A reflection from the messy middle, before the healing began

There’s something I don’t talk about much.
Not because I’m hiding it—at least not intentionally—but because I’m still learning how to say it without choking on the shame.

I was the villain in someone’s story.
Maybe more than one.
And I didn’t mean to be.

I didn’t wake up thinking, Let me cause damage today.
I didn’t plan to hurt anyone.
In fact, I thought I was the one being hurt most of the time.

But pain has a way of distorting everything.
And when you’re living from a place of unresolved hurt, fear, and survival—you don’t see clearly.
You react. You protect. You sabotage.
You think you’re doing what’s necessary.
You think you’re saving yourself.
And maybe, in some twisted way, you are.

But at what cost?

For me, that cost was connection. Trust. Stability.
I pushed people away before they could leave me.
I over-explained or under-communicated.
I made decisions in a fog of panic, convinced I was doing what was right—or at least what would make the pain stop.

I didn’t know I was bleeding all over people who didn’t cut me.
I didn’t know my inner chaos was spilling out in ways that looked like manipulation, distance, or even cruelty.
I didn’t know how much harm I caused until I finally started to heal.

And by then…
some bridges had already burned.

Healing is messy, but what no one talks about enough is what happens before the healing even begins.
That season of blindness.
That time when you’re living out trauma scripts and inherited coping mechanisms like they’re gospel.
That chapter where you’re just trying to keep your head above water—and in the process, you’re sometimes pulling others down with you.

It’s hard to look back at that version of myself.
She was doing her best. I believe that.
But her best still hurt people.

And I’ve had to sit with that.
The guilt. The regret. The consequences.
The fact that even if I’ve changed, some people may only ever know me as who I was then.

And you know what?
That sucks.
It really, really sucks.

But here’s what I also know:

Regret is a teacher.
Remorse is a sign of growth.
And taking accountability is a form of healing—not self-hatred.

So I carry it now—this complicated grief.
Not as a punishment, but as a reminder.
Of who I was.
Of what I’ve learned.
Of who I never want to be again.

If I could go back, I’d say the things I never said.
I’d stay when I ran.
I’d leave when I stayed too long.
I’d soften where I hardened.
I’d own more, defend less.

But I can’t go back.
All I can do is live differently now.

So maybe, yes—I was the villain in someone’s story.
But I’m not the villain in mine anymore.

And that has to be enough.

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✦ Author’s Note

If you read this and thought, Oh no… me too,—I want you to know something. You’re not irredeemable. You’re just human. This piece isn’t meant to romanticize harm or excuse patterns—but to make room for the deep, often-ignored reality that some of our most painful lessons come from the pain we caused others before we understood ourselves. Grace doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t happen. Grace means deciding to do better with what we now know.

Thank you for letting me be this honest here.
I’m holding space for you if you’re in the before, the during, or the after.
There’s still time to become someone you’re proud of. There’s still time to make peace with your past.

With grace and guts,
—J.