What I Carry...

I carry the kind of exhaustion that isn’t fixed by sleep.
The kind that settles into your bones when you’ve been told for too long to keep going, smile through it, and not make anyone uncomfortable.
I carry the ache of trauma—some spoken, some still silent.
I carry the guilt of saying no. The shame of asking for help. The fear of being “too much” when I need rest, quiet, space.
I carry the roles I was handed without consent—caretaker, fixer, good girl, strong one.

And I carry stories. My own. Others’. The kind that live under the skin until they’re finally written down.

I carry a nervous system that flinches at the wrong tone of voice.
A body that’s been through war, both literal and invisible.
I carry pain that doesn’t show up on X-rays but still wakes me in the middle of the night.
I carry memories I wish I could shake, and others I wish I hadn’t buried so deep.

I carry the weight of being palatable.
Of smiling through doctor appointments, pushing through pain because I’ve been told it’s “just anxiety.”

I carry the grief of not being believed.
The frustration of being told to try harder.
The guilt of not having the energy to always explain myself.

I carry the loneliness of masking—of being “okay” enough to blend in, but never enough to feel seen.
I carry the fatigue of being the strong one. The resilient one. The dependable one.
The one who breaks behind closed doors.

 

What I Create

I create in the spaces where I once stayed silent.
I make art because I didn’t have the words. I write because I finally do.
I build things that offer comfort—coloring books, art kits, small sanctuaries for people like me.
I create tools I wish someone had handed me when I was falling apart quietly.

Creating isn’t just about making something beautiful.
It’s how I survive.
It’s how I resist invisibility.

I create from the fractures. From the places that once felt like failures.
I create because I never had safe places to fall, so now I build them for others.
I create coloring books not because they’re cute, but because they hold space for people who need peace.
I create rituals out of softness. I create magic out of mundane.

Every page I design is a whispered permission slip:
You don’t have to be okay to be worthy.
You don’t have to be productive to be lovable.
You don’t have to earn rest.

I create to say the things I was too afraid to say out loud:
“I’m tired.”
“I can’t keep pretending.”
“I’m still healing.”

And I create for the version of me who never saw herself in the world…
until I put her there.

 

What They Never Wanted the Good Girl to Know

They never wanted the good girl to know she could say no without explanation.
That softness isn’t weakness. That burnout isn’t a badge of honor.
That rage can be sacred. That taking up space isn’t selfish.

No one taught me how to fall apart gracefully.
No one gave me a map to put myself back together.

So I made my own.

They never wanted the good girl to know she could leave.
That boundaries were a birthright—not a betrayal.

They never wanted her to speak up, to take breaks, to stop apologizing.
They told her her voice was too loud, her body too much, her emotions inconvenient.

They never wanted her to question the rules they set.
Never wanted her to know that love without safety isn’t love at all.

No one warned me that healing would cost relationships.
That peace might mean being misunderstood.

No one handed me a blueprint for reclaiming my voice—so I’ve had to draw it by hand.
In shaky lines. Through trial and error. Through survival and softness.

And now?
I don’t whisper anymore.
I don’t ask permission to take up space.
I don’t shrink to fit the story someone else wrote for me.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Dear you,

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.
Thank you for sitting in this space with me—for witnessing not just my words, but what they carry.

Maybe some of what I’ve written lives in your body too.
Maybe you've been the good girl. The quiet one. The one who never broke the rules—but still broke.

If that’s you… I want you to know you’re not alone.
I’m not here to fix you. You don’t need fixing.

I’m just a woman trying to piece together a life that feels honest.
And if my truth touches yours in some way, I hope you’ll carry that gentleness with you.

You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to take up space.
You are allowed to rewrite the rules they gave you.

This is where it begins—for both of us.

Unfiltered. Raw. Me.
~ Cassandra