Before the fire vs after

The Girl Who Rose From It

Music has always been my heart’s voice when nothing else works.

When my feelings become too heavy to explain, I put them into a melody. Somehow, the beat gives everything inside me somewhere to go. Things that feel impossible to say out loud seem to flow a little softer through music.

Lately, even that has become difficult.

I wish you could see me.

Not the version of me you think you know. Not the version you’ve decided is obsessed with drama or conflict. I wish you could see the real me—the breaking me.

Because I hate fighting.

I hate conflict. I hate feeling like I’m constantly defending my intentions, explaining my feelings, or trying to prove that I’m not secretly trying to cause a problem.

I wish I could talk without feeling like the other person already knows what I’m going to say before I’ve even finished saying it.

Maybe that’s part of what makes this so complicated. We have similar lives in some ways, but we came from different experiences. Those experiences shaped us differently. We carry different wounds, different fears, and different ways of protecting ourselves.

Sometimes I think we understand each other’s pain.

And sometimes I think that’s exactly why we hurt each other so deeply.

I’m drowning.

I’m trying every day not to let the darkest thoughts win. There have been moments where my mind has gone places I’m not proud of. Thoughts about pills. Thoughts about a knife. Thoughts about simply not being here anymore.

I’m writing those thoughts because they’re real thoughts I’ve had—not because they’re the ending I want.

Sometimes putting the darkest parts of my mind into words is the only way I know how to keep them from consuming me.

And that’s what scares me about losing my voice.

My songs are being written less and less because being called fake made something inside me hesitate.

My singing has almost stopped because sometimes I try to sing and end up crying instead.

The hobbies that used to make me feel like myself are collecting dust on a shelf.

My blog. My social media. My ability to simply exist online and speak my mind.

Even those things don’t feel completely mine anymore.

I was taught to use my voice.

I was taught not to be a rug for people to walk all over.

So why does it feel like I’m walking on glass every time I use that voice?

Why do I feel like I have to censor what I say online?

Why do I feel like I have to think about who might see a post, who might question a phone call, or whether something I say will somehow become another argument?

My phone used to be a tool.

A way to communicate.
A way to create.
A way to work.
A way to express myself.

Sometimes now it feels like a chain.

And that’s a terrifying feeling.

Because I don’t want to live afraid of my own voice.

I don’t want every unanswered call to become evidence that I don’t care.

I don’t want every mistake to become proof that I’m not enough.

I don’t want every emotional moment to erase everything I’ve done right.

I want to be allowed to be human.

I want to be allowed to be overwhelmed without being called dramatic.

I want to be allowed to have boundaries without being accused of not caring.

I want to be allowed to speak without having to prepare a defense for every sentence.

And more than anything, I want to be seen as the person I am becoming—not permanently punished for the person I was.

I’ve heard the words that tell me I’m a bad mom.

I’ve carried those words.

I’ve let them become heavier than they ever should have been.

I’ve heard things that made me wonder if everyone would be better off without me.

And sometimes my own mind repeats those words so loudly that I forget they aren’t facts.

But there’s something I am slowly beginning to understand.

I am not only the girl who existed before the fire.

I am not only the mistakes I made.

I am not only the relationships that broke me.

I am not only the arguments.

I am not only the things people say about me.

I am not only the mother who struggled.

I am not only the daughter who was hurt.

I am not only the woman who survived things she shouldn’t have had to survive.

There was a girl before the fire.

And yes, she matters.

But there is also the girl who walked through the ashes.

The girl who is still learning how to love herself.

The girl who is learning what healthy boundaries actually look like.

The girl who is trying to find her voice again.

The girl who is picking up her hobbies one by one.

The girl who wants to sing again without crying.

The girl who still writes.

The girl who still creates.

The girl who still loves deeply.

The girl who is still here.

Maybe I’ll always carry scars from the fire.

Maybe some people will always see me as the person I was before it happened.

But I don’t have to see myself that way.

Because I wasn’t made to stay in the ashes.

I was made to rise from them.

And maybe that’s what this chapter of my life is really about.

Not proving that I was never broken.

Not pretending that the fire didn’t happen.

Not convincing everyone that I’m perfect.

Just learning that being broken doesn’t mean I’m worthless.

It means I’m still becoming.

And I’m still here.

I am not just the girl before the fire.

I am the girl who rose from it.