I don’t write about stuff I’ve been through with any sort of detail, if at all, because even reading other people’s experiences is, as people like to say “triggering”.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to write about my past to comfort and encourage others. Right now, I prefer to dwell on the miraculous present.

Ten years ago I would have never imagined the life I have now, not in my wildest dreams. My problems are almost all because of extraordinary blessings. I can’t complain even a little bit without acknowledging this.

So how did I end up here, writing this? A helpful Facebook post, offering a hotline number, led me to a Facebook page and a blog post that left me feeling some strange need to process . . . But I can’t. I have tried before. It doesn’t help; it leaves me feeling stuck in a past I can’t undo and wondering what those I write about must think of me.

Hurting people hurt people. I truly believe that, and because of that I can’t think of any way to talk about past hurts that would do anything other than cause more pain.

It frustrates me that things that should just be helpful end up sending me down a little detour in my mind like this. Why shouldn’t I share that hotline? It’s a good thing to share; we never know what people are really dealing with at home. Not unless they tell us. And why would anyone tell us if we never open that door?

I like to think I’m open, and I know I would never tell someone they couldn’t talk to me about anything— but why can’t I let my own guard down? I can, maybe. Just not on a blog.

I’m okay. After writing this, anyway, I can say that. Funny how it doesn’t take much, just a few minutes and a few words. Maybe we can do this small thing for each other? Just a few words, a few minutes, and we can walk away feeling lighter.