There was a time when I believed her, every tear, every plea, every story crafted to pierce my heart and anchor my loyalty. I stood by Reclaiming Your Voice not because I was naive, but because I was loyal. I saw someone who appeared to be broken and believed that my support could help hold her together.
But now I see the truth.
The cracks she showed me were not vulnerability. They were mirrors, carefully angled to reflect only what she wanted me to see. She did not seek healing. She sought control. And in giving her the benefit of the doubt, I gave pieces of myself away. I let her shape my understanding of people, of justice, of trauma. I let her shape my understanding of myself. In trusting her, I wandered further and further from my own light.
She told me a man had tried to kill her, not once but three times. She said he attempted murder. That he attacked her. That she endured long trials. But now I know the truth. He was charged with a single count of harassment with contact. No trial. No string of violent accusations. He pled guilty and it was over in fifty-five days. Not three charges. Not three trials. One charge. One plea. One quiet end. Or at least that is what the public records showed.
She told me another man raped her. That she was a survivor. That she carried the weight of his violence in her body. But he was only ever charged with simple assault. That is the truth of public record. Not what she told me. Not what I believed. And I did believe her. I believed all of it.
I believed so deeply that I let her guide my own healing. I trusted her to give me advice on trauma and PTSD. I believed she had a doctorate. I believed she was a trauma therapist. I believed she had been disabled by three acts of domestic violence. I believed the scars she showed me were proof. I thought I was holding a flashlight for someone walking through the dark. I didn’t realize she was the one pulling the wires from my batteries.
What she said was not truth. Those men were not who she said they were. And she was not who she said she was. She wasn’t just lying to me. She was using me. I fought for her. I defended her. I went after people to protect her. I stood on the front lines not just with her, but for her. And now I see that not only was I lying to others, I was lying to myself.
She set me back years in my healing. She unearthed traumas I had long since laid to rest. I came to her in a healed state. Not because I denied my past, but because I had made peace with it. But she told me that if I wasn’t willing to say I was a victim, if I didn’t talk about it out loud, then I wasn’t healed at all. She said I was burying it. So I dug it up. I brought my flashlight into the shadows, looking for pieces of myself I had already put to rest. I thought I was doing the work. I thought I was making progress.
But digging up what I had buried sent me spiraling. I stopped sleeping. I started flinching. I fell back into PTSD patterns. And every time I couldn’t breathe, she was there. She called it healing. But I see now that she was the one pulling the triggers and then offering to bandage the wound.
I lived in fear for years because of her stories. I feared the man she said wanted her dead. I feared that if she didn’t answer the phone, it meant he had found her. I feared losing my friend. So I threw myself in front of every sword, thinking he was the one holding it. But he wasn’t. The sword was always hers. And I couldn’t see that, because I was too busy trying to protect her to realize she was the one slicing through me.
She had me searching for flashlights in a world where she kept turning off the lights. She had me believing I needed her to shine. But she was the darkness. And I didn’t know how to leave because I was still holding out hope for her light.
Still, I do not regret my kindness. Because my kindness was real. My intentions were good. As one point, I called her my best friend. I introduced her to my child and my mom. To me, our friendship was real. My loyalty was pure. Hers were not. And that is the difference.
What hurts now is not just the betrayal. It is the betrayal wrapped in false intimacy. It is the realization that I stood guard at a gate that was never meant to keep her safe. It was meant to keep the truth out. I unknowingly helped protect a lie. And now that I have walked through the fire of that truth, I cannot unsee it. But I also cannot unsee myself. The version of me who survived it.
I see a soul who gave someone every opportunity to be honest. I see someone who tried. Who listened. Who forgave. Who stood up. Not just for Michelle, but for what was right. Or what I thought was right. I see someone who is no longer willing to give the best parts of themselves to someone who only knows how to misuse them. I see someone who now knows their worth. I see someone reaching for the batteries again. Someone learning to glow again. Someone finding their own shine.
And now, the healing begins.
Not the kind of healing that hides behind soft words and shallow forgiveness. But the kind that roars. That cuts through illusion. That lays bare every wound, every truth, every moment I wish I could take back, and says: You made it.
My healing is not linear. It is not gentle. It is a wildfire reclaiming a forest that was overgrown with vines of manipulation and falsehood. It is the spark that catches when you’ve forgotten what warmth feels like. It is the flicker of light that reminds you that you never needed permission to shine.
I am rebuilding. Slowly. Honestly. Wholly. I am reclaiming my voice.
I am learning to trust my intuition again, the voice she taught me to ignore. I am grieving the version of me who didn’t know better and thanking them for getting me this far. I am forgiving myself for the time I spent in her shadow. Because I will never again shrink for someone else’s comfort. I will never again walk through the dark pretending I don’t need light. I will never again hand my sparkle to someone who only wants to smother it.
This is the unraveling. This is the resurrection. This is where I stop asking why she did it and start asking what I need now. And what I need is truth. What I need is to never speak to hear again. What I need is to forgive, but I will never forget. What I need is peace. What I need is me. What I need is to remember, in the midst of chaos, sparkle. Don’t let life dull your shine.
Much Love,
The Manicured Mom
