The Storm Came Without Asking
The thing about storms is—they never ask permission.
They don’t knock. They arrive. Sudden. Unforgiving.
You might catch the sky darkening, but by then, it’s already too late.
The wind’s tearing at the door, and it doesn’t care if you're ready.
Doesn’t care if you just set your life in order,
or if your hands are still shaking from the last fight.
It comes anyway.
This one wasn’t just in the sky.
It was in my gut.
The kind that doesn't just rage—it reveals.
It pulls you in and doesn’t let go until you’re raw and aching.
It drags up things you thought you buried.
People you thought you trusted.
Lies dressed up like kindness.
And you? You were starving—so you ate.
I was lost for a while.
No map. No compass.
Just the weight of names and faces that wore love like a mask.
Friends, they said. Lovers, maybe.
But some people aren’t made of anything real.
They peel you back, slow and cruel, like bark off a tree—
until you forget the shape of your own name.
And still, you smile. Because you don’t know what else to do.
But this storm—
It didn’t just tear.
It exposed.
It showed me the rot.
The softness I mistook for strength.
And the truth?
It hurt.
Like a knife pulled out slow.
I used to think they meant well.
That they were trying.
Even when they failed me.
But now I see it for what it was.
It wasn’t me.
It was never me.
It was them—
people who twist truth into a weapon,
who smile with venom tucked behind their teeth.
And I let them.
That’s the part that cuts deepest.
I handed them the blade.
But something shifted.
Maybe the storm was a gift.
It blew the fog from my eyes.
Held up a mirror.
And for the first time, I saw what they’d taken—
and more importantly, what they couldn’t.
My soul.
My strength.
My grit—the kind born from blood and broken bones.
And there was someone else in the storm.
Not an enemy.
Not a savior.
Just someone who stood still while everything shook.
They didn’t try to fix it.
Didn’t hand me a map.
They just stood there. Steady.
And in that silence,
I found my truth:
I didn’t have to keep fighting for something already dead.
Didn’t have to carry their brokenness like penance.
I could drop it.
Let the wind take it.
So I did.
But let’s talk about the games—the real ones.
The Dark Souls kind. Twisted. Cruel. Venom-soaked.
Designed by people who smile with their teeth but never with their eyes.
Hexes in high heels.
Demons in designer shoes.
Professionals of pain.
They didn’t just want me out.
They wanted me gone.
Erased.
Six feet under with a eulogy full of lies.
And I won’t lie—I danced with devils.
I stepped into their ring.
Surrounded by shirtless henchmen with too many muscles
and not enough mercy.
Blood in my mouth. Fists up.
Prayers on my knuckles.
Every hit they threw—I gave it back.
A counterpuncher, always.
You try to bury me?
I’ll make sure the dirt ends up in your eyes too.
They came with tricks. With spells.
With malice dressed in silence.
But I didn’t fold.
They weren’t ready for that.
One even said sorry.
Black eye, busted pride, apology like a whisper.
Too late.
I’d already walked away.
Because I learned something.
The power they had?
I gave it to them.
And I could take it back.
So I did.
And now?
I’m lighter.
Not because I forgot.
Because I forgave—myself.
For staying too long.
For trusting too deep.
For ignoring the voice website that always knew.
I left their game behind.
Took my ball and walked away.
And the storm?
It’s passing.
But it didn’t leave ruin behind.
It left space.
Space to build something better.
Not just survival.
Something close to joy.
A peace that doesn’t need to shout.
The kind that just is.
There’s freedom in that.
Hard-won.
The kind get more info you earn by walking through fire
and coming out the other side—
not unburned,
but alive.
Still standing. Still trying.
The past?
It’s a scar now.
I don’t forget.
But I don’t bleed anymore.
Those manipulators—those shape-shifters—
they’re stuck in their shadows.
The game’s over.
The read more only thing they can do now is watch.
Watch me rise.
Watch me thrive.
Watch me take what they never wanted me to have—
peace.
And the flowers.
Hell yes, the flowers.
Because men who’ve walked through hell?
We love flowers.
We know what it costs to see something bloom
after everything’s burned.
And I’ve earned every last one.
So here’s to the storm—
To what it took, and what it gave.
To the blood.
To the bruises.
To the truths that broke me
and the strength that rebuilt me.
I’ve danced with devils
and lived to tell it.
And now?
I walk forward.
Lighter.
Wiser.
Free.
They can twist in their lies all they want.
Cling to the power they no longer have.
I’ve made peace with the fire.
And I’ll grow flowers from the ashes.
That’s the kind of ending you don’t come back from.
That’s the kind of ending that starts something.
I’ve click here made peace with the fire.
And I’ll grow flowers from the ashes.
That’s the kind of ending you don’t come back from.
That’s the kind of ending that starts something.
So here’s to the quiet things.
To soft mornings and strong coffee.
To the sound of your own laugh when no one’s watching.
To the friends who show up when the storm hits.
To peace—not loud, not proud—just present.
To joy that doesn’t need permission.
To the mirror that finally tells the truth.
To the kind of strength that doesn’t website have to prove itself anymore.
And the kind of love that doesn’t ask you to bleed first.
Here’s to the simple things.
The real things.
The ones they couldn’t take.
And to the version of me who made it out—
Not perfect.
But whole.