Most people arrive here not because life was easy, but because pretending everything was fine became too heavy. You don't need the perfect story you don't need confidence or certainty don't need to be healed. Being here already means you chose yourself. Even if it doesn't feel dramatic. This space isn't about fixing you its about reminding you that you're not alone. You belong here

Instead of: "Hi, my name is..." Tell me this: Something you're healing from. Something you're proud of. Something you hope this community helps you with. Let's skip the surface-level stuff.

I didn’t grow up in a stable world, but I did grow up with a mother who did everything she could to raise me on her own. My parents divorced when I was six, and from that moment on I learned how quickly life can change and how fragile stability can be. My mother became my anchor. With her, I felt safe, protected, held. She gave me warmth, presence, and the deep knowing that someone was truly on my side. She did her best with what she had, and it mattered more than she ever knew. Even with that safety, life around us wasn’t always gentle. I learned early how to adapt, how to be strong when circumstances became uncertain, how to carry more responsibility than a child should have to. As a child, I experienced sexual boundary violations by someone who was supposed to be safe. I didn’t have language for it back then. I learned to disconnect from my own feelings in order to survive. Loss entered my life early. I lost my grandfather. Later, suicide became part of my family story. Then I found myself in a toxic relationship, where love and pain slowly became tangled. And then I lost my mother. Not just a parent, but the one place where I didn’t have to be strong. Where I could rest. Where I was held without needing to explain myself. Her absence didn’t change everything loudly or all at once, but in a quiet, permanent way that stays with you every single day. For many years, I had no contact with my father. From my mid-teens into my late thirties, there was distance, silence, and unresolved pain. When my mother was admitted to the stroke unit, he showed up. Without conditions. Without explanations. He stayed when I needed support the most. And when we had to bury her, he stood beside me and held the funeral speech. In that moment, something inside me settled. Not because the past disappeared, but because it no longer needed to be carried with anger. That was when I was able to let go of the pain of being left, not by forgetting what happened, but by accepting what was.