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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.

A Tru Love

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A Love Letter to Me. Happy Valentines Day Sweets.

Tru,

I love you. Not because of what you do, not because of how much you’ve accomplished, and not because of how strong you are—but simply because you exist.

I love the way you move through the world, weird and wonderful, completely and undeniably you. You’ve never been one to shrink yourself to fit in, and I love that you’ve finally embraced that. You are original in a way that cannot be copied. You have a light that cannot be dimmed. And you are at your best when you let yourself be seen exactly as you are.

I love the kind of friend you are—the one who doesn’t play judge or jury, who listens with her whole heart, who makes people feel safe just by being present. I love that people, especially children, trust you. That they feel at home with you. That you have created a space in this world where people can show up as themselves and know they will be loved, not for who they could be, but for who they are.

I love your curves, the way they hold your story, the way they shift and change but never take away from your beauty. I love that you’ve learned to adore your body, to celebrate it, to treat it with the love and softness it has always deserved. I love that you no longer wait for a certain number or a certain look to appreciate yourself. You are beautiful now. You have always been.

I love that you are naturally funny, that your laughter is easy, that your presence makes people feel lighter. You have a way of making life feel less heavy, of reminding others—and yourself—that joy still exists, that even in the hardest seasons, there is something to smile about.

I love that you give people a chance, that you see the good even when it’s buried, that you believe in redemption, in second chances, in people’s ability to change. And I love that you have given yourself that same grace.

I love that you are not your mistakes. You have grown, you have healed, and you are still becoming.

I love you. Right now, exactly as you are. Not for the woman you are working to be, not for the version of yourself you think you need to reach, but for the woman reading this letter in this moment. You are worthy of love now. You are enough now. And you deserve to feel loved every single day, by yourself before anyone else.

I love you, Tru. I see you. And I will never stop choosing you.

Always.

Don’t be afraid of the solitude that comes with raising your standards…

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Hey Sweets,

The other day, I came across a tweet that struck a chord with me: “Don’t be afraid of the solitude that comes with raising your standards.” I retweeted it immediately because, wow, if there’s one thing I’ve learned on this journey, it’s that raising your standards often means walking a road that might leave you traveling alone.

While I thought I understood that, deep down, I hadn’t fully come to terms with it. The tweet stayed on my mind all day.

Here’s what I realized: I thought I had it all figured out. I set boundaries, raised my standards, and stood firm in them. But when I looked closer, I saw that I wasn’t letting go of the relationships that no longer served me. I was still making myself available to people who didn’t truly matter in my life. Every interaction with them left me feeling dull and empty, like they were speaking to a version of me that no longer existed.

The cycle was exhausting. Things seemed fine until I stood my ground or called out their behavior. That’s when I’d hear things like, “Since when…?” or see an “LOL” in response to something I was serious about. It was frustrating, but what made it worse was that I kept expecting them to accept my growth and adjust.

And when they didn’t, I’d still make myself available.

Let me tell you, Sweets—I nipped that in the bud real quick! Shout out to my guides for helping me see what needed to be done. The reason I was holding on to these people wasn’t about them. It was about me. I was afraid of the solitude that would come with letting them go. I was afraid of who I’d be without these connections, or maybe I was reluctant to let go of the old version of myself that they still knew.

But if you’re working hard to heal and grow, you can’t stay tethered to people who refuse to respect your evolution. You can’t keep ties with those who want you to stay in a version of yourself that’s convenient for them.

Letting go is hard, but clinging to these connections doesn’t promote self-love—and, Sweets, we don’t have time for that!

Sweets, Remember This

Don’t be afraid of the solitude that comes with raising your standards. Solitude isn’t a punishment—it’s a gift. It’s a space for you to realign, reflect, and grow into the person you’re becoming.

Release the relationships that don’t respect your growth. Surround yourself with people who celebrate your evolution and match your energy. And most importantly, remind yourself that being alone doesn’t mean you’re lonely—it means you’re making room for what truly serves you.

You’ve got this.

Thanks for reading,
Tru

The BIG move I thought would change my life…

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A fresh start?

Hey Sweets,

In 8th grade, I had my life all figured out. By 24, I would be married with twins, have my law degree, live in a mansion, and spend my days blissfully with the love of my life. Me and my friends planned everything down to the tiniest details. My journals were filled with wedding playlists, color schemes, and baby names.

Let’s all take a moment to laugh at that together.

LMFAO.

Needless to say, life didn’t follow that script. By 24, there were no mansions, no degree, and no husband. Instead, I was a single mom of one, packing up my life and moving from my hometown to a small town in Indiana. I had sold the dream to myself and everyone around me: I’d go to school, finish my degree, publish a book, save up, and move back to Port St. Lucie to buy my dream home. It all sounded so promising.

But here’s the part I didn’t understand at the time: a new zip code doesn’t erase old wounds. I thought the move would wipe the slate clean without me having to do the heavy lifting. Healing wasn’t even on my radar—I was completely unaware of how much my childhood trauma and unresolved pain would dictate what came next.

What I didn’t realize was that this move wasn’t just a fresh start. It was the beginning of a grieving process.

Moving wasn’t just about leaving behind a place; it was about letting go of who I thought I’d be and the life I imagined for myself. Grief doesn’t always come with loss in the traditional sense. Sometimes, it’s the loss of expectations, the dreams you once had, or the familiar comforts of the life you knew, even if that life wasn’t serving you.

I was grieving my hometown, my relationships, and the person I thought I was supposed to be. At the time, I didn’t recognize it as grief. I just knew I felt lost, overwhelmed, and disappointed. Instead of being a clean slate, the move became a magnifying glass, bringing all the unresolved pain I’d been carrying into sharper focus.

Two and a half years after the move, I hit rock bottom. Seven months pregnant, in an abusive relationship, I reached my breaking point. That’s when I realized that running from my problems wasn’t the answer. A new house, city, or dream wouldn’t fix what was broken inside of me. There was healing to be done, and it had to start with me.

Sweets, Remember This

Sometimes, life gives us an urge to run. It’s easy to believe that a new place, job, or relationship will make everything better. But the truth is, no external change can fix internal wounds. Healing starts when you confront your pain, take accountability, and begin the work to rebuild yourself from the inside out.

Moving, like any big life change, can come with unexpected grief. It’s okay to grieve what you’ve left behind—the dreams, the relationships, and the old versions of yourself. Grief is a process, and so is healing.

Real transformation begins when you work on yourself with compassion and honesty. Whether it’s healing from trauma, practicing self-love, breaking co-dependency, or overcoming old habits, the change starts within. When you do the work, the “big moves” in your life will reflect the growth you’ve achieved.

As within, so without.

So take the time to heal, and when you make your big move, it will be everything you dream it could be—and more.

Thanks for reading,
Tru

A Letter to My Younger Self…

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Hey Sweets,

A year ago, my therapist suggested writing a letter to my younger self as a way to release the past and free myself from its hold on the present. Facing the past head-on can break the chains of negativity that may have been quietly following you for years. Today, in honor of National Honesty Day, I’m finally writing that letter. Special thanks to Nikki, founder of the Affirm. Create. Manifest. Facebook group, for giving me the extra push to get this done.

Here it goes…

Dear Dee Babii,

There’s so much I want to tell you, but let’s start with this: I love you. You are so strong. Your resilience and ability to push through even the toughest moments have brought you farther than you ever imagined. Let me tell you, you breathe so easily now. I’m so proud of the fight you had in you to stay alive. Those chains others tried to place on you—they’re gone. For a while, we buckled under the weight, but God had other plans.

It wasn’t easy, but I forgave him. Yes, him. He was caught and publicly held accountable. I found peace in knowing he’s no longer free to hurt anyone else. I don’t want you to feel bad about not speaking up sooner. You eventually find your voice, and God has shown you that you are undeniably His favorite.

There were so many lessons I wish someone had taught you after every mistake and regret. But now, I see the beauty in every misstep. Each one built the woman and mother you’ve become. I don’t hold anything against you—trust me, you carried enough guilt for the both of us.

And yes, I said mother. You have two beautiful daughters. What doctors couldn’t explain, God did. They’re so much like you in different ways—it drives me crazy! But seriously, you’re a great mom. You’ve passed on strength, love, and light. I just pray they have a little more patience than teenage you had—no shade, just facts.

I’m writing this letter because I need you to know that you are a survivor. You are alive, well, blessed, loved, and worthy. You’ve just started living, and it’s all because you found reasons to keep pushing forward. No weapon formed against us has prospered.

Oh, and before I go—Dad finally came around. We’re on speaking terms now. I know that made you smile. It still amazes me too.

Sweets, Remember This

Writing a letter to your younger self can be a powerful exercise. It’s an opportunity to confront the past, celebrate your progress, and identify areas that still need healing. I challenge you to try it for yourself. Be honest, be raw, and remind younger you just how far you’ve come.

Thanks for reading.

With love,
Tru

Undone: Returning to the Work of Healing

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Hey Sweets,

This past month, I’ve been battling a serious case of writer’s block. I’d start multiple posts only to lose interest a few sentences in. Frustrated, I tried to figure out why it was happening, but instead of facing it head-on, I found myself binge-watching shows and avoiding the discomfort altogether.

Then, this morning, as I was detangling my hair and listening to Sarah Jakes Roberts, the truth hit me like a ton of bricks: I’ve been half-stepping on my self-healing journey, and it’s showing.

When I first started this journey, my focus was on healing from the aftermath of an abusive relationship. I wanted to understand how I ended up there and how I could break the cycle to protect myself in the future. For over two years, I worked to rebuild my sense of self, focusing on self-love and breaking free from patterns that left me vulnerable.

But here’s the thing: healing from one wound doesn’t mean all wounds are healed. The unresolved pain from childhood trauma, sexual abuse, strained family relationships, and even “church hurt” was still quietly lingering beneath the surface. I repressed it because the pain felt too heavy to confront.

Discovering self-love felt incredible, and I wanted to believe it was enough. But when I sat down to write about self-healing, I realized I hadn’t been completely honest with myself. And if I wasn’t being real with me, how could I be transparent with you? Healing is hard work—it’s messy and painful. It requires us to face what we’re most afraid to feel, all the way through.

Carl Jung said it best: “There is no coming to consciousness without pain.”

I owe myself and anyone looking to me for guidance the full, uncut version of what healing really looks like. I don’t want to offer surface-level advice or pretty quotes that sound good but lack depth. I want my words to come from a place of understanding and truth. That means going back to the drawing board and committing to the work again.

If you’ve found yourself in a similar place, I want you to know that there’s no right or wrong way to heal. It’s natural to want to avoid pain—it’s human instinct. But there is strength in pushing through it.

Sweets, Remember This

Healing isn’t linear, and it doesn’t have to be perfect. What matters is your willingness to face the hard stuff and keep moving forward. It’s okay to pause, reevaluate, and start again. Every small step is progress.

Thanks for reading,
Tru