The Fire

I don't go here very often anymore.

I have spent most of my life feeling sadness far more easily than anger. Then one experience changed that.

Every so often, life asks you to swallow something that should never have been served in the first place.

Trauma spikes, tears, and an unexpected goodbye.

The world has a strange way of comforting the person who lied while questioning the person who was lied to.

What happens when the first person who makes you feel loved is also the person you’re most afraid of?

I didn’t know a single day could dismantle an entire life. Until it did.

A year later, the story lives less in my thoughts, and more in my body.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can learn is the right word for what happened.

Some harm isn’t a mistake. It’s a pattern.

I didn’t expect lunch to become an anniversary.

Words don’t just communicate. They condition.

He didn’t hide his phone. That’s what made it confusing.

I’ve written a lot about what happened in the relationship I was in—the one that exploded into a web of lies, manipulation, and psychological and emotional abuse six days after my dad died. I’ve written about the war I didn’t know I was fighting. The poison he brought to the party. How much I loved him and his dogs. The pain of being replaced so quickly. The expensive gifts. The moment of discovery. All of that writing helped me process the what the fuck happened and how will

Everyone trusted him. That was the point.

What lingers isn’t love—it’s the realization of how much I was lied to.

December 30, 2025 It is unsettling to me that even now—months later—conversations still surface in the most unexpected places, with unexpected people, about the man I once loved deeply. Conversations I don't start, but somehow always find me. Not conversations fueled by drama or emotion. But quiet, matter-of-fact acknowledgments from people on the periphery—people who knew him through brief interactions, professional encounters, or community proximity—and who clocked early on

This wasn’t grief. It was recognition.

I found something I wrote in May—and it reminded me just how fiercely I saved myself.

Sometimes brutality doesn't come from a person. It comes from circumstance.