We can rise above

 It still shakes me when I think about the letters.


I got them for years—anonymous, venomous words meant to shame, control, and cut me down. When I was dating my ex and went to visit him in college, I got letters calling me a horrible person. When I got married and hit rough patches—letters again, telling me I must have no self-esteem, that my husband didn’t love me, that I was pathetic for staying.


And the worst—the most chilling—was the one comparing me to Gabby Petito. Saying he wished I’d end up like her. Who says that? Who even thinks that?


They never signed the letters, but they didn’t need to. Only a few people knew the details mentioned. Only a few people would even care enough to try and crush me like that. I knew it was them. I won't say who it is online but I know!


I tried everything to get them to stop—pleading, distancing, explaining. But it wasn’t until I said I had a private investigator on the case that the letters suddenly stopped. No apology. No ownership. Just silence, as if none of it ever happened.


I still don’t fully understand how anyone can do that. How someone can carry that much cruelty toward someone. And I still carry the aftermath—doubts about myself, shame that never belonged to me, and the grief of knowing the people who claim to love me are also the ones who tried to destroy me, piece by piece.

But here’s what I do know:


Those letters were never a reflection of my worth.

Their cruelty was never my fault.

I am not the person they tried to make me believe I was.


I am healing. I am reclaiming my voice.

I am not small. I am not powerless.

I am loved—by myself, by others, and by something bigger than the pain I’ve endured.


When the past rises up, I will breathe.

I will return to my truth: I survived what should have broken me.

And I am still rising.


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