Roar Louder Than Your Demons

Being the “better person” sounds simple when people say it out loud. It’s one of those phrases that gets tossed around like easy advice, especially when you’re hurt: just be the bigger person. But when you’re actually in that position, when someone keeps treating you badly, it doesn’t feel simple at all. It feels heavy, frustrating, and honestly, pretty unfair.

Because being the better person isn’t a one-time choice. It’s something you have to keep choosing, over and over again, in moments where it would be much easier to react, to defend yourself sharply, or to give someone back exactly what they’ve given you. And that repetition is what wears you down.

Most people imagine being the better person as something calm and graceful, like you just rise above everything without it touching you. But that’s not what it feels like on the inside. On the inside, it can feel like holding your tongue when you have a lot to say. It can feel like sitting with anger that you know is justified, but choosing not to act on it. It can feel like walking away from conversations replaying everything you could have said.

And those feelings don’t just disappear because you chose the “right” response. You still feel hurt. You still feel disrespected. You just carry it differently.

That part doesn’t get talked about enough, the emotional effort it takes to respond with patience when you’re being pushed. It takes work. Real work. It takes awareness to pause instead of reacting immediately. It takes restraint to choose words carefully instead of letting them fly. It takes strength to stay grounded when someone else is being careless with your feelings.

And a lot of the time, no one notices that effort. The person treating you badly might not recognize it at all. Sometimes they even take your restraint as a sign that they can keep going, continue to push your boundaries, continue to abuse your kindness. That’s where it starts to feel especially unfair, because you’re doing the harder thing, and it doesn’t seem to change the unwanted behavior.

There’s also this uncomfortable feeling that comes with it, like you’re losing somehow. You don’t get the last word. You don’t get the satisfaction of saying exactly what’s on your mind. You don’t get that moment of “at least now they know how it feels.” Instead, you step back. You let things go. You choose not to engage.

Even if you believe that’s the healthier choice, it doesn’t always feel good in the moment. Sometimes it just feels like you’re swallowing things that shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

And over time, that can start to build. Especially when it’s not a one-off situation, but a pattern. When someone keeps crossing the same lines, saying the same hurtful things, or dismissing you in the same ways, it stops being about a single moment. It becomes something cumulative. Each incident adds another layer, and being the better person starts to feel less like a choice and more like something you’re stuck carrying.

It’s normal in those moments to start questioning things. Why am I the one trying so hard to handle this well? Why don’t they feel any responsibility to change? At what point is this just too much?

Those questions don’t make you petty or immature. They mean you’re paying attention.

There’s also that pull to “match energy.” When someone is rude, distant, or disrespectful, it’s almost instinctive to want to respond in kind. Part of you wants them to feel what you’ve felt. It seems fair. It seems balanced.

But most of the time, that kind of back-and-forth just makes things worse. It turns into a cycle where both people are reacting instead of actually resolving anything. Still, knowing that doesn’t make the urge go away. It just means you’re choosing not to act on it, and that choice can feel really difficult.

Something that gets blurred in all of this is the difference between being the better person and putting up with behavior that keeps hurting you. Those are not the same thing, even though people sometimes treat them like they are.

Being the better person doesn’t mean you have to accept everything. It doesn’t mean you ignore your own needs or pretend something is okay when it isn’t. It doesn’t mean you stay quiet just to keep the peace. If anything, constantly doing that starts to wear away at you.

Sometimes being the better person actually looks like setting a boundary. It looks like saying, calmly but clearly, “this isn’t okay with me.” And yes, people don’t always like that. Especially if they’re used to you being more accommodating. They might call you dramatic or say you’ve changed.

But having boundaries isn’t being difficult. It’s being honest about what you will and won’t accept.

And sometimes, if those boundaries keep getting ignored, the healthiest thing you can do is step back entirely. That’s not you failing to be the better person. That’s you recognizing that the situation itself isn’t improving.

Walking away can feel like giving up, especially if you’ve put a lot of effort into handling things the “right” way. But it can also be the clearest way of taking care of yourself. It’s a way of saying, “I’ve done what I can, and I’m not going to keep putting myself in a position where I’m treated like this.”

You don’t have to be harsh or vindictive to do that. You don’t have to prove a point or get the last word. You can leave quietly, with clarity, knowing you handled things in a way that aligns with who you want to be.

Maybe part of what makes all of this so hard is how we define being the better person. If it means endless patience and tolerating anything, then of course it feels exhausting. That version isn’t sustainable.

But if it means acting with integrity while still respecting your own limits, it becomes something more balanced. It means you’re thoughtful in how you respond, but you’re also clear about what you deserve. It means you don’t let someone else’s behavior dictate who you are, but you also don’t ignore the impact it has on you.

You can be kind and still say no. You can be understanding and still walk away. You can take the high road and still choose a different direction entirely.

At the end of the day, being the better person isn’t really about the other person. It’s about you about how you want to show up, what you’re willing to tolerate, and how you take care of yourself in situations that are difficult.

And if it feels hard, that’s because it is. Not because you’re doing it wrong, but because you’re choosing something that takes a lot of awareness and restraint. Just don’t forget that being the better person should never mean losing yourself in the process.

-🦩

This year, I turn 42. And something about this number feels powerful. It’s not just another birthday, it’s a declaration. A commitment. A promise to myself.

I’ve spent so much of my life pouring into others family, work, relationships, responsibilities. And while I’m proud of every role I’ve held, every lesson I’ve learned, this year is different. This year is mine.

At 42, I’m stepping fully into who I am and who I’m becoming. I’m no longer dimming my light or pushing my dreams to the back burner. This is the year of life-long achievements, some already in motion, others quietly taking root but all deeply aligned with my values, my joy, and my purpose.

Healing and Survival: My Foundation

There’s a quiet strength in surviving. In waking up day after day, carrying what no one else sees, and still choosing to move forward. I’ve come through things that tried to break me and maybe for a while, they did. But I’m still here. I’ve learned that healing isn’t linear, and it isn’t always pretty. But it is possible.

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – Rumi

At 42, I’m not just surviving, I’m healing. I’m tending to the inner wounds I used to hide or ignore. I’m learning to mother myself, to comfort the parts of me that never felt safe, seen, or enough. I’ve stopped pretending that pain didn’t shape me. It did, but it didn’t define me. I get to define myself now.

“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.” – Maya Angelou

Achievements with Intention

I’m not chasing someone else’s definition of success. I’m pursuing what matters to me. That includes both external goals and quiet, internal victories like learning to trust myself again. Like setting boundaries. Like choosing peace over people-pleasing. These are lifelong achievements, too.

“She stood in the storm, and when the wind did not blow her way, she adjusted her sails.” – Elizabeth Edwards

Self-Care Isn’t Selfish—It’s Sacred

At this stage in my life, I understand that self-care is survival. It’s not a luxury, it’s a necessity. It’s early morning quiet time. It’s journaling and movement and therapy. It’s honoring my energy. It’s saying no. It’s protecting my peace.

Self-care is how I remind myself that I matter. That I’m allowed to take up space. That it’s okay to rest and recharge without apology.

Putting Myself First (Without Guilt)

This year, I’m not waiting for permission to choose myself. I’m not shrinking, sacrificing, or settling. I’m learning to ask, What do I need? What do I want? What makes me feel whole? And I’m answering with honesty.

I used to believe putting myself first was selfish. Now I know it’s survival. It’s healing. It’s freedom.

Here’s to 42

This isn’t a reinvention. It’s a return. To myself. To my truth. To my wholeness. I’m 42, and I’m still standing. Still growing. Still loving. Still healing. And maybe for the first time, I’m truly living.

“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” – J.K. Rowling

So here’s to this chapter, a chapter of lifelong achievement, deep healing, radical self-care, and unapologetic self-prioritization.

Here’s to 42.

Let’s go.

-🦩

There’s something mildly suspicious about anyone who claims to have life completely figured out. If a person tells you they’ve achieved total inner peace, mastered productivity, drink exactly eight glasses of water daily, and wake up at 5 a.m. for fun, it’s only natural to wonder if they’re secretly powered by a different operating system.

I am not one of those people.

In fact, I am the kind of person who sets three alarms, ignores all of them, and then wakes up in a panic wondering why past me thought “just five more minutes” was a sustainable lifestyle choice. I am deeply familiar with procrastination, overthinking, emotional snacking, and that strange phenomenon of opening my phone to check one thing and emerging 45 minutes later knowing everything about a stranger’s kitchen renovation.

And yet, perhaps because of all that, I want to become a writer and book author.

If you’ve been here over the past two year, keep shaking your head, sometimes it takes me a while to acknowledge my own achievements.

Not because I’ve mastered life, but because I haven’t. Not because I have all the answers, but because I’m endlessly curious about better questions. And definitely not because I think I’m qualified to stand on a metaphorical mountaintop shouting advice like a wise guru wrapped in linen. I don’t even own linen, and I am perusing a degree that I assume would help me better achieve this goal. Who’s racking up that student debt, this girl.

I want to become a personal growth writer because I’m in the middle of the mess, just like everyone else, and I think that’s exactly where the most honest, useful stories come from. Validation is the key to unlocking your inner calm.

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I Don’t Want to Pretend I Have It All Together

Let’s address the elephant in the room: the self-help industry has a reputation.

There are books that promise to change your life in seven days, fix your habits in five steps, and unlock your “best self” like you’re a hidden level in a video game. I feel like I have read them all. There are morning routines so elaborate they require the time management skills of a NASA launch team. There are people who seem to glide through life with suspicious levels of calm, as if they’ve never rage-typed an email and then deleted it.

And while some of that advice can be genuinely helpful, it can also feel… distant. Disconnected, and shame-inducing.

Because real life isn’t a perfectly structured checklist. It’s messy, unpredictable, and occasionally held together with caffeine, chaos, and good intentions.

I don’t want to contribute to the illusion that growth is clean and linear. It’s not. Growth looks like taking two steps forward, one step back, and then accidentally sitting down because you got distracted, or lets be real, life just got to overwhelming. It looks like trying something new, failing at it, and then trying again with slightly less enthusiasm but more snacks.

As a writer, I don’t want to position myself as someone who has “arrived.” I want to be someone who is actively figuring things out and inviting others into that sometimes messy process.

Because there’s something comforting about knowing you’re not the only one who doesn’t have a color-coded life planner.

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I’m Fascinated by Why We Do the Things We Do

Another reason why I want to write in this space is simple: humans are weird.

We know what’s good for us, and yet we don’t always do it. We set goals, make plans, and then somehow find ourselves doing the exact opposite. We overthink small decisions and underthink big ones. We hold ourselves to impossible standards while giving everyone else grace.

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Why do we procrastinate on things we care about?
Why do we compare ourselves to people whose lives we don’t actually want?
Why do we talk ourselves out of opportunities and then regret it later?
Why do we buy things we don’t need and then feel personally attacked by our bank accounts?

These questions are endlessly interesting to me.

Growth writing, at its best, explores these contradictions. It doesn’t just tell people what to do, it helps them understand why they struggle to do it. It looks at habits, emotions, beliefs, and patterns with curiosity instead of judgment.

I don’t want to write advice that feels like a lecture. I want to write insights that feel like someone gently saying, “Hey, I’ve been there too. Let’s figure this out together.” And I want to infuse the hard with humor.

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Humor Makes Hard Truths Easier to Hear

Let’s be honest: personal growth can be really uncomfortable. Like, REALLY.

It involves confronting your habits, your fears, your excuses, and that one thing you’ve been avoiding for three months that is now emotionally larger than it needed to be.

That’s not exactly light reading.

But add a little humor, and that changes everything.

When you can laugh at yourself, you are reminded you are only human. Laugh at your procrastination, your overthinking, your dramatic internal monologues, it takes some of the pressure off. Promise. It turns self-improvement from something heavy and intimidating into something more human and approachable.

I want to write content that makes people think and smile.

Not because everything is a joke, but because humor creates space. It softens the edges of difficult truths. It makes people more willing to engage with ideas they might otherwise avoid.

For example, it’s one thing to say:
“You need to stop procrastinating and take responsibility for your time.”

It’s another thing to say:
“Procrastination is basically your brain saying, ‘This looks hard, so let’s reorganize the entire apartment at 1am instead.’” Same idea. Different delivery. One feels like a scolding. The other feels like a shared experience. Or maybe that’s ADHD, lets unpack that later.

I want to be the second kind of voice.

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I Believe Self Help Should Be Honest, Not Perfect

There’s a version of self-help that feels… polished.

Too polished.

It’s the kind that suggests if you just follow the right routine, adopt the right mindset, and drink enough green smoothies, everything will fall into place. Life will become smooth, predictable, and aesthetically pleasing.

I don’t know a out you, but that’s not how my life has worked.

Bad days happen. Motivation disappears. Plans fall apart. People make mistakes, lose focus, and occasionally eat cereal for dinner because cooking feels like too much.

And that’s okay.

I want to write about the reality of growth, the part where things don’t go according to plan. The part where you have to start over. The part where progress is slow, inconsistent, and sometimes invisible.

Because that’s the part people actually live in.

Perfection is not relatable. Progress is.

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Writing Helps Me Understand Myself (Which Is Honestly Necessary)

Another reason I want to continue this journey of writing is slightly selfish: writing helps me make sense of my own brain.

There’s something about putting thoughts into words that clarifies them. It forces you to slow down, organize your ideas, and confront whether they actually make sense.

Sometimes I start writing about a problem thinking I understand it, only to realize halfway through that I’ve been completely wrong. Other times, writing helps me connect patterns I hadn’t had time to notice before.

It’s like having a conversation with yourself, except you can’t interrupt or change the subject.

By writing about personal growth, habits, and mindset, I’m not just helping others, I’m actively learning alongside them. I’m testing ideas, reflecting on experiences, and gradually building a clearer understanding of what actually works.

And if I can turn that process into something useful for someone else, that’s a win.

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I Want to Cut Through the Noise

The internet is full of advice.

Endless advice.

Like I have said before, there are productivity hacks, morning routines, mindset shifts, and life strategies coming from every direction. Some of it is helpful. Some of it is contradictory. Some of it sounds impressive but doesn’t actually work in real life.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed.

Should you wake up at 5 a.m. or prioritize sleep?
Should you plan every minute of your day or go with the flow?
Should you follow your passion or build discipline first?
Should you journal, meditate, exercise, visualize, or all of the above while also somehow having a full-time job?

It’s a lot.

I want to create content that simplifies, not complicates.

Not by pretending there’s one perfect answer, but by focusing on what’s realistic, flexible, and adaptable. By acknowledging that different things work for different people, and that it’s okay to experiment. Keep messing up, because that’s how we learn.

Personal growth shouldn’t feel like adding more pressure to your life. It should feel like removing some of it, and feeling less ashamed and alone.

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I Care About Helping People Feel Less Alone

At its core, this is probably the biggest reason.

People struggle quietly with things they think they’re the only ones experiencing. Self-doubt. Lack of motivation. Fear of failure. Feeling stuck. Feeling behind. Feeling like everyone else has it figured out.

That’s a lie, they in fact do not have it all figured out.

Good writing has the power to remind people that their experiences are not unique in a lonely way, they’re shared in a human way.

When someone reads something and thinks, “Wait, that’s exactly how I feel,” it creates a sense of connection. It reduces isolation. It makes challenges feel more manageable.

I want to contribute to that.

Not by offering perfect solutions, but by offering understanding, perspective, and encouragement.

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I Don’t Want to Just Motivate People, I Want to Help Them Build Systems

Motivation is great.

It’s also unreliable.

One day you feel inspired and ready to change your life. The next day you can’t even convince yourself to reply to an email.

If growth relies only on motivation, it falls apart quickly.

I’m more interested in systems.

Small, practical changes that don’t depend on feeling inspired. Habits that are realistic. Strategies that work even on low-energy days. Approaches that acknowledge human limitations instead of ignoring them.

I want to write about what actually helps people follow through, not just what sounds good in theory.

Because the gap between knowing and doing is where most people get stuck.

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I Think Growth Should Feel Human

At the end of the day, I don’t want to write something that feels like a rulebook.

I want to write something that feels like a conversation.

Something that says:
“You don’t have to be perfect.”
“You’re allowed to struggle.”
“You can improve your life without turning into a completely different person.”

Growth isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming a more intentional version of yourself.

And that process is messy, nonlinear, and sometimes a little ridiculous.

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So… Why Do I Want to Become a Writer?

Because I’m curious.

Because I’m flawed.

Because I’ve struggled with the same things a lot of people struggle with and I’m still working through them.

Because I believe honesty is more helpful than perfection.

Because humor makes hard things easier.

Because writing helps me think.

Because there’s too much noise from the world around us and not enough clarity.

Because people feel alone when they don’t have to.

And because if I can write something that makes even one person feel understood, motivated, or slightly less inclined to reorganize their entire apartment instead of doing their actual work…

That feels worthwhile.

Even if I still can’t fold a fitted sheet.

(Some goals take time I guess.)

💛LJ

You’ve probably heard it before, “You’re too much.”

Too loud.

Too emotional.

Too intense.

Too everything.

It’s a phrase that feels like a slap disguised as a compliment. Its purpose is to make you shrink, soften, to make yourself smaller so others feel comfortable. But what if being “too much” isn’t a flaw? What if it’s the very thing that makes you unstoppable?

Maybe it was said with a sigh, a sideways glance, or a quiet shake of the head. Maybe it came from a friend, a partner, a family member, or a stranger. Those two words “too much” can feel like a weight pressing down on your chest. They represent a subtle but heavy judgment. This judgment questions your very essence.

Being told you’re “too much” is an experience that cuts deep. It’s so much more than just a criticism about your behavior. It’s an insinuation that there’s something inherently wrong with the way you exist in the world. Your emotions, your passion, your energy, or your presence overwhelm those around you. In a culture that often values conformity, subtlety, and quietness, being “too much” can feel profound. It can even seem like exile.

What Does “Too Much” Even Mean?

“Too much” is vague but loaded. It often means you’re too loud or too emotional. You are seen as too passionate, too intense, or too eager. You are viewed as too outspoken, too sensitive, or too bold. It’s the message that you don’t fit into the neat boxes that people expect you to fit into. It’s the suggestion that your natural self raw, full, and unapologetic, which threatens the comfort zone of those around you.

When someone says you’re “too much,” they’re not just critiquing your actions. They’re critiquing your energy and your way of being in the world. And that can leave you feeling confused, hurt, or even ashamed. Because, honestly, who wants to be told they’re “too much” when all they’re doing is being themselves?

There’s a bigger context here, too. Society tends to reward restraint, especially in certain groups. Women, people of color, and anyone who’s already marginalized often hear “too much.” It serves as a shorthand for “you’re breaking the rules.” These are the unwritten social rules about how you’re “supposed” to behave. Show too much anger or passion? Too much. Laugh too loudly or express your joy too vividly? Too much. Want to take up space and be heard? Too much.

The world tries to keep us small. It attempts to tame the wildness inside us. This makes us easier to manage or ignore. But that wildness is not a flaw; it’s a vital part of what makes you you. It’s the fire that drives creativity, connection, and change.

Hearing “too much” often enough can lead to internalizing that message. You start to doubt yourself, to dim your light, to shrink your voice. You censor your emotions or hide parts of your personality just to avoid rocking the boat. This self-silencing is exhausting and lonely because it means living with part of yourself locked away.

But here’s the thing: you are not too much. You are exactly enough maybe even more than enough. You’re a whole, complex person with a spectrum of feelings and ways of expressing yourself. And the world needs all of you, not just the parts that are easy to digest.

Reclaiming Your Power

If you’ve ever been told you’re “too much,” here’s a radical thought: maybe it’s not you who’s “too much.” Maybe it’s the world around you that’s too small. Maybe the people who say this don’t know how to handle your fullness. They are used to playing it safe or staying small themselves.

Reclaiming your power means embracing your “too muchness” your energy, your intensity, your fire. It means refusing to apologize for your emotions or your voice. It means finding the people who celebrate you for all you are. These are people who don’t just tolerate your passion but thrive with it.

Being “Too Much” is a gift.

Being “too much” means you feel deeply and love fiercely. It means you bring a unique perspective, a powerful presence, and an authentic voice to every room you enter. It means you’re alive in a way that can’t be ignored and that is a beautiful thing.

So the next time someone tells you you’re “too much,” take a deep breath. Remember that you’re simply too real for their comfort. And that’s a compliment disguised as a critique.

Be “too much.” Be loud, be emotional, be passionate, be unapologetically you. The world needs more of that.

-🦩

There’s a particular kind of loneliness that settles into you when you’re young —

The kind that doesn’t just make you feel alone, but teaches you to be alone.

It becomes a language, a habit, a posture you carry without realizing it. And then one day you’re grown, trying to love and be loved, and you discover that loneliness never really stayed in childhood.

It followed you.

It matured with you.

It learned your adult vocabulary.

For many of us, feeling alone as kids wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. It wasn’t the kind of loneliness you could name. Maybe you had people around you, even people who cared, but it still felt like you were on the outside of something warm and effortless. You watched other kids who seemed to fit into their families like puzzle pieces. You tried to decode their ease — how they trusted, how they leaned on people, how they believed they were wanted without having to earn it.

You grew up thinking love was something you had to work for, prove, or protect yourself from. And when you carry those beliefs long enough, they start to shape how you show up in relationships later.

The Transfer: Childhood Loneliness Transformed into Adult Love Uncertainty

When you don’t feel anchored in love as a child, you learn to anchor yourself — even when you desperately wish you didn’t have to. You become self-soothing out of necessity, independent as a shield, hyper-aware of shifts in tone, timing, or distance. Your nervous system becomes a radar scanning for signs you’re about to be left.

When you fall in love as an adult, you don’t fall freely.

You fall while bracing for impact.

You second-guess everything.

You replay conversations in your head trying to analyze what you missed.

You convince yourself the relationship will end long before any real cracks appear.

You keep an exit strategy, even when you’re happy.

You’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop — because in your childhood, it always did.

And when something feels good? When someone actually cares?

That’s when the fear gets louder.

Because now you have something to lose.

You watch people who seem to love effortlessly and wonder, How?

How do they trust without hesitation?

How do they allow themselves to be seen without flinching?

How do they believe someone won’t leave?

The truth is:

You’re not broken.

You’re not incapable.

You’re just unpracticed.

Love wasn’t modeled for you in a way that felt safe. So now, as an adult, you’re doing something incredibly brave — you’re trying to learn what you never got to learn back then.

Every time you open up even a little, even with fear in your throat, that’s growth.

Every time you stay instead of run when anxiety tells you to flee, that’s progress.

Every time you allow someone to matter, you’re rewriting a story you didn’t choose but inherited.

The loneliness from childhood doesn’t vanish on its own. It echoes.

But echoes aren’t permanent — they fade when new sounds fill the space.

You are creating new sounds:

new patterns, new understandings, new ways of touching love without expecting it to disappear.

You Don’t Have to Be Alone Anymore…

The child who felt unseen still lives in you, but so does the adult who’s tired of surviving love and wants to actually experience it. That adult — you — is capable of learning connection, trust, and tenderness in real time.

Feeling alone as a kid shaped you, yes.

But it doesn’t have to define the way you love forever.

You’re not late.

You’re not behind.

You’re just beginning with a different foundation — and that’s okay.

-🦩