The Secrets I Carried Weren’t Supposed to Leave the Dark Corners Where They Were Buried.

If you had told me years ago that writing would become my lifeline, I wouldn’t have believed you. Journaling—something so simple—once felt impossibly hard. Each time I picked up a pen, I felt vulnerable. Even when I knew no one else would read my words, I couldn’t shake the fear of being exposed. What if I spelled something wrong? What if someone found it? At the top of every entry, I’d write: “I fear journaling because I worry that my privacy will not be respected.”

Looking back, I realize those words weren’t just about spelling or someone flipping through the pages. Before I ever wrote about my pain, I was terrified of breaking the unspoken rule of my childhood: silence. The secrets I carried weren’t supposed to leave the dark corners where they were buried. Writing about them felt like a rebellion, like I’d get in trouble for even thinking about putting them on paper.

But in time, something shifted. I kept writing, even when it felt wrong, even when the words didn’t make sense. I started treating my journal as a conversation with myself—a space to make sense of a childhood where no sense could be found. It became therapeutic in a way I hadn’t expected. Slowly, my journal became more than a collection of private thoughts; it became my voice. And through that voice, I began to talk myself into sharing.

That’s how I landed here, typing out these thoughts for you to read. This blog is my public journal, a place to share the private conversations I’ve only had with myself until now. I still don’t know exactly where this will lead, but I know one thing: journaling led me here. It led me to want to write my story—not just mine, but my mom’s, too.

I didn’t set out to write a memoir. For years, I journaled with no end goal in mind, other than getting the words out of my head and onto a page. At one point, I thought I’d write a comedy about my family. A big group of rednecks gives you plenty of material. But as much as I laughed at the idea, it stopped feeling right. No matter how dark my childhood was, I love my family. I didn’t want to hurt them.

Maybe that’s why I’m not ready to put my name to this blog. Maybe that’s why I still feel a twinge of guilt, wondering if sharing my story will feel like betrayal to some. It’s not my intention to betray anyone—I hope they know that. My intention is to heal and to help others do the same.

If you’re reading this and you feel the weight of your past pressing on your present, you’re not alone. If you’ve been silenced, shamed, or made to feel like your story isn’t worth telling, I’m here to tell you that it is.

For me, writing started as a quiet rebellion. It grew into something more—a way to reclaim my voice, to make peace with a childhood that didn’t make sense. This blog is my way of sharing that journey with you. I don’t have all the answers, but I do know healing happens when we’re brave enough to start.

I’m sharing my words, my story, and my healing. I hope they bring you some comfort, some courage, or maybe just the realization that this is a safe place and you don’t have to navigate your pain alone.