I Never Loved You

It’s true.
I never loved you—
not like that.

Not the way people mean it when they talk about falling in love.
To fall, for me, means something holy. Something cellular.
Like your presence quiets the world.
Like being near you makes me more myself.
Like I could feel peace just standing next to you.

That’s not what we had.

You were always hiding.
Behind bravado. Behind addiction. Behind an idea of who you thought a man should be.
But the truth is—I would’ve loved you more for your honesty than your mask.

I would’ve loved you anyway.
Even with the trauma.
Even with the PTSD.
Even with the wreckage you carried behind your eyes.

Because if anyone knows what it’s like to crawl out of a burning room in your own mind—it’s me.

But you wouldn’t let me in.
You lied, and then did the things I knew you were going to do anyway.
And then you left.
Quiet. Quick. Like a ghost.
Poof.

But I don’t hate you.

Maybe it’s because hate still requires something visceral. Something alive.
And what I feel for you now is something else entirely.

I feel space.
And I’ll always hold that space for you.
Not because you earned it.
But because you gave me the only thing that truly mattered—
Our daughter.
This luminous little soul you left behind for me to raise on my own.

And I do.
Gladly.
Fiercely.
Without resentment.

I forgive you.

I will never hate you.

But I know why you hated me.
You hated me because I survived something darker, and still didn’t become like you.
Because I didn’t lie.
I didn’t steal.
I didn’t cheat.

Maybe I was a bitch sometimes—
But only because no one was coming to save me.
And I refused to drown with you.

I Do Not Forgive You

I’m writing this because silence has protected too many people for too long. Because love—real, fierce, devoted love—isn’t always enough to undo the damage.

There was a person I trusted more than anyone. My person.
The one who shaped me, stood beside me, taught me how to survive.
And still, I’m left with this:

I do not forgive you.

I forgave being born into violence.
I forgave the choice to have me after a restraining order had already been filed. I was born in 1989. The paperwork said 1988. That should’ve been enough.

I forgave the decision to stay for a decade. Being terrorized.
Not because you didn’t know.
Not because it was the 90s.
But because I convinced myself maybe you didn’t know how to leave.

But the truth is—
The police came.
The police left.
Everyone saw.
And no one helped.

And I forgave what came next.
The moving. The loss of the first place that ever felt safe.
The dog we gave away because there was nowhere else to go.
The pull-out couch we shared at Granny’s when I was a teenager, already insecure in every way.

The friends’ homes that became mine.
The blow up mattresses.
You tried. You loved me.

I forgave being poor. You always tried.
You gave me what you could. Sometimes more than that.

I forgave the time I called after school, desperate, trapped in that house again because the bus had dropped me off like always.
I said he was going to kill me.
You said you couldn’t leave work.
You told me to call the police.

So I ended up on the roof of the garage—like usual—waiting for them to come.

I forgave the therapist who said we were lying.
I forgave the silence that followed.
I forgave the court that gave him custody, even though he didn’t want me.
Even though he didn’t hide it.

I forgave the way I was left with him, over and over, with nowhere else to go.
I forgave the dismissal. The deflection. The way I learned to swallow it all just to make it to the next day.

Even when I told you what I heard in that hotel room.
Even when I said I couldn’t take any more.

You could never hear it. You could never admit that what I was saying was real.

Even when you saw I wanted to die. Did you wonder why?

I forgave all of that.
I even forgave you when I told you my husband had strangled me—and nothing changed.
Because there are no emergencies when your life has always been haunted.

You didn’t help me leave until he put me in the emergency room.
Only then.

But you didn’t bring me to safety.
You packed me up and sent me across the country.
Back to him.
Back to my father.

The same man who terrorized us.
The same man you once needed protection from.

The devastation and violence you never let us forget.

You knew if I stayed in Colorado, I would die.
And still—you chose to send me back into the same fire you once escaped— Your home is full.

Because I found a man just like the one I was raised to love.
Because that’s what love had always looked like.

I forgave the fear. The silence. The nights I tried to tell you things by saying them outright—and you looked away.
I forgave the dismissal, the avoidance.
The way I was always making things harder.

But I do not forgive what happened after she was born.
After I survived.
After I finally had something to protect beyond myself.

I don’t forgive you for leaving my baby in that house.
Not when you knew.
Not when everything was already broken and burning.

I don’t forgive you for not knowing where she was.
For letting your husband blame us—for suggesting we were the cause of your emergency.
Our stress.

Not to be a stressor anymore.
Ever again.

I blame you for how easily you both cast her aside.
For how you treated my child—your granddaughter—not like family, but like a burden.
For leaving her with a stranger.
(Not that you knew. Or cared.)

You knew what I was doing.
You knew I was running.
You knew I was escaping in silence, in the dark.

And you made me go back.

You made me return to hell and pull her out myself.
You watched me claw our way back to safety—again—and subtly acted as if I was dramatic for telling you what I saw.

No.
I will never forgive that.

It will never be the same.
And I will never be the kind of mother you were.

That much, I promise.

Why You Think I'm a Bitch

Let’s just get this out of the way: I haven’t always spoken with softness. I haven’t always chosen or been capable of patience, discernment, or faking my way around hurting your feelings. Sometimes, I’ve spoken way too fucking directly. With a harshness that caught y’all off guard. What the fuck did she just say????

You think I’m a bitch because I call out your absolute bullshit. Because I don’t smile and play along when things are clearly fucking off. Because I never put up with the irate little men. Because when fight or flight got instilled in me—it was all fight, baby.

I remember, my mom would whisper to go get the keys, so we could escape, and instead, I’d come out of the garage at ten years old with a fucking metal baseball bat. Because fuck around and find out, Daddy. And you’ll see the little demon you’ve created with your cruelty.

I remember trying to teach large yoga trainings to mostly privileged white girls. (No hate thanks for helping me buy this condo.) But I didn’t relate to you. I didn’t relate when you complained about the mattresses or air conditioning or what the fuck ever. I remember the students that would love me but I also remember the others that would fucking hate me. One time, they formed a rebellion. The reason? I said, and I quote: "Do not fuck with my teachers."

I’m sure there was more. (Some of them remembered this later as being pissed we offered discounts to locals in Indonesia………………………) But I remember hearing that and thinking... what?

Did I threaten to kill you? Did I mock you until you cried? Did I unravel your sense of self on purpose? Berate you repeatedly? Or did I just tell you to shut the fuck up and stop disrespecting the young Indian woman I brought into this training to teach you something you clearly weren’t ready to receive? Or that you clearly didn’t practice before coming to a training to become a fucking teacher of something you barely understand? Because you’re entitled as fuck.

Because it was fucking disrespectful to begin with and you didn’t want to hear that side.

You think I’m a bitch because I said what needed to be said—out loud and without softening the blow to protect your delicate facade of bullshit. You think I’m a bitch because I didn’t play the part of whatever you thought I should be.

You think I’m a bitch because I don’t flinch when someone’s uncomfortable. Because I don’t care if your feelings got hurt when you got called out. Because I don’t sugarcoat things just to keep the peace. Because I’d rather speak the truth than be another fucking faker.

You think I’m a bitch because I’ve built something real without asking permission. Because I’ve survived shit you wouldn’t believe and still have the fucking audacity to show up and speak without shaking.

And if that makes me a bitch? Fine.

I’ll take the title. With fucking pride.

Because every time I speak up to protect someone who’s never been protected, every time I draw a hard line that stops people from trampling over what matters—I’m doing something that is more significant to me than being liked.

So honestly, call me a bitch. Because I do not give a singular fuck.

And honestly you’re probably right.

The Ashtanga Cult

When I first went to Mysore, I wasn’t chasing some big spiritual awakening—I just wanted to see where this practice came from. I’d been doing Ashtanga for a while and kept hearing people talk about Mysore like it was the holy land. Everyone made it sound like this magical place that would change everything. So I figured... why not? Let’s see what the hype is about.

But within days of arriving, I remember thinking vividly: these people are fucking crazy.

It wasn’t the asanas—they made sense. Strong, methodical, rhythmic. It was everything around them: the altars to Pattabhi Jois, the hush around questioning authority, the way people's eyes darted around when you asked uncomfortable questions. The yoga police—self-appointed guardians of purity who side-eyed you if they caught a hint you drank alcohol or, god forbid, ate meat. The whispery conversations about "Guruji," delivered with the solemn reverence reserved for saints.

It struck me immediately that even though Saraswathi was his daughter—and a truly remarkable teacher—her son took the throne. I saw how small her shala was in comparison to the anointed one’s. It already made no fucking sense to me. So I went back. Over and over. Maybe I’d fucking missed something? Are they really this far gone?

I’d traveled halfway around the world to practice yoga, but what I found felt a lot more like a well-dressed cult. Rigid rules. Idol worship. A kind of quiet obedience that made my skin crawl. Sharath Jois sat at the center of it all—benefiting immensely, both financially and culturally, from the system as it stood. When the Me Too movement finally cracked the surface, his response landed like a soft deflection—more about his own struggle than the people who had come forward.

And people praised it. Clapped. Sighed with relief. Because if they didn’t, they’d have to face the truth—that their practice, their teacher, their whole carefully curated identity might be built on top of something cracked. Something even dark and deeply fucked up.

It wasn’t just spiritual bypassing; it was collective delusion. The kind that protects power, punishes dissent, and wraps itself in incense and sanskrit to keep from being questioned. I stood in the middle of it thinking: how the fuck is this still happening?

Mysore was powerful, yes. But not because of the bullshit hierarchy or the inherited thrones. It was powerful because it showed me—up close—how quickly devotion turns into denial, and how easy it is to call something sacred just because everyone else does.

That lesson stuck.

For Luna

I wish so fucking badly I believed in heaven so I could convince myself that I would meet you finally.

Instead, I carry your ghost with me. Every day. In everything. You have never left me, even though you are nowhere to be found.

I felt you before anything showed up on a test. Before a line. Before I could even say it out loud. I just knew you were there. I was never scared to be your mom—I was certain. You were mine. We planned you. We named you. I had never wanted anything more. You were my fucking miracle.

When the lines started fading, I thought I would actually die. I went to the doctor over and over—blood tests, questions, silence. Then, finally, nothing. They couldn’t find you. You were just… gone. And I truly thought I might go with you. I’ve lived through so many atrocities, but nothing has ever devastated me like losing you.

I think my body gave out from all the pain I was already in. I think it failed us both. And I’m so sorry. I am so fucking sorry. I wish I could’ve saved you. I wish I had been stronger. I’ll think of you every day until I don’t have thoughts anymore.

People don’t know what to say when a pregnancy disappears, so they say nothing. They pretend you never existed. But I know you were real. You are real. You are my child.

So when Ryan came, I froze. Six different tests said she was still there, and I still couldn’t trust it. Because I was still so fucking broken. Still grieving you. And now I look into her eyes and I imagine you. I imagine you being together. Because you are sisters. You are. I imagine what it would be like to have you both here. I miss the version of life so fucking bad that had you in it.

You were my first miracle. My first experience with a love so big it terrified me—in the best way. You made me believe in something beyond survival. And even though Ryan is here now, even though she saved me in ways I didn’t know I needed saving, you were the beginning.

I will never regret you. You are the most unbearable, beautiful love I’ve ever lost.

And I carry you. In my every cell. In my silence. In the mother I am. Always.

You Don’t Get to Call It Love Now

The pull doesn’t make sense to you because you can't fathom the cruelty it took for me to remain this gentle. You don't know how many times the world gave me reasons to be anything but kind, and how many times I had to choose softness over survival, grace over revenge, forgiveness over bitterness.

You hurt me because I saw you—clearly, sharply, painfully. I saw the truths you hid from yourself, the parts you refused to face, and I held up a mirror even when it burned my own hands. And still, when I had every reason to cut you back, I stayed gentle. I gave you kindness you never earned, compassion you never returned, and love that demanded nothing from you.

And maybe that’s what haunts you. Not my anger, not my bitterness—because I left none. Instead, you are haunted by the way I never became your cruelty. By my refusal to become like you, to let pain make me less. By the gentleness I gave when you least deserved it, by the kindness you burned through believing there would always be more.

But people like me don't come twice. You carry me, you remember me, you ache in the empty spaces I left—not because I haunt you intentionally, but because I was devastatingly real in a way you'll never feel again.

They Tried to Fucking Kill Me

I was born to a man who didn’t want me.
But worse—he didn’t care.
Indifferent to knowing me,
to whether I was fed, warm, safe.
Indifferent to the fact that I even existed.

He saved his fire for my brother—
a boy raised on violence and praise,
taught that love was brutal,
that women are weak.

My mother—
she worked herself to exhaustion,
five jobs, five hundred worries,
no time for anything but keeping us alive.
She cared enough to try,
but survival doesn’t leave room for anything else.

I was was always alone.

Because they fucking hated me?
Like my father did,
like my brother did,
like every man after them.

They wanted me small.
Silent.
Grateful for the suffering they handed me.
They tried to kill every spark in me.

I should’ve known.
When the first man tore doors from their hinges,
drove 100 miles per hour just to watch me flinch.

Then came the biggest projection I ever invented—
Like i actually believed that shit in my chest.

i miscarried on the bathroom floor alone,
sobbing for the child that could have tethered me to him,
screaming like a wounded fucking animal bleeding out.

i died too that day,
realizing i was just another body to fill his emptiness,
replaced by literally fucking anyone.
He must have hated me too.

Or worse, he was always a hallucination.

So I ran.
Straight into the arms of a man I knew could destroy me.
I thought if I could create something whole,
it wouldn’t matter that I never had been.

And then I saw my own version of my father.
I had found him.

He took me from standing to flat on my back,
head against the wood,
pregnant.
his hands around my throat SQUEEZING,
his fist against my skull—again and again.

I carried his child and his rage at the same time,
eight months pregnant,
cleaning houses while hiding bruises,
a ghost of myself.

Days before our daughter was born,
he put me in the hospital.
Then totaled my car.

But the most hollowing act was:

Not when he threw me against the floor
Not when he punched me in the head.
Not even when he strangled me until I forgot how to breathe.

I knew when he spit in my fucking face.
Inches away, with our daughter still inside me.

Because to spit at something is to say:
You are nothing.
And if I was actually nothing,
then I was something that could be erased.

So I ran back to my father’s house,
a place where I was never a child
but still just a thing.

And it was just as brutal as I remember.

But there’s her.
And I would not let her know the childhood that I had run from.

So, I went home.

To the place I bought alone.
Just in case I needed to escape.
Not sure how I would survive,
but knowing I had to.

Because they fucking hated me.

They tried to kill me.
They tried to break me.
They tried to make me disappear.

But I am still here.

And my daughter?
She will never ask,
"Why does he fucking hate me?"

They tried to fucking kill me.
And they fucking failed.