The Victim Mindset Is Keeping You Stuck

Why Blaming the Past Feels Safe—but Is Silently Sabotaging Your Growth

There’s a mindset that keeps people trapped—and often, they don’t even realize they’re in it. It shows up subtly, quietly, in the way someone reacts to life’s hardships. And over time, it becomes the lens through which everything is seen.

It’s the victim mindset.

It convinces you that life is just happening to you. That your circumstances, your past, and the way people have failed you are the reasons you can’t move forward. And while there may be truth in those hardships, staying stuck in that story only leads to one place: nowhere.

This mindset is especially dangerous because it feels justified. You’ve been hurt. Life has been unfair. Opportunities have slipped through your fingers. But the victim mindset doesn’t just acknowledge the pain—it builds a home in it. It keeps you focused on what’s been done to you rather than on what you can do now.

And the most painful part? Sometimes, it makes you push away the very help that could make a difference.

You might tell yourself that you’re independent—that you’ll figure it out alone. But if you’re rejecting real, practical help while still depending on handouts or the temporary kindness of others, that’s not strength. That’s survival. And survival is exhausting when there’s no plan to move beyond it.

When you stop asking yourself hard questions like, “What part am I playing in this?” or “What can I take responsibility for?”, you give your power away. It’s easier to blame the system, your past, or your circumstances. But blaming keeps you stuck. It keeps you from healing. And it lets you off the hook.

The truth is: you’re not powerless. You’re not broken. And you’re not doomed.

But if you’re constantly rejecting growth, avoiding discomfort, and refusing to let others help you in meaningful ways, you’re choosing stagnation. And deep down, you probably know it.

Real change is hard. Accepting help feels vulnerable. Facing your patterns takes courage. But that’s where transformation lives. It’s not in the blaming, the begging, or the surviving—it’s in the choosing.

You can’t heal what you refuse to take ownership of.
You can’t rise if you keep convincing yourself that you’re stuck.
And you can’t move forward if you keep turning your back on the help that’s already within reach.

Let this be the moment you get honest with yourself. Not to shame or guilt yourself—but to reclaim your power.

Because the victim mindset will always keep you stuck —and you deserve better than that.

I see this in my daughter. We have sent her to trade school twice, but she has dropped out both times. We paid off her car, paid her auto insurance for a year, and helped her pay for her own apartment.

And now she is in a worse place than before we did that, begging people for money.

My family members and I offer true, lasting help – like coming to stay with us so you can get on your feet, etc. – but she refuses. Instead, she chooses to remain in the chaos, her comfort zone.

Why You Always Zero In on What Hurts

When trauma teaches you to fear the good, trusting peace can feel like betrayal

Have you ever noticed how fast your mind finds the crack in the glass?

Something good happens—and before it even settles, you’ve already ruined it in your head.
You pass the test, then tell yourself you’ll probably fail the next one.
Someone says they’re proud of you, and you immediately wonder what they really meant.
You finally get a moment of peace, and instead of resting in it, you’re holding your breath waiting for it to explode.

That’s not you being dramatic.
That’s trauma.
That’s conditioning.

When you’ve lived in survival mode long enough—when love came with punishment, when silence meant danger, when even your joy got twisted into a weapon—you stop trusting anything that feels too good.

Your brain starts treating calm like a trap.
It looks for warning signs even when there aren’t any.
Because in your experience, the good things never came without a price.

So, of course, your mind zeroes in on what hurts.
That was your safety plan. That’s how you kept yourself alive.

You learned to listen for footsteps. You studied his moods like they were gospel. You walked on eggshells because they were safer than landmines.

So when someone tells you to “just think positive” or “celebrate the good,” it doesn’t land. It feels fake. It feels dangerous. Because in your world, hope always came back with bruises.

I remember the day I reached for help.

I wasn’t even expecting a miracle—just someone to see me. I told the truth. I admitted I was scared, confused, and unraveling. I laid it all out there: how small I felt, how broken I had become, how the God I was clinging to didn’t feel like He was anywhere near me anymore.

And the answer I got?

“Just go home and be a good wife.”

No rescue. No comfort. Just a command.
That broke something in me.
I learned right then: honesty doesn’t guarantee help. Hope can backfire.
So I stopped reaching. I started bracing harder. I got quieter.
Because at least silence couldn’t slap me in the face like that again.

That moment shaped me. And not in a holy way.

But here’s what I want to tell you—what someone should have told me:

You’re not negative.
You’re not broken.
You are conditioned. And you can unlearn it.

But not by pretending. Not by slapping affirmations over your scars.

It starts small. Like this:
When the voice comes up that says, “This won’t last,” or “You don’t deserve this,”
just pause.
Don’t fight it. Don’t obey it. Just notice it.

That voice isn’t your truth.
It’s your trauma.

And slowly, you can start choosing differently.

Not because you’re suddenly healed. But because for once, you’re finally allowed to be aware of how deep the damage goes—and how much more you were made for.

You’re allowed to want peace without fear.
You’re allowed to hold joy without bracing for pain.
You’re allowed to believe something good… might actually be good.

Even if your brain’s not there yet, you are.

GRATITUDE IN REVERSE

What felt like the end of the world turned out to be my greatest gift.

Albert charged into the side door of our house, clad in polyester basketball shorts and a t-shirt adorned with armpit sweat.

I inhaled, holding my breath, thinking, “Oh boy, what now?”.

“Pastor Riggs told me to hand in my resignation.”

He wouldn’t say he got fired — that would sound too obvious, like admitting he did something wrong. No, he was ‘asked to resign.’ He explained, with pride, that he had told the pastor off and had a long list of reasons.

All I could think of was Thanksgiving back in 2007, when we had to eat spaghetti because he had been fired from a previous position helping a pastor grow his church. He didn’t have a proper title, so we called him the church evangelist — but really, he was the church shit stirrer. I can recall three men who have dared to tell Albert the truth to his face. None of these men was a hothead like him. They had boundaries, and he crossed them. One preacher even went so far as to call him “a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” I remember that night and still chuckle inwardly.

But this day felt like the end of an era—the end of our lives. We knew poverty. We survived it. But I was so tired of just surviving. So tired of pinching pennies, being the recipient of groceries because people felt sorry for us. I was downright exhausted. He told off the wrong guy, and that guy had the balls to stand up for himself. Kudos. But that didn’t help the situation. We were in dire straits. Bills do not miraculously stop just because you lose a job. No, electricity still runs, and a bill is still accumulating.

This is when he decided we would pursue his lifelong dream of starting a cleaning business.

“Oh gawd, yuck. I hate cleaning.” I thought. I did not want to do this. But being the obedient wife I was,

I said, “Okay.”

I was already at my wits’ end with him. I had even filed a restraining order earlier that year, thinking it would change him and he would be a different person. It only changed me. I became a different person. I was finding my voice.

We pushed along, started from scratch, and kept on scratching until we had a decent little cleaning business. It turned out it wasn’t as brutal as I thought it would be —cleaning, that is. Since he was OCD, I had learned to pay attention to detail.

I remember one time he was at work (I was a stay-at-home wife and mom), he may have been at bible college. Regardless, I spent all day cleaning the house. I wasn’t taught to keep a clean home. As a kid, my room was livable — clothes piled up, and I’d make a path to the bed and push them off to sleep. Dishes would overflow in the sink and onto the counters, even with a dishwasher sitting right there. My mom never asked for help — just pouted on weekends, complaining nobody helped her. But she never asked for help. I do not remember a single time my mom showed me how to wash dishes or asked me to wash them. But when I stayed the summer at my aunt’s house, she made me clean up after myself and even showed me how to clean behind the toilet.

So like I said, living with an OCD person – my husband – taught me to pay attention to detail.

Back to the part where I had cleaned all day, then he came home and went on a rampage:

“What have you been doing all day? Why does the house look like this? Get off your lazy ass and clean this fucking house!”

Nothing was lying around —not even a particle on the floor; everything had been freshly mopped and vacuumed. Do you know what he saw? A smudge on the corner of a mirror. Something I had missed. I cried that day. But I learned how to pay attention to detail on that day, too.

Cleaning houses felt a bit rewarding. I cleaned behind toilets and wiped baseboards, tops of door frames, and ledges on the doors. Top to bottom. No mirror had a smudge, and you could eat off the toilet seat. 10/10 would not recommend, but it would have been safe to do so.

As time went by, my disgust for him grew. But I could not figure out how to survive on my own with all these kids still living at home. It wasn’t until he got sick. Real sick. He ran a fever for over a week and refused to see a doctor. He would come downstairs and cry and whine like a baby, literally. Imagine a 3-year-old whining when they want their way. That was him. Then he would go back upstairs to sleep. He slept and slept. I would bring him soup, tea, water, and even made a homemade herbal remedy, which, for the first time in our 23-year marriage, he took. I welcomed the quietness his illness brought me, but I still performed my wifely duties of “in sickness and in health,”. Then went to clean the houses by myself. My daughter, who was in Christian school, would take a few days off to help me, but I found it easier to clean by myself than to go behind her to make sure she did it right. Not that she couldn’t clean, but this was our only income, and I didn’t feel I had room for mistakes.

Two more days went by, and he did not get out of bed. I got scared. I realized something was really wrong with him. He’s not faking or overreacting this time. So I called my sister-in-law and told her what was going on, and she said,

“You march up there and tell him he is going to the doctor, that he doesn’t have a choice.”

And so I did. He refused, crying and whining the whole time I was helping him dress, like a child not wanting to leave the park. Then, I drove him straight to the hospital. The doctor asked a bunch of questions that I answered, since he liked to withhold vital information. I even got the doctor to give him a prostate exam, which brings a smile to my face today. Turns out it was his appendix. It had been oozing into his body, and instead of being able to have the simple surgery, he had the large one where they cut from the top of the sternum to the pubic bone. I felt little sympathy for him, and he is a miserable patient. I was thankful to have work to go to. Grateful that we had just started an enormous organization project that was able to keep me away from seeing his green face and the black bile coming out of his mouth. His recovery took over six weeks. But by then, I’d already been cleaning solo for 8 — and I realized I could keep doing it. I could support my family without him. He had already lost interest in cleaning, wanting always to rush through the houses. He was there only to collect the check. Turns out he did not have as great a work ethic as he proclaimed.

When we finally separated, he left me the house and the business. A detailed story for another page, but what I thought was the end was just the beginning.

I thought when he got fired, we were going to do like we always did and move to another state and start all over. But instead, we started a cleaning business I didn’t want to start, and that business helped me support my then-6 kids at home. And without him there to tell me how the money was going to be spent frivolously, I was finally able to buy my kids’ school clothes and school supplies. For the first time, when they came to me with a need, I was able to supply it.

And that was the greatest gift of all.

Before the World Awakes

Even the most ordinary mornings are full of movement, memory, and quiet decisions.
Maybe we don’t need big moments to feel present—just enough space to notice the small ones.

I turned over in bed, wondering how long I’d been in that same position. My arm had fallen asleep, and my chest felt crunched. I took a deep breath, thinking about checking the clock, but I also wanted to roll back over. I usually toss and turn all night, but this time, I didn’t. Must be the progesterone doing its job.

I adjusted my pillows — only to realize one was missing. I patted around until I found it above my head. Did I slide down during the night? Did I fall asleep on my husband again? That usually throws off the pillow setup. I sat up, got the pillow back under my head… and then, of course, my alarm started to vibrate, lighting up the room.

Oh no — it’s going to wake him. I never let the alarm go off. I’m usually up before it. I tapped the dismiss button on my watch and sat on the edge of the bed, brushing hair out of my face — except it was stuck. Strands crisscrossed my mouth, nose, and eyes. What in the world? Did I drool? Then I remembered — my detox box sent me that nighttime serum that makes my face sticky. That explains it.

I grabbed my phone, picked up my clothes from the floor — we both agreed sleeping naked is non-negotiable — and tiptoed to the bathroom. I used my phone light to close the door slowly. The bathroom light stays off — his eyelids are basically transparent. He’s a night owl. I’m a morning person. Our compromise is to be in bed by 9–10, and I’m up between 3 and 4. He “sleeps in” until 6:30.

I turned on the closet light instead — it’s in the bathroom, which I always thought was a weird design choice, but it works and is quite convenient. I sat on the toilet, like usual, giving my body time to eliminate any bad decisions from dinner. Then I changed into yoga pants, a sports bra, and one of my many sweatshirts. I always tell myself I need to buy another one—I wear them year-round.

Then came the stealth mission: turn off lights, tiptoe across the tile (hoping my ankles don’t click), and open the bedroom door without setting off the vacuum-force door slam. The cat meowed her usual greeting — so I didn’t wake him, but I did wake her. Last obstacle: close the door behind me with just the right amount of pressure to keep the vacuum from yanking it.

Once it clicked into place, I exhaled. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath.

The kitchen was dark. I turned on the light and went through the usual motions:
Tea pod out. Decaf in. Brew on espresso.
Creamer in the frother. Start.
Swap in a chicory pod. 10oz of bold flavor.
Yeti from the dishwasher. Cream, coffee, done.
Spring water in a glass. Cat fed.

And now I’m downstairs, writing this, wondering…

Is it out of respect for his sleep… or is there something comforting in the ritual of moving unnoticed?
Is it desire for peace, control, or maybe even to feel needed in the stillness?
Why do small creatures always seem to keep us on schedule better than alarms?
Does waking early give me a head start… or just a moment to exist without anyone else’s noise?
And what am I really trying to let go of — each morning, sitting there in silence, waiting?

When Pain Feels Familiar, And Peace Feels Like ARisk

It’s not your fault you feel this way. But you don’t have to stay there.

Sometimes it feels like emotions happen to us, like the weather.
“I guess I’m just sad today.”
“It is what it is.”

But here’s the part no one tells you:

You might not get to choose the feeling that shows up. But you do have a say in how long it stays there.

When we’ve been through trauma or long-term hurt, sadness, or pain can start to feel familiar. It’s almost comforting in a strange way. We stop trying to feel better because part of us doesn’t trust that “feeling better” is even possible. So we sit in the sadness like it’s the only place we belong.

Sometimes, without realizing it, we even let the pain in like a guest who shows up uninvited…. and we don’t ask it to leave. Not because we want to suffer, but because suffering is what we know. It feels predictable. Safe. Normal.

But here’s the truth:

You’re allowed to feel your feelings, and you’re allowed to move through them.

Pain doesn’t have to be your home anymore. You deserve moments of peace, even if they feel unfamiliar at first, because you deserve better.

It took me over 20 years to realize that I deserved better. I sat in my pain day after day—wishing it would go away, wanting it to stop—but doing nothing about it because it had become my comfort zone. I was stuck in a rut and had no idea how to pull myself out.

But once I finally recognized that I did deserve better, the answers started coming to me — sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.

I spent 24 years in an abusive marriage. Today, I can say I made it out. And so can you.

Why No One Can Cheer You Up (And Why You Don’t Want Them To)

It’s not that you can’t feel better…it’s that you don’t trust better.

When you’re upset, it feels like nothing can touch you. Friends try to cheer you up, but their words bounce right off. You shut it down with,

“You don’t understand,” or “I can’t help the way I feel.”

Here’s the thing: you’re not wrong for wanting to sit in your feelings. Pain can feel safer than pretending everything’s okay. But sometimes, without realizing it, you hold on to that pain like proof. Proof that you were hurt, evidence that your feelings are real, proof that you’re not invisible.

And letting it go? That feels scary. Because misery, as heavy as it is, can start to feel familiar. Almost like home.

You’re not broken for feeling this way. You’ve just learned to live with despair for so long that happiness feels foreign. But here’s the truth: you deserve more than the familiar depression. You deserve peace, even if it feels uncomfortable at first.

Such was I. I lived in an abusive marriage for 24 years. When I finally dared to leave, I started reflecting and asked myself,

“Why had I stayed so long?”

In the future, I knew I didn’t want to make the same mistake. I didn’t want to end up in another abusive marriage. So I looked back at my past relationships, and they were all the same. Abusive.

Wow. Who am I? And why am I choosing this path?

That’s when I realized I had an addiction problem. I was addicted to pain—the pain and the drama of the chaos. I was stuck in a cycle, like a revolving door. So I constantly had to remind myself why I was leaving. I had to remind myself that I deserved better and that I should look for someone who was the complete opposite.

And that’s precisely what I did. Today, I stand on the other side of abuse. Stronger, freer, and committed to helping others find their own path out.

Need help?
If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, emotional distress, or abuse, support is available 24/7:

Addiction Recovery: Call 866-606-0182 or visit our treatment center directory
Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Dial 988 (free, confidential, 24/7)
Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788
Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN): Call 800-656-4673 or visit online.rainn.org

You are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And you are worth the healing.

If Only…

October 18, 2025

If only I weren’t sick with COVID right now, maybe I would feel more inspired or have the energy to put my thoughts on paper. But as fate would have it, I have little thoughts other than those directed towards health and healing.

I was reminded yesterday about a saying I heard or read. It said, “The problem with pain is that it demands to be felt.” The same goes for us. Pain, whether emotional or physical, has an insistent need to be felt.

Am I currently in pain? No, but something definitely feels “off” in my body, and thankfully, I know why. But what about the times when we don’t know why? When I’ve gone to the doctor and they’ve run test after test, only to come up with the same answer: nothing.

What about that feeling that still asks to be felt? I don’t know if I would call it a feeling exactly, but our body is definitely trying to get our attention. It says, Hey, look at me. Something is wrong. Keep looking. Keep searching. So we do, hoping to find a solution.

Often, the pain or problem felt within the body can be linked to something emotional. Something we haven’t fully processed. I know that’s the case with me. I have things, and traumas, and past experiences that I haven’t completely processed, and my body has demanded that I slow down and do that.

If only I listened to it more often. If only I listened to my body, would I then be more in tune with it? In tune with why it’s feeling the things it is feeling?

If only I could type without looking at the keyboard and stop overthinking it. Just as my body asks me to listen, maybe my creativity does too. If only I could just let the fingers move as the spirit led me to type the letters and form the phrases of the story I am writing. What would happen if I let the spirit move my fingers?

I think it’s called muscle memory when your brain remembers specific paths to take or keys to touch. After you’ve done something enough times, your brain knows how to do it. That’s why they say it’s like riding a bike. Apparently, we never forget. It may feel like a rut, but maybe it’s actually the rhythm of remembering, our brain and its muscle memory keeping us on track.

If only I could let go and listen long enough to hear the answers my life has been trying to tell me.

One Secret I Still Keep Is…

What You’d Never Guess Just by Looking

Does it have to be just one? There are a few secrets I keep.

The first thing that comes to mind is that I gave birth to 11 children. One at a time. However, that’s no longer really a secret. It is information I usually do not tell people. Not because it is such a big secret, but because their brains cannot seem to comprehend how one woman gave birth to that many children. Or why. Now that is the true secret.

Why? Why did I have that many kids?

Well, first and foremost, because we were in a religious mindset that allowed God to choose how many children we have. But I will tell you that when I was 40 and pregnant, I chose for myself to get that fertile tube tied up, or cut off, or whatever they do, so I cannot get pregnant again. (I only had one tube and ovary by the time 11 came around.) Another reason I had 11 children was that, with the birth of each new baby, came another person/soul who would love me unconditionally and make my fractured life feel whole, even if only temporarily. I desperately longed for someone to love me. And when a baby looks up at you and smiles because you are their entire world, you get the feeling.

Love. The missing piece of me.

Maybe it sounds selfish, but I wanted someone to need me the way I had needed others who didn’t show up.

Another secret I keep is about my oldest son being in prison. He was a highly respected individual. Everyone loved him. So, for the longest time, whenever anyone asked me where he was or how he was doing, I would answer, “I don’t want to talk about it.” But the bigger secret in that is why he is in prison.

Why?

Because he was so traumatized as a child that he sexually traumatized a child, that’s why. It’s not an excuse, just a truth I’ve had to live with. Pain that isn’t healed will try to find something — or someone — to break.

A third secret I don’t tell anyone: I was a pastor’s wife for 20 years. I never really asked myself why I was, so the “why” in this situation is: why do I keep it a secret? Good question, good soul search here.

Why?

Because I do not want anyone to ask me what I believe now, I am still trying to figure all that out. Like, do I still want to use the term “God,” or is it the Universe, or is it just Spirit? None of those feels right. The closest to feeling like my truth is Universal God or Universal Spirit. But like I said, I am still working that out. I keep it a secret because I do not want people trying to persuade me back into church, back into conformity. I do not want to go to church every Sunday and Wednesday. I don’t want to go door-knocking, soul-witnessing, or whatever they call it. I cannot sit in a service without being overcome with anxiety. My nervous system shuts down, and I usually fall asleep. But I sit there and feel like a ghost of myself, singing words that no longer have a place to land inside me. I know this because I have tried. I tried to find a church so my youngest son could get a taste of religion and decide for himself whether it is something he wants. It’s a secret because I probably disagree with 90% of what they might be talking about if you tried to strike a spiritual conversation. I have read the Bible cover to cover multiple times. There is nothing they can say that will get me to see things differently. It’s a secret because I have not yet dared to share my beliefs with the world.

But here’s a start.

I believe God was female in nature. I believe the Bible is a history book. I think every religion has its great “man of the hour.” The Christians had Jesus. The Muslims have Mohammad. The Jews have the Messiah, and so on. I believe it’s the same thing, just described in a different style. Reaping what you sow is the same thing as karma. The Ten Commandments do not differ much from the Delphic maxims. Maybe the real secret isn’t what I’ve kept — it’s how long I’ve waited to say it out loud.

And the last secret I keep is my age.

They say you’re only as old as you feel. Some days I think I’m 37. Other days I feel 57. It changes with the weather, the weight of the day, or the way my knees sound when I stand up too fast. People often tell me I look so young — thankfully. And I want to keep it that way. Because age isn’t just a number, it’s a perception. It’s the difference between someone listening to your story and brushing it off. So I let them guess. And I let myself believe it too, some days.

The Post-it Note

Sitting at the giant mahogany desk, I stared at the stack of papers in front of me. I reached up and twisted the plastic stick on the blinds, narrowing the slats until the sunlight no longer glared off the computer screen. It was that time of year again—tax season. The task ahead was daunting, and my lack of proper filing over the year left me with quite a challenge.

We had started our own cleaning business last year in a small, dying town. Surprisingly, it did pretty well. We were the only business in the city offering house cleaning, and people appreciated the idea of hiring professionals rather than a friend of a friend. They especially liked our attention to detail, a trait I had perfected after years of living with an OCD narcissist. Our motto was: “We don’t cut corners, we clean them!” That’s precisely what I did. I reached behind toilets, dusted ceiling fans, and even cleaned the baseboards every time. It was honest work, and I was damn good at it.

I began separating receipts and invoices into different piles, sorting through them with the half-confidence of someone who grew up watching a CPA at work. A musty smell drifted from the papers, dust rising with every movement.

“Achoo! Achoo! Aaaa—Aaaa—huh—”

I clamped my nose shut to block the third sneeze.

As I wiped my eyes, a small yellow slip of paper drifted into my lap. Curious, I picked it up. Scribbled in uneven handwriting were three words:

“I deserve better.”

It wasn’t my handwriting. I did not recognize it at all. Still, it was there, staring up at me.

Where had it come from? Who wrote it? Had it been hiding among the receipts all this time?

It didn’t matter who wrote it. It was like a message sent straight from the universe. My heart gave a slow, deliberate flutter as I shivered.

I read the words aloud.

“I deserve better.”

Chills ran down my spine. I shuddered.

“I deserve better,” I repeated, softer this time.

My mind wandered back to just a few weeks ago when Albert had asked me, “Do you even like me?”

I had replied, “No, but I love you.”

The truth was, I couldn’t stand him. I didn’t respect him, didn’t trust him, didn’t even like being in the same room as him. I was only with him for the sake of the kids. In a few years, we would have been married for twenty-five years. And I figured, if I had made it that far, I might as well ride it out to the end.

For better or for worse, right?

That was the lie I told myself. That if we stuck it out, maybe something would change. Maybe we’d rediscover what we once thought we had. Perhaps we’d fall madly in love again. Maybe he’d get control of his emotions, stop being angry at everything and everyone. Maybe he’d start showing me he loved me with little gestures of kindness—a note, or flowers. Maybe he’d stop telling me I’m fat or that he hates me. Criticizing the way I dressed or styled my hair.

Maybe. But deep down, I knew better.

“I deserve better,” I whispered again. This time, it felt different.

Then the fear crept in.

How? How would I support myself and the kids? How could I possibly make it on my own? There were ten mouths to feed. Ten kids to clothe. Yes, you read that right—ten. One was in the military, thankfully independent now, but the rest still relied on me.

I stared at the slip of paper, running my thumb over the pen marks as if that could somehow transfer strength into my bones. Then, slowly, I slid the note into the drawer beside the paperclips. A secret. A seed.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the moment everything quietly began to shift. Subtly. But undeniably.

One day, during a cleaning job, Albert looked at me while I was polishing the dining room table and asked, “Do you even want to be with me anymore?”

I stopped what I was doing and looked up. I looked straight into his eyes, shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I don’t know.”

This was the first time in our marriage I did not care how my words made him feel. I spoke my truth.

It was the truth. I didn’t know how to live without him. I didn’t know how to carry the full weight of our family on my shoulders alone. I didn’t know if I could.

But I knew I didn’t love him. Not really. And I certainly didn’t like him. That was very clear.

I saw the panic in his eyes as his face grimaced and he made the whimpering sound of a two-year-old.

The months that followed were like cooking dinner with the smoke alarm ready to scream at any second. Every step echoed with the fear of collapse.

But I tried. I tried to be the best version of myself. A better wife. A better mother. I smiled more. I was nicer to him, more understanding and complimentary of him. I even bought new lingerie.

But when you know you deserve better, something changes. You stop settling. You stop hoping that toxic patterns will magically heal.

And you start looking—not for another man, but for another life. A better one.

One where you deserve better.

Home is…

Home is where you poop. I mean seriously, how many times have you been in public and you just needed to let go of your meal from the previous night, you know, the one that had been building in your gut that caused you to toss and turn, that same one that you had to hold your farts in, so your significant other wouldn’t hear or worse yet, smell. Oh, who am I kidding? We ladies know that men don’t try to hold it in unless you have a sweet guy like mine, but that is a story for another day.

Home is where the bathroom is the most comfortable place in the house. The spot where you go to get away from the kids for a moment to catch your breath before diving into another fight or cleaning up another mess. Where you go to wash your hands, pretending that you’re using the bathroom, because you are trying to avoid that conversation you don’t want to have with your partner.

“Home is where you hang your hat,” at least that is what the sign said. Isn’t that cheesy, because I don’t wear a hat.

“Home is where you hang your heart” is another phrase I have heard. I used to like that phrase until I gave it some thought. It isn’t as great now as when I first heard it because to hang your heart, you have to take it out. And if you take it out, then you are dead. For me, 24 years, home was where I hung my heart -because I was definitely dead inside from hiding abuse from the preacher I was married to. Now, home is where I am with my current husband. No, that’s cheesy too. Being with him isn’t home; it is utter relaxation, calmness. Usually, it is a feeling of security, a sense of being loved and cherished, knowing he cares.

Home is where I put my leisure clothes on, where I take my panties off, and put the pjs on. Where I sometimes strut around nude. Home is where, as soon as I walk in the door, I want to remove the restrictive clothing I make myself wear so I feel pretty. So I feel like I look like someone with confidence or someone who knows where they are going in life.

Home is where I can be me. That is what I have with my husband. I can be me. So, he is home.

A home is a house, a structure with walls, and mine has a basement. Mine used to be a basement of lies, but now there are no lies except the ones we tell ourselves or our parents. The ones where we tell them how much we miss them and how much we love spending time with them.

Home is where everyone comes to see me when they are feeling nostalgic or need to appease their conscience to see their mom, as I have done for many years, when I go to visit mine.

Home is where I cook a variety of meals, from hot to cold. Including Indian, Mexican, Asian, and American dishes, on occasion.

Home is where I store my stuff. My good stuff and bad stuff, memories are stored here too.

Home is where I sleep the best. There is no bed like the comfort of my own, even when I complain that it is not comfortable. Uncomfortable things and situations are often our comfort because they are what we are used to—nothing like trying something different to make us want to return to the familiar. Unless, on a rare occasion, you actually do find and feel something better than what you currently have,

Home is where I am allowed to be dirty. Where I am allowed to be ugly physically and emotionally. I am allowed to let my hair down and be human, but I am pretty sure I have already touched on that.

Home is where home is.

Home is where I find solace from a busy, hectic day, where I find quiet. Thankfully, my newish home is peaceful; it hasn’t always been that way. It used to be loud. I have a home, and I love it.

My home is a place of refuge for the weary, a place where the masks come off—not the literal kind, though those too, sometimes—but the emotional ones, the “I’m fine” and “I’ve got this” kind. It’s the place where the world doesn’t expect me to smile if I don’t feel like it, where tears can fall without needing an explanation, where laughter echoes off the walls without needing a punchline.

My home is where silence speaks louder than noise, where the hum of the refrigerator at 2 a.m. is the only soundtrack I need while wandering the kitchen in search of clarity. It’s where I stare at the same spot on the ceiling while processing the day’s chaos, and somehow, that patch of paint understands me better than most people do.

It’s where my husband kisses my forehead in passing, and I feel more loved than if he shouted it from a rooftop. It’s where arguments are allowed, although we rarely have them, and forgiveness lives in the walls. It’s where the shadows don’t scare me because I’ve made peace with them, learned to live with them, maybe even learned to love them a little.

Home is where the stories are told—not always out loud, but in the way the couch cushions sag where we always sit, in the coffee ring on the side.

This home—our home—isn’t just a sanctuary. It’s a scrapbook, a history book, a safe house, and a confessional. It’s the only place I can fall apart completely and know I won’t be judged for not having it all together.

So yeah, home is where you poop. But it’s also where you laugh until you cry, cry until you sleep, sleep until you’re whole again, and then get up and do it all over. It’s where life is lived unfiltered, unposed, and unapologetically real.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Yoli's Write To Sanity

Just Breathe And Write

Tag: mental health