There was a time when WWJD defined my morality. Step 5 is where that question changes—not to What Would Jesus Do, but What Would Jane Do? This entry explores sovereignty, boundaries, and the courage to walk away.

For most of my life, I thought shame was something I caused. A moral failing. A personal flaw. A reflection of who I was at my core.

Trauma survivors are often called “challenging” when they’re simply asking curious, thoughtful questions. This Step 2 entry explores how emotional illiteracy leads to mislabeling, and how reclaiming curiosity becomes a powerful step toward identity healing.

There’s a strange kind of clarity that comes at the end of a long healing cycle. It’s the clarity that shows up when you realize your personal life didn’t just change, it synced.

Every dysfunctional family has its own zodiac, its own constellation of roles that orbit around the unspoken truth everyone’s pretending not to see. And in almost every constellation, two stars shine the brightest: the Golden Child and the Black Sheep.

There’s a strange moment in adulthood when you realize that belonging is no longer something you chase; it’s something you choose. But only after you’ve lived through enough rooms where you were tolerated at best, misunderstood at worst, and miscast somewhere in between.

Some people grew up in families where their existence made sense at a glance. They spoke and were understood. They felt something, and it was believed.

There’s a particular kind of surrender that doesn’t feel like giving up, but it also doesn’t feel like determination. It feels like… floatation. Like a leaf that finally falls into the water.

Some children grow up with a name. Others grow up with a name and an asterisk—a quiet footnote that shapes identity, belonging, and self-worth. This Step 2 entry explores how the “asterisk child” learns to overexplain and how healing begins when you reclaim the whole story.

A Step 5 reflection on the pattern of loving men who loved my silence. This piece explores self-abandonment, emotional clarity, and choosing relationships that honor your voice.

Healing isn’t about choosing one emotion over another. This is the moment I learned to hold grief and gratitude at the same time without thinking it meant I was failing.

There was a time I chased clarity like it was survival. I explained, defended, softened, and justified. Step 12 is where I stop convincing and start conserving—my energy, my peace, and my self-respect.

I stopped chasing happiness like it was proof of healing. What I wanted—what I always needed—was peace. This is how I finally learned the difference.

Somewhere along the way, we started ranking pain. “At least it wasn’t as bad as…” “That’s nothing compared to what I went through.” “Other people have it worse.” We started treating healing like a competition: Who has the most significant trauma? Who’s the most self-aware? Who cries the hardest in the group? But healing doesn’t work like that. It isn’t scored. It isn’t performative. It’s not something you can “win.” It’s yoga. It’s your mat. It’s your breath. Nobody else is i