My book signing is in about a week. And with every day that gets closer, the water gets higher. I feel this pressure in my chest, this deep, soul-crushing weight of belief that I am a fraud. An imposter.

Who am I to write books? Who am I to ask you to read them?

This isn't a new feeling, but it's a powerful one right now. And I know where it comes from. It comes from the comments, the messages, the angry strangers who have made it their mission to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that the way I write is bad, that the way I exist is a "detriment to the community."

And to you, the strangers whose opinions are weighing on me, I need you to know: you’re winning.

I hear you. I’ve read your words, and a part of me believes them. The part of me that is a broken girl in a broken world is starting to nod along. The part of me that has been fighting a war with my own body and mind for my entire life is getting tired. The suicidal demon I battle every damn day listens to you and says, see? I told you so.

You’ve gotten so deep into my head that I’ve started to wonder if you’re right. Should I just delete everything? Pull my books, my songs, every word I’ve ever put out into the world? Should I cancel the book signing my partner and best friend keep telling me I deserve? Should I bury all of it—the ideas, the stories, the syntax, and the grammar that bring me joy—so I don't offend you anymore?

The thought is a relief. It feels like it would be so much easier to just… stop. To let the water close over my head.

But then I think about the philosophy I’ve built my entire life around. Radical Resilience. The concept that our scars are our superpowers, that our history doesn't make us damaged goods, it makes us warriors. The idea that authentic self-expression is a battle for your own soul.

What a fucking hypocrite, right? Here I am, the Wounded Healer, drowning in the opinions of people I’ve never met.

Or... maybe, this is what Radical Resilience actually is.

Maybe it isn’t about being fearless. Maybe it’s not a triumphant, easy state of being. Maybe it’s this. Right here. The moment-by-moment choice to keep breathing when everything in you wants to stop. It’s the daily, gritty practice of looking your fear, your shame, and the chorus of disapproval right in the eye and saying, "I hear you. But you don't get to win."

I am scared. I am hopeful. I am tired. All at once.

And I am not going to pull my work. I am not going to cancel my signing.

Because my work is not for you, the strangers who hate it. It's for the other people who feel like they're drowning, too. It’s for the Wounded Healers who know what it’s like to be told they’re too much or not enough. It’s for the found family —the readers and dreamers who have seen a piece of themselves in my messy, magnificent truth.

This isn't a triumphant declaration. My hands are shaking as I write this. But it’s an honest one. I’m choosing to honor myself, even when it’s terrifying. I’m choosing to believe that my voice—even if it sounds like a robot to some—is exactly the voice someone else needs to hear.

So, I will be at that book signing. I will be there, scared and hopeful and tired.

And I will keep swimming.