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The
Naked
​Truth

The art of letting go

11/27/2024

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Last Sunday night I challenged myself to be BRAVE. Not the loud in your face kind of courage that the world seems to applaud when it goes viral on Instagram posts. 

But the quiet bravery. The one that requires a strength no one can visually see most days. But that must be felt in your core.

The task set at hand was a long time coming. I’d been holding on to something far longer than necessary. Twelve somethings it would turn out to be. And three hours of tearing and ripping and trying not to shake and cry and scream all at once.

Last Sunday I tore up my journals. Over 3000 pages documenting scary moments that I would never have imagined, yet actually lived through.

And in doing so, I hoped to free myself from the weight of carrying around visual reminders of a nightmare that I still re-live often in my sleeping hours. But maybe, just maybe, the process of destroying these journals would also sever the link that tethered me to my past.

Maybe I would finally be free to move forward.

But like many good stories, to understand how I got to this place where destruction allowed me to rebuild my life, we have to start in the past. 
Once upon a time, I kept a diary filled with all the usual childhood nonsense. Dreams and hopes. Frustrations and confusions. The normal part of small human trying to make sense of the world. It held my most private precious thoughts. Secrets of my still forming soul, and the trials and tribulations of my heart. 

I was an imaginative child, but the diary held my truths as I learned and grew. It was a special space, safe to pour out my thoughts.

Until it wasn’t.

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Lessons from a mean girl

8/22/2023

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​“Why do you even bother writing?”

It wasn’t the question itself, but rather the insolent way she said it. As though writing was a waste of time. No, wait. That’s not quite it.

As though ME writing was a waste of time.
She was rather nasty the way she asked it, but, for some reason, I still felt compelled to answer.

“I write for myself,” I replied.

She sneered. Looked like she was going burst out in laughter at the response. “For yourself? Hardly.” She halfway rolled her eyes. “If you were truly writing for yourself, why would you even bother to put it on a public website where anyone could see it?”
​As rudely as she had spit the words at me, she had a point. Was I really writing for myself if I HOPED others would read it?

I paused. “I suppose that’s true,’ I conceded, ‘and yet it’s okay to write something for myself and still want others to read it…isn’t it?”

Our eyes met across the counter. We both stared at each other. And in that instant that felt like forever, I wondered to myself why I even cared what this bitch thought. She never did like me.

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    Author

    Tink, world traveler, positivity muse, and adult entertainer, has also freelance written for a number of companies as their ghostwriter. Now talking directly to YOU on this platform, she is also writing two books at her community's request. 

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  • PUBLISHED