Letting Go of “Me”

I’ve spent a long time trying to hold on to “me.” As I let her go, I thought I had lost—but found a new form among the ashes and rubble.

She is not stronger, but more honest. She communicates better now, without losing patience so quickly—not in a way that cuts, but in a way that’s truer to who she is. All the presentable traits others have seen do, in fact, exist. And she is a kinder, more heartfelt person than her rougher sides have often reflected.

She may not have all the answers, but she understands who she is. She is not a victim, though in some ways, her experiences may feel that way.

Sometimes she felt out of place, hyper-aware of how she might be seen, and feared judgment—but she also recognized her own beauty and kindness, in her smile, her words, and her small acts of care.

She remembers being perceived as “full of herself” when she expressed pride or talked too much. Sometimes people understood; sometimes they didn’t.

Her memory has faded in many areas—words, moments, even movies. But the feelings remain: the confusion, the longing for connection. She wanted to impress, shock, make people laugh, and most of all, connect. She wanted to be unique but still part of the crowd, never wanting to leave anyone out.

With every word she writes, another memory surfaces—flashbacks and hyperawareness crowding her mind. It’s a noisy space, constant and relentless.

She has endured what others might not, sometimes engaging in unhealthy behaviors. She’s lashed out at judgments, spoken or imagined, trying to mirror the pain she felt in hopes of creating empathy.

Choosing to love rather than strike back is hard—paper cuts wound deeply when felt so intensely.

She may not know how to make every amend, or tell every story clearly. She’s not always the friend people call for fun or laughter. Some have valid reasons. Others, taste or comfort.

She may be beautiful—but she is torn. Broken. Sad.

Freedom from depression does not equal freedom from pain. Understanding doesn’t equal hope in every situation.

She is strong—but weak.
She is understood—but broken.
She has hope—but also despair.
She clings to—but lets go.

Letting go doesn’t mean abandoning what’s necessary for survival—like grasping for anything while going over a cliff.

The purpose of this website is to tell my story. Maybe it will offer hope to someone, anyone, or everyone. Who knows?

But I do know this: you are not alone. Pain does not discriminate. Everyone gets hurt. We are all scared. We are all trying to hold on.

Even when it seems like some aren’t, they may just be trying to preserve what matters most.

It’s a hungry world. Some people’s appetite is insatiable. Pure evil exists—leading some to do horrifying things.

But sometimes, we ourselves are “evil-lite.” We may not commit extreme acts, but we look away. We hurt others, intentionally or unintentionally, through our own wounds or lack of empathy.

I chose the pen name Wounded Healer after Carl Jung’s archetype. Not to hide myself, but to acknowledge that I am not the only one hurting, and not the only one who has tried to bring healing.

I may not be capable—if I ever was—of healing others directly. But I am trying to heal myself through writing. And maybe it will bring comfort to someone else, creating space for understanding.

This is not for diagnosing. Not for blame. No political commentary. No negativity.

This space is different:

A place to be.
To open up.
To cry.
To love.
To walk around emotionally naked.

Free to tell only my story—from my heart, not someone else’s.

When I started this site, I didn’t know what I was doing. I wasn’t happy with my original content. I felt like I was explaining myself to someone.

So I threw most of it out, and stripped the rest down to simplicity.

I used AI to help me edit my words for clarity, but every thought and feeling remains entirely my own.

*revised for readability 09/26/25