https://riseaboveyournormblog.wordpress.com/ When I first came up with the name Rise Above Your Norm, it wasn’t just a catchy title or a motivational phrase. It was a promise — to myself. A promise that no matter how many times life broke me down, I would find a way to rise again. That I would no longer settle for survival. That I would rebuild, even from the ashes, and help others do the same. 🌪️ Breaking Free From My “Normal” For most of my life, my norm was pain. It was chaos, addiction, and trauma. It was living in constant fight-or-flight mode — never trusting peace, never feeling safe in my own skin. That was the world I knew. That was my normal. But there comes a moment in healing when you realize — your “normal” isn’t serving you anymore. It’s not protecting you, it’s holding you hostage. And that’s when the real work begins: The decision to rise above it. 💔 Rising Doesn’t Mean Forgetting Rising above your norm doesn’t mean pretending the pain never happened. It doesn’t mean ignoring your past, or erasing your mistakes. It means facing them — owning them — and still choosing to grow. It means saying: > “Yes, I’ve been through hell… but I’m not staying there.” For me, it meant looking in the mirror and deciding to stop identifying with the brokenness, and start identifying with the strength it took to survive. 🌱 A Movement of Healing Rise Above Your Norm isn’t just my personal mantra anymore — it’s a movement. It’s a message to anyone who’s ever felt too damaged to start over. To the addict trying to stay clean. To the survivor learning to trust again. To the mother rebuilding her life piece by piece. It’s about knowing that we all have a norm — a version of life that once felt unchangeable — and realizing we have the power to rise above it. 💫 My Why I started this journey in recovery, rebuilding from nothing — not just to heal myself, but to use my story to help others heal too. Because healing alone is hard.

https://riseaboveyournormblog.wordpress.com/2025/11/04/the-effects-of-an-emotionally-unavailable-mother/

There’s a strength that lives within each of us — quiet, unseen, and often discovered only through pain. The Warrior Inside of Me is a reflection on survival, healing, and reclaiming the power that life’s struggles tried to bury. The Warrior Inside of Me There’s a warrior inside of me. She wasn’t born from glory, fame, or success — she was forged in pain, heartbreak, and survival. She rose from the ashes of everything I thought would destroy me. For years, I didn’t recognize her. I only saw the broken pieces — the exhaustion, the tears, the nights I wanted to give up. But the truth is, she was always there… quietly fighting battles no one could see. Being a warrior doesn’t mean I never fall apart. It means I’ve learned how to pick myself back up — even when my hands are shaking. It means I’ve faced demons that live in my own mind, and I’m still standing. It means I’ve fought battles that others couldn’t understand and survived storms that tried to drown me. The warrior inside of me has scars, but she’s not ashamed of them anymore. Those scars tell stories — of lessons learned, of resilience, of a strength I didn’t know I had. They remind me that I’ve already survived 100% of my worst days. Sometimes she’s quiet — reflective — taking a moment to breathe before the next battle. Other times, she’s fierce — standing tall, unafraid to speak truth, unafraid to love herself through the chaos. She’s not perfect, but she’s real. She’s human. There were times I doubted her — times I thought she was gone forever. Addiction tried to silence her. Mental illness tried to break her. Life’s pain tried to bury her. But somehow, she kept fighting. She whispered, “Not today satan.” And with every small victory, every moment of courage, she grew stronger. The warrior inside of me is not who I became after I healed — she’s the reason I started healing in the first place. She is the voice that tells me I am enough, even when I don’t feel like it. She reminds me that strength isn’t about never breaking — it’s about continuing to rise, even when it hurts.

> “Even in the fall, there’s a lesson in the landing.” This piece came from one of my darker moments — a place of exhaustion, loneliness, and deep emotional pain. Writing has always been my release, my way of making sense of the chaos within. Sometimes, I write what I can’t bring myself to say out loud. If you’ve ever felt too tired to keep going, too broken to stand, or too unseen to be heard — this is for you. You are not alone in your fall, and you are not the only one yearning for peace. The Thud There are mornings I don’t want to wake up anymore. Not because I’ve given up, but because I’m tired — tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Tired of pretending I’m okay when everything inside of me aches for peace. I’ve learned there’s a difference between wanting to die and being too tired to live. One is a wish for escape. The other is a cry for stillness — a desperate need for the pain to stop echoing through your soul. Peace. That’s all I ever wanted. Not the kind that sits in quiet rooms, but the kind that silences the war inside — the one that keeps you questioning your worth, your purpose, your will to keep going. Sometimes the pain gets so deep that I stop feeling it. I move through my days numb, detached, watching life unfold around me like I’m not really a part of it. Then, without warning, I fall — emotionally, mentally, spiritually. And when I fall, I hit the ground with a thud. People see it, maybe even hear it. But they keep walking. Not because they don’t care — sometimes they just don’t know what to do with another person’s pain. Still, it hurts. It hurts to be visible enough to be noticed but invisible enough not to matter. I lay there — tongue-tied, exhausted, and broken — whispering to myself, “Why couldn’t I have just died?” That’s the kind of honesty we don’t like to say out loud, isn’t it? The kind that makes others uncomfortable. But it’s real. It’s human. It’s the truth of what it feels like when the weight within becomes too heavy to carry.

I want to talk about one of the hardest truths I’ve had to face on my healing journey—the battle within myself. It’s one thing to overcome pain caused by others, but it’s something entirely different when the person standing in your way is you. Mental health recovery has taught me that sometimes, the biggest fight isn’t with the world—it’s with the voice in your own mind. ——- My Own Worst Enemy (By Jacqueline Hayes) I’ve walked through fires of my own design, Built prisons in this heart of mine. Each fear, each doubt, I let reside, Until my spirit ran to hide. I’ve torn down bridges I helped build, Let guilt and shame go unfulfilled. I blamed the world, I blamed the pain, Not knowing I fed my own chain. The mirror shows a face I know, But she’s been hurt from long ago. She’s strong, yet tired — brave, yet scared, Haunted by truths she never shared. I’ve been my foe, my harshest voice, Silencing hope, denying choice. But deep inside, I hear a plea — “Please stop destroying what could be.” So now I breathe, and face the flame, No longer running from the name. I’ll own my scars, forgive the past, And free myself — at peace, at last. For healing starts when I believe, That I am worthy to receive. No longer foe, no enemy — Just me, becoming who I’m meant to be. —– There was a time I didn’t need anyone else to tear me down—because I did it all by myself. Every mistake, every flaw, every scar—I used them as weapons against me. I’ve been my own harshest critic, my own abuser, my own worst enemy. And the truth is, sometimes it’s easier to believe the lies your mind tells you than to face the pain underneath them. I used to look in the mirror and only see what I wasn’t. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not lovable enough. That voice in my head—the one that told me I’d never change—was louder than any encouragement I ever received. I thought if I punished myself first, no one else could hurt me. But all that did was keep me stuck in the same cycle of shame, guilt, and self-sabotage.