Sometimes I wonder what people would think if they read this.

Someone who used to know me.
Someone who thinks they still do.
Someone who might pick one post and use it to make me look like I’ve lost the plot.
Like I’m crying out for attention.
Like I’m unstable.

But then I pause…
And realise—no one really reaches out anymore.

I’ve removed a lot of people from my life in the last couple of years.
And the truth is: it was one-sided.
There wasn’t much benefit in keeping those relationships going.
And there’s been surprisingly little grief in letting them go.

What it’s left me with is space.
Very little support, yes—but a kind of freedom I’ve never known before.

I feel safe here.
Safer than I ever felt in childhood.
Back then, I was trapped with people who resented my existence—unconsciously or otherwise.
This? Being alone in my own home, surrounded by quiet, with freedom to feel and write and eat and breathe?
This is bliss by comparison.

Yes, I overeat.
Yes, I still carry wounds.
But I also have snacks. I have silence. I have freedom.
And for the first time, I’m not performing for anyone. I’m not walking on eggshells in my own house.
That’s something.

I know I want to be healthier.
I know I want deeper relationships in the future.
But right now, it feels more important to process what I never had the space to process before.

To sit with the truth:

I wasn’t raised to thrive. I was raised to survive.
And now I’m unlearning all the adaptations I built just to get through one of the most emotionally bankrupt childhoods imaginable.

I’m learning emotional safety from scratch.
I’m still catching up in some areas—my ability to express feelings, to stay regulated in connection.
And yet, I also know I carry more depth than most.
It’s not a comparison. It just is.

Sometimes I still feel self-conscious about sharing this much.

What if someone judges me?
What if someone uses my honesty against me?
What if it makes me look broken, lost, unstable?

But then I remember:

What people think of my truth says more about them than it does about me.

And if someone reads this and thinks I’m crying for attention—they’re not wrong.
Because part of me is.
Not for empty validation.
But for witnessing.
For someone to say: “I see you. That was real. You didn’t make it up.”

I’ve never seen anyone write quite like this before.
And maybe that’s why it feels scary.
But maybe that’s exactly why it matters.

Because if even one person stumbles across this years from now and realises they’re not alone—
If even my son reads it someday and says, “Now I understand what you were carrying”—
Then maybe this isn’t just journaling.
Maybe it’s legacy. Maybe it’s healing in public.
Maybe it’s making space for something new.

But even if no one reads it…
Even if it’s just for me…

It heals me.
It integrates me.
And right now, that’s enough.