Reclaiming My Life

Life has this fun little way of drop-kicking you into the abyss when you least expect it. One minute, you’re vibing, thinking you’ve got a handle on things, and the next? Bam. Chaos. Ruin. Existential crisis. And if you’re really lucky, all three at once.

I’ve become weirdly good at starting over. Left a violent relationship? Check. Rebuilt after the 2008 mortgage crisis took everything? Check. Realized that my definition of “love” was just Stockholm Syndrome with extra steps? Big check. At this point, I don’t even think of life in linear terms anymore—it’s more like a chaotic open-world game where I keep respawning in increasingly ridiculous situations.

And here’s the kicker: not everything that happens to us is our fault. But how we move forward? That’s on us. Annoying, right? I, for one, would love to blame a shadowy cabal for all my misfortunes, but unfortunately, some of this mess is mine to clean up.

I didn’t exactly pop into this world with a winning hand. Growing up, I was labeled a “problem child” (a.k.a. a kid with ADHD before anyone bothered understanding it). I also had undiagnosed dyslexia, which meant the school system basically saw me as a walking inconvenience. Instead of getting actual help, I got medicated into submission so that I’d be easier to manage. The goal wasn’t to teach me—just to make me quiet.

And because life is just one long sitcom of questionable decisions, I carried that energy into adulthood. I believed love meant control, that my worth was conditional, and that I had to earn the bare minimum. That mindset had me walking straight into relationships that felt… weirdly familiar. You know, the kind where red flags are practically on fire, but you convince yourself it’s just “passion.”

For a long time, I felt ashamed—ashamed of things that weren’t my fault, ashamed of the ways I tried to survive, ashamed of not being “stronger.” Eventually, something clicked.

One particularly disastrous relationship later, I found myself asking some deeply uncomfortable questions:

• What if this isn’t my fault?

• What if I’m not actually broken?

• What if I, a shocking concept, deserve better?

Groundbreaking, right? But those questions cracked open a door I didn’t even know existed. I started reading, listening, and (begrudgingly) healing. I saw the patterns for what they were—programming I had absorbed, not proof of who I really was.

And taking responsibility? It wasn’t about self-blame. It was about reclaiming my power.

Letting go of toxic relationships, standing up for myself, actually processing my emotions instead of repressing them like an emotionally stunted cryptid—it was all part of the process. And was it easy? Absolutely not. At times, it felt like trying to unlearn the entire English language while people shouted, “But this is how it’s always been done!”

But here’s what I’ve learned: Resilience isn’t about never breaking down. It’s about getting back up. For me, that meant with a mildly sarcastic comeback.

Look, if you’re reading this and you’re struggling, I need you to know something: this chapter? The messy, painful, rage-inducing one? It’s not the whole book. Keep going. Edit as needed. Throw in a plot twist. Just don’t let the bad parts convince you that the story isn’t worth telling.

Because trust me—I’ve rewritten mine more times than I can count. And every time, it's gotten a whole hell of a lot better.  Stand the fuck up and go kick some ass. You either start now to create the life you want, or you sit where you are being miserable af for a whole lot longer before you try. This is on you, and I know that sounds like it sucks, but it doesn't it means you get to change it and you don't have to wait on the perfect circumstances or anyone else.