sitting with this uncomfortable truth:
Setting boundaries sometimes makes you look like the villain in someone else’s story. I never thought protecting my peace would be the thing people questioned most about me.
But here I am, balancing court dates, figuring out what healing looks like as a mother, keeping up with phone calls that are half static and half emotional landmines, all while trying to remember who I am under the noise. Some nights I drive just to feel the quiet, watching the Bay lights flicker like they’re whispering reminders that I’m still here, still soft, still strong, still surviving.
And yet, there’s this voice, sometimes external, sometimes my own, that asks, “What if you’re the problem?” But I know now, that voice isn’t truth. It’s trauma. It’s people upset that I’m no longer as accessible. I don’t always answer every call. I ask more questions. I don’t always say yes. That doesn’t make me cruel. That makes me healing.
I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m trying to be honest. To be present. To be safe — for my children, and for the version of me that got so used to being last on the list. The one who finally realized her softness doesn’t mean she has to shatter to prove it.
And if that makes people uncomfortable, so be it. I’m still learning how to be okay with being misunderstood.
But I know what I’m building. It’s rooted in peace. And peace doesn’t always look polite.
Love,
A
Dear Diary, 