This is my first time writing here since October 25, 2025. Today is January 12, 2026. The gap was not empty. It was heavy, deliberate, and necessary. The last time I posted, I wrote about learning to enjoy quiet—about sitting with stillness and letting life breathe without narration. What I did not know then was how much that quiet would test me, shape me, and ultimately demand my voice again.
I have been beat down in ways that do not always leave visible bruises. The kind that settle into your bones. The kind that change how you move through the world. I carry those marks with me, not as shame, but as proof that I survived what was meant to quiet me.
My father’s life, his illness, and the complicated aftermath of his death cracked me open in ways I will never fully be able to explain. What hurt almost as much was what came after. Family conflict. Silence. Distortion. A refusal to acknowledge reality. His sisters and I did not just disagree; we collided at the fault line of truth. I chose to speak plainly about what happened, about responsibility, about harm. That choice made me a target.
It always has.
Speaking truth has never made me popular. It has cost me relationships, proximity, comfort, and sometimes safety. I have lost people I loved. I have gained critics I never asked for. But I learned early that silence is not neutral. Silence is alignment. And I have never been built to align with what feels wrong just to keep the peace.
I move forward carrying grief and grit at the same time. Every scar has a story, and none of them are imaginary. I did not come through loss by shrinking myself. I came through by standing upright, even when my knees were shaking.
Last week, I was reminded of a familiar pattern I have lived inside for years: that speaking up in professional spaces is often interpreted as disruption rather than self-respect. The message was direct and clear. Be measured. Be agreeable. Do not name what is uncomfortable. Preserve appearances, even when doing so requires silence.
Therapy has taught me too much for that to work on me anymore.
I know the difference between conflict and accountability. I know the cost of swallowing my voice. I know that conformity, when it requires self-betrayal, is not professionalism; it is erasure. I have spent years unlearning the belief that my worth depends on how palatable I make my truth for others.
I am not here to be easy to digest.
I have learned that you can be told to slow down when what people really mean is “be quieter.” You can be warned not to rock the boat when the boat is already leaking. You can be labeled difficult when you are simply unwilling to lie. I have been loud for a long time, not because I enjoy noise, but because silence never protected me.
I talk my truth. I live my way. If I fall, I fall standing. I do not bend myself into shapes that require me to disappear. I do not sell pieces of my integrity for approval, access, or a seat at someone else’s table.
I have walked through grief, family rupture, institutional discomfort, and professional consequences. I have paid dues most people will never see. And I am still here. Still upright. Still moving forward.
If my voice makes people uncomfortable, they are free to turn away. I am not changing my tone to make others feel better about systems that were never designed to protect people like me. I am rough around the edges because life was rough with me first. I am still burning because the dark never managed to put me out.
You can call it defiance. I call it survival.
And I am still walking my walk.
