The Beginning of Living: My Journey from Hiding to Freedom

For most of my life, I existed behind invisible walls. Walls built from trauma, fear, and years of convincing myself it was safer to remain unseen. I never truly lived—at least, not in the way most people would define living. I never let myself openly laugh or act goofy. I didn’t go for walks just because. I didn’t take joyrides or strike up conversations with strangers in hopes of making new friends. I was barricaded, physically and emotionally, from a world that had only taught me one thing: people hurt you.

To those who’ve read my books, this isn’t new. My life’s story is a patchwork of survival—born into trauma, raised in chaos, and shaped by betrayal. From childhood to adulthood, pain was my constant companion. It robbed me of the innocence most people take for granted, leaving me to grow up fast in a world that seemed set on breaking me. By the time I reached 38 years old, I realized I had never really lived at all. And that’s when something shifted.

I’m learning to live now. Slowly. Messily. Imperfectly. It feels strange, almost foreign, to sit still and breathe, to stop working myself to exhaustion, and to acknowledge that it’s okay to just be. I’m unlearning the constant need to prove myself—to push, to hustle, to create endlessly. Instead, I’m discovering the beauty of simply existing. I’m learning that life isn’t all about grinding at a desk or chasing validation. It’s about lying on the couch with my dogs, taking an unplanned nap, or watching a movie with Anthony, my husband and the only person who’s ever seen me completely.

Letting go of that old life is hard. Trauma has taught me that closeness invites pain. People lie, betray, steal, hurt, and abandon. For years, I lived by the mantra: “Push them away before they can push you away.” I perfected the art of self-sabotage, convincing myself that the only way to avoid being hurt was to hurt others first. It was a toxic way to live, but it was all I knew. I didn’t believe people could stay without conditions, without eventually breaking me.

But I’ve learned something else over time. It isn’t about the number of people you allow into your life. It’s about the quality of those connections. Anthony is proof of that. He’s been my one constant in a world that has often felt like a revolving door. Until recently, he was the only person I let into my bubble. He saw me—the real me—when I was too afraid to show myself to anyone else.

And then I got tired of hiding. I realized I wasn’t living; I was existing. And I was exhausted from pretending to be okay with that. So I began sharing my story—not just the highlights, but the raw, unfiltered truth. Through my books, music, and now this blog, I’m peeling back the layers I once kept hidden. I’m tired of shame. I’m done letting the past define me. Every word I write, every lyric I compose, every post I share—it’s all part of a promise I made to myself: to stop hiding and start living.

Writing this blog feels like therapy. No, I don’t drown my emotions in alcohol anymore, thank God. The days of heavy drinking, picking fights, embarrassing myself in front of Anthony’s family, or posting drunken nonsense online are long behind me. I’ve had to rebuild myself from the ground up, refusing to let my past dictate my future. This process isn’t easy, but it’s necessary. Every step forward is a small victory over the life I left behind.

This post might not seem like much—just another vent, another journal entry—but for me, it’s monumental. It’s a reminder that I’ve chosen to live authentically, flaws and all. I’ve learned that living isn’t about erasing your past or pretending the pain wasn’t real. It’s about standing in your truth, scars and all, and daring to keep going.

Until next time, take care. And if you’re reading this while standing in the shadows of your own story, know this: life doesn’t have to be perfect to be worth living. Sometimes, it’s enough to just start.