Three ER visits. Two doctor visits. A mass on my kidney. Cysts on my ovaries. And still — hold. I sat there hooked up to machines while a doctor said *biopsy, probably an MRI.* I said let's go. They said not here. 8 hours in one waiting room. Then 4.5 more. Watched the number of people "ahead of me" go from 3 to 5. Still no IV. Asked a stranger how long he'd been waiting. Two hours. I'd been there over four. Somewhere in all of it, I almost overlooked the one person who actually helped. No note-taking. No performance of caring. Just — go get the scans, then let me see them. She was right. She was the most accurate report I got. I don't know the outcome yet. That's not what's keeping me up. What's keeping me up is the inconsistency. Story changes from one visit to the next. Charts that don't talk to each other. People who sound reassuring and deliver nothing, and people who seem crabby and deliver everything. Unconsciously, I'd choose her. I'm learning — the ones who perform care aren't always the ones who show up. And the loudest reassurance isn't the same as the truth. Right now, all I can do is trust what I feel, and trust that someone, somewhere in this mess, is actually listening. My worries are real. I accept that. Because God is always guiding me. Amen. 🙏🙏🙏🙏✨✨✨✨ ❤️me🐕‍🦺

I know things. Things I've lived, not read. Things that cost me something to learn. But knowing isn't the same as being believed. You can hand someone the truth and watch them hand it back to you, unopened. And that's not even the worst part. The sting is watching them take it — wear it, use it, get praised for it — while you're left standing there questioning what you knew all along. It doesn't just hurt your pride. It hurts your soul. Especially when it's the ones you love. The ones you believed would trust you. The ones you thought had your back without needing proof. There were the ones who spoke the truth with me. And there were the ones who didn't listen. I know which ones I remember.

I release what was, I accept what is, and I trust what is coming. My past connection taught me what I needed to learn, and I gracefully return its energy back to the universe. I am safe to rest. I am safe to let go. I open my hands and my heart to the beautiful, aligned upgrades the universe is preparing for me right now."

**Two Outcomes, One Word: Survived** I read a post about bullying. Two outcomes — the survivors, or the tragic end. I applaud everyone who's survived something so horrific and cowardly. But it made me ask a real question: who takes accountability for the ones who don't survive? I don't have that answer. But I have my story. **It starts with my 6th grade teacher.** She didn't bully me — she enabled it. I gave her a gift once, and right in front of me, she handed it to one of the popular kids who was already unkind to me. That same year I got braces. I was made fun of every day. Four years of orthodontic work — six teeth pulled, surgery, two incisions in the roof of my mouth, rubber chains pulling teeth into place. And through all of it, she let it happen. I worked hard on a book report once — everyone else had plenty of time to present. She gave me five minutes, then let the class out early. **Then came high school.** I've had guy friends my whole life. It was nice having both in high school — until two of my girlfriends fell for a guy friend I'd introduced them to. He told them he wasn't interested, that he was thinking about asking me out instead. They asked me how I felt about him. I said he was just a friend. That wasn't enough. They stopped answering. Then I found them waiting for me in front of the school — I walked straight into a bear trap and their cubs. It lasted a year and a half. Chased down the hall. Called names. Every day. **Around the same time, there was S.** I thought we were friends. She got pregnant at 16, and I was there — through the pregnancy, the birth, all of it. When things got rough with the father, she disappeared with the baby. Ghosted him completely. I asked her why. Her reason was bullshit. I've always believed you don't take a child from a parent without real cause — not because you're angry, not to prove a point. His family called me, begging for information. He was a good guy who just wanted to be there. I told them where she was. I was thirteen, caught between protecting someone doing wrong and doing what was right. Looking back, I should've stayed out of it.

You can ask for help, if you wait.. its not easy if you let others not help and you arent willing to recieve. If you do, you become healthier, grow internally, and build the understanding of your surroundings. When you survive, which you will! The gratitude along the way, sets you free.