“Resume of A Soft Person” An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Four
2–3 minutes
Objective To continue being human in systems that confuse urgency with value. To create warmth, clarity, and connection—even when it’s not on the job description. To survive with integrity intact.
Experience
Human First, Everything Else Second All Workplaces, All the Time 2008–Present
De-escalated adults and children without ever raising my voice.
Built trust with people in distress, over the phone and across classrooms.
Learned how to stay calm when everything else was unraveling.
Treated coworkers, clients, and students like people, not tasks.
Earned the kind of compliments that don’t go on performance reviews, but stick with you for life.
Intake Whisperer Law Firm #1 & #2 2021–2023
First voice people heard when their life had just cracked open.
Listened without judgment, and translated chaos into coherent facts.
Created space for people to tell hard truths without flinching.
Balanced compassion with boundaries in every conversation.
Helped students feel seen, even when the system didn’t.
Co-regulated through meltdowns and Monday mornings.
Built community, even when support was hard to come by.
Knew when a kid needed a break, not a punishment.
Skills
Reading a room faster than reading an email.
Leading with kindness while holding firm boundaries.
Keeping it together when nobody else is.
Writing messages that say what people need to hear, not just what they expect.
Making people feel safe enough to be real.
Education
Bachelor of Soft Power, Minor in Burnout Informal but Intensive Training 2006–Present
Graduated with honors in giving a damn.
Capstone Project: “How to Be the Strong One Without Going Numb.”
Thesis in progress: “How to Keep Showing Up Without Disappearing.”
References
People who remember how I made them feel.
Students who still check in years later.
Coworkers who could breathe easier knowing I was on the clock.
My nervous system, now learning that rest is allowed.
Me, finally starting to believe that I am enough.
Narrative Outro In the end, this resume isn’t a list of jobs or titles—it’s a testament to a way of being that refuses to let the world define my worth. It’s a quiet declaration that softness and strength can coexist, that caring deeply isn’t a flaw but a form of resilience. Every line here is a reminder that even amidst systems built to drain us, the simple act of showing up with openness and authenticity can rewrite the rules. I’m not chasing accolades—I’m cultivating a life that values being human over endless productivity.
Note to Readers: This post is both a love letter to Easter and a reckoning with what we choose to forget. I say it all with love—and a little laughter.
There’s something undeniably beautiful about Easter. The spring light. The pastel dresses. The kids wobbling through the grass with baskets bigger than their bodies. And the tables—full of ham, deviled eggs, that one jello salad someone insists on bringing every year.
I grew up Catholic, going to church every Sunday, no questions asked. And even though I don’t really go to mass anymore, I still consider myself mostly Catholic. The kind that still whispers Hail Marys when I’m anxious, still tears up when I hear “Be Not Afraid,” still feels something ancient and grounding during Easter.
And also—the kind of Catholic who remembers the year my younger cousin Emily farted out loud during Easter mass and everyone around us (except the very serious usher) started shaking with silent laughter. I swear that memory is burned into my soul more than any homily. And honestly? That might be my favorite Easter moment ever.
But this year, between bites of chocolate eggs and the smell of baked ham, I found myself thinking about the real reason for Easter: Jesus.
Not the white-robed, blue-eyed version from American paintings. But the real Jesus. The historical man. A Middle Eastern Jewish man born in Bethlehem, raised in Nazareth—modern-day Palestine. A brown-skinned refugee who practiced Judaism and fled violence with his family when he was just a child. An outsider. A radical.
And it hit me: If Jesus lived today, would he even be allowed into this country?
Would he be stopped at the border? Flagged by TSA? Labeled a threat because of where he’s from or what his name sounds like? Would he be deported under Trump’s immigration policies?
Would the very people who say his name the loudest slam the door in his face?
It’s not a question of politics. It’s a question of truth.
Jesus would likely be on the wrong side of every system built to exclude. He wasn’t a Roman citizen. He didn’t hold power. He challenged authority. He flipped tables. He wept for the suffering. He welcomed the ones no one else would. He hung out with the poor, the sick, the criminalized, the outcast. If we really look at his story, it’s a story of resistance—and of radical love.
And that makes me wonder: Have we forgotten who we’re celebrating?
This isn’t about guilt. It’s about remembrance. About asking ourselves how we treat the strangers, refugees, and the marginalized today. About how we worship a man who was once all of those things—and whether we’re living like we actually believe him.
So yeah. I still love Easter. I still laugh thinking about Emily’s legendary church fart. And I still believe in resurrection.
But resurrection isn’t just about what happened to Jesus. It’s also about what we allow to happen through us.
And I hope that as we celebrate Easter, we don’t just sit comfortably in our churches and our family dinners—but ask ourselves who Jesus would be today, and whether we’d make room at the table for him.
There’s something about waking up to rain that makes everything feel slower—softer, even. The sound of it tapping on the windows, the sky pulling a blanket of gray over the world like it’s telling us all to just pause for a second. On sunny days, there’s a kind of pressure to be out, to be social, to do something that looks like a movie montage. But on rainy mornings? The rules change.
I stayed in bed longer this morning, just listening. No sun blaring through the blinds, no rush. It felt like permission to move gently. No hurry to perform, no obligation to “make the most” of the day.
There’s this underrated magic in rainy days: you don’t have to be chipper or charming. You can be thoughtful, or tired, or quiet. You can wear socks that don’t match and eat soup for breakfast. You can listen to sad songs and not explain why. You can cry a little and it feels like the world is crying with you—or better, for you.
And honestly? Some of my favorite walks happen on rainy days. Not the freezing, torrential kind—but those mild, steady-rain days that feel like the world’s been muffled. I have a select rotation of rain jackets and boots (yes, there’s a system), and something about putting them on feels like an intentional little ritual. It makes stepping outside in the rain feel like a choice, not a chore. Like I’m part of the weather instead of avoiding it.
Rainy days feel like a reset. Like a soft space in between the hustle. They let you rest without guilt. Create without pressure. Breathe without performance.
So yeah, I’m kind of a fan. Not of storms or floods or dramatic weather events—just the plain, slow, steady kind of rain. The kind that hushes the world for a bit. The kind that reminds you that sometimes the best thing you can do is nothing at all. Or maybe just go for a walk in your favorite raincoat.
There’s a Pacers playoff game today—and I’m not going. But my heart is still right there at Gainbridge Fieldhouse.
My boyfriend, his best friend, and his best friend’s mom (who honestly deserves honorary superfan status) are going to Game 1 today, and I’m so excited for them I could burst. It’s not just a basketball game—it’s one of those moments. A core memory in the making. The kind of thing that lives in your bones forever.
They’ve been Pacers fans forever—cheering through the highs, the lows, the weird rebuilding years. They’ve been yelling at the TV, celebrating buzzer beaters, and cursing refs with real passion. They care about this team in the way that makes you care too, even if you didn’t grow up with it.
And today they’re there. In it. Surrounded by the energy, the fans, the lights, the buzz of playoff basketball in Indiana. I can already picture the texts I’ll get, the group selfies in front of the court, the recap of every play that made them lose their minds. I love that for them.
Sports are funny like that. They pull people together, give you a reason to scream in unison, believe in something, feel big feelings about grown men in jerseys. And honestly? That kind of joy is rare. When you find it, you hold onto it.
So today, I’m cheering from afar. Not just for the Pacers, but for the people I love having the time of their lives. Let’s go, Pacers. Let’s go, memories.
“Be Yourself, But Not Like That” 🧠An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry Three
“Be yourself,” they say. But only if it makes everyone else comfortable.
💬 The Double Bind
“You should just be yourself!”
Except when I try, it’s suddenly too much, too weird, too intense, too soft, too different. The social advice to “be yourself” often comes with invisible conditions — ones that feel impossible for someone like me to meet.
I’ve learned that the world doesn’t actually want authenticity. It wants a curated version of it — one that doesn’t disrupt the flow, question the vibe, or take up space in a way that makes people uncomfortable.
Especially if you’re autistic. Especially if you’re a woman.
🧍🏽♀️ The Teacher Friend
At Warrington, one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever had, I had a teacher friend who told me I needed to stop caring so much. She wanted me to act like her — tougher, louder, colder. She said it would help me survive the chaos of our school. Maybe she meant well. Maybe she didn’t. I was too exhausted to know the difference.
The truth was, I needed support. Teaching was goddamn hard. I was pouring everything into those kids. But I couldn’t turn off who I was. I couldn’t fake being callous or detached. That’s not how I work — and it never has been.
When I did show up as myself, when my real personality inevitably bubbled through, she and another teacher would make fun of me. Little digs, little laughs. I started shrinking. Quieting. Second-guessing everything. I was still burning out, just more silently.
👗 The Panama City Girls Trip from Hell
Another time, I went on a trip to Panama City with two girlfriends who made me feel like I was failing some invisible test of womanhood. They wanted me to like the things they liked. Dress the way they dressed. React to the world how they did. I didn’t — I couldn’t. So I spent the trip trying to disappear.
I ended up getting so drunk one night that I peed on myself. I was trying so hard not to feel anything, to be someone else, to escape the absolute discomfort of not belonging.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to be anyone but me — but I didn’t know how to be me without paying for it.
🔁 Repeat
This wasn’t a one-time thing. It’s been the pattern.
Be yourself — but not like that. Have emotions — but not those ones. Talk — but not too much. Don’t talk — but don’t be weird about it.
People want quirky, not clinical. Empathy, not shutdowns. Passion, but in moderation. And always — always — the kind of “different” they can laugh at but never be uncomfortable around.
🌱 What I Know Now
I know now that those friendships weren’t safe. They weren’t made for someone like me to exist in fully. But at the time, I thought I just had to try harder. Be better. Be cooler. Be quieter. Be… less.
But you know what?
I’m done with that. I’m done trying to be someone else’s idea of tolerable.
Because being myself — actually being myself — has cost me a lot. But it’s also brought me home.
To the right people. To real softness. To joy I don’t have to explain. To art and cats and poetry and long walks and all the weird, wonderful things that make me me.
When I worked receptionist at the Levin Papantonio Law firm.
“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” — Oscar Wilde
Easier said than done, right?
Honestly, though, I’ve always been pretty good at being myself. It’s one of the things people tend to compliment me on—my honesty, my quirks, the way I just kind of am who I am. No frills. No fake. Just me.
But being yourself only really works when you feel safe to do it. When the space around you doesn’t shrink or tighten every time you say something a little “too much” or move a little “too weird.” And unfortunately, not every space is like that. Some rooms are full of people who want you to shrink. Some rooms are full of people who only love the idea of you—until you act like yourself and it gets too real for them.
So yeah, I’ve had to mask. A lot. That’s what happens when you’re autistic in a world built for non-autistic people. I can’t just walk into every room and drop my full weirdness on the table like a deck of wild Uno cards. Especially not around people I don’t know well. There’s always that calculating moment—how much of me can I show here? Is it safe to be this honest? Will I be misunderstood again?
Spoiler alert: if I feel like I have to do that kind of math every time I open my mouth, I’m not going to stay in that space for long.
The People Who Tried to Change Me (And Why That Never Works)
I’ve had people try to change me. People who thought they were helping, maybe—like they had some kind of personality blueprint I was supposed to follow. But every time that’s happened, it’s been a disaster. For them, for me, for the relationship. It never lasts long, thank god.
There was a teacher I worked with at Warrington who really wanted me to act like her. She had this hardened, sarcastic, zero-fucks kind of vibe about everything and everyone. She handled stress with biting comments and eye rolls and expected me to do the same. But that just… wasn’t me. I cared too much. I felt everything. I couldn’t shut off my heart the way she could, and I didn’t want to. But teaching was so goddamn hard at Warrington, and I needed support, and for a while I tried to keep that friendship going—even though it chipped away at me.
When I inevitably did act like myself (because I can’t not be me for very long), she and another teacher would basically make fun of me. I don’t think they thought they were being mean, but it was that kind of snide judgment masked as “joking” that still stings. So I tried to find some middle ground, some version of myself they wouldn’t laugh at. That was even worse. It felt like holding in a sneeze that wanted to be a full-body earthquake. It was awful.
And then there was Panama City.
I went on a trip with two girlfriends who were, in a word, not my people. Negative energy central. They wanted me to act like them, like the things they liked, dress how they dressed, react to the world the way they did. Spoiler alert: it didn’t go well. I was miserable the entire time. So miserable, in fact, that I got absolutely obliterated one night and ended up peeing on the cement in the pool area while still in my bathing suit. I mean—was it classy? No. But was I the first person to ever do something like that in Panama City? Also no. Not even close. That whole city is one giant Spring Break-induced fever dream.
But of course, they judged me hard for it. They acted like I’d personally disgraced them in the town square. It was ridiculous. Honestly, if they’d just laughed with me and moved on, it would’ve been fine. But they weren’t those kind of people. And I wasn’t ever going to be their kind of person, no matter how hard I tried.
On My Best Days, I Sparkle
On my best days—the days I actually feel safe to be myself—I sparkle. Not literally (actually yes literally…I use glitter when I’m doing my art a lot and so there’s kind of always glitter on me and around me hehe), but in that way where people notice me because I’m glowing from the inside out.
I’m goofy. I’m bubbly. I’m singing nonsense songs I just made up two seconds ago. I talk out loud constantly—not always to anyone in particular, just because my brain is narrating or wondering or cracking jokes or making connections in real time. I smile at strangers. I compliment people’s shoes or hair or earrings just because I feel like it. I am, in a word, alive.
And I’m wearing the perfect outfit. That’s important. I’ve carefully curated it—not to impress anyone, but because it feels like me. It fits right, it moves right, and it says what I want to say without me needing to speak. Clothes, for me, are another language. And when I’m speaking it fluently, I feel powerful.
People sometimes assume that because I’m autistic, I must be shy or closed off or awkward all the time. And sure, sometimes I am awkward. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed or burnt out or need to disappear for a bit. But when I’m at my best, when the world isn’t trying to mute me or shove me into someone else’s mold, I am social, warm, and just so damn friendly. The kind of person who makes people feel like they matter, because I really do think they do.
And that’s who I really am. Not the quiet version. Not the masked version. Just me, in full technicolor.
It’s Not Always Easy, But It’s Always Worth It
Being yourself sounds like it should be the easiest thing in the world. But honestly? Sometimes it’s the hardest.
Because not every space welcomes you. Not every person knows what to do with someone who sings made-up songs and talks to herself in the cereal aisle. Not everyone appreciates outfits that were built to make you feel powerful instead of palatable. Some people want you to shrink, to be quieter, to tone it down.
And sometimes—especially when you’re neurodivergent—being yourself means constantly deciding how much of you the world can handle that day. It means carrying the weight of other people’s discomfort like it’s somehow your responsibility. It means holding your breath in rooms where you’re not sure if you’re “too much” or “not enough.”
But here’s the thing: every single time I’ve pushed through that fog and chosen to just be me, it’s been worth it. Maybe not in the moment. Maybe not in front of the wrong people. But in the long run? Every time I’ve honored who I am, even when it was messy or loud or vulnerable, it brought me closer to the kind of life I actually want.
The kind of life where I don’t have to perform. Where my weirdness isn’t just tolerated—it’s celebrated. Where I don’t have to trade authenticity for acceptance. Where the right people find me because I’m being real, not because I’m being convenient.
So yeah. Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken. And frankly? You’re way too interesting to be anyone else anyway.
Making an outfit is oh so fun!FLOWERS AND RAINY DAYS!
“On Being Loved Well” 🧠An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry Two
“To be deeply loved by someone gives you strength; to be deeply loved by your parents gives you roots.” — adapted from Lao Tzu
Not everyone gets what I have.
And I don’t mean that in a bragging way—I mean it in a heart-heavy, gratitude-so-deep-it-hurts kind of way. Because I know what a rare gift it is to be loved without condition. I know how many people live entire lifetimes without feeling truly safe in someone else’s care. I know that what I have is extraordinary.
I have parents who love me well. Not just on the easy days. Not just when I’m thriving. But in the mess. In the unraveling. In the darkest, scariest corners of myself.
Years ago, when I was living in Pensacola and barely holding on, I sent my mom a text in the middle of the night. The kind of text that’s more a whisper than a message. A quiet cry for help from a place where words are too heavy. The next morning, my dad was on a flight. No hesitation. No questions about money or work or logistics. He just came. He came to get me and bring me home. Because home was where they knew I’d be safe.
I didn’t stay long that time. I had a good therapist in Pensacola already. But my parents wanted to help more—they gently suggested I see a psychiatrist, someone who could evaluate me more fully and prescribe medication if needed. There was concern that maybe I had bipolar disorder, something my grandpa had lived with, and something we all wanted answers about. I agreed. And after months of appointments and evaluations, we found out the truth: I’m autistic. It wasn’t bipolar. It was something different. Something real. Something that finally helped everything make sense.
But what stands out to me most isn’t the diagnosis. It’s the way my parents moved mountains to help me get there. It’s the way money didn’t matter when my safety was on the line. It’s the way they showed up.
This past summer, the depression hit harder than it ever had before. I was in a place I don’t ever want to be again—scared, hopeless, and so, so tired. We had tried everything—therapy, medication, art, walking, yoga, journaling. And still, the fog didn’t lift. My parents stepped in again. They paid thousands of dollars—money they really didn’t have—for me to try ketamine treatment. They didn’t hesitate. And twice a week for twelve weeks, my sweet retired dad drove me to Fort Wayne and back for every appointment. (except for the first few…my sister, Amanda took me…post about sibling love coming at a later time ;))
That’s love.
That’s the kind of love that doesn’t flinch in the face of pain. That doesn’t demand I be okay when I’m not. That doesn’t shame me for struggling. That simply says: we’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.
And it wasn’t just adulthood. I’ve felt that love my whole life.
I remember one morning in seventh grade, crying silently through first period after something upsetting happened at the neighbor’s house. I didn’t have a phone, so I went to the nurse with a made-up stomach ache—just trying to escape. My mom picked me up. On the drive home, she gently asked if I was really sick. And I broke. I told her what had happened. I’ll never forget how she responded—with tenderness, with protection, with fierce love. My mom’s not the coddling type, but when it matters? She wraps you up in warmth and makes sure you know you’re not alone.
And then there was the day, years later, when I told her I had been making myself throw up during my sophomore year of college. I was terrified. I felt so much shame. But she didn’t react with fear or judgment. She listened. She comforted me. And then she helped—researching eating disorder therapists, helping me find one nearby, even doing the Atkins diet alongside me that summer just to support my healing. That summer ended up being one of the healthiest seasons of my life—physically, emotionally, mentally, socially.
And my dad… how do I even begin?
There is no love on this earth quite like the love my dad has for me, his only baby girl. It’s so deep it spills out of him. You can see it. People comment on it. You can feel it in the way he talks to me, the way he talks about me, the way he always sees the best in me—especially when I can’t.
When I was younger, we spent nearly every summer weekend driving all over Indiana for softball tournaments. Just me and my dad on the road, city to city, game to game. Those drives are stitched into my memory like a favorite song—simple, sacred, irreplaceable. Time that I now realize was so rare. So precious.
My parents have never put me down. They’ve never made me feel like a burden. They’ve never babied me either—well, maybe my dad a little, but only in the most endearing ways. They’ve always believed in me. They’ve always rooted for me. And they’ve always, always loved me well.
There’s no such thing as perfect parents. But mine are as close as it gets.
One day, if I’m lucky enough to have kids of my own, I hope I can love them with even a fraction of the love I’ve been given. Because this kind of love—it’s a foundation. It’s a compass. It’s the thing I return to when everything else feels unsteady.
This post is part of my “Unmasking” series. And if I’ve been able to unmask—if I’ve been able to come home to myself, and live with softness, and keep believing in goodness—it’s because I’ve always had the safety of being loved well.
And that’s everything.
📌 Tags:
unmasking series, mental health, autism, healing, parental love, suicide prevention, eating disorder recovery, grief and gratitude, neurodivergent life
“Masking 101 (And Why I’m Tired)” 🧠An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry One
Before I knew I was autistic or ADHD, I just thought I was working really hard at being a person.
Turns out, I was masking.
Masking is when you hide or camouflage parts of yourself so you can pass as “normal.” It’s mimicking facial expressions, tone of voice, posture. It’s copying how other people laugh or how they make eye contact. It’s forcing yourself to suppress stimming. It’s scripting conversations in your head before they happen. It’s smiling when you want to scream. It’s laughing when you’re confused. It’s staying quiet when you’re overwhelmed. It’s pretending you’re fine so no one thinks you’re difficult.
I’ve done it for so long, I used to think that was my personality.
When you’re autistic or ADHD—especially if you were socialized as a girl or assigned female at birth—masking becomes second nature. We’re taught to be accommodating. Quiet. “Not too much.” So we make ourselves smaller. We mirror people. We blend in until we disappear.
And sometimes we’re praised for it.
“She’s so mature for her age.” “You’re so adaptable.” “You always seem so calm.”
Calm? No. Just dissociating professionally. Adaptable? Maybe. But at what cost?
Masking isn’t just exhausting. It’s identity-erasing.
I’ve walked out of social situations completely unsure who I was. I’ve said “yes” when I meant “no,” just because it felt easier. I’ve been praised for being chill when I was actually melting down inside.
People didn’t see my burnout—they saw “grace under pressure.” People didn’t hear my sensory overwhelm—they heard “sensitivity.” People didn’t notice my panic—they saw “perfectionism.”
Masking works… until it doesn’t. And when it breaks down, it looks like depression. Anxiety. Burnout. Shutdown. Rage. It looks like “what’s wrong with me?” It looks like “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
And honestly? That’s where I was when I started unmasking.
Unmasking is not always peaceful. Sometimes it’s letting people see you stim or cry or say something awkward. Sometimes it’s choosing not to go to a thing—even if people expect you to. Sometimes it’s saying “no” and feeling that old panic rise up… and doing it anyway.
It’s slow. It’s scary. It’s freeing.
I’m still tired. But now it’s the kind of tired that comes from becoming, not disappearing.
If you’re masking, and you’re tired too— you’re not alone. You’re not broken. And you’re allowed to rest.
Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of sexual assault, trauma, and psychological horror. Reader discretion is advised.
[Intro]
“Unseen, Unheard” is a psychological horror story that explores the haunting and often invisible trauma of sexual assault. Told through the journal entries of Sam, a young woman struggling with the aftermath of an assault and the supernatural forces that seem to follow her, this story weaves together the horrors of both real and imagined threats. It’s a journey into a mind trying to find peace, yet plagued by the shadows of the past.
Journal Entry 1
Date: January 15, 2014
I don’t know how to write this. I don’t know if this is even real. But I can’t get it out of my head. It happened right after winter break, at the party at Scotty G’s house. I had felt safe there—everyone was laughing, music blasting, a familiar crowd of frat boys. He had always been so kind to me, joking around like we were friends. But that night? That night was different. I was laying on the couch, just resting my eyes. The world was fading in and out. Maybe I had too much to drink? Or maybe I didn’t drink enough? And then I felt it. His hand. No. His finger. It slid in, without warning. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to make it real.
Journal Entry 2
Date: January 18, 2014
It’s like there’s a shadow following me everywhere. It’s not just in my head anymore. I can’t look at Scotty G without seeing his smile, his grin, as if nothing happened. He still thinks we’re friends. He still invites me to hang out. He doesn’t know that I can’t stand being near him. I can’t look at his face without remembering the way he touched me when I wasn’t even awake. I should’ve screamed. I should’ve fought back. Why didn’t I?
Journal Entry 3
Date: February 2, 2014
I keep hearing whispers. I don’t know where they’re coming from. It’s like the walls are alive, like they know what happened. Every time I pass by them, I hear my name—soft, like a wind blowing through the trees. But no one else hears it. No one else knows. The worst part is, I can’t get away from it. I feel like I’m suffocating. He’s everywhere. And it’s not just him anymore. It’s something darker, something older. The house, the room, the air—it all feels wrong.
Journal Entry 4
Date: March 1, 2014
I’ve stopped going to parties. I’ve stopped seeing people. The whispers are getting louder. It’s like there’s something in the house now. At night, I hear it. Something scratching at the walls. It’s not Scotty G anymore. It’s… something else. Something angry. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. And when I try, the darkness swallows me whole.
Journal Entry 5
Date: March 15, 2014
I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know if what I’m seeing is real. The house—the one I thought was my refuge—is now full of shadows. Figures I can’t make out. No one else can see them. I keep hearing it. That voice. It’s him. I know it is. It calls me by name, softly at first, then louder. It’s as though he’s calling me to him, beckoning me to return. But I won’t. I can’t.
Journal Entry 6
Date: April 2, 2014
I saw him again. Scotty G. He smiled at me. I almost ran, but then I heard it. The whispers, louder than ever, telling me I had to stay, I had to face him. I don’t know what to do. Every part of me wants to run, but I can’t seem to move. The shadows are growing. The whispers are becoming screams. I’m starting to think that maybe I’ll never be free of this. Maybe I’ll always be trapped here. In this house. With him.
Journal Entry 7
Date: March 18, 2024 (10 years later)
I’ve been hearing the whispers again. But this time, they’re different. I don’t know if it’s the house, or the city, or just me, but I can feel it closing in. I think he’s here. I think Scotty G is here, still with me. I still don’t know why he did it, why he took that piece of me, but now I’m realizing—maybe I wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe this was always going to happen. I can’t escape the feeling that I’m already dead. That I’m just going through the motions, waiting to disappear completely.
Journal Entry 8
Date: March 22, 2024
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. The shadows are so much worse now. I feel them pressing against me when I walk, hear them creeping when I lie in bed at night. They’re not just whispers anymore—they’re… screams. I’m afraid I’ll never leave this place. And what scares me the most? I think I’ve stopped caring.
Final Journal Entry Date: March 23, 2024
I can feel it, right behind me, getting closer. The whispers, the shadows—they’re all around me. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. The truth is, I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to keep fighting. I think I’ve decided. There’s only one way to make it stop. Only one way to escape. And I’m almost ready to do it.
[End of Story]
Closing Thoughts
This story is deeply personal and not an easy one to share. It’s meant to shed light on the lingering effects of trauma, and how it can follow you in ways that others can’t see. If you or someone you know has experienced something similar, please reach out. You don’t have to go through it alone.
I’ve always loved fashion. Not just the aesthetics or the thrill of putting together an outfit—but the language of it. Clothes have always helped me express who I am, how I’m feeling, or who I want to be that day. Sometimes it’s playful. Sometimes it’s bold. Sometimes I get dressed like I’m building armor. Other times I dress to soften the edges of the world.
Fashion has always made space for me. For experimentation. For mess. For transformation. And lately, I’ve realized: emotions deserve the same.
Feelings, like fashion, are constantly shifting. They change with the seasons, come back into style when you least expect it, and sometimes hang around long after they were supposed to be packed away. I’ve started to think of emotions not as something to fix or fear—but as something to wear. To try on. To move through. To appreciate for what they are, even if they’re not what I would’ve picked off the rack that day.
As someone who loves fashion—all of it—I don’t believe in ranking styles, and I feel the same about emotions. I don’t think one kind of feeling is better or more “appropriate” than another. Some days are high heels and bold lipstick. Other days are sweatpants and hoodies and unbrushed hair. All of it is valid. All of it is beautiful in its own context. You can feel joy in neutrals. You can feel heartbreak in glitter. You can wear sadness like a velvet robe and still love yourself in the mirror.
Take anger—it’s like a power suit. Structured, sharp, unapologetically present. It doesn’t have to be loud to be strong. Worn right, anger can be protective. It says “no” when you need it most. It gives you back your edges when the world tries to smooth you out.
Or sadness—it’s an oversized sweater, stretched at the cuffs, a little frayed, but so soft it feels like a hug. I don’t mind wearing sadness when it shows up. Sometimes it’s the only thing that fits. And I’ve learned not to rush to take it off. It passes. It always does.
Joy is sequins and silk scarves and the shoes you swore were impractical but wear anyway because they make you feel alive. Joy doesn’t always wait for the perfect moment. Sometimes you reach for it on purpose, like wearing your favorite outfit even when you’re feeling low. And sometimes, joy surprises you—shows up like a pop of color, a forgotten accessory that suddenly pulls everything together.
Anxiety, for me, is a utility jacket with too many pockets. Every one of them full. It’s not cute, but it’s functional. It means well. It wants me to be prepared, to plan ahead, to survive. I’ve learned to wear it differently. Loosen the buttons. Roll the sleeves. Let it be part of the outfit without letting it define the whole look.
And nostalgia—oh, nostalgia. That’s a vintage piece. Something that smells like the past, that reminds you who you used to be. It’s bittersweet and beautiful and, like all fashion, it can come back when you least expect it.
I’ve moved through every emotional outfit there is—sometimes in a single day. And the thing I’ve learned is: you don’t have to judge the feeling to wear it. You don’t have to love it to let it pass through you. You just have to honor it. Give it a hanger in the closet of your life. Try it on. Move with it. Let it teach you something.
Emotions don’t always fit perfectly. Some are too tight. Some are oversized. Some need tailoring. But all of them are part of the collection. And the most important thing? You are always allowed to change. To restyle. To reimagine who you are and what you’re feeling, again and again.
I still get dressed with intention. I still love putting on an outfit that makes me feel like myself—or helps me find myself again. And I’m learning to feel the same way about emotions. They don’t have to match. They don’t have to be easy. But when I let myself wear whatever shows up, I start to feel more like me again. The whole me. Not just the pretty moods. All of them.Because really, that’s what fashion and feelings are both about: expression, experimentation, and reminding yourself that you get to decide what looks and feels good on you.
