Building: The Quiet Weight of Finding Your Way

So, Sometimes the journey to independence—or trying to build a new independence out of the ashes of what you used to have—feels like an uphill battle you shouldn't even have to fight twice. So long story short, it’s well worth rhetorical clarity that conveys a real sense and scene: it’s odd to use that word again, a word so indispensable to my independence, because a part of me knows how deep the scars run. Building a life of your own is paved with relentless challenges, mixed signals, and those quiet, heavy moments of feeling completely misunderstood by the people closest to you. Every single day, I am pouring heart into my various services, building the brand, managing content, and showing up for pet care and community. More than that, I’m trying to take care of me, trying to care for Riley Grace, and handling all of our daily necessities and needs while living in an environment that feels temporary and suffocating. I don't want to be here in my dad's house forever, and every day I'm trying my best to focus on the finish line—the exact moment we get to finally step out and have our own space again.

When I’m trying my best—behind the scenes, in front of the scenes, and live on whatever this life is, the life that matters, the life that is mine that I have always been able and willing to live—it hits hard. I didn’t make the decisions; I had to plan around the decisions I didn't make. I didn’t make the moments; I just had to create them. I didn’t want to be in this position, but I was always having to BE(lie)ve, time and time again. But still, I did it. I believed. I believed in trying. I believed in everything. I'm not saying that I'm lying or anything; I'm just trying my best.

And then when people said, "Oh, we'll help you, you're not going to be alone," it was followed by, "but we're also going to take this away from you." We're going to take away your dog, take away your freedom, demand your medication, and question all those things you said you're doing to better yourself because we don't believe you. We're going to help you, but we're also going to lie to you. I did everything I did, and everything I always do with every circumstance in life. But moments like this take me right back—not just to a memory, but to a heavy, numb reality of recollection. It feels so strong that you can't just shake it off. I try to, but my tears ricochet every single time. It’s like the lyrics that cemented and numbed me: Every time I try to fly, I fall without my wings, I guess... I feel so much more than I should, but I earned my own wings.

Now—juggling digital media, branding, business goals, and mental recovery—it’s exhausting when people look at you and act like you aren't trying hard enough, telling you to "find a job," as if pouring everything you have into your own business, your purpose, and your survival doesn't count. Give me room. I'm not ungrateful. I am thankful for every little bit—having a roof over my head, air conditioning, a bed, snacks, and somewhere for Riley Grace and me to be. But it’s hard when you can't express how you feel without feeling reprimand and guilt. I didn't put myself in this situation; I didn't do this to myself. Yet every moment of ridicule feels like being decapitated alive.

I wish I could do more, and I know I can and I will. I show my appreciation by cleaning, working, helping out, and doing everything within my power. But why won't anyone listen when I show signs of dismay? When I'm trying to open up and say something isn't okay? You see me limping, you see me not feeling well, you see me not eating, and you see me staying awake for days on end—and it gets dismissed as just "not normal." Yeah, I know it's not normal, but I'm doing it all by myself, and trying my best is one of the hardest jobs I could possibly have right now.

You nod your head, say yes, swallow the frustration, and keep moving because what else is there to do? Inside, it feels like shouting into a void where nobody actually wants to listen or understand the architecture of what you're constructing.You feel numb sometimes because your nervous system is handling too much at once. But the work is real, the plan and place,the push forward happening, even when it feels lonely.

This space isn’t about sugarcoating anything. It’s about finding a voice that is raw, uncut, and honest about what it really takes to keep fighting toward the finish line when you can’t quite see where it leads It’s about the journey from home to happiness, finding light in the darkness, and making sense of the mystery to matter in falling apart and finding a way back together. the words come out imperfectly, thoughts tangled, feelings of difficulty, explaining the way I feel, 

the story— makes—sense while you’re living it. But that is the sense in making RHIStory while going through it. 

not to say  I’ve survived” maybe thats part of his–story , being able, while still holding on to the hope that you can get there. What does support look like when you’re trying to build a better life but don’t always have the energy, the answers, or the people you need beside you? How do we keep moving forward when we’re surrounded by people who may be present in our lives but aren’t necessarily present for the plans we’re trying to build?

still here, trying,  trying to find a way through the way, trying to make meaningless, meaningful numbing, noise this is a matter to someone who’s been in his–sTory still.

The idea of a space to feel like a song you hear at exactly the right moment. Every word, every pause, every shift in the bridge reaching somewhere, your body feels what your mind is still trying to understand. Saying to yourself, “Why does this sound like life?” oh & “these words understand something I haven’t been able to explain?” I’m feeling, everything I’m trying too,  and everything I’m still trying to understand. Surrounded by people, planning, & the progress, too “ the fight to the finish” surely, im the survival fight of, finishing it.