Category Archives: Healing journey

A Mother..&& A Woman

Healing journey, , , , , , , ,

Hey Sweets,

This week marks 13 years since I became somebody’s mom.

Thirteen.

That’s over a decade of growing up alongside two girls who have seen me at every stage of womanhood, barely holding it together, silently sacrificing, learning as I go, and slowly waking up to the truth that motherhood can be sacred without being all-consuming. For the first time since becoming a mother, I finally feel like I understand the difference.

The myth is that motherhood is supposed to be your everything. That once you become a mom, you stop being anything else. That loving your kids well means giving up who you were and whatever you wanted in service of what they need. That’s the version of motherhood I swallowed whole. It was the version I saw, the version so many of us were raised by.

But it’s not sustainable. It’s not even healthy. What I thought was devotion was sometimes a mask for guilt. What I called sacrifice was sometimes fear. And what I believed was protection was sometimes avoidance.

The guilt…

Mom guilt has a way of rearing its head even when you’re doing your best. It shows up when you miss a game. When you’re too tired to cook. When you take a trip alone. When you set a boundary. When you buy something for yourself. When you sit still while the laundry piles up. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve already given; there’s always a whisper saying, “You should be doing more.”

More of what? More of the stuff that leaves us depleted? More of the kind of mothering that erases the woman behind it?

That guilt doesn’t come from God. It comes from conditioning. From generations of women who were told they only mattered when they were needed. Who had to fight for space in their own lives and often didn’t win. We inherited it. With their love also came their exhaustion.

For years, I was on autopilot. I thought I was doing the right thing by putting my girls first in every way. Every decision I made was for them. I stayed in jobs I hated, homes I didn’t feel safe in, routines that drained me, all because I was trying to build them a life better than the one I had. I told myself that’s what good moms do. We sacrifice. And in a lot of ways, I was building them a life better than mine. But what I wasn’t doing was building myself a life I could thrive in. That we could thrive in. I was building a house where my daughters could grow while I quietly shrunk in the corner of it.

I don’t want them to grow up thinking that’s normal.

And maybe the hardest question I had to ask myself was this: What if I do all this sacrificing, staying up late, showing up tired, putting my dreams on hold, and I still mess them up?

Not because I didn’t love them enough. But because I loved them so much, I forgot to love myself too. Because I was so focused on making their life better, I never taught them what joy looks like up close. Because I was present but never really home within myself.

What I want most is to raise daughters who are free. Free to choose themselves, to rest without guilt, to set boundaries without shame. And how can they learn that if the only version of womanhood they’ve seen is one where I disappear in motherhood?

I don’t want to give them a version of love that looks like depletion. I want to give them a version that looks like wholeness. A love that includes me too.

And that’s what brought me here to this 13th year, and this shift that’s still in motion. I didn’t have a breakdown. I didn’t hit rock bottom. I started waking up to my own life. I started realizing I couldn’t remember what I liked to do for fun. Noticing how often I felt resentment underneath my routine. Catching myself saying, “One day I’ll rest” one too many times.

So I started asking questions.

Who am I outside of them? What do I need to function AND feel alive? What would it look like to build a life where I’m not only surviving the day?

The answers are not all coming in at once. But one of the first steps is giving myself permission to exist again, not only as “Mom,” but as me.

This looks like going to therapy and telling the truth when I’m asked, “How are you?” This looks like resting on purpose, not waiting until I’m burnt out. This looks like saying no to things that don’t align. This looks like letting myself dream again without shame.

And I’m not gonna lie, it’s messy. Some days, I still feel guilty. Some days I backslide into old habits. But I remind myself I’m not doing this to be perfect. I’m doing it to be whole.

The more I learn to separate guilt from truth, the easier it becomes to choose differently. To choose peace over performance, intention over image and presence over pressure.

Because identity loss is not a joke.

It happens slowly. You’re running errands, making meals, doing drop-offs, and before you know it, you haven’t heard your full name in days. You forget what kind of music you like. You stop doing your hair the way you used to. You buy clothes based on how fast you can get them on and off. You move through life on a loop. 

Whats sucks is sometimes, people applaud you for that.

They say you’re strong. They say you’re amazing. They call you supermom.

But being praised for your exhaustion isn’t the same as being seen.

I see me and I won’t be a cautionary tale.

Breaking generational patterns looks like not yelling back, apologizing first, letting your kid have a feeling without shutting it down AND taking care of your body because you want to feel good, not just look good. Letting your children see you rest. Letting them see you love yourself.

I want my girls to know that their mother didn’t live small. That I didn’t disappear behind motherhood. That I didn’t teach them to sacrifice their joy in the name of love.

They deserve better than that. And so do I.

So if you’re where I’ve been, I see you. If you’re tired, I see you. If you feel invisible, I see you.

You can come home to yourself again. You don’t have to wait for permission. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to apologize for it.

The work you’re doing is holy. But so is your healing.

This is what reclaiming yourself looks like: not a big speech or a dramatic change, but a series of honest decisions. To be here. To be whole. To keep showing up, for them and for you. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when no one claps. Especially then.

Because healing in real time, in front of your children, is not a weakness. It’s a legacy shift.

You deserve to live a life that feels like yours.

With love, Tru

Untitled

Healing journey, self love, Uncategorized, ,

This piece is part of my personal healing. I wrote it to process something I couldn’t quite say out loud. I’m sharing it because sometimes writing is the only way I can feel my way through the fog. It’s raw. It’s vulnerable. It’s not wrapped up in a lesson, and it doesn’t have a clean ending. It just is. If you’ve ever felt unseen, disrespected, or deeply disappointed by someone you let close, I hope you feel less alone reading this.

I don’t even know where to start.

I feel disappointed. I feel disrespected. I feel dumbfounded. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. I wasn’t guarded. I wasn’t expecting the blow. I was open. I was soft. I let myself be vulnerable.

It hit me hard.

It was supposed to be light. Nothing deep. No big expectations. Just time shared between two people who know each other. And because of our history, I thought that came with some basic level of respect. But it didn’t.

It felt cruel. Deliberate. Calculated, even. And that’s a hard thing to admit. That someone I’ve let close, someone who knows me, might have actually wanted to hurt me. Wanted to watch me flinch. Wanted to see if I’d break.

And I did.

I broke. Quietly. In the car. In the shower. In the silence after everything went down.

Everyone I’ve told has said the same thing. He wanted you to be upset. He wanted a rise out of you. And honestly, yea. The blatant callousness of his actions scream he was trying to trigger something.

What’s messing with my head is how unbothered he was initially. How detached. Like there’s no guilt. No reflection. No “I’m sorry, I see how I hurt you.” Nothing. He literally said he doesn’t see where he’s wrong.

And that right there

That did something to me.

I wasn’t seen, really.

I wasn’t valued.

Not as a whole person.

This has stirred up something deep. Like that old wound I thought I had buried is wide open again. That feeling of being reduced to a body. Like my worth lives in what I can give, not in who I am. Like I’m disposable. Replaceable. Convenient until I’m complicated.

It’s not just the way he treated me in that moment. It’s the way it made everything else resurface. Every time I’ve ever felt like someone was only interested in me when I was quiet, cooperative, or available. Every time I’ve felt like my value was only tied to how useful I was or how easily I could be accessed. Every time someone didn’t care what happened to my heart as long as they got what they came for.

This is about dignity. About being looked at and not truly seen. About being spoken to and still feeling unheard. About offering softness to someone and realizing they had no intention of holding it gently.

It’s the way he looked at me after. The way he talked to me. There was no care there. No tenderness. Just coldness. Just distance. And I started spiraling, asking myself what did I do to deserve that.

But I didn’t do anything.

And I know that.

And I still don’t feel better.

There’s this deep sense of shame sitting on my chest. Like I should’ve known better. Like I should’ve protected myself. And I hate that I still wanted to be seen by him even after the hurt. That’s hard to admit.

I keep running through the details in my head, and none of it makes sense unless I accept the fact that he did it on purpose. And I don’t want to accept that. I don’t want to believe that someone I let that close could treat me like this and feel nothing.

But here I am. Sitting in it.

Trying not to shut down.

Trying not to believe that this is what I attract.

And I’m still handling him with kindness. Still giving him grace. Still responding like he didn’t just make me question everything I thought we were at least capable of coexisting as.

All my friends are angry. They’re telling me I should return the energy. Cut him off. Match what he gave. But I don’t want to. And I hate that.

I hate that I still want to be decent to someone who wasn’t decent to me. I hate that I’m still being careful with his feelings when he wasn’t careful with mine. I hate that even now, I’m the one holding the weight of being the bigger person.

And I don’t know what that says about me.

Does it mean I’m weak? Or does it mean I’m loving?

Does it mean I’m afraid of being angry?

Does it mean I still have hope?

I don’t know.

But I do recognize this had to happen.

I see now that it might’ve been allowed to happen to open my eyes on a spiritual level.

And the more I sit with it, the more I realize it might not have been deliberate. Maybe he didn’t set out to hurt me. But his actions still show something deeper. Whatever he’s battling in his own life won’t allow us to coexist in peace. His dysfunction doesn’t leave room for his love.

Can he stand my light? Is his ego too big to see me as human? Because if he did, if he truly saw me, it would force him to face himself. And maybe that’s what he’s been avoiding all along.

So the kindness feels necessary.

But I know he doesn’t deserve it.

And still, I give it.

Not for him, but maybe for me. Maybe because if I don’t stay true to who I am in this, then I lose more than just the illusion of what we were.

But what I do know is that it doesn’t feel good.

It feels lonely.

It feels like I’m bleeding and still trying to clean up the mess he made.

Because this is too much to carry on my own. I needed to write this.. 

right now, this is all I’ve got.

Happy Heavenly Birthday Dad

Grief and growth, Healing journey,

Hey Sweets,

Today is my dad’s first heavenly birthday.

And if I’m being real, my heart feels… complicated. Not just because he’s gone, but because of what his presence and absence meant throughout my life.

I wouldn’t call my dad present when I was younger. In fact, I spent years angry at him, labeling him a deadbeat. And honestly? He was. As much as I wouldn’t use that word now, it was the truth back then. He wasn’t there for the birthdays, the breakdowns, or the big moments that shaped me. I learned how to live without him, and by the time he tried to come back around, I had already built a life without space for him in it.

He started making an effort in my late twenties. When I turned 27, he threw me and my sister a birthday party. I didn’t know what to do with that. I appreciated it, but I was already a mom of two. I was busy. I was guarded. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t make it easy for him. I wasn’t sure he had earned the access he was trying to get back.

Shortly after that, he got sick.

We lived in different states, and again, he became an afterthought.

That’s hard to say, but it’s real.

Still, last year, I made it to his bedside for his birthday. I said the words I needed to say. I told him Happy Birthday. I told him I loved him. I told him I forgave him. And I pray, deeply, that he heard me. That even in his fading body, he felt the love I brought with me. That he knew I meant every word.

In his death, I learned more about my father than I ever knew in life.

The church was full for his funeral, so full it felt like standing room only. I sat there listening to people share stories about him that made me pause. His stepchildren spoke about him with so much love and admiration. I saw photos I’d never seen before. Heard laughter and memories that never included me. And bitterness… yeah, it crept in.

It was hard to hear about how present he was for them.

Hard not to compare.

Hard not to ask, why not me?

But as I listened, really listened, I also started to understand.

I learned about his love story with his wife and the life he tried to build. And even though it doesn’t excuse everything, it gave me clarity. In that clarity, bitterness gave way to compassion.

I saw him not just as the father who failed me, but as a flawed man who tried.

Tried to love in the best way he knew how.

Tried to show up, even if it was late.

Tried to find his place in my world again.

His death took a toll on me. One I didn’t expect.

In a way, it felt like I lost him twice. The first time in childhood when he wasn’t there, and the second time when he left this earth for good. That second loss stung more than I ever imagined it would.

I know I wasn’t the only one carrying the weight.

I have a lot of siblings, and we all have our own stories. None of us experienced him the same way. We all carry different pieces of the puzzle—some painful, some tender, some incomplete. I hold space for their stories too. For the love, the anger, the grief, the confusion. Whatever they feel is valid. The blessing in all of this is that I have them. That we have each other.

And I know how this may sound to most people.

Trust me, I was just as shocked at the pain I felt in my chest when I got the news. The way I cried. The way I still cry. I often imagined his death when I was younger and swore I wouldn’t shed a tear for a stranger. I meant it, too. Tupac’s “Dear Mama” was my anthem and my truth for a long time.

But when it happened, that “stranger” felt like a part of me I didn’t know was still holding on.

And those tears came without hesitation.

So today, I just want to say:

Happy first heavenly birthday, Dad.

I wish we had more time. I wish I had gotten to know you sooner. But I’m grateful for the little moments we did have. For the party. For the effort. For the small ways you tried.

I miss what we didn’t get.

I’m grateful for what we did.

And I truly do forgive you.

I hope you felt my love that day.

I hope you hear me now.

With love,

Your daughter.

A Note to My Siblings:

To all of you—my siblings—I just want you to know that I see you. I feel you. I hold space for every story, every ache, every memory you carry. We didn’t all experience him the same way, but we share the impact of who he was and who he wasn’t.

Whatever you’re feeling today—whether it’s peace, pain, or a mix of both—you’re not alone. I’m grateful that through him, I have you. That even in the brokenness, there’s still something beautiful: us.

The Duality of Life Right Now

Faith and Resilience, Grief and growth, Healing journey, , , , ,

Hey Sweets,

I’ve been sitting with some hard emotions lately. Not because something new has happened, but because life has finally quieted enough for the feelings I’ve been carrying to speak up. That’s the tricky part about healing. It doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it shows up in the stillness, in those soft spaces where you’re no longer distracted by survival.

I’ve been thinking about what it means to carry conflicting emotions at once. How you can be sure of a decision and still mourn what it cost you. How you can be grateful for a new beginning and still ache for what’s no longer an option.

I’ve been living in that tension for a while now, quietly and deeply, and I think it’s time I gave it language.

After my hysterectomy, I told everyone I felt fine. And I mostly did. I was cancer-free, healthy, and focused on getting back to myself. But what I didn’t say out loud was how heavy it felt to close a door I didn’t even want open anymore.

I had already made peace with not having more children, but the finality of it brought up a quiet kind of grief. I wasn’t mourning a future I had planned, but the loss of possibility. That unexpected ache.

And as a single woman, that grief got tangled with something else: anxiety. How do I share this with someone new? Will I still be seen as whole?

Logically, I know I am. But emotions don’t always follow logic. Some days, I feel grounded in who I am. Other days, I sit with the ache and let it be what it is.

That same practice of letting things speak led me to take FMLA. I needed rest, badly. But rest felt radical. Almost reckless.

When survival mode is your default, slowing down feels like rebellion. Even with support, I still wrestled with guilt, fear, and the what-ifs. Would I fall behind? Could I afford the pause?

But I also knew I couldn’t afford not to. Choosing to rest reminded me that being human is reason enough. That I don’t have to prove I’m worthy of rest. That I don’t have to burn out just to be taken seriously.

Lately, I’ve also been mourning the loss that comes with setting boundaries, the ones that protect my peace but cost me comfort.

It’s strange how something so necessary can still break your heart a little. Letting go of dynamics, people, or patterns that once felt familiar, even if they were harmful, comes with grief.

Some days, I feel strong and clear. Other days, I grieve what I thought would work if I just held on a little longer. I’m learning that loving myself out loud won’t always feel like a celebration. Sometimes, it feels like silence. Like distance. Like starting over.

But it’s still love.
It’s still becoming.
It’s still choosing me.

What I know now is that duality doesn’t mean confusion. It means truth.

I can miss what I left behind and still know I was right to walk away.
I can hold gratitude and grief in the same breath.
I can be proud of my growth and still feel the weight of it.

And to you, my sweets, if you’re feeling torn between what you had to release and what you’re stepping into, I hope you know there is nothing wrong with you. There is no timeline for making peace with your own decisions. You are allowed to cry over the things you had to let go of. You are allowed to miss what you outgrew. You are allowed to feel sad about choosing yourself, even when you know it was the right thing.

You are not broken for feeling more than one thing at once. You are becoming. And becoming takes courage. You are doing better than you think.

With love,
Tru

Unpaused: Embracing a New Shift

Faith and Resilience, Healing journey, , , , , , , ,

A pause for me was needed, but I’m back, Sweets. Your Pisces sister turned 33.

Turning 33 feels different, and the fact that it’s my Jesus Year feels right. For me, this year is about finally letting go of survival mode and believing that I don’t have to have everything figured out to move forward. It’s the year of transformation. Rebrand. Reinvention, if you will. I keep feeling like God is calling me to rest, to trust Him more, and to believe that I can want more than just getting by. It’s about giving myself permission to breathe, dream, and stop carrying the weight of guilt, fear, and the idea that I have to hustle nonstop to be enough. I feel this nudge to slow down and make space for the things that actually matter, even if it means letting go of what feels safe.

This Jesus Year feels like an invitation to rebuild, realign, and live intentionally. This shit is scary, but I’m ready. After spending so many years just trying to get by, working nonstop and juggling everything, I feel like it’s time to do things differently. Not perfectly, but differently. This year, I want to move with intention, not just out of habit. I want to make choices that feel right, not just safe.

But if I’m honest, it’s been hard to step into this new chapter. In the weeks leading up to my birthday, I could barely get out of bed. Every morning felt like a battle, and some days I’d find myself on the brink of tears for reasons I couldn’t even explain. I’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, overwhelmed by everything I had to do yet completely drained at the thought of doing any of it. I kept asking myself, Is this really how I want to live?

That question lingered, and the answer was obvious: no. I don’t want to keep living in survival mode. I don’t want to spend another year exhausted, burned out, and stretched so thin that I barely recognize myself. I want to create a life that feels good, not just one that looks good on paper.

Survival mode is exhausting.

It’s waking up already tired, dragging yourself through the day, and falling into bed at night feeling like you’ve accomplished nothing, even though you haven’t stopped moving since your feet hit the floor. That’s been me for years. Between my girls’ busy schedules and running my business, I was always on the go. Most mornings started with a prayer that I wouldn’t fall apart before noon and ended with me passing out mid-thought. My to-do list felt like a bottomless pit, and no matter how much I checked off, I was always behind. I kept telling myself I didn’t have time to slow down. But looking back, I think I was really just afraid of what might come up if I did.

When you’re so used to surviving, slowing down feels unnatural. It’s almost like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong if you dare to rest. I realized I’d been so focused on keeping everything afloat that I hadn’t even stopped to ask myself if I was happy. Spoiler: I wasn’t.

And it wasn’t just me feeling it. My girls could see it too, even if they didn’t have the words for it. I could tell they noticed how stretched thin I was, how little time I left for anything that wasn’t work or responsibilities. That hit me harder than I expected. I don’t want them to grow up thinking that being exhausted and overwhelmed is just part of being an adult. I want to model something better for them.

The truth is, my girls haven’t really seen me set healthy boundaries before. I’ve always been the “yes” person, the one who says, “I’ll figure it out,” even when I’m already drowning. But if I want this year to look different, that has to change.

So, I did something I’ve never really done before. I took FMLA. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m giving myself permission to rest without guilt. I won’t lie, it’s uncomfortable. Saying, “I need a break” feels heavy. It feels like admitting I can’t do it all somehow makes me less capable. But it doesn’t. It just makes me human.

The days have felt slower since then, but in a good way. I’ve been spending more time praying, writing, and just letting myself be still. Some mornings, I make a cup of tea and sit by the window, watching the world wake up, listening to the quiet before the day starts rushing by. It’s such a small thing, but it reminds me that life isn’t supposed to be an endless to-do list.

And honestly, my girls need to see this side of me, the side that isn’t always rushing, that knows how to pause and breathe. I want them to know that it’s okay to rest, that they don’t have to earn it by exhausting themselves first.

I’ve been feeling this nudge from God to rest and trust Him more. It’s been hard to pray lately, and even harder to get in my Word, but the theme for sermons at church has been The Shift. Every time I hear that, it feels like a reminder that this season is about changing how I move through life.

I keep hearing God say, “You don’t have to do this alone.” But it’s hard to let go of that mindset that if I don’t do it, it won’t get done. I’ve spent so long in hustle mode that it feels risky to slow down and trust that God will take care of me. But if I’m going to live with intention, I have to believe that God’s plan for me is bigger than just paying bills and staying afloat.

I also started therapy. Y’all, that first session? Whew. I don’t think I was ready for how much I had to say once I actually started talking. It’s wild how much you can hold in without even realizing it. But honestly, it feels good to unpack all of it, even if it’s messy.

Therapy is showing me just how much I’ve been carrying alone. It’s one thing to journal about your feelings and a whole other thing to say them out loud to someone who isn’t going to rush in with advice or judgment. Some days, I leave sessions feeling emotionally wrung out but also lighter somehow.

It’s a strange kind of peace, knowing I don’t have to figure everything out right now. That I can take it day by day, prayer by prayer, and trust that God’s timing is better than mine.

I’ve also been trying to be on my phone less, to procrastinate less, and to make the most of my rest days. It’s easy to numb out with scrolling or find a million distractions to avoid the hard stuff. But I want to actually be in my life, not just skim through it.

The only way I think I can find balance is by making the most of my leave, planning and organizing our lives in a way that makes room for rest and joy. I’m tired of feeling like I’m constantly putting out fires, never really getting to the things that matter most.

By the end of this year, I want to feel proud, not just of what I accomplish, but of how I lived. I want to look back and see that I chose better, even if it was hard.

Dear Sweets (Yes, You!):

If any part of this hit home for you, I hope you know you’re not alone. It’s so easy to feel like you’re the only one barely holding it together, especially when everyone else seems to have it all figured out. But the truth is, a lot of us are just trying to make it through the day without falling apart. So if you’re stuck in survival mode, trying to find your purpose, or just exhausted from being everything to everyone, I want you to know it’s okay to slow down. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to choose yourself without feeling guilty.

You don’t have to have all the answers to start making changes. Sometimes, all you need is a little bit of courage to take that first step, even if you’re not sure where it’s leading. It doesn’t have to be a big leap. Maybe it’s allowing yourself to rest without the constant need to be productive. Maybe it’s setting one small boundary or giving yourself permission to want more. Whatever it looks like, just know that starting, no matter how small, is enough.

And if you’ve been waiting for a sign, take this as yours. You don’t have to wait for the perfect moment or until you feel ready. You’re allowed to take a breath, to pause for a moment, and to remind yourself that it’s okay not to have it all figured out. Trust that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. God has a way of using even the seasons that feel heavy and uncertain to lead us to the ones that are full of light and peace.

So here’s to new beginnings. Here’s to giving ourselves the space to grow and the grace to do it imperfectly. Here’s to stepping out of survival mode and learning to live with intention, faith, and a whole lot of grace.

Let’s grow through what we go through, Sweets.

With love and light,
TRU 🌸

When Love Shows Up

Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Have you ever felt like love is something you have to chase? Like it’s reserved for other people, but somehow always out of reach for you? I used to think love had to be grand, something you had to fight for. But more often than not, love just shows up—quietly, unexpectedly, in the places we least expect. It finds us in the middle of our hardest days, in the cracks of our guarded hearts, in the spaces where we least believe we deserve it.

I’ve had my fair share of heartbreak. I’ve known the weight of disappointment, the sting of betrayal, and the slow unraveling of trust. There were times I convinced myself that shutting down was the safest way to move forward, that guarding my heart meant protecting it. That if I stopped expecting kindness, I wouldn’t be let down. But love has a way of slipping through the cracks, gently reminding me that it never truly leaves.

I also know what it’s like to believe otherwise. When the people we trusted the most become the source of our deepest wounds, when love is given conditionally or used as a weapon, when every open hand has felt like a setup for another letdown—it’s hard not to wonder if love was ever real to begin with. Pain has a way of convincing us that kindness is temporary, that people will always leave, that warmth is just another thing that can turn cold. But love doesn’t disappear just because we’ve been let down. It doesn’t stop existing just because we’ve experienced the kind that hurt more than it healed.

Love keeps showing up. Sometimes in grand gestures, but more often in the small, quiet moments. In the stranger who holds the door open when I feel invisible, as if they somehow see the weight I’m carrying. In the nurse who stayed by my side at my most vulnerable, her presence offering comfort beyond words. In my children’s laughter—the kind that bubbles up so effortlessly, reminding me that love doesn’t have to be complicated, that it can be pure and unfiltered.

It’s in my family, the ones who love me despite my sharp edges, who anchor me when I feel like I’m drifting too far. It’s in my clients, who extend grace when I fall short, teaching me that patience and understanding are love in their own right.

And then there’s God—steady, unwavering, patient. Even when I pull away, even when I question, even when I get it wrong, He still shows up, reminding me that I am seen, I am loved, I am held. That I am never alone, even when I feel like I am. That I don’t have to be perfect or whole to be worthy of love.

Love isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come in the ways we expect. Sometimes, it’s a small moment of understanding when we least deserve it. A kind word when we need it most. A warm meal placed in front of us, a deep breath after a long cry, a friend who calls at just the right time. A stranger who sees you—not just the version of you that you present to the world, but the one who is quietly struggling underneath.

For so long, I searched for love in the grand gestures, in the declarations, in the moments that felt big enough to prove its existence. But I’ve learned that love is in the details. It’s in the pauses between conversations, in the way someone listens, in the way life keeps offering us kindness even when we’re not sure how to receive it.

Sweets, I know how hard it is to believe in love again when life has given you every reason not to. When you’ve been hurt, when trust has been broken, when the ones who were supposed to protect you became the reason you built walls, it’s easy to feel like love is something distant—something unreliable. But love doesn’t disappear just because people failed to hold it well.

Love keeps showing up. It’s in the unexpected phone call when you need to hear a familiar voice. In the friend who stays when words fall short, reminding you that presence is its own kind of love. In the moments when, even in your loneliness, the world still finds a way to remind you that you are not forgotten.

So, Sweets, even if trust feels fragile, even if love seems like something that happens for others but not for you, know that love is already on its way to you. It’s in the small, quiet moments. In the people who see you when you feel invisible. In the grace that finds you when you least expect it. Love isn’t lost—it’s just waiting for you to notice.

Because love isn’t something we have to chase. It was never lost to begin with.

Until next time,

Magnolia Tru

Not Meant to Heal Alone

Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

This past week, the theme has been community, and honestly, it’s hard for me.

Out of the blue, an internet friend and I started checking in with each other weekly. It wasn’t planned, but it’s been a blessing. We share what we’re working through, hold space to vent without judgment, and support each other without the expectation of advice. It’s not a big group or anything fancy, but it’s meaningful. Knowing that someone out there genuinely gets it is starting to change the way I view healing and helping me understand what I truly need. I’ll be honest—it’s also terrifying to be in that space.

Growing up, I didn’t have a clear picture of what real friendships looked like. I held onto relationships that weren’t always the healthiest, and I wasn’t always the best at being a friend myself. Over time, I found myself pulling away from people—sometimes because I got hurt, and sometimes because I didn’t know how to show up for others. That pattern left me feeling disconnected and thinking maybe I was better off on my own.

But here’s the thing: as much as isolation feels safe, it’s not where healing happens. God didn’t create us to live in isolation. From the very beginning, He designed us for connection—to support one another, encourage one another, and carry each other’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). Community is one of the ways God reminds us that we’re not alone.

It’s terrifying for me because this is new territory. I don’t want to fall back into old habits and let this connection fizzle out. At the same time, if it’s meant to be temporary, I want to let it go with grace. Thanks, abandonment issues—lbvs. Still, I believe this could be the start of a beautiful sisterhood.

Here’s what I’m learning: healing in community doesn’t replace the work we have to do on our own, but it enhances it. Having someone to walk alongside you as you work through your healing doesn’t make you weak or dependent; it reminds you that we were never meant to carry the weight of life alone. Community gives us perspective, strength, and the reassurance that even in our hardest moments, someone is standing in the gap for us.

The need for community doesn’t mean I don’t feel supported by my family or that I lack a go-to person in my life. I’m incredibly grateful for the love and support I have within my village. But there’s something unique about having an environment where someone supports your healing journey. It’s about connecting with people who can walk with you through the process, who understand the ups and downs of healing, and who remind you that you don’t have to do it all alone. With that in mind, I’m so excited to continue building genuine connections in this space—lifelong relationships built on healthy foundations, rooted in love and light. That’s exactly what I hope this blog embodies.

Sweets, if community feels hard for you, I want to encourage you: start small. Maybe it’s one person or one group where you feel truly seen and understood. Community doesn’t have to be perfect, and it doesn’t have to happen all at once. Sometimes, it starts with a simple conversation or reaching out to someone you trust. Healing is a journey, and while it’s deeply personal, it’s not meant to be walked alone. I truly believe that God knows what we need and, in His timing, will allow us to meet the right people who can support and uplift us in the ways we need most.

When you find the courage to let someone in, you might discover that healing feels a little less heavy. It’s not about leaning on others to fix you, but about allowing space for shared understanding and support. Community provides love, encouragement, and the reminder that even in your hardest moments, you don’t have to carry the weight of healing all on your own.

Remember, small steps lead to big changes. Whether it’s a weekly check-in with a friend, joining a group where you feel safe, or simply being open to connection, each step can bring you closer to a sense of peace and wholeness. Healing is hard work, but it’s lighter—and more meaningful—when you allow others to walk alongside you.

With love,
Tru

This Sh*t Is Hard, But Healing Anyway

Faith and Resilience, Grief and growth, Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

This week I really wanted to say F**k this sh*t. I hope that wasn’t too off-putting, but I have to show up as myself if this is going to mean anything in the long run. As I’ve been rereading what I’ve written over the past couple of weeks, one thing has been weighing on my heart. While I’m proud of the words I’ve shared and the space I’ve created here, I don’t want to paint healing as this perfect, magical journey full of positivity. I want to be raw. I want to be honest. Healing—real healing—is so much harder than we often talk about. It’s like climbing a mountain with no clear end in sight. Every step feels heavy, as though the air gets thinner with each move forward. Emotionally, it’s exhausting—the constant battle between wanting to stop and knowing you can’t. Physically, it feels like carrying a backpack full of stones, with no chance to put it down. You’re just hoping the summit is somewhere up there, beyond the clouds.

This week in particular has been one of those weeks where the weight of the journey felt unbearable. My anxiety has been through the roof. It’s been this constant buzz in my head, this feeling that I can’t escape my own thoughts. I’ve been stuck in a loop of overthinking, second-guessing everything, and questioning whether I’m even on the right path. Imposter syndrome decided to join the party, whispering in my ear that maybe I’m not the person who should be writing this blog. Who am I to share my journey? Who am I to give advice? These thoughts have slowed me down, made me question my own value, and pushed me into this spiral of self-doubt.

And then there’s the anger. Oh, the anger. I’ve hit moments this week where I’ve been so mad—mad that I even have to go through this process. Why do I have to be the one to heal? Why do I have to process all this pain and carry all this weight? Why can’t I simply exist without constantly feeling the need to fix what’s broken? It’s frustrating. And if I’m being honest, it’s not just frustration. Sometimes it turns into resentment. Resentment toward people, toward events, toward things that happened years ago but still have a hold on me today. It feels unfair—and maybe it is. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s mine to deal with.

I’ve also felt the heaviness of grief this week. Grief for the version of me that was hurt. Grief for the things I’ve lost along the way. Grief for the life I thought I’d have by now. Healing isn’t just about moving forward; it’s about learning how to carry the pain with you as you climb. And some days, that weight feels so heavy that you wonder if you can take another step.

But here’s the thing: as hard as this week has been, as much as I’ve felt like I’m walking through fire, I know that this process is necessary. I know that every tear, every anxious thought, every moment of anger and doubt—it’s all leading me somewhere. Somewhere better. Somewhere brighter. I may not see it right now, but I know deep down that this work matters. That I’m building something stronger, something unshakable.

Anxiety tried to steal this week from me, but it didn’t win. When I felt myself spiraling, I prayed quietly—it was all I could hold onto. And despite everything, I’m still here. I’m still writing this blog, still showing up for myself, still doing the work. It doesn’t look perfect. It doesn’t feel good. But it’s happening. I’m still posting on social media, promoting my business, and handling what needs to be done. Even when it feels like I’m dragging myself through the motions, I’m doing it. And that counts for something.

This journey isn’t just about healing; it’s about learning how to live in the in-between spaces. The spaces where progress is messy, where growth hurts, where the weight of everything feels almost too much to bear. It’s about finding a way to keep going even when it feels like you’re standing still.

If this resonates with you, I want you to know this: you’re not alone. Healing is messy. It’s painful. It’s unfair and frustrating and exhausting. But it’s also worth it. It’s worth every tear, every moment of doubt, every step forward and every step back. Because at the end of the day, this journey isn’t about perfection. It’s about progress. It’s about becoming the version of yourself who can look back and say, “I did that. I climbed that mountain.”

If you’re in the thick of it right now, carrying the weight of it all, remember this: struggling doesn’t make you weak. You’re strong for continuing to climb. Keep going, sweets. You’re not alone. You’re never alone.

I’d love to hear about your journey too—share your thoughts or experiences in the comments below. Your stories inspire me as much as I hope mine inspire you.

With grace,
Tru

Honoring Myself and Breaking the Cycle

Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Hey Sweets,

I have to be honest because above all, I want to be Tru. Earlier this week, as I reminded myself that I had to post this weekend and began to explore topics, I could feel the discouragement creeping in. It always starts with the thought of procrastination. This is the part of the journey where the excitement starts to fade. The thrill of starting something new gives way to the quiet, often uncomfortable reality of consistency. It’s tempting to stop here—to give myself permission to pause and promise I’ll pick it up later. In the past, this is where I would let the cycle continue: enthusiasm fades, discouragement creeps in, and I give up on what I set out to do. But not this time.

This time, I’m choosing to honor myself and break the cycle.

For as long as I can remember, discipline has been my struggle. I’d tell myself I’d do something, only to find every reason not to. And when I didn’t follow through, I’d criticize myself harshly, as if shame could fuel change. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. I’m thinking now that maybe this has to do with my fear of being seen, but we can go deeper on that another time. What I’m learning now is that discipline, when rooted in love, is less about perfection and more about showing up—for myself, for my growth, and for the promises I’ve made.

I’ve started to think of this as gentle-parenting myself. When my kids feel discouraged, I don’t scold them or tell them they’re not enough. I offer patience, encouragement, and reminders of what they’re capable of. So why haven’t I done the same for myself? Why have I allowed discouragement to be the end of the story instead of part of the process?

Gentle-parenting myself looks like giving myself grace when I stumble but also holding myself accountable. It’s reminding myself that skipping one blog post might feel easier today, but it would mean breaking a promise to the person I’m becoming. It’s showing myself the same love and encouragement I freely give to others.

Breaking the cycle isn’t easy, but I’m taking intentional steps to do so. For me, it means committing to writing and publishing a blog post every week this year. As long as God keeps me, I will have at least 52 blogs posted by the end of 2025. This commitment is about more than just consistency; it’s about proving to myself that I can follow through, that I’m capable of growth and change. It’s choosing to believe in the person God is shaping me into.

For me, that step today is writing and posting this blog. It’s proof to myself that I can show up even when it feels hard. I can choose growth over comfort, love over fear, and progress over perfection.

Sweets, you’re part of the reason I’m learning to stay consistent. Your presence reminds me that my words matter and that this journey isn’t just about me—it’s about creating space for others to see themselves in these moments of truth. So, thank you for being here and for walking this path with me.

And if you’re in a place where keeping a promise to yourself feels impossible, I want to remind you that small steps count. Whether it’s five minutes of showing up or simply not giving up today, it all matters. Breaking the cycle starts with honoring who you are and believing in who you’re becoming.

With love,
Tru

This Sober Girl Eats

Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sometimes, life forces me to confront the things I’d rather avoid. Right now, that thing is food. Food isn’t just sustenance; it’s comfort, distraction, and, at times, a crutch. As I’ve completely let go of weed and alcohol, I’ve noticed myself leaning on food more—and I’m actively trying to untangle the why behind it all.

My relationship with food feels deeply tied to how I see myself. After my surgery, I was so proud of the weight I lost. For the first time in a long time, I felt confident looking in the mirror. I saw a version of myself I hadn’t seen in years, and it gave me hope. But that confidence didn’t last. Grief has been knocking, and old habits are creeping back in. I catch myself turning to food to fill the void left by emotions I’m still learning to carry. I’m seeing the weight return, along with the familiar sting of not liking what I see in the mirror. It feels like I’m slipping further from the person I’ve worked so hard to become.

Becoming completely sober has been one of my biggest victories, but it hasn’t come without challenges. Those substances were my go-to ways of coping, and letting them go has left an emptiness I wasn’t ready to face. Food has stepped in to fill that gap. It’s become my way of numbing the pain, grief, and anxiety that can feel too overwhelming to sit with. I’m realizing, though, that the weight I’m carrying isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. It’s the weight of unresolved grief, unmet expectations, and unspoken self-criticism.

Every bite can feel like a quick fix, a fleeting moment of comfort that’s quickly replaced by guilt. I look at myself in the mirror and feel a mix of disappointment and shame. The version of me I want to see feels so far away, and I’m struggling to believe I’ll ever find her again. But as much as I wrestle with these feelings, I’m learning to confront them rather than run from them.

This isn’t about perfection or getting it all right at once. It’s about peeling back the layers and addressing the real reasons I turn to food when life feels hard. I’m starting to recognize that I use food not just to cope but to avoid—to avoid sitting with emotions that feel too heavy, to avoid the discomfort of truly seeing myself as I am, flaws and all. But avoiding doesn’t make the feelings go away. It just pushes them down until they demand my attention.

As I’m working through this, I’m learning to give myself grace. Grace, for me, means understanding that my body, like my emotions, is fighting to cope with a huge change. These changes come with side effects that aren’t easy to navigate. Grace means recognizing that my body is doing the best it can to support me, even when it doesn’t feel like it. It’s forgiving myself for the ways I’ve coped and allowing room for growth without judgment. Grace reminds me to honor the journey and give myself permission to feel and adjust as I go. It’s the reminder that I don’t have to get everything right to be worthy of the love and care I give to others—and to myself.

Now, I’m focusing on making different choices. I’m practicing pausing before I reach for food and asking myself what I really need in that moment. Is it comfort? Connection? Rest? Sometimes, it’s as simple as taking a deep breath and reminding myself that I am enough, just as I am. Other times, it’s harder, and I still find myself turning to food. But even in those moments, I choose not to beat myself up. Progress, for me, looks like recognizing where I am and committing to one small step forward.

Sweets, I want you to know you’re not alone in this. If you’re struggling with food too, here’s what’s been helping me. Before I grab something to eat, I try to pause and ask myself if I’m really hungry or if something else is going on. Naming the feeling sometimes helps me break the cycle. Writing things down has also been a game changer. When I journal what I’m feeling, it gives me the space to notice patterns and understand my triggers. I also try to plan ahead, keeping snacks nearby that won’t leave me feeling worse later. And when the urge to eat comes up, I remind myself to breathe, call a friend, or even just step outside for some air. None of it’s perfect, but every small choice makes a difference.

The most important thing I’m learning is to be kind to myself. If I slip up, it’s not the end of the world. I remind myself of the progress I’ve made and focus on the next step forward. And when it feels too big to handle alone, I lean on the people I trust to remind me I don’t have to do this by myself.

It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling, Sweets. This isn’t about being perfect or fixing everything at once. It’s about taking small steps and showing up for yourself in ways that matter. Every day is a new chance to start again, and you deserve all the love and grace you give to everyone else. Choosing sobriety has shown me my own strength, and even though it’s hard, I know it’s worth it. That same strength is helping me tackle my relationship with food. Remember, your worth isn’t tied to the weight you carry—physically or emotionally. You’re defined by the strength it takes to face yourself with honesty and compassion. We’re in this together, and I’m rooting for you.

-Tru