Coming Home to Yourself

It was a quiet Friday morning.

The breeze softly moved the linen-and-cotton blend curtains—cream, taupe, and gold—at my bedroom window. Through the cracks, I watched the sunrise painting the sky in layers of orange and yellow.

My Echo Dot played gentle rain sounds beside me as I read a romance novel I’d downloaded during a recent hospital stay. It wasn’t something I’d normally read, but I had needed something light at the time to keep me entertained after a procedure.

I didn’t expect to pick it up again that morning.

And I definitely didn’t expect what would happen next.

When a Story Hits Too Close to Home

The novel followed a young woman who felt unwanted by her family and had been forced to marry a man she didn’t know. Over time, that man showed her care, tenderness—even love.

But she couldn’t accept it. She pushed it away.

A lifetime of rejection had shaped how she saw herself—so much so that she began rejecting herself.

The first time I read it, I found her inner battles exhausting. But this time, something clicked. I saw her differently. I understood her.

Then came a particular scene: she was comforted after a traumatic moment. And suddenly—

I had a flashback.

I put my Kindle down.

What was that?

I wanted to shove it away—but I didn’t. This time, I let the memory come. I hadn’t thought about that moment since I was 24 years old.

A Memory I Didn’t Expect

It was the memory of someone I once trusted… someone who betrayed me.

I remembered how I had felt safe, just for a moment, only to have that safety snatched away. But this time, I didn’t feel hurt. I didn’t feel ashamed. I didn’t blame myself.

What stood out to me most was the initial desire for connection. The part of me that had wanted closeness.

And in that moment, I realised: there’s no shame in being human.

The betrayal still happened. But instead of pain, it became a marker—showing me what I never want again.

And then I remembered something a therapist once said to me:

“Things come up when the brain is ready and the body feels safe.”

That morning, I felt safe.

And for the first time, I had the clarity to understand: the 24-year-old me had been released.

The Girl I Used to Be

At 24, I met Lex through a mutual friend. He seemed kind. Gentle. Genuine.

But I was wrong.

I had just lost my mother to cancer and was struggling to keep my head above water—trying to get through university, trying to survive. I was vulnerable. And he saw that.

It was a confusing relationship—one minute I was welcome, the next I was a burden. I later discovered I wasn’t his only option… in fact, I wasn’t even the main one.

I was the other woman.

Let that sink in.

Even after it ended, he wouldn’t let me go. He knew where I lived and would show up unannounced. I endured this nonsense until eventually, I moved. Finally taking back my space.

I used to carry the shame of it all—as though it was my fault.

But now I know: I was never the one to blame.

Why So Many of Us Stay Silent

For years, I questioned myself. I compared myself to the other women he deceived. I did not feel enough.

But as I grew, I realised something no one had taught me:

We’re conditioned to believe that being chosen by a man is a woman’s highest achievement.

And when that illusion breaks, it breaks us—until we wake up.

So I stopped dating.

I started rebuilding.

I focused on my life, locked away the pain, and began the long, messy work of healing. At first, I believed that forgiving him—and everyone else—would set me free.

But I now understand: forced forgiveness is not freedom. It’s another way to silence ourselves.

Five Years of Healing—and Counting

In the last five years, I’ve gone deep.

Therapy. Journaling. Books. Seminars. Late-night YouTube rabbit holes with psychologists and trauma experts. I’ve cried. I’ve broken down. I’ve had breakthroughs.

There were months when I felt I wasn’t making any progress.

And then, a slow Friday morning reminded me:

Healing doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes, it looks like peace.

That day, something came home to me. A part of myself I thought I had lost.

Later, while curling my hair at my vanity, I caught a glimpse of someone new in the mirror. Softer. Stronger.

There was a certain spark back in my eyes again.

I looked like enough.

I felt like enough.

A Promise to Myself—And Now to You

You may have noticed the blog looks a little different. That’s intentional.

At the start of this year, I made a promise to myself:

I will no longer be afraid of my voice. I will not hide my vulnerability. I will use my story to create change.

Growing up, I was silenced.

But as I’ve healed, I’ve realised that I carry wisdom—earned through pain. And I want to use it to create the kind of support system I never had.

I share this because I know someone else is carrying memories they’re afraid to face. I want them to know:

You’re not alone. You are not your past. You can come home to yourself, too.

To the Woman I Was

Later that evening, while journaling, I thought about who I used to be. The old me would have buried that memory. Would’ve refused to feel.

But this time, I didn’t run.

I stayed.

I listened.

If I could speak to my 24-year-old self, I’d say:

“You didn’t know. You were just trying to survive. And you did. You survived—and then you healed. You are worthy of love. You are brave. And you are becoming everything you once feared you never would.”

Healing Is a Journey—Not a Destination

Healing doesn’t come all at once.

Sometimes, it arrives in the form of tears falling to a song you haven’t heard in years.

Sometimes, it’s the sound of your own laughter after months of silence.

Sometimes, it’s putting on that dress you used to avoid.

Sometimes, it’s a quiet Friday morning in bed, reading a badly written romance novel—and finally remembering who you are.

However it comes, it’s yours.

And it doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else.

If You’re in the Middle of It…

You may not have the answers today.

You might be numb. Angry. Tired. Or stuck.

But healing is possible. It won’t be perfect. But it will come—if you keep choosing yourself.

One step at a time.

One truth at a time.

One breath at a time.

Have you had a healing moment sneak up on you? Share it below—I’d love to hear how you’re coming home to yourself.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for being here.

Let’s continue creating change—one shared experience at a time.