YOU DESERVE BETTER

Daily writing prompt

If you had a freeway billboard, what would it say?

When I become a quadrillionaire, I will put up billboards all over the country with the 3 words: You Deserve Better.

YOU DESERVE BETTER.

This statement applies to anyone who reads it.

You, who just read that, can think of areas in your own life where you do indeed deserve better than what you are currently receiving.

Partners in abusive relationships, you deserve better.

“You dont get what you deserve, you get what you tolerate.” – Tony Robbins

Workers under a narcissistic boss, you deserve better.

Adults of emotionally immature parents, you deserve better.

Maybe it is simpler than that. Maybe you deserve a car that runs better, a better house, or better health, and we all could work on better thinking.

That was the statement I read when I realized I deserved better than what I was living in, and it changed my life.

“We cannot achieve more in life than what we believe in our heart of hearts we deserve to have.”
― James R. Ball

I am on the other side of abuse, trauma, suicide survivor, suicide loss, and religious abuse. All because I realized I deserved better.

“I will not try to convince you to love me, to respect me, to commit to me. I deserve better than that; I AM BETTER THAN THAT… Goodbye” by Steve Maraboli

Are You Addicted to Suffering and Struggle?

A Letter from One Survivor to Another

Let me take you on a journey through my own cycle of pain, one that might mirror your own.

For over 24 years, I stayed stuck in a cycle of pain. Not only because I didn’t know how to escape, but also because I had no idea that part of me had become used to it. That pain was my comfort zone; I needed it. That is not easy to admit, but maybe that is precisely what you need to hear.

I was addicted to pain and suffering. And maybe you are too.

Consider if your life feels like a constant storm, with relationships that break rather than build you, where chaos feels more familiar than peace.

Then I want you to consider that you might be emotionally addicted to your struggle. In the same way, someone is addicted to alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs.

You don’t choose to be this way on purpose, but you can choose to stop feeding it.

How Does Someone Get Addicted to Suffering?

It might seem strange, but when survival mode becomes your norm, your body adapts to a constant state of fear, anger, and panic, as if these emotions are essential for survival. The body doesn’t know good adrenaline from bad. It just feels familiar. So if pain becomes what you’re used to, your brain will start chasing it like a drug.

I’ll be honest with you: After I left my abusive husband, I thought I’d be free. But instead, I felt lost, restless, and empty. And one day I caught myself missing the drama, missing the feeling of being needed, even if it came with cruelty.

That’s when I realized I wasn’t just healing from abuse. I was detoxing from it.

Understanding the Chemistry of Emotion

Here’s what’s really going on under the surface. Every emotion you feel, love, sadness, rage, guilt, and fear, comes with a chemical mix your body gets used to. When you feel anger or shame over and over, your body floods itself with stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline.

And your nervous system thinks,

“Ah, yes. This is normal. Let’s keep doing that.”

It doesn’t care if it’s killing you emotionally. It only cares that it’s predictable. That’s why breaking the cycle is more than leaving them. It’s also about rewiring your system and healing your brain. You have to teach your body that peace isn’t dull, it’s safe.

Why You Keep Ending Up With the Same Kind of Person

If you’ve ever escaped one toxic relationship only to fall into another… and another…

You’re not weak or broken. You’re still addicted to the feelings that chaos brings.

And your brain will unconsciously lead you straight to people who can give you the fix.

It’s not because you want to be hurt, but it’s because deep down, you don’t yet believe you deserve anything else.

The Good News: You Can Break Free

I won’t lie to you. Healing is hard, but so is staying stuck. The difference is that one of them leads somewhere beautiful.

Here’s how I started the process, and you can too:

1. Tell yourself the truth.

Not the story you’ve been told or the lie that “this is just who you are.”

Say the truth, you are addicted to survival mode, and you were made for so much more.

2. Decide that it ends with you.

Not tomorrow, not when it gets easier. Right now.

You don’t need to hit another rock bottom to be done.

3. Catch yourself.

When the negative self-talk kicks in or when you feel that familiar urge to sabotage yourself, tell yourself, “I deserve better.

Then, breathe, even if you don’t believe it yet.

4. Let peace feel weird for a while.

Because it will, trust me. Quiet will feel loud, and safety will feel foreign.

That’s okay. Stay there anyway. Let yourself get used to calm.

5. Give it time. Give yourself grace.

This isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence.

You’re teaching your nervous system a new language. That love doesn’t hurt, and peace doesn’t mean danger.

One More Thing,

You’re not broken. You’re not stupid for staying too long. You were surviving.

And now? You’re waking up.

Your addiction to struggle isn’t your fault, but healing is your responsibility.

You deserve a life that doesn’t hurt. And it’s waiting for you, whenever you’re ready.

Better

Is your life today what you pictured a year ago?

My life is better today than what I pictured a year ago.

However, the year came with several speed-bumbs, road blocks, delays and detours. But isn’t that what makes our lives better? The learning how to navigate through life when faced with challenges?

I’m just thankful you didn’t ask if I enjoyed this year better than the last. I might’ve had a different answer.

Sleeplessness is…

Insomnia’s sister
Transients cousin
Fluidities Aunt
Instabilities mom
Anxieties grandmother

….me

A Reflection on Grief

The Mourning Dove

I remember the first time I noticed a mourning dove was at our backyard feeders. Its coo stood apart from the others. A sound that seemed to linger instead of passing through. I remember thinking how different it was, like a new voice I had not heard before.

I had read that mourning doves sometimes appear after a loved one has died, offering comfort. I wondered briefly whether that was true and whether it was meant for me or someone else. Then I did what I had learned to do over the years, I dismissed the thought. Too many beliefs I once held had not unfolded the way I thought they would, so it felt safer not to attach any meaning to this.

Later that afternoon, my husband called to tell me they found his brother. He had died in his car during the night. It was the end of his quiet battle with addiction.

That mourning dove stayed, reminding us of how fragile life is. And that people are delicate too. Potential and talent do not protect or shield us. My brother-in-law was profoundly gifted, a creator, a man with vision and skill in the horticulture world. But addiction did not care about any of that; it never does.

Now, three years later, a small flock visits our feeders regularly. Like grief, showing up a little here and there and sometimes all at once.

The mourning doves have become a regular presence in our lives, just like grief.

My husband lost his mom when he was 14. We lost my son in 2020, and now his brother. Sadness has a way of settling in quietly, rearranging our lives without permission. But the coo of the Mourning Dove reminds us to pause and notice that calm can exist alongside pain.

The word Mourning carries a lot of weight, yet the Dove itself is gentle. It does not exaggerate loss; it endures it. Instead of feeling like a symbol of sadness, it becomes a symbol of peace and survival. Encouraging us to persist after something irreversible happens, reminding us that love does not disappear when someone is gone.

Now, when I hear their coo at the feeders, I do not dismiss it. I stop, listen, and remember. I take that moment to whisper a prayer for my mother-in-law and husband because I understand that grief can show up at unexpected times, and that peace can make remembering them easier.

Tortured memories

Addicted to forget them

Yet scarred thoughts remain

Enslaved for the fix

Blacked out,

resting thoughts at peace

A soul gone too soon

Addiction and suicides

Fatal kiss

Life After Suicide Loss Is Lived in the Present Moment

Lessons From the Tufted Titmouse

This morning, I was noticing the Tufted Titmouse at my feeders. It is a small, alert bird with a soft voice and a steady presence. A symbol of healing, but not in the way people often think. It is not promising closure or answers. It tells us to keep going even when life has permanently changed.

After losing a child, life stops making sense, and grief collapses time. The future feels unreachable, and the past feels too heavy to carry. Most days are not about hope or meaning; they are about surviving the stage you are in. The Tufted Titmouse reminds us to stay present, do what the moment requires, nothing more. It isn’t suggesting that we “move on.” It invites us to survive this moment, then the next.

The bird’s small, persistent movements mirror how we, as bereaved parents, can continue living through each season. Maybe you are just surviving, fragment by fragment. But getting up and feeding yourself is showing up. Saying their name and breathing through waves that come without warning does not weaken us; it is an endurance that strengthens us.

The titmouse is also known for its song, reminding us how important it is to speak our child’s name, tell their story, and to allow our grief to have a voice. Silence can isolate us. Sharing does not mean we are stuck; it means our love did not end. It does not mean “everything happened for a reason.” But it does imply that life still has purpose, even while we carry this permanent loss.

Some days, noticing something simple in nature may feel like the only thing that can ground us. It’s a Tufted Titmouse at the feeder, a windchimes melody, a foggy morning of calm. These moments do not minimize our loss; they remind us that we are still here, even when our hearts are broken. The Titmouse teaches us to live with grief rather than resolve it. Strength is not the absence of sorrow; it is learning how to carry it.

Parenting Both Sides of Sibling Sexual Abuse

A Message From The Hummingbird

I am the mom on both sides of a complicated story. Loving one child who was sexually abused and loving the one who caused the harm.

There is no road map for navigating something like this. No clean language. No version of the path forward that does not cost something deep and painful. Some days it feels like my entire role is simply to remain standing when I feel like falling and to stay present when everything in me wants to hide. Functioning while absorbing this kind of shock is a challenge in itself.

And yet, here I am. Learning how to love without chasing, how to hold boundaries without disappearing. How to remain myself even when relationships have changed form in ways I would have never imagined.

Lately, I have been thinking about the hummingbird.

A hummingbird migrates thousands of miles relative to its size. It burns enormous energy simply to stay alive. Even hovering in place takes constant effort. It does not rest the way other birds do. It must keep moving its wings just to remain where it is.

That feels familiar.

As parents and humans navigating trauma, we expend energy just to stay standing and emotionally present. We hover. We show up. We pay attention even when everything in us wants to give up. We absorb pain and strain quietly and keep going. Like the hummingbird, we need nourishment, spiritual and emotional, because the work of staying present is exhausting.

The hummingbird symbolizes resilience after hardship. It represents the return of joy and lightness, not because things become easy, but because survival itself requires strength. It reminds us that connection does not require possession, love does not require obligation, and presence does not require control.

We can love deeply and still protect ourselves. We can hold grief and hope at the same time. We can remain connected without losing who we are, and we can stay in place without collapsing.

If you are hovering right now, barely holding yourself together, that is worth remembering! Your quiet strength counts! The energy you put into staying present matters!

Even in the most challenging seasons, strength can exist. You are not failing, you are surviving. And sometimes that is the bravest thing any of us can do.

The Trap of Thinking You Have No Say

For anyone tired of believing they do not have a choice

Have you stopped trying because you don’t think your choices matter?
Somewhere along the way, you’ve convinced yourself that nothing you do changes anything. Maybe it was the years of fighting for peace that never came. Perhaps it was the abuse that taught you your voice did not matter. Maybe it was the exhaustion that made you numb. So you shut down and coast, letting life hit you.

You tell yourself, “This is just how things are.”

But that belief does not come from truth; it comes from survival. Survival mode does not tell the whole story.

Does staying stuck feel easier than facing yourself?
It is easier to let life drag you down than to stand up and change directions. Change requires you to look at what you tolerate, avoid, and why you keep choosing things that hurt you. This exposes the gap between the life you have and the life you want.

You might pretend you have no control, acting like the script is already written.

Why?

Because if you are powerless, you don’t have to take responsibility; you protect the pain rather than yourself.

You can take the pen back!
Life is not happening to you; you are participating in it.. Even when you are silent and afraid.

You can decide what you will and will not allow. You get to choose one small action step that moves you out of the old patterns.

You can stop reliving the same chapter and start writing something new. It does not have to be dramatic or perfect; it just has to be yours. That is the moment you’re able to take your life back, rewrite your storyline, and make it yours.

Why Gratitude Feels So Hard When You Are Hurting

And why the practice of gratitude cuts deeper for survivors

Gratitude feels impossible when you are still bleeding inside.
People tell you to practice gratitude as if it were a magic cure. They do not understand that when you have lived with someone who tore you down, gratitude is not a natural instinct. Survival is because you learned to scan for danger, not beauty. You learned to brace for the next blow instead of celebrating the wins.

So when someone says, “What are you grateful for?” your mind goes silent. You think you have nothing because, for so long, everything good has come with a price. Gratitude does not bloom in a war zone.

· Misery becomes familiar, even when it hurts.
There is a strange comfort in what you already know, even if it’s toxic. Misery becomes a routine; you wake up with it every day. You sleep with it, you breathe it in, and it becomes the lens through which you see. Anything that contradicts your story feels wrong.

When people ask you to be grateful, it feels like they are asking you to betray your own truth.

For someone who lives in abuse, admitting there is still good in the world feels contradictory. It feels like letting your guard down.

· Gratitude exposes the grief you have been avoiding
Finding even one small thing to be grateful for forces you to slow down, breathe, and feel. And feeling is terrifying when you’ve spent years shutting down your own emotions just to survive.

Gratitude is not fake; it’s risky. The moment you acknowledge something good, it feels like you’re ignoring everything you lost, everything you tolerated, and everything that broke you. Gratitude brings the grief to the surface, and most days, you are already carrying more than anyone sees.

· But the smallest piece of gratitude can crack the prison walls
You do not have to write a list, and you do not have to be grateful for your trauma, the lessons, or the strength it gave you.

Forget all that.

Begin with one tiny thing, one moment where you felt safe or seen. Maybe a time you felt free to breathe. Was it a quiet morning? Or is it the fact that you left?. Maybe it is the way you no longer flinch at sudden movements.

Gratitude is not about pretending everything is fine. It is about recognizing the small signs that you are no longer living under someone else’s control.

One point of light in the dark, just one thing that reminds you that you survived. Something that proves your life is not finished, and once you find that one thing, even if it is small, you are no longer stuck in the same old story.

When Doing the Right Thing Still Makes You Feel Like the Villain

A story about family, guilt, and the cost of choosing someone’s peace and safety

This year, I set a boundary with my parents.

We didn’t go to their house for Thanksgiving. We had it at ours instead. That might sound small to someone outside the situation, but it wasn’t. It carried years of pain, silence, and choices that should never have been mine to carry.

It wasn’t even about me this time. It was about my daughter.

There’s a story I’m not going into here, but I’ll say this much. My daughter was violated by a family member, their grandson, my son. He’s in prison now for what he did to her. But my parents still choose to stay in contact with him.

She was the one who said she didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to sit in a place that still protects the person who hurt her. And I decided to support her, choose her, and stand on her side.

It was the right thing. I know that. But it didn’t stop the fallout.

My mom didn’t speak to me for a whole week. My dad turned on the guilt, the blame, and the disappointment. Like I was the one punishing them. All I did was protect my daughter from the people who made her feel betrayed.

And still, I spiraled. I second-guessed myself. I wondered if I was being dramatic, if I had taken it too far, if I was being cruel by drawing a line.

That’s how deep the conditioning goes. That’s how beating yourself up becomes your favorite hobby.

You protect your child. You do what you know is right. And then you punish yourself for it.

Here’s how that cycle works. Here’s how the guilt gets under your skin and stays there, even when it shouldn’t.

1. You confuse guilt with being good.
You grew up thinking that if it hurts, it must mean you care. If you carry the guilt long enough, maybe it proves you’re the better person. Perhaps it means you’re nothing like the ones who hurt you. So you hold it. You nurse it. You call it empathy, but it’s not. It’s grief. It’s fear. It’s survival mode, you never got the chance to grow out of.

2. You turn on yourself before anyone else can.
It’s safer that way. You blame yourself first. You get ahead of the punishment. You run the worst-case scenario before it even happens. That way, if someone does get mad, you’re already halfway into self-destruction. You don’t have to be blindsided. You’re already bleeding. You call it control, but it’s fear disguised as preparation.

3. You were trained to carry the weight for everyone.
Keeping the peace was your job. Making things easier and smoothing things over. So when you finally make a decision that protects someone else, someone innocent, someone hurt, it still feels like betrayal. It feels like you’re letting everyone down, even when you’re the only one standing up for what’s right.

4. You think beating yourself up makes you accountable.
You think that if you suffer enough, it proves you’re not careless. That you’re not cold. That you understand the impact. But accountability is not self-punishment. It’s not turning your own heart into a punching bag. Accountability means standing in your truth and owning your choices, even when they hurt, even when you’re alone in them.

You can know something is right and still feel crushed by the guilt of doing it. That’s the part people don’t talk about.

The pain of healing is that it often makes you look like the villain to the people who benefited from your silence. And the reflex to beat yourself up is strong. It feels like the only way to keep the peace with yourself when everyone else is pulling away. But beating yourself up is not the same as being good. It’s just the story they taught you to believe. And you don’t have to keep telling it.

DON’T TAKE IT PERSONAL

Why You Take Everything Personally (And What No One Told You About It)

Let’s be real. You don’t just “hear” what someone says—you absorb it.
A sigh? You feel it like a slap.
A short text? Your stomach drops.
If they are quiet? You spiral.

Taking things personally isn’t a flaw—it’s a reaction to what you’ve been through…

Someone trained you to feel this way.

Maybe you were in a relationship like mine—one where your partner, or parents, made sure you were never really safe. Where you had to study their mood the way a sailor studies the sky.
Because one wrong word, one wrong look, could start a storm.

I know what that feels like.
To live in a home that felt more like a test.
To love someone who used your love against you.
To be blamed for everything—their anger, their silence, their outbursts, their boredom.

When you’re with an abuser, especially for years, you don’t just fear them—you become them in your own head.
You start criticizing yourself before they can.
You start shrinking your needs because it’s safer that way.
You start interpreting everything around you as a threat.

That’s why you take things personally.
Because you were trained to see danger in the subtlest shifts.

You were taught that mistakes mean punishment.
That emotions are weapons.
That love means walking on eggshells while setting yourself on fire to keep someone else warm.

So now, when someone gives you feedback, you feel attacked.
When someone pulls away, you assume it’s your fault.
When someone’s upset, you blame yourself.

But here’s the part you need to hear:
It’s not your fault.

You were conditioned to believe that your survival depended on reading people perfectly.
You weren’t being sensitive—you were being smart.
You were protecting yourself.
But now?
Now you don’t have to live like that anymore.

That voice in your head telling you “you messed up,” “they hate you,” “you ruined everything”—
That’s not your voice.
That’s theirs.
That’s the voice of the person who broke you down, not the one who gets to build you back up.

And you’re allowed to question it.
You’re allowed to replace it.
You’re allowed to heal—even if they never apologize.

So if you’re sitting there wondering why you take things so personally, let me say this:

You’re not crazy.
You’re not broken.
You’re carrying a survival instinct that once kept you safe—but it doesn’t have to run your life anymore.

You can learn to breathe again.
To trust again.
To love without fear.
To hear someone’s words without turning them into wounds.

You’re allowed to take your power back.

One truth at a time.

Yoli's Write To Sanity

Just Breathe And Write

Category: Depression