I checked in with a friend — gently, honestly — about whether my renewed energy felt like too much. I’m in the middle of a real transformation, and I wanted to be mindful of how it might land.
His response was light. Joking. Almost affectionate. But one line lingered longer than it should have.
The suggestion that my books might be “less dark” now that I’m healing wasn’t meant to harm — but it revealed something familiar. How often honesty is mistaken for heaviness. How emotional depth is treated as something to be softened for easier consumption.
My work has always been rooted in healing. And healing isn’t bright all the time. It’s layered, inconvenient, and often written from places most people would rather avoid.
This essay isn’t about offense. It’s about awareness. About noticing how humor sometimes masks discomfort with emotional truth — especially when it comes from women who refuse to dilute their experiences.
Darkness isn’t the opposite of light. Sometimes it’s the proof that someone survived long enough to tell the truth.
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