The Painful, the Wild, and Everything In Between

Awakening (from the series A Love) by Max Klinger

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If I had to sum up my twenties in one word,

it would be

painful.

Not the melodramatic kind.

The kind that sits in your bones and whispers,

is life supposed to feel like this?

But if you'd asked me then,

the word would have been

wild.

Grinning, wine in hand, I’d have called myself a hedonist,

desperate to make the chaos seem...

chosen.

Truthfully?

It was a smokescreen.

Addiction.

Trauma.

Attachment wounds.

They were the real guests at the party.

I spent a decade dancing with my shadow.

Flashing lights.

Dark corners.

And all the psychological defences a girl can carry.

My thirties?

Not a soft-lit healing journey.

More like spiritual boot camp.

The universe knocked politely.

I ignored it.

So it kicked the door down.

So, I learned to regulate.

To stay.

To feel.

To stop running.

I learned that post-traumatic growth isn’t a Pinterest quote.

It’s crawling through fire on your hands and knees,

collecting your scars as you go.

Now, in my forties, I’m awake.

Not healed — but whole enough to stay.

There’s a clarity that’s almost unsettling,

sometimes.

Like fog lifting to reveal both beauty and ruin.

Revealing the whole landscape.

She’s still with me —

the Wild One,

the Hurting One.

Self-compassion is the glue.

Forgiveness, the salve.

For what was done.

For what you did.

For what cannot be repaired.

Becoming isn’t linear.

It's a holy mess of regressions and reckonings.

But it’s real.

And real is worth everything.