Tag: personal growth

How To Get Out of Depression Without Medication or Therapy

When all feels lost…

The world disappears.
People feel like shadows.
You no longer recognize yourself.

It becomes nearly impossible to grip onto anything—to hold onto even the smallest thread of hope to escape the dreadful prison that depression traps you in.

You ask yourself:

How can I reclaim myself if everything around me feels threatening and the world keeps closing in?

The world doesn’t wait for you to get better.
People don’t pause their lives to give you time.
And worst of all, you’re left alone with your mind, exhausted from trying.

When “Trying” Isn’t Working Anymore

You’ve tried so hard, for so long.
You’ve pushed, coped, masked, smiled—and now, you’re spent.
You think:

“There isn’t another try left in me.”

But something inside you still aches for answers:

  • Why is this happening to me?
  • Why do I always feel this miserable?
  • Will I feel this way forever?

And then, a new thought:

“This can’t be my life. I can’t stay this way forever. I need to do something… but what?”

The Turning Point: Ask Yourself This

This question is where the shift begins:

How did I get here?

This is the start of the investigation.
You begin mapping out the painful moments that led you to this place.

Ask yourself:

  • What imbalances exist in my life?
  • What emotions am I suppressing out of fear?
  • What am I afraid of?
  • What keeps me up at night?
  • What is the worst thing that could happen?
  • What feelings do I need to get out and to who?

Start Gently Telling Yourself the Truth

For me, I had to accept a very real truth:
That I don’t function like others around me.
That I’m neurodivergent.
That my brain processes the world differently.

And with that came acceptance of other truths:

  • I may forget things in conversation, and that’s okay.
  • I might fumble words or mispronounce them.
  • People might bully or mistreat me—but I have the right to walk away.
  • I don’t need to be perfect to be respected.

The more I understood myself—my limitations, quirks, fears, and strengths—the more I could start protecting and advocating for myself.

Become Your Own Protector

Understanding your own boundaries allows you to become your own advocate—your own wingman or wingwoman.

  • You’ll start having your own back.
  • You’ll begin listening to yourself.
  • You’ll stop denying your pain and minimizing your needs.
  • You’ll speak up (or walk away) when someone mistreats you.

And if you’re not able to speak up yet, that’s okay too. It takes time and practice.

Navigating Trauma Responses

I personally deal with the freeze trauma response. It’s brutal.
My body shuts down. My mind goes blank. I stop breathing.

But here’s what changed for me:

Just learning that this is a trauma response helped.
Now, when it happens, I recognize it. I name it. And slowly, my brain starts to realize there’s another way.

Even when I can’t stop it in the moment, I recover faster.
I remember what I learned.
And next time, I’m more prepared.

Waking Yourself Up Again

Healing doesn’t happen all at once.
But it starts in tiny moments:

  • A flower that seems brighter than usual.
  • The breeze that feels like a soft embrace.
  • The sun warming your skin with gentle peace.

These moments wake you up, one breath at a time.

From here, take baby steps—no leaps, no pressure.
If you rush it, you might retraumatize yourself.
Trust me, I’ve been there. You don’t want that.

How to Ask for Space (Without Guilt)

Here’s something I used to say to loved ones:

“I need space because I’m feeling overwhelmed. I need everything to slow down. I need time to reflect and be with myself. When I’m ready, I’ll reach out. I love you.”

Then I’d turn off all notifications.
No guilt. No shame.

You communicated your need clearly.
Now, take care of you.

Accepting That You’re Flawed—and Beautifully Unique

This part may sound odd, but hear me out:

I started thinking about jigsaw puzzles.

You think you’ve failed because your piece doesn’t fit into the puzzle everyone else is working on.

But what if…

Your piece is perfect—you’re just trying to fit it onto the wrong board.

Your piece has edges formed from hardship.
Some sides are soft. Others are jagged.
Your colors might not match this puzzle—but they’re perfect for your own.

You’re not broken.
You’re not too much.
You just need to be on the board that was made for you.

Start Healing Now—Even If You’re Not “Ready”

You don’t need to wait until you’re 100% healed to begin.
You can be broken and still begin recovery.

Start by:

  • Investigating yourself with curiosity, not shame.
  • Asking what you need.
  • Respecting your boundaries.

You’ve spent your life learning how to care for others.
Now, it’s time to learn how to care for yourself.

Boundaries Are Not Selfish—They’re Sacred

Life would be chaos without boundaries.
And your boundaries?
They are valid. They are necessary. They are yours.

Let yourself feel peace in setting them.

A Final Note: To Anyone Struggling

If your heart feels broken…
If your mind feels like a prison…
Please know this:

  • You are not your pain.
  • You are not a threat to yourself.
  • You are not alone.

You can come back.
You can rebuild.
You can feel alive again.

With love,
Jenna

Your voice matters.

Have you experienced something similar?
Share your story in the comments—someone else might need to hear it too.
Let’s create a space of support, not silence.

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Feeling Everything as a Sensitive Empath

Have you ever felt the weight of someone else’s sadness like it was your own?

Ever wonder what it’s like to be overly sensitive?
Have you seen others who are?
Struggling to understand why they feel so deeply?

A highly sensitive person experiences the world more intensely than most.

  • Cold water shocks us.
  • Loud noises startle us.
  • Getting hurt physically feels more painful.

But it’s not just physical.
We feel your pain—your discomfort, your heartache—as if it’s happening to us.

We carry the weight of your emotions in our chest.
When you hurt, we hurt. When you cry, we want to rescue. When you suffer, we can’t ignore it.

We must do something. Sitting still isn’t an option.

It deeply unsettles us when someone is unhappy or in pain.
Now imagine feeling all that for others—only to be misunderstood or mistreated.

It’s confusing.
Why would we be punished for caring so deeply?
Why is being empathetic so often seen as a weakness?

They don’t understand why we react “so strongly.”
They don’t get why their pain becomes our pain.

This imbalance? It leaves both sides feeling unseen and misunderstood.

I realized I had to do something.

Slowly Feeling Less

When I began taking anti-anxiety and antidepressant medication, I noticed a shift.

I felt less sensitive. I felt calmer.

I was still me—still empathetic, still caring. But it no longer consumed me.
I could process, pause, and breathe.

It helped me understand how others detach—without being cold or unkind.

I still feel. I still care. But now, I do it with balance.

The gentle, sensitive version of me is still here.
And she’s still a good person.

It’s OK to Feel

  • Feeling means you’re alive.
  • Feeling means you care.
  • Feeling means you are real.

But when you stop feeling…

  • You stop caring.
  • You stop trying.
  • You stop showing up.

That’s not okay.

If you’ve stopped caring about something—maybe it’s time to stop doing it.
If you’ve stopped caring about someone—maybe it’s time to let them go.
If your passion is gone—go looking for it again.
If your empathy has faded—ask yourself why.

Bottled-up emotions only hide who you truly are.
Silence gives others permission to cross your boundaries.

When you stay silent, manipulation creeps in.
When manipulation settles in, you lose yourself.
And when you lose yourself, you stop taking care of yourself.

Then come resentment, anger… and eventually, you begin to disappear.

You stop expressing. You stop showing. You stop being you.

That’s when depression and anxiety start to whisper.
And then shout.

How to Speak Up When You’re Scared

Speaking up is hard. But with practice, it becomes less so.

Find the method that feels safest for you.

For me? I grab a blank piece of paper and pour it all out.
Fast, messy, unfiltered.

I write until the pressure in my chest starts to lift.
That’s when I can breathe again.

Recently, I had two difficult conversations—
One over the phone. One face to face.

In both, I read directly from the paper.

I felt nervous.
I felt guilty.
I felt mean, dramatic, and foolish.

But I knew I had to do it anyway.

Did I feel instant relief? No.
What actually helps is when the behavior stops—or lessens.
That’s when the healing begins.

You begin to see that hard conversations can bring change.
And that makes the next one feel just a bit easier.

And even if it’s hard to process at first, people often come back and say,
“Thank you for telling me.”

The Give and Take

It’s always about balance.

Where you end and I begin.
Where I end and you begin.

Surround yourself with people who instinctively know:
When to step forward,
When to give space,
When to speak,
When to listen.

Be that person for them, too.

Flow together. Respect each other’s feelings.
Be brave enough to step back—and brave enough to step forward.

With all the feels,
Love,
Jenna

If you’ve felt this too, I see you. Feel free to share your story below or write it out for yourself—you deserve to be heard.

“Empathy is the highest form of knowledge.” – Bill Bullard

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Getting Bullied Wearing Wigs

Growing up with alopecia felt like a battle I could never escape.

It was something I tried so desperately to hide — but everyone could tell.

The wigs I wore as a child looked artificial. There was no denying I had one on.

At school, kids teased me. They’d mock the way my hair parted — “Why does your hair grow in a circle like that? Are you wearing a wig?”

All I could manage was a soft “no,” shaking my head.

Because the truth was unbearable.

I couldn’t accept my own diagnosis, let alone let others know.

They’d think I was gross.

They wouldn’t want to be my friend.

They’d hate me.

So, I told myself: My best chance at belonging is if no one ever finds out.

I just wanted to be normal.

I remember one time, a soccer ball was deliberately kicked at my head — an attempt to knock my wig out of place and “prove” their suspicions.

When it happened, I calmly walked to my gym teacher and asked to go to the bathroom. I didn’t look him in the eye — I was too embarrassed. But he knew. He let me go.

I rushed into the stall and fixed my hairline as quickly as I could. Then I walked back into the gym like nothing happened. I didn’t face anyone. I didn’t say a word.

I just kept pretending I was normal. That my hair was real. That I belonged.

There was another time — a cruel game made up at school. The goal was to expose whether the latest rumor about someone was true.

For me, the rumor was that I wore a wig.

The game was this: one person pulled another’s hair until they yelled “ouch!” — the idea being if you didn’t feel it, it must not be real.

I had no choice. I played along. I screamed “ouch!” at what I guessed was the right moment, even though I didn’t feel a thing.

But I knew the truth.

I hadn’t fooled them.

The giggles after the soccer ball, the whispers in the hallway — they knew.

Still, I kept showing up. I kept going to events, hanging out with friends, attending school, doing everything I could to prove that I was “just like everyone else.”

I denied the teasing, denied the questions, prayed someone would change the subject when it came up.

Because if they found out, I would be a freak.

And I just wanted to be accepted. Understood. Liked.

What It Took to Finally Tell Someone

It wasn’t until years later, through therapy, that I started confronting the pain I had pushed down for so long.

Therapy forced me to speak about things I had buried — and in doing so, I started using my voice again.

I became accountable for my own healing.

And healing meant speaking up.

Sometimes that meant having hard conversations with the very people who hurt me.

I found that writing things down helped. There was something therapeutic about putting pen to paper. It gave me clarity — and courage.

When I had to say those words out loud, I read from the page. It kept me grounded. It helped me get through it without freezing up, softening the truth, or losing my train of thought.

Reading from a letter meant I didn’t have to make eye contact. I didn’t have to read their expressions. I just had to get through it — my truth, uninterrupted.

Some people had no words in response but appreciated the honesty.

Others were thankful to understand me better, and respectfully asked for time to process.

That was enough.

Because once I said it — I could breathe again.

And little by little, the things that once triggered me… stopped happening.

And if they did happen again?

I had the right to speak up.

I could say gently, “Hey — that actually hurts me. Can you not do that?”

That’s what healing looks like.

That’s what reclaiming your power feels like.

Learning to Speak Up

Over time, I started saying how I felt more often. I started saying “no” when something didn’t feel right.

I spoke up when I disagreed, voiced my opinions, even chatted with strangers.

And eventually, I found myself sharing about my alopecia — for the first time — with someone new.

It was a hairdresser. I knew they’d figure it out anyway. But instead of hiding, I chose honesty.

What followed blew me away.

They shared stories of other clients with alopecia. They told me about their journeys, what worked for them, how they coped.

I offered my own tips — advice I wish I had known sooner.

And I left the salon inspired. Energized. I imagined another girl hearing those same tips I’d just shared. I imagined her feeling a little more hopeful.

And that’s when it hit me:

My pain, shared honestly, could actually help someone else heal too.

Why I’m Writing This

I still struggle with words.

I still stumble when I speak, still feel guilt for expressing myself.

But this blog has become my safe space.

My outlet.

My voice.

If you’ve read this far — thank you. Truly.

You’ve given me the gift of being heard.

For the recovering hearts,

Jenna

If this story resonates with you or someone you know, I’d love to hear from you. 💌 Drop a comment, share your story, or send a message — let’s create a space where we feel seen. 🫶🏻

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How I’m Learning to Trust Myself Again

Breaking the Pattern

At one point, I was seeing two therapists at the same time — a family therapist and a cognitive behavioural therapist (thankfully covered by insurance). They both gave me different tools for breaking old patterns and reclaiming my sense of self.

The family therapist helped me relearn the basics — the black-and-white of what’s right and what’s wrong. One of the first things she recommended was the book Boundaries: Where You End and I Begin by Anne Katherine.

That book was a wake-up call.

It showed me:

  • why I was afraid to speak up,
  • why I allowed things to happen without question,
  • why I often felt unsafe in my own body.

It reflected back to me stories that felt eerily familiar — but from someone else’s perspective. It forced me to acknowledge that what I’d experienced was not okay. And that I needed to stop those patterns, just like I would want someone else to stop them for themselves.

Meanwhile, my cognitive behavioural therapist offered me something radically different — permission. Permission to say “fuck it.”

If someone consistently mistreats me, excludes me, or simply doesn’t like me…

I don’t need to try harder.

I don’t need to be nicer.

I don’t owe them my time, energy, or attention.

I just need to be polite. Curious in my hello, kind in my goodbye — and nothing more.

She also introduced me to something called the Challenge It method. When I’m convinced someone thinks I’m strange or unlikable, I ask myself:

What proof do I have?

Do I really know what they think of me? Am I 100% sure? Are they even thinking about me at all?

Most of the time, we’re not hearing people — we’re just hearing our own self-doubt echoing in our minds.

We’re not truly listening. We’re not asking questions. We’re performing, shrinking, scanning ourselves for flaws.

No wonder it’s so hard to connect.

But when you shift your focus outward — when you simply listen — you can breathe again. The pressure lifts. It’s not about you anymore. You can just be.

Of course, those self-critical thoughts will creep in again. They always do.

But the difference is: now I know I don’t have to surrender to them.

I can notice them, acknowledge them — and decide they don’t get to run my life anymore.

The Path to Trusting Yourself

Learning to trust yourself means believing in your ability to handle what life brings — to do something well, and to recognize when something isn’t right.

That kind of trust feels almost impossible when you’ve failed more times than you can count. But the first step isn’t perfect — it’s softening your expectations.

Start by lowering the pressure you put on yourself. Lower the bar for how a situation should turn out. Let go of the idea that you have to perform perfectly in every interaction or moment.

Instead, offer yourself grace.

It’s okay if you stutter.

It’s okay if you mix up your words.

It’s okay if your mind goes blank and you need to pause mid-sentence.

Over time, you can even start letting others in — gently and with humor:

“Oh my gosh, why did I say that? Haha.”

“Oops, I totally butchered that word.”

When your mind freezes — what do you do?

First, know that you can’t force yourself to snap out of it. That freeze is a trauma response. It’s your brain trying to protect you from perceived danger, even if that danger isn’t real in the moment.

Instead, take a breath (if you can). Excuse yourself. Step away — go to the bathroom, get a drink, check your phone. Give yourself the space to reset.

When I learned that it was okay to leave mid-conversation, everything shifted. I began noticing how many people do this — and no one judged them. No one thought they were rude. In fact, I realized people were doing it with me, too. It was just… normal.

The freeze response eases only when you feel safe. So ask yourself: Do I feel good being here?

If the answer is no — you’re allowed to leave. Even if it’s the main event. Even if you feel like you’re letting someone down. Say you feel unwell. Say you need to rest. And go.

I used to force myself to stay until the end — no matter how uncomfortable I felt. My brain would blank out over and over, but I’d keep pushing through. Why? Because I didn’t believe I had a right to leave. I didn’t believe I had a voice, or preferences, or needs. I was in survival mode.

By the end of the night, I’d feel completely drained — emotionally, mentally, spiritually. I’d spiral into shame for having a “broken” brain. I’d go quiet again. Let others take over. I was there, physically — smiling, nodding, playing the part — but inside, I was numb.

It’s a beautiful thing to be generous with your time, to listen deeply, to support others — but not when it costs you your mental health.

You can’t keep betraying yourself in the name of being kind.

Take care of you, first.

Mild discomfort is one thing — and yes, it can be noble. But chronic, self-abandoning discomfort isn’t noble. It’s harm.

You are good. You are kind. And you are allowed to put your needs first.

If anxiety hits, ground yourself.

Look around — name five objects in the room.

Focus on your breath.

Inhale a little deeper. Exhale a little slower.

Most people won’t even notice. And if they do? So what. You’ve probably heard someone take a deep breath while talking, too — it’s human.

Then, when you’re ready, gently shift your attention back to the moment. Acknowledge whatever negative thought popped in — and instead of letting it hijack you, get curious about it.

Where did this thought come from? Why now?

We all have these thoughts. Every one of us. And they don’t go away.

Maybe you feel insecure around someone who seems more confident or accomplished.

Maybe you feel envious of someone who seems to have a happier life.

That doesn’t make you bad — it makes you human.

The key is to understand what’s bothering you.

Ask yourself: Why is this getting to me?

Write it down. Say it out loud. Talk to someone you trust.

Once you start gathering those answers, you can reflect. And when you reflect, you begin to strip those thoughts of their power.

They’ll still show up — sometimes the same ones, over and over — but they won’t hit as hard. You’ll get better at seeing them, naming them, and letting them pass.

Let them move through you, not into you.

Trust doesn’t come from silencing every negative thought.

It comes from knowing you can survive them — and still show up with love, for yourself.

Offer yourself the same acceptance you’d give someone else.

Show yourself the same compassion you’d feel for a friend.

Love yourself — especially when you feel flawed.

With love,

Jenna

💬 Have you struggled with trusting yourself too? I’d love to hear your experience — feel free to share in the comments below. 👇

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Quiet Doesn’t Mean Weak

By Jenna

This one’s hard to write.

Silence is what I know.

It became my default — a coping mechanism in response to mistreatment, unethical behavior, and inappropriate situations.

Silence helped me keep the peace.

It stopped me from hurting anyone — even if that person was hurting me.

I once got bullied in an office environment by a previous employer. The aggression and criticism was obvious — and it wasn’t private. Everyone in the office could see it.

After one particularly brutal encounter, a kind, soft-spoken coworker came up to me and asked, with genuine concern,

“Why don’t you stand up for yourself?”

I wanted to cry.

But even my emotions were always in check.

I didn’t know how to let them out — not safely.

I froze. Completely.

My mind went blank — no thoughts, no words. Just white noise.

Because of my ADHD, I worry that if I do speak up, what comes out might be jumbled, confusing, or emotionally tangled.

I’m terrified I’ll say the wrong thing — or that it’ll come out wrong and I’ll look foolish.

So instead, I say nothing at all.

She noticed my discomfort and gently walked away. I could tell she felt horrible. She wanted to help. But she didn’t know how.

And I didn’t know how to let her.

What I wanted to say was:

Because I’m afraid.

Afraid of what would happen next.

Afraid I’d lose my job.

Afraid that if I release my emotions, they’ll pour out all at once — and I’ll scare someone, or scare myself.

So I stayed silent.

Because if I don’t make noise, no one gets hurt.

At least that’s what I told myself.

How Quiet Can Start

I’m naturally quiet. I’m an introvert.

And for most of my life, I was undiagnosed with ADHD — which only made my communication struggles harder to understand, both for me and those around me.

I started learning to quiet my outer voice — letting others speak for me or interpret what I meant.

I internalized the message that maybe I really did need help speaking for myself.

That maybe I couldn’t trust my own voice.

They seemed to function better, more easily.

So I let them take over.

One moment at a time.

And that began the spiral:

Who I am.

What I can and can’t do.

What my “defects” are.

As a child, you’re often taught to bite your tongue — so you don’t say something you regret.

You’re taught to share only the positive things.

No one wants to hear about pain, sadness, or discomfort.

So you start smiling.

You start nodding.

You start pleasing.

And slowly, quietly…

You disappear.

Quiet is Radical Inner Strength

Some people look at quietness and see weakness.

They assume submission, passivity, fragility.

But what they don’t see — what they’ll never know — is how much radical strength it takes to stay quiet.

To hold it in.

To swallow your words, your rage, your hurt… for the sake of peace.

Quietness can be a form of survival.

It’s a kind of strength that doesn’t always look heroic — but it is.

It’s showing up to a social situation knowing people will speak for you — and letting them. Not because you’re weak, but because it’s the only way to make it through.

It’s keeping a smile on your face when your brain is screaming.

It’s staying polite when your heart is in pain.

It’s radical.

It’s resilience.

One of the books that helped me recognize my own strength is From Panic to Power by Lucinda Bassett. A quote from her that’s never left me is:

“I’m glad I had anxiety disorder. It was a curse, but it was a blessing as well. It forced me to acquire coping skills that the average person could definitely use, but will probably never be in enough pain to investigate.”

To all my quiet, beautiful, strong souls — I see you.

You are not invisible.

You are not broken.

You are not weak.

Let’s begin to reclaim our voices. One word at a time.

Let’s be heard.

With you always,

Jenna

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What Healing Actually Looks Like

It feels like starting completely over—rebuilding every part of who you are.

The hard truth? You’re changing yourself… for yourself.

And in that process, a darker voice creeps in:

I guess there’s a lot wrong with me.

Why am I so broken?

Why do I have to change so much?

Why does the world make it so hard to be who I am?

But what you have to remember is: you’re not changing because you’re broken.

You’re changing because you deserve better.

You’re healing toward the life you were meant to live.

And with that change comes strength—power, resilience, clarity.

Healing isn’t glamorous. It’s not polished or picture-perfect.

It’s raw. Uncomfortable. Messy.

You’ll feel the pull of old thought patterns trying to reel you back in.

Your inner safety blanket will whisper, “Come back. It’s safer here.”

It wants to protect you—like it always has.

It’s like trying to push your hand through a membrane that stretches but won’t break.

You push harder, and it wraps around you—until you do something more.

Push with truth. Push with purpose.

At first, it feels wrong. Unnatural.

Like you’re becoming someone who isn’t you.

But you are—you’re becoming someone you’ve never been allowed to be.

And when you finally break through that first thick layer, you realize: there’s another one waiting.

Not quite as thick, not quite as loud—but still there.

Each layer teaches you something.

Each one asks for a different kind of strength.

I’m still breaking through membranes of my own.

And I don’t know if there’s an end—

If I’ll ever get to the place where I’m fully free.

Maybe none of us ever do.

Maybe we just keep shedding.

Layer after layer, we become.

For the healing hearts,

— Jenna

If you’re in the middle of your own becoming, breaking through your own layers — I see you. 💭

This path can feel lonely, but it doesn’t have to be.

If this post spoke to something in you, I’d be honoured if you shared your thoughts in the comments 💬 or sent me a message 📩. Your story matters too — and you never know who it might comfort.

You can also subscribe if you’d like to walk this journey together 🧡.

No noise, no pressure. Just honest words when they’re ready.

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Breathless in Social Anxiety

The Critic

It feels like the person in front of you can see right through you.

Everything you’re trying to hide — they can see.

In that very moment, you’re sure they’ve figured it out:

You’re a fraud.

They’re judging every detail about you — and you’re sure they’re doing it silently.

They’ve already decided they don’t like you.

They’re planning to never talk to you again.

Everyone is against you.

Everyone doesn’t like you.

Everyone wishes you’d go away — and so I did.

What They Don’t Know

Inside, the racing thoughts never stop:

  • I need to change.
  • I need to be better.
  • Why is this so hard for me?
  • Why does it come so easily for everyone else?
  • Why does this make me so nervous?

What Does Anxiety Feel Like?

For me, it feels like I’m not breathing — or like I’ve forgotten how.

My breaths are shallow. Sometimes, the words don’t come out right.

My mouth gets dry.

My hands tremble.

My heart races.

My mind goes blank — mid-conversation — and I forget what we were even talking about.

The response I had practiced disappears the moment I try to speak.

Only when I step away, when my heart slows and my mind clears, can I start to reflect:

Why does this keep happening to me?

The Pattern

This is when I begin to connect the dots.

  • The deer-in-the-headlights expression on their face whenever I tried to speak.
  • The labels put on me that confirmed I was “different.”
  • The constant corrections when I spoke.
  • The hazy mind and poor memory that I couldn’t explain.

Going Down the Dark Path

Once you believe it yourself:

“I’m weird.”

“I’m different.”

“I’m odd.”

“I’m defective.”

It changes the way you see the world — and yourself in it.

You start getting angry at yourself for being the way you are.

You start resenting the world for how it operates.

You avoid social events.

You stay home more often.

You begin to suffer in silence.

This path is dangerous. It can lead to severe mental health struggles.

If you find yourself here — please, reach out for help.

Finding the Other Path

There’s another path — but it’s harder to see when you’ve lived so long believing the lies.

It’s terrifying to put yourself out there again.

To risk being vulnerable.

To risk being misunderstood.

But sometimes, something unlocks the possibility:

A lyric in a song.

A scene from a movie.

A moment of loss.

A breaking point.

And you can see the paths in front of you:

Do you stay in the bubble where it’s safe — where no one can hurt you?

Or do you fight for the life you deserve?

The life where you become something more?

This is the moment your true character reveals itself.

This is where your inner strength is put to the test.

How to Fight Back

For me, healing feels like clawing my way out of my own grave.

You can’t see the surface.

You don’t even know what life will look like once you get there.

You dig. And dig.

And it feels like there’s no progress.

You’re exhausted. You want to give up.

And sometimes, while you’re digging — someone else throws more dirt in your way.

That’s the hardest part.

To keep going while still getting hurt.

But if you can keep going despite the pain — something powerful begins to shift.

You prove to yourself that you’re strong.

You’re resilient.

And slowly… you start to see the progress.

You dig deeper.

You dig harder.

You fear less.

You prepare more.

People around you begin to notice.

You begin to return to your true self.

If you’ve walked a path like mine, leave a comment or hit the like button.

For the healing hearts,

Jenna

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Losing Your Identity in Relationships

Being Someone’s Shadow

It always felt natural for me to step aside and let others take the spotlight. I felt safer behind someone — letting them make the decisions and speak for me.

I liked observing. Watching. Reflecting. I studied how people acted, responded, gestured, and spoke. I believed that one day, if I learned well enough, I could mimic those actions and finally build strong, lasting relationships.

But just because you study something, doesn’t mean you can replicate it.

And when I tried to — it didn’t feel right. It felt like bad acting in front of an audience I was desperate to impress. All I wanted was to run off stage, close the curtain, and find my quiet, safe place.

When You Become a Shadow

The danger of living in someone else’s shadow is that you slowly begin to disappear.

Your identity starts to fade.

The more you silence your voice, the harder it becomes to hear it at all. Eventually, you’re invisible — to others, and worst of all, to yourself.

Toxic Environments

You can move through life quietly, blending in or hiding behind someone else — and sometimes, that works when your environment is calm. But the moment you step into a toxic space, that habit becomes dangerous.

How can you tell you’re in a toxic environment?

Here are some of the red flags:

  • Jealousy — They get angry or suspicious about your other relationships.
  • Control — They micromanage where you go, who you’re with, and when you’ll be back.
  • Possession – They make you feel like you should belong only to them, slowly pulling you away from others.
  • Criticism — They constantly find fault and second-guess your decisions.
  • Isolation — They push friends and family away and get upset when you make plans.
  • Manipulation — They influence or control you in order to meet their own personal gains.
  • Bullying — They label you, mock you, or treat you like an outcast.

I started to speak less. I second-guessed everything. I became afraid of saying the wrong thing.

I lost confidence.

I lost friendships.

I lost my voice.

I was afraid to make plans. Afraid to stay out too long. Afraid to be noticed.

Eventually, the anxious behavior became noticeable — and people stopped inviting me altogether.

When the anxiety didn’t go away, the labels started: weird, abnormal, never able to relax.

And over time, I believed them.

Maybe I am weird.

Maybe I am abnormal.

Maybe I’ll never be able to relax.

When I did speak, I was told I was wrong.

It started to feel like nothing I said ever came out right.

Eventually, I stopped trying to speak — unless absolutely necessary.

That’s how it happens.

That’s how you begin to lose yourself.

And you start to think:

Maybe I can’t do this on my own.

The Collapse

Eventually, the cracks became too deep to hide.

My confidence collapsed.

My mind grew hazy.

I stuttered.

I panicked.

I avoided everyone.

I hadn’t had a close friend in over 10 years.

I longed for connection — someone who could see me. But the desperation made everything harder. Friendships became pressure. Every attempt felt like too much.

And failure after failure slowly unraveled me.

I couldn’t function.

I went mute unless absolutely necessary.

My body and mind felt like an empty shell — like a DVD player with no disc. Unplayable. Gone.

Even basic requests exhausted me.

I pushed everyone away — including my own family at times.

Eventually, I reached out for help. I was prescribed anxiety and depression medication and encouraged to start therapy right away.

The Path to Recovery

Recovery hasn’t been quick or easy.

It’s been a long road of self-discovery, mental rewiring, and learning how to draw healthy boundaries. I’ve been learning to recognize unethical behavior — and more importantly, to stand up to it.

I still take anxiety and depression medication, and was recently diagnosed with ADHD.

That diagnosis helped everything make more sense. The medication I take now improves focus, calms the buzzing in my brain, and helps me complete tasks.

My memory is sharper. My mind is steadier.

And I’ve realized something crucial:

The parts of me that are fast-moving, detail-loving, and high-energy aren’t broken.

They’re just me.

Even with medication, I still bounce around the house and multitask like it’s my superpower — and that’s okay. I’m learning to embrace it, not erase it.

Still Healing

I’m still on this journey — day by day, moment by moment.

Books have been a key part of my recovery. If you’re on your own path of healing, here are some that have helped me:

📚 BOUNDARIES: Where You End, And I Begin — Anne Katherine, M.A.

📚 The Men’s Guide To Women — John & Julie Gottman, PhD

📚 From Panic to Power — Lucinda Bassett

📚 The Grief Recovery Handbook — John W. James & Russell Friedman (just getting started)

Thank you for reading.

If you’re somewhere in this story too — please know you’re not alone.

🩵

For the healing hearts,

Jenna

💬 If you’re navigating something similar, I’d love to hear from you. Let’s create space for each other — feel free to leave a comment or message me on Instagram/Twitter/Threads

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🖤 Welcome to Wig Girl Interrupted

Hi, I’m Jenna — and I’m finally ready to stop hiding.

Starting this blog feels both exciting and terrifying. I’ve never done anything like this before — no personal site, no blog posts, nothing that asked me to be this visible. But after everything I’ve been through — from childhood hair loss to years of self-erasure — I know this step matters.

Sometimes the scariest things are the most important.

✨ Why I’m Here

For most of my life, I struggled to understand what was wrong with me.

I lost my hair as a child and spent years covering it with wigs, trying to blend in. I froze in conversations, avoided mirrors, and shrank myself in relationships that fed on my silence.

I was anxious. Confused. Emotionally exhausted. I didn’t have the words to explain what I was feeling — or why I felt like I was constantly fighting myself.

Then at 39, I was finally diagnosed with ADHD. That moment didn’t fix everything, but it helped me understand myself for the first time. It explained the chaos, the forgetfulness, the emotional flooding, the years of masking.

But even more than that — it helped me begin coming back to myself.

🕊 What “Wig Girl Interrupted” Means

This blog is my space to speak what was once unspoken — about identity, trauma, healing, and transformation.

The name Wig Girl Interrupted represents the pause I’ve lived in for far too long.

Interrupted by alopecia. By toxic relationships. By silence.

Now, I’m writing my way out of that interruption.

Here, I’ll talk about:

  • Life with alopecia and wigs
  • Living with ADHD (and the shame that comes with it)
  • Healing from emotional abuse
  • Rebuilding identity after years of people-pleasing
  • Finding my voice — even when it shakes

💛 If You’re Here, Thank You

If you’ve ever felt like your brain, body, or heart didn’t work the way they were “supposed” to…

If you’ve lost yourself in a relationship, a diagnosis, or the pressure to be everything for everyone…

If you’ve felt interrupted — by life, grief, shame, or silence — this blog is for you.

I don’t have all the answers. But I promise to be real.

If you’re new here, I recommend you Start Here.

Thank you for being here. I can’t wait to grow together.

With love,

Jenna

🪞 Healing is easier when we don’t do it alone. Pass this along to someone who needs to feel seen.

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