Rooted in Ash

You’ve heard a version of me.

You might even think you know me.

The angry one.

The difficult one.

The woman who “won’t let it go.”

The one they whisper about when they think I can’t hear.

Too loud. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too much.

But let me be clear about something:

I am not the woman you think I am.

I am the woman who stayed long after she should have walked.

I am the one who held the house together while it cracked beneath her.

I am the one who didn’t break the silence because she hoped—hoped—that love would come back.

I am the woman who’s been rewritten in other people’s stories—cast as the villain in someone else’s guilt.

Not because I was wrong.

But because I remembered.

Because I felt.

Because I spoke.

And when I did, I became the mirror no one wanted to look into.

This blog isn’t for defending myself. I’m not here to beg to be seen anymore.

I’m here to tell the truth.

Mine.

If you’ve ever been rewritten, erased, or reshaped by someone else’s shame—

If you’ve ever carried the weight of someone else’s betrayal in your body like a bruise you can’t explain—

If you’ve ever felt invisible while being called “too much”—

Then this space is for you, too.

Rooted in Ash isn’t a brand.

It’s a reclamation.

I’m not here to rise and sparkle. I’m here to grow, tangled and real, from the burn.

And I’m not writing for attention.

I’m writing because no one else could carry this story the way I can.

I am not the woman you think I am.

I am the woman I know I am.

And this is where I begin again.