The Moment I Chose to Share

TW/Content Note: This series discusses experiences with self-injury, shame, and healing. Please take care while reading and step away if you need to. If these topics are difficult for you, consider reading when you feel supported.

For a long time, shame had a tight grip on my story.

Even in therapy, when my therapist and I first began talking about my journey with self-injury, the words would get stuck. My brain knew what I wanted to say, but my body wouldn’t let me. I would freeze. My throat would tighten. The conversation would stall before it even began.

Mandy would be gentle and understanding, encouraging me to speak, to let the words out. And more often than not, I would shut down.

Not because I didn’t trust her.

Her office has always been a safe space.

But because shame takes control like that.

It convinces you that silence is safer than honesty.

Over the years, something slowly started to shift. The conversations became a little easier. The pauses a little shorter. The words a little less heavy. I even started writing about my experience - pouring it onto pages where no one else could see.

But sharing it?

That always felt like a line I couldn’t cross.

When I was younger and struggling, I remember searching the internet late at night looking for someone - anyone - who understood what I was feeling. That search is how I found To Write Love on Her Arms.

Their words made me feel less alone in a world that felt impossibly isolating. They reminded me that there were people out there who understood pain like mine, and who believed healing was possible.

When I started this blog, I knew this part of my story mattered. I knew it was something I wanted to talk about one day, because I remembered what it felt like to be that younger version of myself searching for understanding.

But wanting to share and feeling ready to share are two very different things.

For years, I’ve been slowly working toward this moment.

And now that it’s here, I’ll be honest - I’m still terrified.

But something inside me also feels ready.

Ready to stop carrying this quietly.

Ready to trust that my story might help someone else feel a little less alone.

Freedom doesn’t always show up big and brave. Sometimes it’s just me, in a quiet moment, realizing… I’m ready.

Not because the fear disappeared.

But because the truth matters more than the silence.

And maybe that’s what courage really is.

Thank you for being here 💕

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To Write Love on Her Arms - an organization dedicated to helping people find hope and support through mental health resources and community