After the chaos of my WTF year, I started noticing things about myself — small things, but ones that explained how I’d survived the mess I’d been living in. I had a temper that went from zero to felony in seconds. It wasn’t random; it was a defense mechanism I’d built so I wouldn’t be eaten alive. I was unsure of myself, convinced I wasn’t capable of surviving anything without falling apart. And then there were the badges I’d collected over the years: clinical depression, anxiety disorder, PTSD. Not badges of honor — badges of despair. They weren’t erasable, but they were finally visible.
I knew how to fight. I’d always known how to fight. But I had no idea who I was without that anger.
It wasn’t until January, when I started writing, that the truth of who I’d become began to show itself. Sometimes I’d sit down and feel tears forming before I even typed a word. The memories were still sharp, still alive, still capable of knocking the wind out of me. Writing my story forced me to look at myself — really look — and what I saw made me sad. I saw everything I had lost, and everything I had turned myself into just to survive.
The woman on the page wasn’t pretty. She was untrusting, battle‑ready, afraid of everything. She was someone I had been forced to become, not someone I wanted to stay.
So I made a choice.
I put those traits away — not erased, not forgotten, just stored. Tools I could still reach for if I needed them, but no longer the foundation of who I was. The parts worth keeping — strength, resilience, humor, sheer willpower — those I held onto. Those would serve me in the life I was trying to build.
The first time I saw myself clearly, it wasn’t pretty — but it was honest. And honesty, I’ve learned, is where healing begins. I am not defined by the chaos that shaped me, nor the armor that once kept me alive. I am defined by what I choose to keep, what I am brave enough to release, and the life I am still becoming.
Still here and choosing who I become, one truth at a time,
K.
