Rejecting glamorized recovery labels in favor of something real.
I didn’t slay demons.
I missed therapy twice a month and cried in my car.
I didn’t wear a crown of scars with pride.
I made dark jokes in bathrooms to keep from falling apart.
I didn’t rise like a phoenix.
I crawled like a raccoon out of a dumpster fire
clutching expired hope and an unmatched sock.
And yet—
I survived.
They wanted me to be a warrior.
A goddess.
A fearless, radiant queen who turned pain into poetry and woke up glowing.
But healing didn’t look like a Renaissance painting.
It looked like canceling plans because I was too triggered to function.
It looked like making a spreadsheet just to remember to eat.
It looked like laughing at my trauma because the alternative was screaming.
I’m not here to be inspirational.
I’m here to be honest.
Some days, I was strong.
Other days, I was just too stubborn to quit.
And most days, I used sarcasm like a safety blanket
and memes like medicinal tea.
I didn’t conquer my past.
I just stopped letting it drive.
And if that doesn’t fit on a coffee mug, so be it.
🧠 Emotional Takeaway:
You don’t have to be graceful to be healing.
You don’t have to be fearless to move forward.
You don’t have to “rise.”
Sometimes, you just have to show up with your messy, funny, broken-ass self
and say:
“Yeah, I’m still here. Suck it.”
🪞 Reflection Box:
I used to think healing had a look.
That I had to earn the title “survivor”
by becoming majestic, mystical, unbothered.
But turns out?
Healing looks like laughing inappropriately at your own trauma
and choosing to live anyway.
I didn’t win the war.
I outlived it.
And I still get jokes off about it.
🎤I’m not a hero. Not a queen.
Didn’t slay. Didn’t stay clean.
I cried, I cursed, I cracked a pun—
And healing came like sideways sun.
They wanted strong. I gave them snark.
They wanted brave—I gave them dark.
But here I am, still holding on—
Not glorious.
Just stubborn. And gone.
