Yes, I’m Healing. No, That Doesn’t Mean I’ve Forgotten.

A case for joy, dogs, peace, and a soft life that can still hold space for rage and survival.

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I used to think that if your story doesn’t end in a breakdown or start with a generational curse, it’s too light for the internet. If there’s no trauma dump, no tragedy-to-triumph montage, it might as well be a WhatsApp forward — deleted without reading, probably after a fake “Nice 👍” reply.

For a while, I internalised that. Not online — I’ve always written what I want here, layered in sarcasm, dressed in sass, and served with a side of rage. But in real life? If someone asked how I was doing, I’d feel the urge to sprinkle in a sob story. Just to be taken seriously. Just to prove I wasn’t faking being okay. “I’m fine”, felt… suspicious. Suspiciously free.

Let me get this out of the way: I don’t share everything. Not even close. Some stories live between me, my burn book, and a journal I’ll eventually set on fire in a healing ritual no one’s invited to.

I wrote about this in Honest Perspective — how writing feels like negotiating with your own memory. Share too little? You’re hiding. Share too much? You’re a walking cautionary tale.
Honestly? I’ve opted out of the performance altogether.