I Matter

Today, I had a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend because I was struggling. I found myself crying, wondering where I went wrong. Is this even real? I was having a “pity party for one” and hosting it all by myself. I’ve never liked dragging people into my depressed states—I suppose that’s why I’m so exhausted most of the time. Pretending that everything is okay takes a massive amount of energy.

Sometimes, you just need the tears to flow. When I look back on everything, I realize I’ve never truly cried about the situation. For three years, I was too angry to allow myself to feel. Instead, I buried my emotions deep. My friend reminded me that it’s okay to lose it once in a while—that I don’t have to hold it together all the time. No one is that strong, and that’s okay. She said it’s heartbreaking how some people took advantage of my generosity.

It amazes me how others can see my value when the people who mattered most never did. I guess I’m mourning the life I imagined—grieving the dreams I had for my future and the reality I live in now. And now that I finally have the time to feel, everything is catching up to me.

Being alone in this world feels so heavy. Humans weren’t made to walk this life in isolation. That’s what makes me the saddest—no longer having that person to dream with, to build a future alongside. I long for that connection again. I have so many things I want to accomplish with the rest of my life, and the idea of doing them all by myself is genuinely disheartening.

My friend kept repeating, “You matter.” She urged me to do things that are good for me. But how do you change a lifetime of putting others first? I’ve always placed myself at the bottom of the list. So when people say, “Do what makes you happy,” I’m lost. What is happiness? I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt it. So how do I find something I don’t even recognize?

“You matter” is a powerful statement. I never thought I did. I always believed my purpose was to be there for others, to serve their needs. Somehow, I keep attracting narcissistic people into my life—both in friendships and relationships—and I worry that I’ll fall into the same trap again. Right now, I feel too broken to trust myself with another relationship. Maybe I need to wait until I’ve healed. I know myself—once I’m in a relationship, I focus on it completely and lose sight of my own growth and wellbeing.

I matter to myself, which means I need to be cautious and intentional when I start dating again. I matter to my family. They’re deeply important to me and a source of strength. But even there, I need to make sure I’m not pouring from an empty cup—because that cup belongs to me first.

I’m trying to let the words sink in—I matter. Saying it makes me tear up every time. My ex-husband tried to take my life, twice. It scarred me so deeply that I began to believe I was disposable. So saying “I matter” feels like speaking something sacred but unfamiliar. It’s hard to believe, but I’m beginning to. I matter to people who love me—who would be devastated if something bad ever happened to me.

Now I’m left asking: What’s next? Should I keep hoping for someone to share my life with? Or should I stay single and continue this emotional purge until I feel whole again?

I don’t know the exact answer yet… but I know one thing:

I matter.

Depression: Where did you come from??

Depression is so strange.
One day your body feels like it’s filled with lead, and you sleep for hours you can’t even remember. You wake up groggy, confused, eyes barely able to open, and yet still exhausted. The next day, or maybe even that same night, you’re wired, mind racing, heart pounding, and sleep is nowhere to be found. I was up late last night, my thoughts chewing through the silence, and now it’s early morning and I’m still awake. This is depression. It’s not just sadness, it’s a war within your own body and mind. You try to walk through the day like everything is fine, like you’re holding it together, but really, you feel like a ghost haunting your own life.

You function because you have to. You smile because people expect it. But inside, you’re crumbling.

And then come the people who think they understand.
They give you clichés: “You’ll be fine.” “Everyone goes through hard times.” “Just think positive.”
But how would they know? They didn’t live through my life. They didn’t sleep in fear as a child or wake up in chaos. They didn’t grow up trying to survive in a world that felt unsafe and unpredictable from the start. People say they’d handle things differently, but I don’t know many who would still be standing—let alone functioning—after what I’ve been through.

Sometimes I wonder how bad it really was, because there are parts of my childhood I’ve completely blocked out. It’s like a fog rolled in, thick and heavy, erasing everything too painful to carry. And now Tammy is gone. She was the only person who could look at me and say, “Remember?” She held the other half of the memory, my living proof that I wasn’t crazy, that those things really happened. Now all I have are the fragments. Shadows.

I’ve asked myself over and over: Why do we always focus on the negative?
Is it just easier? Or are there so few good moments that they get drowned out? For me, survival meant focusing on danger. I had to be alert. Hyper-aware. Ready. The good moments didn’t require that kind of attention, so they faded into the background while the trauma burned itself into my brain. I’ve spent years trying to heal, trying to unpack that pain, and yet it still creeps up behind me, especially when I think I’m finally okay.

My last breakdown wasn’t that long ago, just a couple of years. I remember sitting in a psychiatrist’s office, asking, “Why are these breakdowns happening more often now?”
All they said was, “You need to deal with the trauma at this stage of your life.”
I stared at them, completely lost.
What did that even mean? I always thought healing had a finish line. That one day, I’d wake up and the trauma would be gone, processed, buried, handled. But now I know that’s not true. Trauma doesn’t leave. It sleeps. It waits. It wakes up when you’re vulnerable and grabs you by the throat.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised it came back now. I’ve been through so much recently, fighting in court over my divorce, closing the door on a marriage that spanned nearly two decades, moving out of the home I lived in for 18 years. And then trying to process the unthinkable: that my ex-husband tried to kill me. Twice.

Yes, you heard that right. Twice.

The first time felt like something out of a horror movie.
I had returned to the farm to pick up my truck and trailer. Everything looked fine, the truck was parked out front like nothing had happened. I got in, started the engine, and let it warm up. It was a standard, and I remember shifting into gear like I had done a thousand times before. The gate opened, and I pulled out, heading toward the city.

Then I got to the train tracks.

I pressed the brakes. Nothing.
I pumped them, panicked, hoping it was just air in the lines, but there was nothing. My heart slammed in my chest. I scanned the tracks; left, right; thankfully, no train. But my mind spun with the question: What would I have done if one had been coming? I clenched the wheel, jackknifed the trailer, and forced the rig to stop. Then I turned around and brought it back to the farm.

That’s when I saw it. The brake lines had been cut, on both the truck and the trailer.
Seventeen years of marriage, and I never thought he was capable of that kind of cruelty. You don’t want to believe the person you loved would plan your death. It’s easier to think it was a mistake. A freak accident. But it wasn’t. It was deliberate.

And I didn’t report it. Not at first.
Because how do you walk into a police station and say, “I think my husband tried to kill me.”
It sounds insane. Until it happens again.

The second time was even worse.

The house’s water system had been drained, including the hot water tank. I had to rig up a new setup to get water flowing again, since we lived on a farm. I connected the pump, got everything in place, and flipped the power. The water started flowing, but something didn’t feel right. That gut feeling, the one you only get after surviving trauma—was screaming at me. So I kept checking the tank. Up and down the hallway, over and over. Something was wrong.

Then suddenly, water started spraying everywhere. I rushed to shut it off. And that’s when I saw it.

The ground wire to the hot water tank had been cut.

He tried to electrocute me.

I just stood there, dripping, stunned, and terrified. I asked myself, What did I do to deserve this? I couldn’t come up with a single answer. But I knew, I knew without a doubt, that I had been lucky again. Someone or something was watching over me that day, just like at the train tracks. My intuition had saved me. My instinct had kept me alive.

Experiences like these change you.
They chip away at your trust in people. You want to believe in the good, you try to, but now you know darkness can hide behind a smile. Maybe you’re like me. Maybe you’ve spent your life seeing the best in people, ignoring the red flags, convincing yourself it’s not that bad. But it is. And it was.

Now, I sit here, looking back on everything, trying to make sense of it all.
Trying to figure out where the pain ends and where I begin.

The Changing Tide

I never imagined I’d be writing this about the loss of Tammy. Even now, the words feel unreal. She wasn’t just a part of this blog she was its heartbeat. Her unwavering encouragement, her fierce belief in me when I faltered. Those echoes still live in every post, every idea I dared to pursue because she said, “Keep going.”

During the final two years of her life, Tammy did everything she could. She went to her checkups like clockwork, and each mammogram came clean. We breathed sighs of relief. But what we didn’t know, what no scan showed was that the cancer was hiding, silently growing elsewhere in her body. That betrayal by her own biology is hard to accept.

She told me near the end that she was grateful, grateful that those last years were spent with her younger sister, Tanya, surrounded by a whirlwind of laughter and love. Tanya’s eight children adored her. Each one built a bond with Tammy that radiated pure joy. Even amid the storm, she found light in them. It’s hard. It’s cruel. But her love hasn’t left us, it’s woven into the fabric of our lives. Into this blog. Into me.

In the final year of her life, Tammy had fallen off the wagon. She was using drugs constantly and barely eating. Her body grew frail and skeletal, her energy drained, and each movement became painful. Walking was difficult for her, and it seemed like she was in agony all the time.

At the time, she was living in a basement apartment with her boyfriend. He grew increasingly frustrated with her declining health, and their relationship became strained. On Christmas, Tanya and I picked her up, we couldn’t bear to let her stay there any longer. We brought her home and refused to take her back.

In the new year, she had an appointment with the oncologist. When the prognosis came, it hit her like a storm: six months to a year left to live. She was in shock. Despite the diagnosis, she continued using drugs and drinking, perhaps trying to cope with the pain and the gravity of what was happening.

Tammy had one final dream, she wanted all of us sisters to live together during her last months. I didn’t know if I could do it. Tanya and I didn’t get along very well, and the idea of sharing such an intimate space felt daunting. It took me months to find a second job that I could manage while keeping my regular one.

Moving day was bittersweet. My bed was strapped to the back of the truck, and all my belongings were packed tightly into the cab. I was one step away from leaving my ex-husband behind for good. I knew I wasn’t coming back, but the full weight of that realization only struck me in that moment.

He didn’t kiss me goodbye. No “good luck,” no “take care” not even a nod of acknowledgement. Instead, he simply turned his back and walked away. As he reached the front door, he slammed it shut behind him without so much as a glance in my direction.

As I pulled out of the driveway, I caught one final glimpse in the rearview mirror. That house, that life, shrinking in the distance. And then I was gone.

While driving down the highway, my mind wandered toward the hope that maybe this new beginning would bring peace, especially for Tammy in her final days. I imagined a warm and supportive home, full of quiet joys. But reality met me with a harder truth.

When I arrived at the house we rented, Tammy was sitting quietly in a chair, her body frail and weakened. Walking was a true effort for her, she had no sensation in one leg, which she dragged behind her as she carefully navigated with a walker. Each step was a slow, determined shuffle, and every movement seemed to drain her energy.

One day, she asked if I could help her take a bath. I filled the tub with warm water and gently assisted her. Lowering her into the bath was a delicate process; her limbs trembled and her skin felt paper-thin. But in that moment, it wasn’t just about bathing, it was about dignity, care, and holding space for someone whose strength had been tested beyond measure.

Tammy couldn’t manage the stairs anymore, so she remained on the main floor. At first, she slept in a chair in the living room, it became her constant spot, day and night. Eventually, we got her a hospital bed, and it overtook the space. The sight of it sitting right there in the heart of the house made her declining health painfully real. It was a daily reminder that she was dying, and seeing it every time I walked into the room was gut-wrenching.

Tammy didn’t want to go to hospice; she insisted on staying at home where things felt familiar. Tanya and I agreed to honor her wish and care for her ourselves, for as long as we possibly could.

We created a ritual every night. The three of us would smoke a little pot, sink into our chairs, and laugh, really laugh. We’d reminisce about our wild childhoods, hilarious mishaps, and sweet moments that stitched our lives together. Tammy cherished that time; she looked forward to it each evening. It was when she felt most alive, surrounded by stories, laughter, and love.

During the day, I was working, while Tanya was home full-time. She carried the brunt of caregiving, tending to Tammy’s needs with unwavering dedication. Watching her hold it all together with such grace was humbling. Tammy’s passing hit Tanya especially hard; the emotional toll was immense.

The last three months were especially difficult. Home care aides visited four times a day, helping with everything from hygiene to pain management. The rhythm of their footsteps, the medical routines, it changed the entire energy of the house. But through it all, we held space for Tammy’s dignity and comfort.

Tanya and Tammy had good relationship, but it centered around drugs and alcohol. More drugs than alcohol for Tammy. I remember coming home one night to find that they were doing cocaine. I could not believe it, Tammy just stated that I should keep my nose out of their business. So I went to my room and in disbelief I went to sleep. When I asked Tanya about it next day, all was said was; “I hope when I am on my death bed someone will bring me a line of cocaine too.” I was in shock by her statement that I left with my mouth hung open.

Tammy’s condition was worsening she couldn’t move herself in bed. Her legs were paralyzed and she had no strength to pull herself to one side or the other. Tammy made the decision to go to hospice as she was requiring more care than we could provide in the home and decided to go to hospice. The main reason why she went to hospice is because she wanted to see Trevor, our brother. Tanya did not want him at the house that we rented, so Tammy knew she had to leave. Tammy wanted to see him before she past away. Also, she wanted to see her boyfriend. Tanya did not want him at the house either. Tammy was happy to go to the hospice so she could see the people she wanted to see to say her good-byes.

In Tammy’s final days, one of the hospice nurses pulled me aside and gently told me the truth: Tammy was dying. She urged me to gather the family so they could say their goodbyes. I informed everyone, and together we went in to be by her side.

Tanya couldn’t accept it. She kept asking Tammy pointed questions, trying to prove she was still mentally present. But Tammy struggled to respond, the answers weren’t coming. We tried to encourage Tanya to stop, but she couldn’t. Denial had its grip on both of them. Tammy herself was adamant that she wasn’t dying, even as her body clearly showed otherwise. Her abdomen had turned a deep purple, her legs were growing cold, and she was visibly fading.

The nurses did their best to help Tammy understand. They came into the room and gently explained that her time was near, but she refused to accept it. So I did what felt impossibly hard. As a nurse myself, I knew I had to be the one to tell her. I sat beside her and explained, as compassionately as I could, that she was dying. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.

Tammy still resisted the truth. She told us she wanted to hold on until the New Year. But her body had other plans, it was simply too weak to carry her that far.

After that moment of clarity, everything happened quickly. Within just a few days, Tammy passed. Her family was gathered around her, and her nephew Conner, a pastor, stood near, quietly praying. When she took her last breath, I was told a single tear traced down her cheek, as if to say she wasn’t quite ready to go.

I don’t think anyone ever truly is. Maybe death isn’t something we prepare for, it’s something we eventually accept. And in that moment of surrender, I believe someone is waiting on the other side. Someone who gently reaches out, takes your hand, and guides you home.