I didn’t stop writing because I had nothing left to say.
I stopped because it started to feel like too much.
When I first started Tattooed Truths, it felt freeing. Like I was finally saying things that had been sitting in my chest for years. Stories I had carried quietly. Thoughts I didn’t even realize were still affecting me until I put them into words.
And yeah… I got some good feedback.
People read it.
People reacted to it.
It felt good knowing it wasn’t just sitting there going unnoticed.
But even with that, something shifted.
Because writing stopped being just writing.
It became reliving.
Every post meant going back. Sitting in moments I spent years trying to move past. Replaying conversations. Feeling things again that I had finally learned how to quiet down. And the more honest I was, the more it took out of me.
There were times I’d finish writing and just sit there… drained.
Not because I didn’t want to tell my story.
But because telling it meant opening doors I had carefully learned how to keep closed.
And after a while, it caught up to me.
So I took a break.
Not because I’m done.
Not because I lost my voice.
But because I needed to breathe.
I needed space where I wasn’t constantly looking backward.
Space where I could just live in the present for a bit.
Space where healing didn’t always mean digging everything back up.
And here’s what I’ve realized during that break:
Healing isn’t just about facing everything all the time.
Sometimes it’s about knowing when to step away from it.
That doesn’t mean you’re avoiding it.
It means you’re giving yourself a chance to handle it properly.
Because this kind of work, this kind of honesty, it takes something out of you.
But I’m here again now.
Not because I feel like I have to be.
But because I want to be.
There are still stories I haven’t told.
Still things I’m figuring out.
Still parts of me I’m trying to understand.
And when I write now, it won’t be forced.
It will be real.
Just like it always was.
Because nothing changes if nothing changes.
And for me… this is part of that.
What’s coming next?
Not just the stories from back then,
but what all of it turned into.
The parts that didn’t stay in my childhood.
Like the night I sat at my window, waiting for my dad to come home,
and caught myself hoping he wouldn’t.
Not just that he’d be late.
I mean hoping he’d get into a car accident.
And even then, as a kid, I remember thinking…
what if someone innocent gets hurt?
That’s the kind of place my head was in.
But it’s not just that.
It’s the things that followed me.
The moments where I think I’m past it
and realize I’m not.
The need to control situations I don’t even notice I’m trying to control.
The overthinking.
The way silence can still feel uncomfortable, even when it’s peaceful.
And maybe the part I didn’t expect…
Learning how to sit in something good
without waiting for it to go wrong.
Because healing isn’t just about what happened.
It’s about what stayed.
And I’m starting to see that a lot of it did.
This isn’t going to be perfect.
But it’s going to be honest.
And this time, I’m not rushing it.