Dear Readers,

I’m not here to name names. This space isn’t about who I am—it’s about what I’ve lived through, what I’m surviving, and what I’m still learning.

This blog is a quiet rebellion. A place to speak the unspeakable: growing up in a house that looked fine from the outside, caring for the very person who broke you, and trying to heal without a guidebook.

Right now, I’m caring full-time for my mother with dementia. Not because I owe it to her, but because I owe it to myself—to finally face the past, to stop running, and to heal.

I write from the middle of the mess. You won’t find perfection here. Just honesty, memory, grief, dark humor, and a stubborn belief that healing is possible—even in the ruins.