The Truth Hurts

But I’m not done telling it...

I’ve written thousands of stories over the past seven years.

The ones that stay with me the most—and with my readers—are often the ones that hurt.

Not because I want them to. Not because I think pain makes writing more powerful.

But because when we tell the raw truth through writing, we bleed a little.

Sometimes, that’s the only way to heal.

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If you’ve read me before, you might remember sharper essays that cut close to the bone—difficult pieces about my childhood, my body, my faith, my fears, and my failures. I wrote about divorce, disability, motherhood, fatphobia, shame, illness, survival, and some deeply uncomfortable revelations.

For years, I built a life on writing honestly, no matter how embarrassing it seemed.

Until life hit much harder than I could keep up with.

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Since 2020, I’ve been living through a quiet kind of collapse.

My health fell apart.

I was finally diagnosed with late-stage lipedema and lipo-lymphedema, which had already destroyed my knees and left me in chronic pain and severe mobility issues.

I underwent five lipedema surgeries in just over a year, with no real rest in between.

I live with multiple health conditions that insurance doesn’t understand and often won’t cover.

I’ve had to crowdfund for treatment, for rent, and even for survival.

At the same time, the platforms I once relied on—especially Medium—stopped supporting writers like me.

And honestly? I stopped supporting myself too. I lost my energy. My confidence. My income.

I didn’t lose my voice, not exactly. But I didn’t know how to use it anymore.

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This newsletter is my way back.

It’s called The Truth Hurts because it often does. But that’s never been a reason for me to stop telling it.

So, I’ll be resharing some of my most raw, resonant writing—with updates, insights, or perhaps just a little more hindsight.

I’ll also be writing new pieces about:

• Living with lipedema and fighting for care

• Parenting while disabled and neurodivergent

• The emotional cost of being visible in a fat, female body

• What it means to start over (again)

• Creativity, grief, and scraping together hope

• Dealing with abuses of power within the church

• Stories in support of justice for Angie, Grant, and Gracie

This space will be a little softer than my previous Medium work. Certainly a bit slower. But still sharp, still honest, and still me.

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If you’ve missed my voice—thank you.

If you’re new here—welcome.

If you’re able to support my work through a subscription or donation—it means more than you know.

I’m still writing. I’m still recovering. And I’m not done telling the truth.