To Be Real

It is wild to me that I am here to write. If I don’t write for a few days, the darkness starts to seep in and almost succeeds, but when I write, I am suddenly surrounded by light. I’m doing what I was sent here to do—my writing will help others, as will I.

No, I’m not a therapist or a life coach; I don’t need to be. I have a shit ton of lived experience, and I’m wise. Those are just titles that charge people for healing—don’t get me started.

I’ve been through it all—including the burning fire, all the way down to the ash. I made it to the other side. I truly believe anyone who’s survived even half of what I’ve lived through has a sacred duty—to tell their story. To share their survival. To help others know they’re not alone. Every survival story matters.

It sounds simple—and it is—talking, or writing, whatever works for you, is a huge part of healing. Unearthing what’s been buried deep and ripping out the roots isn’t easy, but it starts with talking, and once you start, the roots begin to loosen.

I’ve said this before—forty percent of people who’ve had open-heart surgery experience depression. Ever since the last one, I can feel that motherfucking darkness pushing to get in. I’m in a very different place now than I was after the first surgery.

Back then, I wasn’t mentally all there, and I came out knowing I’d have to do it again. I was in limbo—the weirdest fucking place I’ve ever been in my life—and it lasted two years, years I spent climbing, re-identifying myself, healing, growing, and preparing—mentally and physically—for what came next. I didn’t just survive it; I changed inside it.

Now that the second surgery’s happened, I’m in a new place. I’ve got a lot to look forward to. But every now and then, I catch myself thinking about things I don’t want to think about—money for one.

I hadn’t thought about money in over two years. Worrying about money while living in limbo made zero sense to me. I was living one day at a time. If I wanted something? Fuck it, I got it. If I wanted to go somewhere? Fuck it, I went. Tomorrow wasn’t promised. And it sure as fuck wasn’t promised to me—not with a fifty-fifty chance of surviving another open-heart surgery.

Money comes and money goes. It goes, and it comes back. I’ve lived like that my whole life—and I’ve made it this far.

Yeah, I’m behind now, playing catch-up on bills after two years of living in the now, and I’m doing my best not to worry—to have faith, to trust, to pray—because I know I’ll be OK. As long as I have what I need and can stay afloat, I’ll be fine. I don’t need or want anything more than the love of my kids and my granddaughter.

I’m fucking human, and staying in the light 24/7 takes faith—blind faith—and strength, because the darkness is always there—just waiting.

I hadn’t written in a couple of weeks, and all weekend I felt it—gloom, sadness, a heaviness I hadn’t felt in a long time. So, last night I prayed for a new day, a better day, and told myself I’d get up and write, do what I’m here to do, and I did just that.

Today, after writing all day, I felt compelled to write some more—this piece. As I worked through the last few chapters of my book, I realized that how I’m feeling right now—great and hopeful—is because I wrote today.

Writing is my weapon, my witness, my way through; it fulfills me, gives me purpose, strengthens my faith, restores me, keeps the darkness away, and brightens the light.

I found it—I found my way—what works for me.

The book I’m writing is deep—it’s not some pretty thing meant to sit on a shelf. It isn’t just a memoir; it’s a blueprint for survival disguised as a story, and that’s why it hits so fucking hard. It’s my soul, my legacy, and what’s in those pages is going to help people because it helped me, and the ones who need it will find it.

This blog is here to show you what it means to be real, to be humble, to be broken, and to rise again.

The podcast is a door—a door for others to walk through to release what’s keeping them stuck, so they can find themselves—move forward, and flourish in the light.

So in case anyone’s wondering, I’m not trying to make a million bucks here, and I don’t think about monetizing my story or my words—there’s a lot more going on here.

I’m just trying to stay afloat, stay positive, pay my bills, and do what I’m supposed to do, trusting that I’ll be provided for to do just that.

I don’t know if I’m writing this for you today or for me—maybe both—but I can tell you this: this is what it’s like to be real.