actually, i CAN Blog

“I didn’t fall apart all at once. It was quiet. A slow erosion of fire. Smiles that didn’t reach. Words that weren’t mine. Promises I made to myself but broke by morning. That’s the thing about losing yourself—you don’t even notice until there’s nothing left to lose.”   The Quiet Kind of Collapse Most people talk about rock bottom like it’s a crash. But sometimes it’s a slow fade—the kind of unraveling that fools even you. No sirens. No blood. Just this strange numbness that becomes your new normal. And that’s the scariest kind of broken. Because when you’re falling apart out loud, someone might notice. But when you’re hurting in silence? You can rot behind a smile and still get praised for being strong. This is the kind of loss that wears your skin, walks your walk, and pretends it’s you—until even you start believing the act. You look in the mirror and see someone who kind of looks like you, kind of sounds like you, but feels hollow. That’s what rock bottom can look like. Not dra...

Some people survive their suffering and try to scrub it clean. Make it quiet. Tuck it away in apology and pastel language. But you—if you’re here—you’re not meant to soften it. You’re meant to mine it. There’s gold in the grit, but only if you’re willing to get your hands dirty. Only if you stop asking, “Why did this happen to me?” and start asking, “What does this uncover in me?” Because pain, when you let it speak, doesn’t just hurt—it reveals. It carves out space for what’s real to rise. You don’t have to romanticize the wreckage—but don’t walk out of the fire empty-handed either. Because suffering, when ignored, becomes rot. But suffering, when honored, becomes fuel. And most of the world wants you to move on, not through. To bounce back instead of build back. But you know better. You’ve got wounds that didn’t just break you—they shaped you. The ache isn’t the enemy. The denial of it is. So don’t waste the nights you cried in secret, the days you felt like a ghost in your own s...

Pain’s the price of admission, not a punishment. You’ll pay either way—might as well learn something through the hurting. Just make sure it buys you something worth keeping. Some pain doesn’t start with you—but it sure as hell tries to end with you. Family pain has a way of sneaking in quiet, like background static you were raised in. You don’t even realize you’re carrying it until you’re halfway through a reaction that doesn’t match the moment. The shame, the silence, the addiction, the anger—they get passed down like heirlooms. Generational ghosts dressed up as personality traits. But just because it ran in the family doesn’t mean it gets to run you. We like to think pain is optional—something we can sidestep if we just behave well enough, plan smart enough, or play by the rules. But pain doesn’t negotiate. It shows up whether you’ve earned it or not, and it collects its toll on your heart, your body, your belief in yourself. And when you’ve inherited pain that wasn’t even yours to b...

  "A King may move a man, a father may claim a son, but remember that even when those who move you be Kings, or men of power, your soul is in your keeping alone. When you stand before God, you cannot say, 'But I was told by others to do thus.'Or that, 'Virtue was not convenient at the time.'This will not suffice. Remember that." - from the movie “Kingdom of When the day comes—and it will—when the mirror stops lying and the noise finally dies, you’ll stand stripped of excuses. No title will speak for you. No man will take the weight. God won’t ask who moved you. He’ll ask if you ever questioned the direction. If you ever stopped mid-step to ask: Does this feel like mine? You don’t get to borrow conviction. You either carry it or you don’t. And when you answer for the life you lived—make sure the voice that speaks sounds like your own.

  I used to think strength was in apologizing — in rushing to smooth over the wreckage, in forgiving before the dust even settled. I thought it made me noble. Truth is, it made me weak. Every unnecessary apology was a quiet confession that my pain didn’t matter, that my boundaries were for sale. Every premature forgiveness was me handing the knife back to the same hands that cut me. Learning not to apologize for existing was the first time I felt real control. Refusing to forgive people who weren’t sorry — who would burn me again the second I got close — wasn’t bitterness, it was survival. Addiction fed on my guilt and my need to be liked. Sobriety fed on my refusal to give either away. There’s a freedom in not apologizing for being here. There’s a clarity in not forgiving what was done to you just so the room feels more comfortable. I’m not here to make peace with everyone. I’m here to protect the part of me that almost didn’t survive. Some bridges need to stay burned. Some locks ...

  People talk about “managing” emotions like they’re wild dogs you keep chained in the yard, only letting them out when they’re quiet enough not to bother the neighbors. That’s not regulation — that’s fear. The truth is, emotions aren’t the enemy. They’re the smoke curling up from the fire you haven’t put out yet. Fear, anger, grief — they’re not there to destroy you, they’re there to point you toward what’s still broken, what’s still unfinished, what’s still bleeding in the dark. You can numb them, ignore them, or drown them, but they’ll keep coming back until you learn the messages they bring.