Category: Uncategorized

It’s not enough to walk away.

We must ask:
Why was this even normal?
Who did this pattern benefit?
What part of me did I silence to fit in?

Breaking the cycle is brave.
But burning the blueprint —
that’s revolutionary.

It means refusing to raise your kids the way you were raised.
It means questioning traditions that never served you.
It means saying, “This ends with me.”

Not because you are ungrateful.
But because you finally understand your worth.

They called you mature because you didn’t cry.
They called you smart because you didn’t fight.
They called you “the good one” because you made yourself small.

You obeyed.
You sacrificed.
You didn’t ask for help.

And in return, you were praised.
For disappearing.

But being “the good one” costs something.
It costs your voice.
It costs your rage.
It costs your truth.

What if being good was never the goal?
What if being whole is?

You are allowed to rewrite your role.
To be messy.
To be real.
To be enough, even when you are not easy to love.

They say angry women are dangerous.

But before she raised her voice,
she was interrupted.
Before she walked away,
she was cornered.
Before she stopped caring,
she cared too much.

Anger was not her first language —
it was her last resort.

We keep telling women to be softer, quieter, sweeter —
but how do you soften a scream buried in your grandmother’s bones?

This anger is not just hers —
it is inherited.
Ancestral.
Honest.

And maybe, just maybe,
it’s sacred.

They told you to tone it down.
Lower your voice. Hide your hunger. Shrink your dreams.

They said you were too emotional,
too dramatic,
too loud,
too intense.

But what if you were just too real for a world that survives on pretense?

You were not too much.
They were just not ready.

You are not a fire that must learn to flicker.
You are the sun — and the world will learn to wear sunscreen.

Some days you will feel whole.
Other days you will forget your own name.

Healing doesn’t look like a sunrise.
It looks like rain, a relapse, a memory you thought you’d buried.
It looks like laughing mid-tear and calling that progress.

We were taught that healing means forgetting.
But real healing?
It means remembering without falling apart.

It means not needing to forgive everyone who broke you — just choosing not to carry them anymore.

So if you’re circling the same emotion again,
if you’re tired of your own story —
know that this too is part of the path.

Even the most beautiful flowers grow in spirals.

When your mother says, “Don’t go out late,”
When your father stares at your jeans and frowns,
When your grandmother whispers, “Talk softly, you’re a girl,”
We call it fear.

Fear of the world. Of what people might say. Of something going wrong.

But underneath it, quietly, stubbornly, is love. Misplaced. Misunderstood. Misdirected.

Because what they are really trying to say is, “Please don’t leave me in a world that doesn’t know how to be kind to girls like you.”

It’s love — heavy with generational warnings.
Love that was raised on obedience.
Love that doesn’t know how to trust freedom.

But here’s the thing: when we name it only as fear, we forget its origin. And when we name it only as love, we excuse its consequences.

The truth is: it’s both.
It’s protective and oppressive.
It’s born from care, but shaped by control.
It’s love — but love taught by a frightened world.

And maybe that’s our work now —
To forgive them.
To challenge them.
To teach our love to be braver than theirs ever got to be.

Our mothers were not taught the language of softness.

They were taught to survive.
To withhold.
To keep quiet until their throats forgot the shape of want.

They learned that dreams are dangerous things — they make women leave, they make women fight, they make women bleed.

So they buried theirs. And when they had daughters, they buried ours too — thinking they were saving us from the same fire.

But grief is a tricky thing. It doesn’t die when silenced. It grows teeth and passes itself down in the ways we flinch when we’re praised, or apologize for speaking, or feel guilty for wanting more.

Our mothers did not mean to wound us. They were just following the script. And for years, we played the same part.

But we are rewriting the lines now.

We are letting ourselves want.
We are naming the griefs that were never allowed to be said aloud.
We are becoming the women our mothers never got to be —
even if it breaks their hearts to watch us fly.

There are days when your silence will be louder than your speech. Days when surviving will be your only revolution. On those days, remember: you do not owe the world an explanation.

You don’t have to explain why you left.
Why you stayed.
Why your voice shakes.
Why your hands stopped writing.
Why you don’t smile in family photographs.

This world has trained us to justify everything. To shrink our stories into palatable soundbites. But what if your healing cannot be packaged? What if your grief has no footnotes?

You are allowed to rest in your own ambiguity.
You are allowed to evolve without announcement.
You are allowed to be quietly free.

Your existence, your pain, your softness — they are not open cases. You’re not a courtroom witness or a charity case or a timeline someone needs to understand. You are allowed to be a question that is never answered.

And maybe that is your greatest power.

Art was never meant to match the wallpaper.

It was meant to scream when we couldn’t. To throw color like fists. To bleed truth, not to soothe a gallery.

Yet somehow, we began sanitizing it. We made art an accessory — something to “go with the room” rather than something that disrupts the room. We began expecting artists to entertain rather than evoke. To beautify trauma, rather than expose it.

But real art — the kind that lingers in your chest like grief, the kind that makes you shift in your chair, the kind that forces you to see — it’s rarely pretty.
It’s messy. Rude. Honest. Ugly, even. It spills. It forgets grammar. It interrupts you when you’re trying to scroll past.

The truth is, art was never supposed to sit still. It was always supposed to move us. To reflect us. To challenge what we think we know.

So when you see a painting that unsettles you, a poem that reads like a confession, a dance that doesn’t smile — don’t look away.

That’s the point.

She was everything they asked her to be. Obedient. Respectful. Modest. The kind of girl who gets praised for staying invisible.

But over time, the applause began to sound like a cage. The more she folded herself into the shape they liked, the more she lost the sharp edges that made her real. Being a “good girl” meant shrinking. Saying yes when she wanted to scream no. It meant being polIte while being disrespected.