I recently received documents detailing every shitty thing I've ever done, every mistake I've made, every way I've hurt people. Like eighty-something pages written by someone who loved me for nearly three decades of their life. Pages that read like a prosecution's closing argument against my entire existence.

I sat with the words for a long time. I read them and read them again. I didn't flinch, didn't look away. Because here's the thing: some of it is true. I was selfish. I was chaotic. I was so consumed by my own survival that I left wreckage in my wake. I hurt people who didn't deserve it. I made choices that I'm not proud of.

I'm not here to defend that person.

But I am here to tell you that she doesn't live here anymore.

The Ghost That Won't Stop Knocking

The past follows you in ways you don't expect. I tried to post about a new writing community I'm building in my local Facebook groups this week. The posts never went through. I guess the admins remember who I used to be. They remember the chaos, the drama, and the version of me that burned bridges and made messes. They don't approve me anymore. Literally.

I'm blacklisted from medical facilities in my area for being a "difficult patient." For advocating too hard, asking too many questions, and refusing to accept dismissal when I knew something was wrong with my body. The system has a long memory for women who won't be quiet.

And now, a legal document that reduces my entire life to a catalog of failures.

If anyone still thinks I'm the same major fuck-up I was for most of my life, I understand why. The evidence is everywhere. It's in court filings and medical records and the memories of people I've wronged. It's in the silence of groups that won't let me in and the wariness of people who've heard the stories.

But here's the phrase that keeps echoing in my head: used to be.

The Receipts

I'm not going to pretend that growth is invisible just because some people refuse to see it.

So here's what my life looks like now:

I volunteer. Regularly. Not for the optics, but because it feels good in my soul to show up for other people. I work with my local counseling center on community initiatives. I'm building toward helping start a writers' chapter in my county so other wordsmiths have a place to belong.

I write for my local newspaper. Like real journalism. I cover local government meetings and community events. I tell stories about the people in my county who are doing beautiful, quiet work to make things better. I get to shine a light on resilience and resourcefulness in others, and it fills something in me that was empty for a long time.

I built a community for professional writers; a vetted space where authors and journalists and lyricists can connect without the noise. No politics, no drama, and no marketing spam. Just people who put words on the page for a living, supporting each other. I still can't promote it in my local groups because they won't approve my posts, but it exists. It's growing. It matters.

I'm doing author events. Book signings and readings and Q&As. I'm going to be a guest on a podcast about chronic illness and talk about what it means to keep creating when your body fights you every step of the way. I'm volunteering at writing conferences, not because I need the free ticket, but because I believe in what they're building and I want to be part of it.

I am working and loving and laughing... all within my means. All within what my body and mind can sustain. I'm learning the difference between ambition that feeds you and ambition that devours you. I'm finally building a life instead of just surviving one.

The Why

I do it for my daughter.

I live for her. That's not hyperbole. She is the reason I get up when my body screams at me to stay down. She is the reason I keep building when the world keeps telling me I don't deserve to.

I want to show her that giving gives back. Even when it doesn't feel that way. Even when you volunteer and no one notices. Even when you help and it doesn't come back to you. Even when you pour yourself into community and the community still locks you out. I want her to know that you do it anyway, because it's the right thing, because it shapes who you become, and because the giving itself is the reward even when the world doesn't reciprocate.

I want her to see that her mother was someone who pivoted. A woman who took a life of selfishness and chaos and consciously, deliberately, and painstakingly turned it toward generosity and purpose. Not perfectly. Not without stumbling. But persistently. Relentlessly. With intention.

The Rewiring

I've been feeling so hated lately. The court documents. The Facebook rejections. The medical blacklisting. The weight of knowing that somewhere, someone is telling a story about me that ends with "she's a disaster" and never gets to the part where I changed.

But here's what I've noticed:

I catch myself now. In moments of stress, in the middle of a spiral, I catch myself reaching for an affirmation instead of a self-attack. I reject the negative thought before it takes root. I choose a different response than the one my trauma programmed into me.

I can feel my neural pathways being slowly rewired. Every time I catch a negative thought about myself and choose something different, I'm laying down new tracks. Every time I give myself grace instead of punishment, I'm building a new architecture in my brain. It's not a metaphor. It's not wishful thinking. It's neuroplasticity, and I can feel it working.

The person who wrote those eighty pages knew someone who couldn't do that. They knew someone who was drowning and didn't know how to stop pulling others under with her. They knew someone who was so broken that breaking things felt like the only language she spoke.

That person was real. She existed. I'm not erasing her.

But she is not who is sitting here writing this.

The Truth

I don't need to convince anyone anymore. I believe myself now. I know who I am, and I know who I'm becoming, and I know that the work is real even when no one else can see it. 

I am happier now than I have ever been in my entire life. While simultaneously sad and anxious and downtrodden, I feel peace.

Not because everything is easy. Not because the past has released its grip. Not because the world has suddenly decided to give me a break. I'm happier because I'm doing the work. Because I'm earning this peace through thousands of small choices to be different than I was before. Because I've built something real out of the wreckage of who I used to be.

Eighty pages can tell you who I was.

But only I get to write who I'm becoming.

And that story? It's just getting started.