Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Have you ever felt like there’s something wrong with you? Like you’re too much or not enough, or that no matter what you do, you’ll never be the right version of yourself for anyone else? Me too.

That’s the reason this blog exists.

On paper, I’m a mother, a wife, a friend, a cousin, a colleague. I wear all the titles, all the hats. But in the quiet moments, when the noise of the world settles, I often ask myself: Who am I, really? I thought I once knew. I thought I was the “perfect daughter,” the one who would keep the peace, carry the weight, and live up to what was expected of me. But approaching thirty, I reached a breaking point. I could no longer live a life that wasn’t mine.

So, I walked away. Away from the toxicity, away from the manipulation, away from the cycle that told me my worth was measured only by what I gave and how much of myself I sacrificed. I started over, from scratch, claimed what was rightfully mine. And while it has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, it has also been the best kind of difficult.

It didn’t come without guilt. The guilt of being labeled the “black sheep,” the “devil child,” the one who chose differently. The guilt of feeling ungrateful or selfish for wanting to live my own life. But slowly, I began to realize: I wasn’t meant to owe my parents my entire existence. I was meant to live authentically, and the best gift I could give my child was a mother who chose honesty over expectation, freedom over fear, love over control.

Breaking generational curses isn’t clean or easy. It’s messy. It’s filled with questions that never really go away.

Questions like: Am I really myself? Or am I just a product of pain, abuse, and survival? Survival carried me for decades, but survival isn’t the same as living. And somewhere along the way, I decided I wanted more than to just survive.

Now, in my late thirties and closer to forty, I still feel the residue of what I walked away from. The damage lingers, the demons still whisper. I carry them into my marriage, into my parenting, into my everyday life. Accepting love from my husband, the kind of love that is patient and steady, is still a challenge. I’ve been conditioned to see needing help as weakness, and letting myself be cared for feels like unlearning an entire lifetime of beliefs. But this is the work. And though it’s hard, it’s worth it.

This blog is part of that work too. It’s my safe space to put words to experiences I once thought had to stay hidden. It’s a place where honesty matters more than perfection, and where connection is stronger than silence.

If you’ve ever felt like me, if you’ve questioned your worth, felt out of place, or carried guilt that wasn’t yours to hold; welcome. You don’t have to have it all figured out to belong here. Maybe you’ll read and recognize pieces of your own story. Maybe you’ll share your own experiences or the tools that helped you heal. Or maybe you’ll just sit with the words and know you’re not alone.

This isn’t about money or recognition. I’m not here for fame or likes or clout, like i have previously stated. I’m here because voices matter. Stories matter. Yours, mine, all of ours. I can’t erase pain, and I can’t fix the past. But I can hold space for it. I can listen. I can share what I’ve learned and what I’m still learning.

So here it is: a place where you’re free to speak, to share, to reflect, or simply to be seen. A safe space, even if it’s only on a screen.

Welcome. You matter here.

-B. Honest

Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional, therapist, or licensed expert. The content on this blog is based on my personal experiences, thoughts, and opinions only. Nothing here should be taken as medical, legal, or professional advice. If you are struggling with your health, mental well-being, or safety, please seek help from a qualified professional.