of those responses are human and valid.

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How I’m learning to hold it gently

I don’t want to rush this small flame into a conflagration, nor do I want to snuff it out out of fear. Here’s how I’m practicing tenderness with my found energy:

- Two intentions, not ten. One task to calm the space (laundry, dishes), one to feed the heart (15 minutes of writing; a slow walk).  

- Time-box the motion. Work for 20–30 minutes, then pause five. Notice how the body and mind feel.  

- Turn chores into care. Brew better tea while cooking; play a song that makes the room softer while folding.  

- Capture one sentence. Jot a single line about today into a note — a checkpoint without pressure.  

- Return to the body. Two deep breaths and a gentle stretch between tasks remind me I’m here, present and humane.

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If it feels like too much

If you’re reading this and you feel close to breaking, please reach for someone — a friend, a family member, a counselor. Asking for help is not surrender; it’s a brave, practical step. If you ever feel unsafe, get help immediately.

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A small truth to hold

Keeping busy today is not only avoidance. It’s also evidence: you still care enough to show up for yourself. The chores, the walk, the cooking, the writing — these are acts of repair. They are how you practice being human again, one ordinary, imperfect step at a time.

Today, I’m learning how to be with myself. I’m letting the ember glow, and I’m trying, gently, not to blow it out.

It’s Okay to Carry the Pain

It’s Okay to Carry the Pain

Some days feel heavier than others. The kind of heavy that sits behind your eyes and in your chest, quietly reminding you of what’s missing. My girls aren’t here, and that ache doesn’t go away. But I’ve learned something important: it’s okay to carry the pain.

I used to think I had to hide it. That if I smiled enough, stayed busy enough, surrounded myself with love, maybe the grief would loosen its grip. But I’ve realized that carrying it doesn’t mean I’m stuck—it means I’m surviving.

I go to work. I keep myself moving. I lean into the warmth of supportive faces. I let the rhythm of routine hold me when everything else feels uncertain. And even on the bad days, I remind myself: I’ve survived those before. I’ll survive this one too.

Grief doesn’t make me broken. It makes me real. It makes me a mother who still loves fiercely, even in absence. It makes me someone who chooses to keep going, even when the weight is hard to bear.

So today, I’m not fighting the pain. I’m walking with it. I’m letting it be part of me. And I’m trusting that tomorrow will come, just like it always has.

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People Never Change . . .

There’s a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t just break you — it wakes you. It’s the moment you realize that no matter how much love you pour into someone, some people never truly change. They just get better at hiding who they are until they don’t feel like pretending anymore.

I used to believe that time, patience, and forgiveness could fix anything. That if I showed enough love, they’d learn to love me back the right way. But love doesn’t heal someone who doesn’t want to heal. And promises don’t mean much when they’re only spoken to keep you quiet.

This morning, the truth hit me again like a storm I’ve seen too many times before. 

The same words. 

The same anger. 

The same fear. 

I realized I was standing in the same place I swore I’d never return to. And that hurts more than anything — to know I gave someone another chance to break me. But here’s what’s different this time: I see it for what it is. The cycle stops when you stop believing their version of “sorry.” It stops when you start loving yourself enough to walk away, even if your heart’s still begging you to stay. 

People say change takes time. But sometimes, change never comes — and that’s your sign to start saving yourself. 

Because peace doesn’t come from fixing someone else.  It comes from choosing you. 

💧No pain compares to this 💧

💧 No pain compares to this 💧

I can’t even get on Facebook anymore without crying.

Every post, every photo of a mom holding her babies —

it just breaks me all over again.

Because that should be me.

That was me.

I wasn’t some careless or unfit mother.

I was a mom who showed up,

who loved with everything in me.

But somehow,

lies and unfairness

ripped my world apart.

People told stories,

twisted truth,

and now I’m left staring at memories instead of moments.

My heart aches in ways I can’t explain.

It’s a quiet kind of pain

that sits heavy in your chest —

one that doesn’t fade,

no matter how much time passes.

Because when you’re a mother,

your children are your heartbeat.

And when they’re gone,

it’s like the world goes silent.

I just want my kids.

That’s it.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Not money,

not attention,

not pity —

just my babies home,

safe,

loved,

and laughing again.

Until that day comes,

I’ll keep fighting.

I’ll keep praying.

Because even when everything feels lost,

a mother’s love never dies.

😭 Hope and Heartbreak 😭

 I can’t even scroll Facebook

anymore without tears burning my eyes.

Every smiling face with their babies

feels like a knife to my heart —

because mine should be here too.

I wasn’t some careless mother.

I was a mom who loved too hard,

who got caught in the crossfire

of lies and unfairness.

They were taken from my arms,

not because I failed them —

but because someone couldn’t 

stand to see me happy.

Now every day feels like a battle 

between hope 

and heartbreak.

All I want 

is my children back.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

A mother’s love doesn’t fade.

It waits. 

It fights. 

It never gives up.

🙏 Until the day... 🙏

 Some days,

I can’t even open Facebook

without breaking down.

Every photo of someone smiling 

with their babies cuts deep, 

because I should be doing the same. 

I didn’t lose my girls 

because I was a bad mom — 

I lost them 

because of lies 

and unfairness.

I’ve fought, 

I’ve cried, 

I’ve prayed… 

and my heart still aches the same.

All I want is my children. 

That’s it. 

That’s all that matters.

Until the day they’re back in my arms, 

I’ll keep fighting. 

Because a mother’s love never quits

💨 In the quiet Between who I was and who I am 💨

 In the Quiet Between Who I Was and Who I Am

There are days I wake up

and forget where my story left off.

The pages are torn,

the ink is blurred,

but the ache remains familiar.

Sometimes I catch myself

halfway through a memory

I don’t recall beginning—

standing in a room

that feels like mine but isn’t.

A laugh echoes down the hall,

and I swear I know the sound

but not the moment.

I hold my breath and wait

for the pieces to fall into place,

for my mind to stop flickering

like a broken film reel.

But it doesn’t.

It never quite settles.

People think strength looks loud—

a steady voice,

a smile,

a story that makes sense.

Mine is quieter.

It’s found in the pauses,

in the way I keep showing up

to a life that sometimes feels borrowed.

I am a collection of unfinished songs

humming beneath my skin.

Some verses belong to the girl I was,

others to the one still finding her way home.

And through it all—

the confusion,

the blank spaces,

the soft unraveling of thought—

there is love.

A love so deep,

it ties me to this world

even when my mind drifts far from it.

If I ever disappear inside myself again,

I hope someone reminds me

that I’ve always come back before—

and I will again.

Because even when I feel lost,

some part of me

still believes in finding the light.

💚 Journal Entry- Reflection on Living Fragmented 💚

Dear Journal,

Some days, I feel like a collection of unfinished stories stitched together by memories I only half-remember. 

I wake up and try to find myself in the mirror, but sometimes I can’t tell which version of me is looking back. 

There’s a quiet kind of panic in that —knowing I’ve lived moments I don’t recall, said words I didn’t mean, felt emotions I can’t explain. 

I keep trying to hold onto time, but it slips away in strange ways. Hours vanish, whole conversations fade into static, and I’m left retracing my steps through a maze I built but don’t remember designing. 

I scroll through texts and photos, looking for evidence of where I’ve been — proof that I was really there. Some days, it feels like I’m watching my own life from the outside. 

My body moves,my mouth speaks, but my heart is somewhere else, lost in a place I can’t reach. 

People tell me I seem fine, that I’m strong, that I handle everything so well. 

If only they knew how hard it is just to stay here.There’s an exhaustion that comes with constantly trying to glue yourself together. 

Smiling when you’re confused. Functioning when your mind feels split into fragments. 

You start to fear your own reflection — because it changes, and you can’t explain why. 

Still, I find little things that pull me back. My daughters’ faces in old photos. 

The smell of rain. A song that makes something inside me pause and remember who I am — or at least who I was. 

Those moments are my lifelines. They remind me I’m not completely gone, even when I feel like a ghost in my own story. 

I’m learning to be patient with myself, even when I don’t understand what’s happening inside my head. 

I write notes to my future self. I leave reminders of love and hope tucked away where I’ll find them later — because sometimes, the person who wakes up tomorrow will need them more than I do today. 

I’m not sure what healing looks like for someone like me, but I know it’s not giving up. 

It’s showing up again and again, even when it feels like I’ve lost my map. 

It’s piecing myself together with grace, even when the edges don’t quite fit. 

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe surviving the confusion — and still finding beauty in the mess — is its own kind of miracle.

💟 Journal Entry- Somewhere lost in between 💟

Dear Journal,

Today the air feels heavier than it did yesterday. 

It sits on my chest like a secret I can’t remember how to keep. 

My mind keeps slipping through cracks—whole hours disappear into places I don’t recognize. 

I look for myself in mirrors and find only the outline of someone who used to laugh when tiny hands held hers. 

Every thought circles back to them—my girls, my pulse, the rhythm my heart still keeps even in their absence. 

It’s strange how love can echo in a house that’s gone silent. I try to stay anchored—count breaths, sip coffee, pretend the ache isn’t winning. 

But memory feels like water lately; it runs through my fingers, and I can’t hold on to anything long enough to stop the flood. 

There are moments I forget what day it is, but I never forget them. 

Their laughter still lives in the corners of my mind, like light that refuses to burn out. 

If they could see me—really see me—they’d know I’m still fighting, still searching for the pieces that went missing the day I had to let them go. 

Some days, I am made of hope. 

Others, I am made of ache. 

Today, I am both—and neither—and something lost in between. 

But I’m still here. Still breathing their names. 

Still loving them louder than the silence that tries to erase me. 

Sincerely, 

Me