09/05/2025
Let’s stop pretending survival isn’t sacred.
Because I know what it feels like to sit in a pile of laundry, heart racing, brain spiraling, goldfish plotting their 15th escape — and still manage to feed the dogs. To toss hay to the horses with tears in your throat. To refill a water bowl when your own body hasn’t had enough.
That isn’t failure. That’s fu***ng valor.
You don’t need a five-year plan. You don’t need a cleaned-up past.
You need to know that showing up at all — in the middle of your own inner apocalypse — is an act of rebellion.
The world wants you to feel broken.
To think your dysregulated, exhausted self is somehow less.
But you’re not less.
You’re a lighthouse with a cracked lens, still shining.
You’re a zookeeper of chaos.
You’re a burnt-out witch keeping the magic going with two spoons and a C+ effort.
You are not failing.
You’re on fire, and still feeding the fu***ng goldfish.
You belong here.
