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I’ve always said that I write stories about found families and unlikely heroes, about the beautiful, messy business of being human. I pour my own experiences of resilience, trauma, and the quiet strength it takes to face down demons onto the page, hoping that they resonate, that they find a home with you, my readers.

But every so often, a piece of feedback stops me in my tracks and reminds me why I do this. Recently, I received this online review:

"Wow. Some books entertain. Others echo. Yours?...

Let's clear the air. Do people think I don’t know that I’m a shit show? That I need help, that I struggle all the time, that I’m awkward and uncomfortable?

Of course I know. Honey, I’m me. The one and only Mariah Tyler fuckin’ Moore. I annoy myself more than I annoy anyone else. I'm the one who lives with the constant, grinding internal monologue that I ruin everything I touch. I see the "oh great, this shit again" look on people's faces before they have a chance to hide it. I know what it’s...

Have you ever gotten to the end of the day, taken off your “work face” or your “polite family dinner face,” and felt so goddamn exhausted you could sleep for a week? That’s the soul-crushing weight of wearing a mask. It’s the psychic cost of contorting yourself into a shape you think the world will find more acceptable than the real, messy, magnificent you.

Let’s be brutally honest: faking it is a full-time job with no pay and terrible benefits. But what if you could just… quit?

Authenticity...

There’s a narrative out there, a ghost story that gets told about authors like me. It whispers that because I use AI to help me write, my work isn't my own. That I’m letting a machine do the hard part, that I'm somehow cheating the system. I’ve gotten the flack, seen the digital pitchforks, and felt the sting of being written off by 90% of the world for it.

Let’s get one thing straight: that’s a bullshit story.

My use of technology isn't a shortcut. It's a goddamn survival mechanism. It's the...

Have you ever felt like you’re just playing a character in your own life? Smiling when you want to scream, saying "yes" when your soul is yelling "hell no," and generally performing a version of yourself that you think the world wants to see. It’s exhausting, isn't it? That feeling isn't just you being "dramatic"; it's the psychic friction of your authentic self trying to claw its way out from under the pile of bullshit expectations you've been buried under.

I’ve been there. Oh, honey, have I...

Have you ever stared at a medical bill and had to choose? A choice between the medication that keeps your body working correctly and the rent that keeps a roof over your head. Between the physical therapy that might let you walk without pain and the electricity bill.

This isn’t a hypothetical for some. This is the silent, grinding reality for millions of us living with chronic illness. It's a full-time job with no pay, terrible hours, and a benefits package that includes anxiety, despair, and...

Let’s get one thing straight. The world is designed to break you.

It will serve you platitudes of "positive vibes only" while it quietly sands down your edges, dismisses your pain, and demands you wear a mask just to survive. You know the feeling—that soul-crushing weight of performing a version of yourself that feels like a stranger. That’s not a personal failing, honey. That’s the psychic friction of living in a world that wasn't built for your glorious, messy truth.

I’ve been there. As a...

Eight surgeries deep, and my heart is most likely giving out, they tell me with that practiced neutrality that makes you feel like a case study instead of a person. I'm 28 years old, and my body is a battlefield I'm losing. POTS makes the world do its shitty grayscale Instagram filter trick every time I stand up. Some days, I can't tell if it's anxiety or my potentially failing heart that's making my chest feel like it's caving in. The physical pain is almost a relief compared to the mental—...

Have you ever looked in the mirror and had the gut-wrenching thought, “Who the fuck is that?” You’re not alone, honey. We live in a world that practically demands we wear a mask—a perfectly curated, filtered, people-pleasing mask—just to get through the day. The result? A silent epidemic of people feeling like impostors in their own lives.

But what if I told you that feeling—that deep, aching disconnect—is actually a call to arms? It’s your soul’s way of screaming, “ENOUGH!” As someone who has...

Have you ever felt like your body is a car with the gas pedal floored and the emergency brake pulled at the same time? That’s the feeling of being stuck in anxiety. It’s that internal buzzing, that engine of panic revving with nowhere to go, leaving you exhausted, vigilant, and so, so tired of fighting your own damn self.

Or maybe you know the other side: that sudden, quiet emptiness when the world turns to grayscale, your emotions flatline, and you feel like a ghost in your own life.

If you’ve...

Let's talk about the specific flavor of anxiety that hits right before you post something online. That moment of hesitation. Should you share the messy truth or the polished highlight reel? You know that being genuine is the only way to build real connections, but you’ve also seen the digital pitchforks come out for people who share "too much." The internet feels like a minefield, and you’re walking through it barefoot.

This isn't an accident, honey. The digital world we live in, with its...

You ever get that hot-prickle-of-shame feeling? The one that floods your system when you realize you’ve just said or done something profoundly wrong in a new place, even when you were just trying to be yourself? You thought you were being authentic, but the room went quiet, and now you feel like a fraud in a foreign land.

Welcome to the club, honey. You’re not an asshole. You’re a traveler in a world that wasn’t built for a single, universal version of “authenticity.” The idea that “just be...

Let’s talk about that gut-clenching, acid-in-your-throat feeling. You know the one. It’s the prelude to a conversation you know you need to have, but every cell in your body is screaming at you to run for the hills. You’re not alone, and you’re not broken. That dread? It’s a scar from past battles, a ghost of every time you spoke your truth and got burned for it.

But here’s the secret the world doesn’t tell you: those scars are where the light gets in. They are the very source of your power....

Ever met someone and felt that instant click? That feeling isn’t magic, honey, it’s biology. It’s your brain, a deeply social creature that has been starved for genuine connection, suddenly lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree and flooding you with feel-good chemicals that literally change you.

Let's be real: in a world where we’ve never been more “connected” yet feel lonelier than ever, understanding this science isn't just a fun fact. It's a survival guide. Our brains are hardwired for...

So, let me tell you something about being disabled. It's hard. Ha, you already knew that. But, no, really! It's so fucking hard.

When I have an idea and I want to write, I have to make sure I'm not nauseous, or else I can't look at the computer screen. My hands shake too badly to use pencils and pens. When I do type, my hands start to hurt immediately. My arms ache. But I still want to do the things I love.

So I use tools. Which is such a humanoid thing to do.

Like, are you guys mad at whoever...

To those who've followed my journey—with all its twists, pivots, and bold declarations—I wanted to share where I am today. My identity online may appear fractured, reflecting the complex reality of being proudly neurodivergent, physically disabled, and navigating mental health challenges. This trifecta has shaped every fiber of who I am, and I've come to understand that what makes me broken is precisely what makes me powerful.

Over the past year, I've made some significant decisions that might...

Have you ever felt the soul-crushing weight of wearing a mask? Smiling through meetings where you want to scream, nodding along to opinions that make your skin crawl, and curating a version of your life that feels like a stranger’s. You are not alone, honey. The pressure to perform, to be palatable, to be anything other than our messy, magnificent selves is a pandemic that no vaccine can cure.

Let’s get one thing straight: the journey to authentic self-expression isn’t some fluffy, self-help...

Hi. My name is Mariah Tyler Moore.

I'm starting this BeMoore blog because I need a space that is simply, unshakably mine. I write to process. When I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm angry—it is my own version of therapy. And, in this moment, I need to set the record straight from the only source that matters right now: me.

I need to talk about something that fundamentally changed my life's trajectory. I tried to kill myself on December 9th, 2024.

That moment was the culmination of an eight-month...