Boots & Curls

I haven’t been honest.

Not with myself. Not with the people who love me. And certainly not with the version of me that still believes everything is going to be okay.

Because right now?

It’s not.

I am struggling.

I am drowning in bills, in emotions, in shame I can’t even fully name.

I’ve had nights where I’ve poured one too many glasses just to take the edge off and mornings where I’ve hated myself for it. I’ve whispered promises to get help—to finally find a therapist, to try—but then I look at my bank account, look at my daughter, and think, I don’t have the right to break down. Not today.

Because Charly needs me.

She needs food on the table and rides to where she needs to be and a mom who smiles and says everything is fine.

So I’ve become a woman who lies in her own mirror.

One who says she’s okay when she’s anything but.

One who holds space for others, but doesn’t know how to ask for a sliver of it herself.

I’m still grieving.

God, I hate admitting that.

I was bleeding while holding a job I just started. I was smiling at patients, faking focus, answering phones like my body wasn’t unraveling quietly beneath my clothes. And no one knew.

Because I didn’t let them.

That kind of pain… it doesn’t leave. It lingers. It haunts.

And it finds new ways to hurt you on the quiet days when you think you’ve made it through.

And then there’s Owen.

I haven’t been good to him. I can say that now.

I’ve been cruel. Defensive. Sharp with my tongue and guarded with my love.

I’ve pushed him away, accused, assumed, and spiraled.

I’ve betrayed the trust I so desperately wanted from him.

And part of me wants to punish myself for that.

To scream, “He deserves better!”

Because maybe he does.

Maybe it’s only a matter of time before he finds it.

Finds someone who isn’t broken or bitter or scared.

Finds someone who doesn’t check his phone like it’s a bomb about to go off.

Someone who lets him be the soft man I know he is when the world isn’t watching.

But then I think about Charly.

And how she looks at him like he hung the stars.

How she trusts him in a way she’s never trusted many people.

How she feels safe around him. Like really, deeply safe.

And I ache.

Because I want that for her.

Even if it’s not with me. Even if I don’t get to keep the pieces of him I once held.

Even if I’m the reason it all fell apart.

I don’t know what to do.

I want to be better. I really do.

But I’m tired. I’m scared. I’m overwhelmed.

And if you’ve ever been here—where the pain is louder than the plans, and the guilt is louder than the love—

Then maybe you know, too.

This isn’t a plea.

It’s not even a confession.

It’s just a whisper into the dark, hoping that maybe I’m not the only one still trying to crawl out of it.