The truth about being human is that nothing ever goes your way. No matter how much you try to control everything. It will all slip… eventually.

When a truth is revealed to Alondra about the man she loves, Israel, the foundation begins to tremble. Confronting him doesn’t only bring her heartbreak, but for Israel, it finally grants him release.

Written from the point of view of both characters, this a story that speaks to the visceral truth of what two people go through internally while navigating a relationship. The breakdown of an already crumbling foundation, to build up a solid one with their own two hands.

Switching perspectives weekly, we experience what the other goes through. The silent battles and triumphant. Because we never truly know what the other person is thinking or hiding.

Until now.

Scene One: Alondra: The Morning I Fell Through

Scene Two: Israel: The Morning I Woke Up

Scene Three: Alondra: The Cost of Release

Scene Four: Israel: The Cost of Silence

I will be continuing to update as life does get hectic sometimes, I’ll be consistent.

If you’ve learned anything or have new perspective. Please be sure to leave a comment. I’m looking forward to reading it :)

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So, if you’re new around here, then you probably can tell I’m a VERY optimistic person. When it comes to live, love, and writing, I try and push to support my fellow writers in EVERY way that I POSSIBLY can.

Because it’s hard.

And I feel that this one diary page that I wrote a month before my earth-shattering panic attack that changed my life for the better is a real insight as to who I was.

I was gonna start writing about my life. Like an autobiography. But instead it became a revelation.

I won’t edit anything.

Before you read this, I just want to tell you this:

“Life is not without Love. So stop running from it.” -Fall to the Fire

That’s a quote from my very own novel and the epiphany for why I live life the way I do now.

You are worth more, friend.

You deserve more than harsh words to yourself. Every. Day.

And I refuse to let you be hard on yourself anymore, because life is already pretty tough.

Be kind to yourself and if you cannot, I will be kind for you for as long as I can. Reach out to me if you need a small moment of respite from your dark corner.

I will hold out my candle for you.

And now, without further ado, a small visit into the world I once knew.

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Chapter One:

“Stop being mean to my wife.”

Why does nobody I’m around talk about it?

Talk about how hard it is to stay?

I know the saying goes that if you’re not happy then leave, move on, you can do better! But…

Why does nobody talk about how hard it is to stay?

I’ve been with my husband for 11 years now and it’s hard, to be honest, sometimes to convince myself NOT to leave.

We’ve had those arguments time and time again, about why we should get a divorce, and why I think he should leave me to be with someone more put together is what I say, but time and time again, he reminds me I’m just trying to be mean to myself…

Growing up, I never really had the best relationships, with family and friends, but in that being said, I

always thought, “I’m the problem.” Funny.

I always thought, “Something’s wrong with me, that’s why no one wants to stay…” Sad, but not true.

Although, I thought it was for so long, until now… Turns out, I’m good at pushing people away.

I’m good at being mean to myself.

I’m good at “being” alone, but I suck at not feeling lonely…

Just when I feel like I belong, my mother’s words flood into my brain, “You can’t be too happy, because then something bad will happen.”

Words I believed all my life, and I’m ashamed to say, I still do every once in a while….

I forgot who said it, but I heard that being angry is punishment to oneself… And that’s when it clicked….

And I cried…

For years, I’ve cut off my happiness from being shared with others because I was afraid of them being ripped violently from my embrace…

The little time that I had being happy in those moments, I cherished…

But I grew up so engraved with that motto in my heart, that I never noticed I created a fail-safe for when things are too good…

I find myself, completely unaware by the way, turning the happy moments into something sour, by initiating, AGAIN without my knowledge, starting an argument or finding any sort of displeasure in something, so the good moment is tainted with a little bad.

I’ve deduced this is so I can feel some sort of relief that if the two, happiness and unhappiness, are both equal with one another and I create the unhappiness myself, nothing OUT of my control can happen that hurts me.

My husband caught on… and I did, too.

It’s of course called self-sabotage.

I do it so often and so flawless, it’s disturbing and disgusting how fluent I am in it.

My husband deserves better… and I try to push him away so he can see it is truly me that is the problem, but he refuses.

He grew up in a household with majority women and he’s seen how self-destructive they could be. Even his grandmother, whom he cared for so deeply in that small home, would push away the good things in life in order to avoid heartache.

He says I remind him so much of her…

He also says he doesn’t really want to see the woman he loves the most, spend the rest of her life stealing herself away from the good things of the world….

But that’s just it…

I noticed as I get to realize these things more and more, it’s harder to really see otherwise.

I used to be worse!

Any little inconvenience, I felt the world caving in on me…

Because of what my mother said… I guess I decided it’s easier to be alone.

My mother’s been through a lot.

My father passed away, her mother passed away, her father passed away, a man whom she had been with when her and my father were separated passed away, and that’s why she returned to my father… But… yeah…

Every time she was happy… and I mean TRULY happy… Someone died…

She cried and mourned, then moved on to the next…

Love gained or lost, she wanted to feel it every moment she could. So, she wasted no time trying to find it.

Judging from the looks of her desperation, I desperately wanted to avoid it…

But my husband came into the picture… and gave me a small preview of what sort of kind and warmth love could bring… So, then I cried…

I loved feeling loved…

I loved my husband’s love…

But from what I witnessed, I was scared to death because I felt, personally, I might cause my husband’s death.

Yes, truly.

That is what I believed.

But fear aside, my husband was persistent.

No matter how much I pushed him aside he kept coming.

No matter how many times our actions fell into sync, I tried to make him hate me.

Just so you know, me and this man have crossed each other’s paths more than several times before we actually met.

We met as children, lived down the same street, talked a moment, but completely forgot each other afterwards, he was in a short (and I mean short) relationship with a friend of mine whom they didn’t even really call a relationship since it was just a few days (you know junior high school) and he recruited me for JROTC, we met at an airshow where he was supposed to watching over me and my friend as for his responsibility in the school trip, then I left… Moved to a different state entirely.

But then I came back… And there he was…

Tied up to another woman, but still giving me that look that he gives me to this day.

I know that might sound upsetting. Gross. Frustrating and irritating.

At this point, you all might be thinking this guy is no good.

Yeah… I told myself that, too.

But… one thing that never changed… and still hasn’t… is the way he treats me,

He still cares for me like when we first met. He still goes out of his way for me, when I throw him to the dogs. He does a lot…

And that’s why I feel like shit, pardon my French, when he does anything for me…

He’s focused on me, and he’s determined to be there for me in anything and EVERYTHING I pursue in life…

However, even after 11 years, here I am, still asking about why it’s so hard to stay?

You think after eleven years, I’d figure out how to handle this better, right?

Nope.

I’ve just tried to push him away harder.

Even after three kids.

I just… I just wish he would focus on himself more sometimes… Not always concerned about my wellbeing, you know?

I find him so enveloped in anything I’m doing, it gets me quite irritated, especially because some of things I’m doing, I feel embarrassed doing.

They aren’t usually in my comfort zone, and I’d much rather push myself through the embarrassment by myself or be alone so I can talk myself out of it.

He doesn’t give me that…

He knows I’ll talk myself out of anything that gets me excited, because he knows, better than me sometimes, that I will give myself every reason why I SHOULDN’T do something rather than why I should.

I dislike him for that.

I know I’m going to talk myself out of it, but damn… just let me! Please and I know this sounds absurd but let me GET all excited so I CAN be disappointed by myself internally rather than by anyone or lack of results externally.

“No,” he says. “I don’t know why you keep doing that to yourself, Angela.” The way he says my name sometimes… “I’m not gonna let you hurt you like you’ve always done.”

And listen to this… Honestly, hear me out when he says this next part and think about your significant other telling you this.

“I’m not going to let the you that is being mean right now, hurt and be mean to my wife.” ….

Let that set in for a moment… ….

Do you understand what that means?

…

If you don’t, that’s okay. I didn’t either.

In the heat of this argument, that phrase completely threw me off track and shut me up for a moment… Really, I was so confused, I didn’t know how to be angry so I just asked in the stupidly calmest voice after yelling I could manage, “What do you mean? Explain.”

He said that the person we are when we’re being mean to ourselves, in the sense of judgment, like when we look into a mirror and call ourselves fat or ugly or even just start nitpicking at any little flaw and comparing ourselves to others is… hurting the person they see when were happy.

The person… they fell in love with on day one…

In my case, he stares at me so loving when I get so happy about a new story to write, or an idea that comes to mind, and how I feel after the gym or even when I’m finally wearing that outfit I bought at Ross that hugs my curves nicely and still has the price tag on.

He loves that woman, the one who is nice to herself and loves herself because she finds beauty in her insecurities and sees herself as a unique individual rather than the one comparing herself to others and thinking what NOBODY is thinking.

He loves his wife. The woman with the smile.

And I… I keep being mean to her.

I close that laptop and think my writing will get nowhere, I shut down the idea and call it a day. I decide not to go to the gym because I gained a pound and lastly… This one hurts him the most… I take off that cute outfit and change into big cloths, leaving that price tag still sewn into the seam… The people we are when we are mean… are hurting the people are significant others love.

I always tell him, “I wish I could see who I look like through your eyes… maybe then I’d love myself the way you do.” And his usual comment is…

“If you saw how beautiful you looked to me, you would know there is no one worthy enough to be with you.”

Hmm… he thinks so much of me…

I wish I thought the same… but sometimes I do, believe it or not…

When I’m on a streak of confidence, I try not to think about the motto my mother said all those years ago, but it’s so deeply engrained I can’t realize when that fail-safe goes off.

I just got better at tricking myself not to be in a state of too much happiness. I keep it at a minimal, like, for example, I just express in words my elation, rather than act overly excited about it.

Turning to writing is what I’ve always done.

In every story though… My main character is always in a dream land of fantasy… but when they’ve become so content… darkness and chaos creep in to remind her of what truly waits around every corner…

And you know what… now in writing that, I realize… that’s why I created that realm… that’s why I created that dreamland… it was a way to define that… no matter how happy I get, someday I’m just gonna wake up and it’ll all be just a dream….

It’s my biggest fear… Isn’t it everyone’s?

Unless you’re currently living in a state of complete chaos and unhappiness, then I hope you do wake up to a better life, one that reflects your childhood hopes and dreams within.

But if you’re like me, life isn’t too bad… You just know it could be worse, and so you try to balance that good and bad, so it doesn’t get there.

Honestly, that’s what I’ve been doing.

But I can’t keep doing this forever…

My kids are getting any younger, and my time with husband will eventually run out, whether it’s me going first or… the opposite.

I need to get out of this…. I need to find a way around this fail-safe I created.

I need to find some sort of way to let myself be happy.

I need to find a way to stop hurting my husband’s wife, and my children’s mother…

I need to find a way to stop being afraid that I’m going to live my mother’s life and… start living my own…

How I’m gonna start doing that, I don’t know.

But I do know the first step in change is being self-aware of what needs to change… and I’m aware of that now… but change isn’t easy.

It never is, that’s why it’s called change. It means to replace something with something else and, in my case, I’m’ trying to change the words, “You can’t be too happy or something bad is gonna happen,” To “Stop being mean to my wife.”

Because then, I’m reminded… someone wants me to stop being a bully… and I have too many of those to count.

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Now, an update.

Me and my husband are still happily married.

Silly man <3

Life has gotten SO MUCH BETTER!

And it’s because of the panic attack that basically killed the way I used to think.

I was in months of crippling depression.

Unable to move. Hard anxiety. Panic attack one after the other.

Guys… life can change.

But you have to choose to let the good happen for you!

Always be kind.

If you won’t, I will be.

I hold this candle out for whoever needs it.

I’m here for you.

Be kind and be willing to love yourself, Friend.

Of course I would never charge you for encouraging words and stories, but if you’d like, I do enjoy an occasional matcha tea :)

Lets Enjoy One Together :)

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The still water does not ripple. The dark sky does not light. The clouds do not part and the rain is heavy and cold as chipped ice.

Depression, ladies and gentlemen.

It is on the rise and amongst our kind it is more prevalent.

We live in solitude for hours on end, indulge in high doses of caffeine and feel almost everything –too much of everything sometimes.

Not because we want to, but because we have to.

It’s the best way to help enrich the depth of our writing and build the emotional connection between the characters we bring to life and the readers who discover and relate to them.

It’s a beautiful thing to feel.

But what if we can’t feel or we feel too much?

Usually your nervous system shuts down and places your creativity on lockdown.

But what if I told you that your creativity grows just as deeply as the hole you’ve dug up without you ever knowing you dug it?

Nobody and I mean NOBODY likes looking at things on the bright side with every negative thing.

Its utterly annoying.

But I’m okay with that.

So long as I can help someone who actually wants to use it to their advantage.

And if you’re still here reading this, that’s you.

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The Truth Depression Forces You to See

So, with depression things can get deep and dark real quick.

You feel desperate to be normal again, anxious with the belief you’ll never right again, and sad with the grief that it’s all over.

But it’s not. Far from.

Why depression comes for us writers so strongly is simple.

Our lifestyle as I mentioned before, but as we make the small changes to shift our current way of living AND THINKING, you start to crawl out of the sealed box you thought you couldn’t open.

Why couldn’t you open it?

Because someone told you, you couldn’t.

Just like writers told you to be afraid of writers’ block.

Here we embrace it. Just a reminder.

Now, one of the benefits of depression—What?! Benefits! Where—Wha—How!

Okay… here me out.

I’ve studied this and lived through it.

While depression can be a catastrophic experience, it can also be a life-changing on for the better.

Not because the pain itself is valuable—but because of what it reveals once you survive it.

Here.

Have you ever experienced this? I did.

When I was in the hospital, after my panic attack, I gave little to no care about what anyone around me looked at me as.

I cried in public. Crawled under the table. Yelled and even stared down a dude over six foot like I could take him out.

What depression does is it strips away the need for approval and pushes desperation or qualities of it that make you just not care.

I have never cried in public –NEVER! Ew.

I have never acted like a lunatic by cowering under a table to keep myself safe. Wild.

And I have NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER yelled in public or stared down another human being ready to fight.

EVVVVEEERRR

It was just not me.

I was the women who stayed quiet for fear of being too loud.

I tried to hide and shrink myself so no one would notice my prescene.

And I always tried to be the people pleaser, so when I kept telling the nurse no, I was completely going off code.

It wasn’t me. I told the therapist I had no idea who that woman was and she thought I was bipolar, but now that I am here and that was a over a year ago, I realize something.

That was me.

The real me.

The one who did what she needed to in order to keep herself sane, even if it didn’t feel like it.

Now, I think of that moment every day and believe if I could stand still and hold my own, then I could do that now.

What’s really wrong with me being loud? Being alive? Being Human?

Going through the panic attacks, anxiety and depression really helped me rewire my entire brain.

We were no longer confined.

It’s like I had shattered the glass of my entire way of living – my life.

But that’s just the thing.

It wasn’t my life.

It was the one others forced upon me.

That’s what it does. It stripes away everything to show you a truer version of you and the dip is the grief. The grief of the person you used to be.

The one shaped and molded by others and for their benefit.

Not a care for your future or you in mind at all.

And that’s freedom when you no longer care about them either.

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Letting Go of the Wrong Reflections

We all have things and people who have hurt us.

We have gone through scenarios and situations in which we have given our all and every last ounce of our energy to someone—for someone who didn’t even deserve it.

In the state of depression, it grips us SO tightly that we cannot escape.

It’s like an honest avoidance and reflection of others’ view on you and what you view on them.

He hurt me! Why me?

Did you really do anything wrong?

Well… no, but—

But no, my love! That is an honest reflection of him, not you!

While you’re in depression you don’t want to admit that you were worth more. You try to avoid that you definitely ARE!

Why?

Because one of two things:

1. You keep making the same mistakes and it feels good… for the moment. You’re addicted to the quick high.

2. You’re afraid to admit that you are worth more because you don’t want to be uncomfortable or feel like a failure if it doesn’t work out the first time.

These are MY TWO reflections.

But man, did they taste like poison to admit.

Depression is a moment to stop and slow down.

And while you’re in it. Reflect on what they did but leave YOU out of it.

Think about why they act the way they do. Don’t justify what they did, look through a different lense.

From everything you know about them, was their repeat behavior, was their senseless pain, was their predator tendencies.

Look at how they have SHOWN YOU THEY LOOK!

Not yourself as they are.

Because the reflection we often take on is one that tells us WE ARE THEM, but that’s not the narrative anymore.

We’re changing that now.

Now, when you are in depression because of someone else. Look at them with honest truth.

But when you are in depression because of you (Feeling defeated and like you’ll never make it as a writer or feeling like no one likes you) Hear me.

Don’t chase the approval. Don’t care for being liked. Care for being you. Care for being honest.

Don’t forget the assignment.

You want to change the world.

Change it without an audience.

Noah built the ark under blue skies.

You are building your message under the same skies.

Only difference is that you may not know what’s coming but you are getting ready for whatever it is.

Be ready without the care for what others like or don’t like.

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What Surviving Changes

So, after you come out of the depression and finally see the sun again, don’t you feel good?

Don’t you feel alive?

Don’t you smile and think, “This is my time!”

Yes. You do.

Because you survived.

But this time, I’m here to tell you coming out of it will be different this time.

You’ll be changed in the best way.

You feel more than good.

You’ll feel brave and draw the line where you need to.

Because you are living this life!

Live it for you.

Feel everything and don’t be afraid.

Because when you shift the mindset, time is not taken away, it is valued.

Downfalls become moments where you know you will RISE!

And doesn’t that feel good?

Who knew depression could be an advantage once you learn how to use it to play the field.

Oh wait… You.

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Depression is… dark.

It’s something that -oddly- the word is thrown around so much.

I get it.

We’re all going through the thick of it right now.

But I don’t understand things the way I used to anymore.

Before, I used to laugh it off and joke with friends saying, “I’m sooo depressed!”

But now…

After my panic attack on March 4, 2024, everything is different.

I found out what depression actually was.

It’s not a mood.

It’s not a phase.

It’s not an aesthetic.

I don’t understand why people are joking about it.

It’s a real thing.

I wanted to… take my own life.

A mother of three (at the time) and a wife (to a loving husband with an abundance of patience) with a dream stitched into the seams of every part of me.

I knew nothing else but wanting a family and to be a published author, so when I got hit with this very huge wave of… despair.

I didn’t know who I was anymore when I decided to speak openly and say I give up.

“It’s not meant to be, Jacob!” I cried as I dropped to my knees, slamming my fists on the carpeted floor, tears firing out like bullets, burning my eyes like fire. “I’m doing all this for nothing—NOTHING!” I sobbed, “No one even cares about me! I’m not gonna make it! I give it all up! I’m done!”

And I really thought I was.

I went weeks on medication. Doctors telling me what I should do. Psychiatrist telling me how I should feel. People are still telling me, after 27 years, what I should be doing with myself, my life, and my body.

I was one of those people who joked about depression, anxiety and panic attacks.

My Lord, I was humbled and I’m sincerely sorry that I took it so lightly.

It’s lonesome.

No matter how many people support you or reach out.

I just wanted to be alone. I wanted everyone to leave my mind, my body, and my soul alone.

So, when the day came that the serpents whisper did not leave my ear, I held the knife certain that it was the only way. Everything felt clear.

But luckily for me, I still had something pulling at my sanity. Telling me to return.

My children, my husband, and my dream.

Not a lot of people make it out of the dark, and my heart grieves to acknowledge, but I do. I acknowledge them. The Fallen… Forever in my heart and on my mind.

And I cannot be more than grateful that I did not give up, but to those of you who are still here with us, I’m so thankful.

We may never meet, but I love all of you dearly and pray every day that you continue to hold that candle high and light your way.

You never know who might need it one day.

Because life is hard, but it won’t stay like that.

I share that testimony. Here. Now.

If I had ended myself, I would never have given birth to my precious boy, Haven. Which yes, means safe sanctuary.

I would never have moved to this big beautiful home.

I would have never knew that I was going to start getting paid to write.

I would have missed it all.

Things get better.

I promise you.

Stay.

Breathe slow.

Be Kind.

One more day.

Please, Stay.

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Motivation is the best feeling to have.

Once it sinks in through your skin and catches that flow into your bloodstream that cycles itself out, giving your heart an extra pump of adrenaline that is.

It makes you think you can do absolutely anything.

Because you can.

In this moment, the energy you are expending was built for just that.

A quick pump that gets you going and at it.

…

For a few seconds of course.

Why is that?

Because motivation energy is fleeting.

It comes primarily from a certain kind of energy that burns within the first ten seconds of use.

So, while it is the most energetic you feel, it isn’t the most reliable.

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You’re Asking Motivation to Do Too Much

You see energy feels limitless at first.

It shows up, shows out, floods the muscle and convinces the body it can do this all day every day.

Because as I mentioned before it really can.

But that first surge doesn’t come from nowhere.

It is summoned by what’s already inside of you.

ATP also known as adenosine triphosphate, it’s the body’s immediate source of energy.

Every movement you make, muscle you contract, or even write runs on it.

On ATP.

But the one we are talking about is ATP-PC which is a short but very high-intensity burst of energy released that helps get you going.

It’s the initial fire that ends momentum which then transitions into the second system of energy that our body relies.

And then the third.

There’s a whole thing about it.

Which, if you’d like, you can head on over to my website and download the guide on how it works to have a better understanding of what to eat and do to keep it going.

I digress but getting back to my main point.

This is the quick, “I’m gonna do this!” and then the later, “Where did it go?”

That’s this moment.

You have about like a ten to fifteen second window.

And if you’re not nourishing your body with the better decisions then you might not be able to push past those few seconds effectively into the second and third cycle of burning energy.

I’m not saying you can’t – we all can – but I’m just saying it truly does get exhausting.

This is why I don’t push, but I do encourage you to eat more whole foods.

Encourage you to eat carbs – Yes, carbs.

They are slow burning energy which helps us writers when the fleeting motivation is finally suspended and we have the dip after the hype.

It’s a long-form.

Writing a novel.

Not a sprint,

A marathon.

And now knowing this, I feel confident to continue with how this affects the brain.

Because I’m a Brain Obsessed Writing Nutrition Nerd.

I need to connect the dots, so we don’t have any plot holes.

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The Only Useful Job Motivation Has

The brain wants comfort – not more goals.

The brain wants calm – not a push out of the comfort zone.

But it might spare you some of its discomfort if you’re nourishing it the right way.

Giving it all the protein, carbs, fats, and fiber that it so desires.

Otherwise, it won’t even care to give you the time of day.

Seriously.

Brain fog and less awareness because it’s barely on survival mode.

So, no time of day for you, if you aren’t’ giving it what is asking for.

The brain doesn’t need motivation; it needs more food.

It doesn’t need a jumpstart on Pinterest or the perfectly curated playlist to get the juices flowing.

It needs more food.

It doesn’t need brainstorms and keep-goings.

It. Needs. More. Food.

In order to access the storage of energy to keep burning and writing it needs nutrients that come from more than multivitamin, some coffee and café pastries.

Or even… some late-night Lunchables…

… that was just me though…

It needs bagels with cream cheese and scrambled eggs.

It needs sourdough toast with strawberry jam, strawberries, eggs and egg white.

It needs avocado toast spread on sourdough bread and a vanilla milkshake.

Any objection to these?

No, probably not unless you hate eggs, then I can throw in some other suggestions.

But that’s not what I’m doing right now.

I’m simply telling you, you have to kind of eat like someone who is training for a marathon.

Because creativity –writing in general ACTUALLY burns that much energy.

Why do you think you’re so exhausted?

That’s a lot of brain power and visceral one at that.

But when you lack the capability to feed your body and your brain, then brain will always pull its sources from creativity and keep that almost impossible to access.

Because you can think of it this way.

Our brain is its own entity and it’s making choices without your permission.

It’s learned after all this time it cannot trust you with a steady flow of food.

So, it will not lend out it’s discomfort for you.

That’s a boundary for the brain that it will not cross.

Funny, huh?

The brain won’t let you feel okay with keeping boundaries when you ask it, but it’s an expert when you try crossing its boundaries.

And this is where routine helps build trust.

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Trust Is Built in Repetition, Not Desire

You don’t trust someone who’s broken your heart more than once, right?

That whole, fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me thing.

Well, the brain won’t be fooled.

That’s why it takes forever—FOREVER to gain the trust of your brain and build good habits.

It’s because you keep falling back on the ones that are not so helpful.

The brain keeps reserves and plays the part it knows best.

You try something hard, eh she’s gonna stop tomorrow.

You eat healthy today, eh she’ll crave something greasy sooner or later.

You eat one full day or two while reaching your calories.

Wait…

Your brain is watching you now.

Staring almost.

You keep reaching your calories and feeling lighter.

Creative.

Because as you keep going, your brain starts to build trust and overflow of reserves that it can allow you to do the thing you so desire.

Write.

Create.

You just got to keep building that trust.

But if you break it, it’ll be harder because then the brain will think. Nope.

I’m not falling for this again.

Which makes it harder to get back into it.

But muscle memory plays a thing here in which it says to the brain, “Hey, she’s doing the thing again and we feel alright. We need some energy over here!”

And the brain trusts the muscles because they are close friends (literally), so it sends it that way.

Routine.

Routine.

Routine.

Whether your brain trusts you or not at this point, your body will start to.

That’s why war between our mentality and us is so vicious and long.

We need to keep speaking kindly and consoling it that we are sticking to it this time.

Then over time it starts trusting you.

Working for with you!

And even for you!

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Let’s Talk Numbers (Briefly)

Push past the discomfort.

It’s gonna be there.

The first time and a few times after that until it becomes natural.

Motivation is helpful –can be helpful but it is fleeting as I mentioned.

Nourishment. Routine. And Endurance is how you will use it to its best potential.

Then when you have those bursts of energy and do something with it, you be able to keep going.

Because it won’t whither away just as fast as its come.

And if you’re wondering how much you need to eat in order to feel your best, here’s the formula:

Calculating Maintenance Calories (For Women)

To support consistent energy, focus, and creative endurance, you first need to know your maintenance calories.

Start with your basal metabolic rate (BMR) — the calories your body needs at rest:

BMR = (10 × weight in kg) + (6.25 × height in cm) − (5 × age) − 161

This is your baseline, not your intake goal.

To find maintenance, multiply your BMR by your activity level:

Maintenance Calories = BMR × Activity Multiplier

• Sedentary: 1.2

• Light activity (1–3 days/week): 1.375

• Moderate activity (3–5 days/week): 1.55

• High activity (6–7 days/week): 1.725

• Very high activity: 1.9

The final number represents a range, not a rigid target. Writing, thinking, creating, and emotional labor all require energy — even if they don’t show up as movement. When you eat below maintenance for too long, the brain compensates by pulling energy away from creativity and focus first.

Motivation may start the work.
Nourishment is what lets you continue.

And if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to reach out.

I’m a Certified Nutrition Coach, and this is what I do for a living as well.

Besides writing, of course :)

Hope this helps!

Be well and WRITE ON!

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Like, heat‑of‑the‑moment, trying‑to‑figure‑it‑out as I go kind of hurry.

There was someone who wanted to work with me, and I really wanted it to work.

So I built something fast.

I called it Wallflower Blogs — not because it reflected me, but because I was trying to appeal to someone else’s aesthetic.

I was softening myself, shaping myself around what I thought would look right, sound right, feel safe.

And even while I was doing that, another name kept pulling at me.

Shadow & Scripture.

It just kept stringing itself together in my mind.

Like the thin strands collective thrown about into a knot, then someone (me) was pulling it together.

And every time it did, I thought, this sounds so me.

But then immediately after that came the fear…

Maybe this is too dark. Maybe nobody will like it. Maybe it’s too much.

So I ignored it. (Of course I did.)

I stuck with Wallflower Blogs. I tried to make myself mold to the image of another as I always did when I was kid.

But then that client and I didn’t end up working together and when that fell through, something else rose.

All the panic dissolved into a stillness.

And in that quiet, I realized something really important that spoke to me.

And me alone.

I actually liked Shadow & Scripture.

I wanted Shadow & Scripture. I didn’t want to keep running from it.

So, I went back and decided this is who I am. This is what I’m about. This is what I naturally do.

And once I committed to Shadow & Scripture, everything else began to fall into place.

I started writing blogs.

I started up my podcast again, The Divine Writer’s Block.

And slowly but surely writing stopped being something I did just for fun and to survive my panic episodes, it became something over people paid me to do.

And Shadow & Scripture became the place where everything lived, where everything breathed. It became the space where I felt like myself again.

It pulled, in the best ways, between darkness and light. Not choosing one or the other, but dancing in the gray.

And that’s really where Shadow & Scripture was born.

It came from panic.

Then silence.

Then slow pondering.

And finally conviction.

It came from realizing that when I slowed down, what felt dark wasn’t wrong.

It was honest.

And it was me.

I had to stop running from my own shadow.

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What “Shadow” Means to Me

Shadow is what I spent most of my life trying to avoid.

It’s the part of me that stood behind others, letting them shine.

And truthfully, I still love doing that — I love helping people find their voice, speak up, be bright, and especially be loud!

But shadow is also the part of me I thought I had to hide.

The intensity. The heaviness. The emotions that felt too dangerous to let anyone see.

Shadow is the weight we carry. I know that now.

The things we don’t always say. The pieces of ourselves we tuck away to survive.

And for a long time, I thought that made me too much.

But in reality it just made me feel like I was never and would never be enough.

Which definitely isn’t true for me or for you.

What “Scripture” Means Here

Scripture, in this space, isn’t religious (Entirely.)

To me, scripture is translation.

When we read or write something, it lands differently for every single person because it passes through such an intimate part of us — our memories, our experiences, our wounds, our healing. No two people interpret words the same way.

And thinking that, isn’t it beautiful?

Like we go back to reread a book as a child and it’s seen through different eyes now.

The same goes for what we write and what the reader interprets.

Every time we write, we’re translating our inner world onto the page.

Mind to paper.

Unfiltered.

Bleeding.

Factual.

Truth.

That’s scripture.

And that’s what I write about. This is who I am and want to be without any concern as to who disagrees with whom.

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Why Shadow & Scripture Exists

Shadow & Scripture exists because we take the darkness — the secrets, the burdens, the things we’ve carried on our shoulders — and we translate them into language.

And somehow, when we do that, the weight gets lighter.

That’s why this space feels like a pathway.

A bridge.

Or as I like to think A sanctuary.

It’s for women who feel too dark.

For women who feel like they don’t blend into the light.

Because here’s the truth: when you actually let your voice and your mind shine it’s brighter than the sun.

Shadow & Scripture was created to go deep.

To get honest.

To bring into the light the things we’ve been taught to run from.

To say: it’s okay to have a shadow. It’s okay to cast one. It doesn’t mean you don’t walk in the light.

Shadows disappear in the dark.

They come back in the sun.

Both belong to us.

And translating all of that, the dark, the light, the in‑between is what I want us all to learn.

I created Shadow & Scripture not just to help women understand themselves, but to help them shine.

Because for a long time, I made myself almost invisible thinking I never deserved to be seen unless I was perfect.

I stayed quiet. I told myself I was too much, too emotional, too dark.

But the truth is… being in the darkness is where I found the light.

And that is Shadow & Scripture.

So if you’re new here, welcome and know that whatever darkness you are holding onto, let it go.

Let it live here.

Let it free.

Because it will not and I repeat will not scare me.

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I lifted my head to stare at her.

My chest waving slow in high and low tides.

A vicious throbbing beat at the side of my head as I ran my tongue involuntarily over my bleeding lip, tasting the iron.

My eyes froze on her as she gave me that wild stare of panic.

She was spewing out words frantically as she moved forward, but I couldn’t hear a single one.

My hearing had collapsed inward.

I blinked a few times then her voice made its way.

“No… Israel,” She breathed, her voice burning out. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” It scraped.

Of course she didn’t.

I know she never wanted any of this… and I think that’s what hurt me the most.

I didn’t either.

I jutted my lower li-p out as I squeezed my eyes shut. But there her silhouette burned. I gave a curt nod. “I know.” My voice trembled. Was It really me speaking? “It’s okay.”

“Israel,” Her voice tore across my heart like a thread of barbed wire, and I clutched my chest as it tightened. “Really, I didn’t mean to hurt you!” a sharp shiver shot through me as her voice crescendo. “I’m sorry!” A visceral wave rippled through the coursing of my blood.

“Please,” My eyes burst open as I held my hand for her to calm. “It’s okay, Alondra. Really.”

She shouldn’t be the one saying sorry right now.

Honestly. This woman is everything.

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“No!” Her body jerked forward, but ripped in two, she turned her head away and forced herself back onto her legs. “Why did you do this?” She cried, avoiding the sight of me.

I wish I could, too, but just the embodiment of my own mistakes.

I stared at her.

Her shoulders were tight and quivering as her hair concealed her face.

This was the moment.

I could finally tell her the truth.

I could finally confess.

I could finally allow her some peace.

Everyone, peace, from me.

Maybe after this, I could just end it all, too.

End me.

I lowered my eyes as I lifted my body and let it melt against the wall.

The heat in my blood ran cold and I opened my mouth.

…

I opened my mouth. My brows furrowed.

I OPENED MY MOUTH WHY THE FUCK—

My eyes widened, a shot of panic as I couldn’t summon the words.

My hand speared at my throat. Say the truth! Say it, now! Please, just say it!

My head turned in her direction.

Her body still heaving.

“I don’t know—” I was cut off.

Her head whipped toward me, as her eyes illuminated with rage. “You don’t know!” She shouted. “What do you mean you don’t know?” She bolted forward, effortlessly lifting onto her feet and closing the distance. “Tell me the truth! Aren’t I worth that!” Tears continued to bullet out.

I nodded viciously. “Of course, you do! You do! You do! You do! I just…” The words were gone again.

Why! What the fuck? I scolded. Why can’t you say anything?

My mouth hung open like an the rug of a dead lion.

“Tell me!” She screamed, her face so close to mine. “Tell me now!”

I stared at her, shaking my head. “I don’t know—”

Her hand slammed against my face. The rush of heat flared in my cheek as I lashed my head in the direction it led me.

“Tell me, now.” She said firmly through the grit of her teeth.

My eyes remained on the floor.

Why, Israel. Why...?

“Now, Irael!” She moved forward, grabbing my shirt and yanking me toward her.

I turned my head to see her face.

The distortion of rage made her unrecognizable.

Who was she?

In this moment exactly?

Oh…

Alondra was gone.

The smile of spring.

Where the flowers bloomed and the sky was so blue and high.

The warmth it brought was now… gone.

I did this.

“I know you deserve more, Alondra. But I really can’t tell you why I did it—”

“Liar!” She shoved me back against the wall.

My head hit hard and I grunted, forced to be accepting for this punishment.

“Tell me, Israel!”

I shook my head. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. I just don’t remember right now—”

Another clash of my face and her palm.

My face scrunched in with the stinge of pain.

“Stop, lying to me! Tell me the truth!” She demanded. “You can’t keep lying to me anymore. I know everything!” She let my shirt go and moved back. “Do I really deserve nothing?”

I shook my head looking up at her, my eyes burning red with the boiling tears filling them. “You do. You do, Alondra—”

“Then why aren’t you telling me the truth?” She glared at me. The sympathy was gone.

Whatever softness Alondra always carried had left. Draining from her face instantly.

She hated me.

“I—” I dropped my gaze to the floor and placed my hands over my ears. “Please, give me a second. Let me think.” I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember something.

But nothing.

I remembered nothing.

“Please, please, remember something—”

“Ugh! Pathetic!” I heard her shout as it was distanced.

My chest began to buckle as my face crumpled. “Remember!” I scolded myself. “Remember, please!” I begged.

But in my mind there was only darkness.

The only image I saw was her face, the moment I opened the door.

Her tired eyes.

The last moment before the chaos.

How did she look… last night.

Her hair… her head was resting on my chest.

Her hair… the scent. The smell of her conditioner so fresh after our shower.

I had pulled her in.

Held her tight until the alarm rang and she left my arms to get ready.

For work…

She was gone. Alondra.

Because of me.

I opened my eyes and looked up to find her standing at the window with her back to me.

The blinds bleeding in the sun.

I slowly stood, my body pulsing with the pain of contained adrenaline. “I know you want all the truth.” She remained quiet. “And I’m trying to remember why I did it. You deserve that. You deserve more—”

“I deserved you!” She shouted, turning to me.

I stayed quiet.

“A kind man who always made me feel like I never had to worry about these kinds of things. Why would you do this to me?”

“I hated me.” The words forced themselves out so effortlessly.

Her brows furrowed.

“I thought that maybe if I … did this… I mean—” I licked my lips that dried with every word. “Maybe I would finally be who you thought I would always be.”

She stayed quiet.

“I’m a cheater. That’s me. Isn’t that what you said I would do? Who I would eventually be?”

She scoffed, “So you cheated on me because I said you would?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She snorted, “Wow. What? So you’re blaming me?” She pointed at herself. “After all this, you’re still not taking responsibility?”

I lowered my gaze and shook my head. “I am taking responsibility. Maybe if I was better… you would have never thought of me like this.”

“So it’s my fault is still what you are saying?” She threw her hands up.

I shook my head. “No, It’s mine, Alondra. It’s always been mine.” I lifted them to her. “It was never you. It was always just me.”

Picture two people standing in the ruins of trust.

One is desperate for answers.

Aching for honesty, needing something solid to hold onto in the middle of their pain.

The other is desperate to confess, to spill the truth, but is drowning in guilt and shame so thick it feels like their throat is closing in.

Words hover on their lips but never make it out.

Both reach for each other, but the distance between them feels impossible.

This is the real heartbreak after betrayal.

People want to fix things, but their anger, guilt, and shame become walls they can’t climb.

Alondra is trapped in her distress, her heart pounding, her voice sharp with hurt.

She’s tasted the bitterness of betrayal and can’t let it go.

Israel stands on the edge of confession, terrified that his truth will shatter what’s left.

Both are bleeding inside.

Alondra even regrets hurting Israel, because love and pain are tangled together.

In a way, what she did isn’t so different from what he did.

He cheated because she expected it, and they both ended up hurting each other out of love.

It’s messy and confusing.

Until you step back and see how your actions and words ripple through someone else’s life, you might not realize your own part in the pain.

Don’t expect someone else to heal you or change for you.

Work on yourself or be ready to work together.

The person you love wants to be there, but if you keep pushing them into your pain, you might make them feel like they’re missing something too.

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Croissants…

Bagels…

Matcha…

Cream cheese…

These are the ingredients used to make a writer but then one accidental ingredient was added..

Chemical X… Otherwise known as coffee.

Okay, so that was not what I expected to write, but it just came out that way.

And now that I’ve got your attention.

I can tell you honestly, these actually do make a great writer.

I’m not joking with you.

I published a post a little back that talked about the lifestyle that was killing writers and it included these exact ingredients, but what it means to the core is this…

The coffee and pastries are not the issue. It’s the excess that is.

The part where people drink and eat it every day and cheer and glamorize the burnout and running on fumes.

It’s not fun.

I was this writer.

I was chasing the aesthetic while little did I know I was digging my own hole.

Constant writer’s block (which I love now) and crippling imposter syndrome and haunting self-doubt.

All because I was chasing the hype of the “writer’s life.”

I love writing.

Don’t we all?

But why can’t we just… eat healthy food, too?

Like, I’m not forcing this skinny culture into the writing space.

I’m trying to shine a light on something I haven’t seen anyone else do.

And there might be a reason why about that, too.

Us writers are so protective of our space.

We want it safe.

Without judgment.

Without pain, since we experience that on our own too much

But what if life could be so much brighter.

While you do the one thing you love the most?

No fear or burning out.

No fear of losing to self-doubt.

And being able to feel so confident that imposter syndrome is an afterthought, not the mind’s goal.

This is what you can have.

Does such a life exist?

It does!

I’m living it!

And I want that for you, too.

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Your Brain Is a Girl’s Girl, but Differently

Now, I’ve said this one too many times and I’m okay with that.

You might be sick of it, but I’ll never get tired of talking about it.

The brain and writing.

I do this with conviction.

The brain is something we still don’t wholesomely understand, but that’s the best part about it.

It’s remarkable, but it is also predictable.

Once you’ve learned your cues, of course.

The brain functions to its best when you are your best.

Just like you like watching a comfort show eating your favorite snack, your brain has comfort shows and food as well.

You thriving in life is the show and the best foods with high protein, carbs and fiber is it’s comfort food.

Best thing about this is that you can achieve this whilst eating pastries.

You don’t have to ever eliminate what you love to eat.

But if you’re aren’t eating anything at all then…

It’s an absolute horror show.

You can’t think.

You can’t write.

And this just adds to a negative loop of bad habits.

Each bad habit digging you in deeper and deeper.

Because nutrition plays such a big role in making your brain work for you, but it can’t be a side character when it comes to this kind of behavior.

The brain is there to keep us alive, as I’ve mentioned before.

It doesn’t care about your goals, your dreams, your confidence or the life you want.

Its number one objective is to keep you alive and it will do that with whatever little food you are giving it.

Creativity takes so much energy to produce.

Since writing is a marathon not a sprint, it uses more.

And to the brain that is just not something important.

So it will shut you down.

You won’t be able to write for days, weeks, months, and even years.

The brain is saying at this point, “Hey, if you want us to work together, I need you to give me more than a bagel with some cream cheese and highly addictive caffeine that makes me jittery. Throw me a freaken potato!”

Because carbs are the best!

They are the long-haul energy.

The one that helps us write for hours on end and keeps us sharp.

It’s slow burning.

It’s so helpful.

But we do need more protein and fiber to help balance everything.

And healthy fats of course.

This is the aesthetic we should be chasing.

Healthy not skinny and definitely not starved.

And this is my purpose.

Because living the way I used to sent my into a panick attack the rattled me to the core and forced me into a depression that I just couldn’t escape.

That’s where aesthetic gets you.

Starving not thriving.

Writer’s Block is the Guardian to Ember Island

When I neglected my nutrition after recovery, I saw the worst days.

And when I ate a potato, I saw my best.

Because without proper nutrition you experience a multitude of symptoms that make it hard –not impossible—to write.

While it’s never impossible to write, it just becomes truly difficult.

Then enters writer’s block.

The best tool in every writer’s arsenal.

It is the tall and looming man seated in the boat before he carries you over to the land of writers.

Where fire burns and creativity comes to life.

He holds his hand out in front of you.

Cloaked in a long ancient robe – face hiding beneath the hood.

Stopping you from stepping in.

Why?

Not because you are not worthy, but because you a danger.

To the land and yourself.

Writer’s block may exist to some and not to others.

I’ve heard a multitude of opinions.

But I stuck with this one because accepting writer’s block as an ally rather than an enemy helped me.

It kept me alive.

It kept my craft safe and sacred.

Untarnished by my erratic behavior and desperate attempts to try and create from fear rather than love.

While I starved myself my brain took everything I consumed and used it to keep my body barely alive.

There was no room for creating.

This broke my heart.

I even cried out that I’d give up everything to write.

But what that actually meant was this.

I give up the bad things. The easy things. The addictive things for writing.

And I did.

Then after I started taking care of my health and being kind to myself, I saw it—felt it.

It was Writer’s block…

Welcoming me into the boat.

Taking me to the Island.

My safe place.

The fog lifted.

I was able to shake off the anxiety.

I was no longer experiencing the melt downs.

Or digging my grave into depression.

I was finally Her.

The writer I was meant to be.

All because I choose to be kind to myself.

And not be skinny but choose healthy.

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The Most Underrated Writing Tool

So many writers struggle to finish their first draft.

While perfectionism and fear of failure are some reasons why, I know a simple and effective way to help you complete it in one round.

Caring for yourself.

This isn’t the kind of post people like to read about.

Honestly.

Who wants to know they have to change their lifestyle.

Who wants to learn they’ve been doing something’s a little off.

Who wants to be told they have to change?

No one.

I didn’t.

But I was tired of failing so much.

Blaming myself so hard when I had to do in order to be the writer I wanted to be was be nice to me.

Feeding myself with the intention to love myself more.

To enjoy my foods mindfully and life fully.

The best form of strength in finishing your first draft is fueling your body, mind and spirit.

“Angela, that’s lame! Give me something more tangible!”

Yeah.

That’s what we all want.

But hear me when I say.

That’s not sustainable.

Quick and easy isn’t the way.

Writing is long and meaningful.

This is why people resort to AI so much.

Because it’s quick and easy.

But the truth is…

Everything worth having is not easy to obtain.

The life of a writer is tough, but it’s so worth it.

The feeling of rereading a piece and thinking wow… I did that.

You have a gift!

You reading this!

And you know it deep in your bones.

This life!

You were meant for this!

So please, be kind to your body too not just your mind.

All of it.

Everything.

All of this.

I know it has meaning.

You have meaning.

A purpose.

And it’s to be writing.

You’ve got this.

Keep going, but this time.

Fuel your body with the best of everything.

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As much as we’d like to believe – and I partially still do despite all that I’ve learned – that creativity is mythical energy that spouts out from the enchanted garden that is our mind, it isn’t entirely soo . . .

Creativity is an excess of expended energy that takes quite a bit to produce.

In the world of increasingly high-demand need for authenticity but also the push for generic voice, things can be quietly costing you that you haven’t even an understanding as to why.

Like writing.

Writing isn’t a mental sprint.

It’s a marathon.

And in order to keep going, like all Olympic sports, we must train and train hard.

But we have been training.

Yes, since birth.

But one difference between then and now is the demands.

As children –whether we were thriving or surviving – we had an over expenditure of energy to last.

It’s often why our parents gave a twisted look of annoyance when after one a minute of sleeping we were able to stay awake for fourteen hours straight.

Now, things have changed.

Life.

Children.

Jobs.

Love.

Loss.

It’s all taken so much out of us.

And in order to live comfortably we must be able to afford the things we love in life which means, of course, we have to work.

Make money.

By whatever means.

But what about writing?

We love writing.

It’s quite honestly stitched into our DNA!

It’s not like we can give it up even if we try.

And the pattern I’m seeing as I scroll through Instagram and Substacks and even Reddit is that one thing is clear.

We have a million dreamers who are still dreaming.

It is at this moment that an uncomforting rattle reverberates in my bones of a quote I’ll always remember,

The graveyard is the richest place on earth…” -Les Brown

Phenomenal Man.

But man . . .

Those worlds have haunted me ever since and carried along with me an immense weight that I cannot escape.

It is this pressure that consumes us.

The pressure to write.

To achieve.

To be.

And it is this pressure to produce more words that breaths that is costing us.

That is burning us out faster than flying too close to the sun.

Breeding to Bleeding

I know more than not women are the ones who experience burn out more than men.

But why us?

Why do women run on fumes especially creative ones?

Well, I’m here to tell you its not entirely your fault.

It’s how we are built.

Nature rather than nurture.

We are very in tuned with caring for others before ourselves.

We’ve seen our mothers do it – kind or not – and grandmothers, as well as amongst animals.

No matter the neglect, a woman is a woman, and it will always be there at the back or in this case forefront of her mind to make sure everything around her is taken care of.

It is only then that she will allow herself respite.

But even at this moment, she’s already wondering what next?

Anything to be sure she can continue to rest for the excess of the world’s stress.

This is why internally when we do something for ourselves, we feel undeserving and it feels almost to some of us filthy.

Selfish is what they call a woman who loves herself firstly.

But selfish is what we must be in order to keep ourselves from bleeding.

Bleeding out and burning out.

Now, I don’t mean to be so honest, but the world will have none of it otherwise.

Watching woman after woman fall to the loop of guilt when she grants herself mercy is disheartening.

And I will not have that.

No more, no longer.

We are not meant to be silent, be still and be yielding.

Burn out in its purest form is staying asleep a little longer . . .

Avoiding conversation . . .

Avoiding praise . . .

Avoiding people . . .

Avoiding truth . . .

Avoiding writing . . .

And avoiding yourself at all costs.

It is also... feeling numb, detached, and negative toward you and you’re writing.

While also feeling like you’re no longer good at what you have always believed you are great at.

Like no matter what you do, your efforts are in vain.

But this simply isn’t true.

This is just an over exhausted version of you because you keep neglecting the priority that is your existence.

Your survival.

Your life.

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Your Brain Isn’t Fond of Your Dreams

When you are burned out and barely able to care for yourself, you leave your brain with no choice.

It’s you or your creativity.

And almost always your brain will choose the first rather than the second.

Because without you, there is no creativity.

There is no story.

No Substack post.

No Note.

No tomorrow.

Your brain sometimes likes to let you think you’re in charge, but only because it has to.

Otherwise, it would be perfectly content keeping you comfortable and confined to being spoon fed in a comfy sofa while you binge watch the same show for the eighty-eight time this month.

Yep.

The brain is wired for survival, not for goals.

Unless the goal is to survive that is.

Then your good

But other than that, the brain could literally be flicking the finger to writing and any activity that pushes you out of your comfort zone.

Your brain does not like that writing takes so much energy and time.

And if you skip out on eating, oof.

Good luck getting it to help you do anything you set on your calendar this month.

Personally, this is why I became a Nutrition coach.

Because something just wasn’t clicking.

And that was my nutrition number one.

It was the foundation to escaping the burnout loop.

That and stress management as well as quality sleep.

Because, if you haven’t noticed by now, quality over quantity all day every day.

Survival or Nothing

You ever have this internal monologue that goes like . . .

“Ugh! I have to write today! I have to post today otherwise I won’t stay relevant!”

While those are probably nicer words than what you substitute them with, this usually is along the lines of what I know you’re telling yourself as you pursue this lifestyle.

How do I know?

Because I’ve seen too much brutality on one person and too little kindness.

The algorithm wants visibility, engagement and it doesn’t matter the cost.

It’s basically saying, “Aye, do you want this or not? And if you do chop chop!”

That’s this world now.

Quantity over quality.

They want more views, likes, engagement and just numbers, numbers, numbers.

This pressure creates desperate writing, not meaningful writing.

This is why AI is so prominent.

People are trying to keep up with the demands are not quick, so they resort to something quicker.

This is how they play the field.

But writers who refuse AI are doing something no one else is and it’s more valuable.

They are getting quicker.

Honing their craft.

Sharpening their blade to keep up.

And it’s beautiful.

Because it is human of us.

Our ability to write drafts and posts is gradually increasing.

Becoming more distinguished.

Because while others push for production and quantity, it’s also doing something dreadful.

It’s depriving writers of the right kind of fulfillment.

It feels almost as if taking a deep breath where the air skims your lungs so teasingly but never fills them to completion.

Then your brain is hit with a surge of panic, and you think, “Can I even breathe—Will I?”

Then after you calm you take a breath and relax.

Writing slowly and mindfully to fulfill fully the heart is taking those deep breaths.

The ones that fill your lungs and make you feel grateful to be alive.

That’s why quality matters.

That’s why I believe whether a writer uses it or not, she should still stick to her truth and write from the embers burning in her heart.

Because everyone fears not ever being seen, but no one fears burnout out . . .

Until they do.

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Fear A Demise for an Unmistakable Rise

Then she is forever changed.

Then she cares for her mind, her health, and her wellbeing.

She pushes boundaries, sleep is actually nurturing and she feels confidently herself without worrying about what other people think.

Don’t be the person who waits until after – although I know it will more than likely happen because every person learns and has to in their own way – and don’t be the person that says that could never happen to them.

Because . . .

“Engage in combat fully determined to die and you will be alive; wish to survive in the battle and you will surely meet death.”
— Uesugi Kenshin

Be a scared fighter but be a skilled writer.

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The Cost of Release

My body grew cold, limp, but suffocating in a tight grip.

Knots in my stomach pulled to the point of sickness.

I felt acid rush up.

Every nerve in my body held over the flicker of a pyro’s tactic.

He was about to push his greatest trick without any concern whatsoever for the carcass.

My body.

Me.

I was going to be enveloped in the heart of the devil’s flames.

Muscles in my legs and arms ached as they wound so tight.

The flow of my blood running cold brought a deadly chill.

I shook my head with a trembling gasp, as I felt chains of added weight pull me down. “No…Why—” my hands flew to my throat as I coughed, choking slightly on my cry and saliva.

The loss of control.

A raging collide as a knife stabbed deep burrowing into my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Traveling further into my heart.

Sharp and unwavering.

I continued to shudder a gasp as my body deliberately collapsed.

I clutched my chest and once my knees hit the ground. . .

I didn’t recognize who I was anymore.

It happened so quickly.

I remember snatching my hair and fighting to flex my fingers outward to release.

“No!” I cried out, shaking my head viciously as my eyes widened, “This isn’t me—This isn’t me!”

I panted as my chest buckled uncontrollably.

“No!” I screamed as my vision darkened, my mind falling into an obsidian dream.

“Alondra—” His voice faintly carried into the black, but it was his voice that ignited the vortex of rage within me.

The person I never released.

The version of me I repressed so long for others sake.

For my sake.

My head snapped up at him, my teeth clenched and a boiling of heat bubbling gut-deep set her free.

I screamed at him, “Why!” I jolted up in a turbulent shock that burned from the soles of my feet to the back of my head. “I’ve done nothing wrong to you!” My voice broke above its natural volume.

An intense crescendo scraping at my throat.

A viscera cadence of conviction and sorrow.

It was all let go and I wasn’t proud of what happened next, but believe me when I say… I couldn’t control it.

Honest.

I had never been so loose in my life.

It was as if every restraint I had ever practiced was taken from me.

Every zip tie I used to tie me down and keep me in the cages of everyone around me snapped.

Gravity and the Earth were ripped out from under my feet.

I was no longer apart of this world.

I was an unanchored apparition who would witness the terror unfolding.

Reflexively, he pulled his arms in defense to shield his face from my firing fists, “How could you hurt me like this—ME!” Tears rushed down the sides of my face blinding me. “I loved you! I was a good! Please! Why!”

He receded step after step, taking fist after fist.

“Why!” I continued screaming.

Not a single word left his lips until his back was against the wall, then his eyes slightly widened.

He blocked hit after hit, and it only angered me further.

It taunted me—Mocked me!

“Let me hit you!” I grabbed his arms and tried to shove them aside.

His eyes softened as his mouth slightly opened and his brows pulled together then upward.

This man.

This… Human.

He closed his eyes as his jaw tightened and his face twisted in brace.

His chest and muscles flexed, then he forced his arms down to his sides as his shoulders tensed and my…

…

My…

My hands—my fists…

They tightened until the knuckles turned white and my arms started swinging.

God… why…

The sound it made was and is so deafening.

It was the sound of a human hurting another human.

Someone I loved no less.

Him.

The reverberation was numbing after each batter; I could feel his heart bleeding.

But mine froze over and the sudden thirst for vengeance—its poison ran down my throat like molten lava as delirium clouded my judgement making it almost impossible to tell the two apart.

Lined like a domino of insufferable human beings, every face that ever looked upon me.

All those people that hurt me.

Mentally, Emotionally, Physically, and Sexually.

The monsters who sowed and sealed my mouth shut.

They all layered one upon another over his face.

My hands, as if of their own accord to avenge me, tore upward from chest to face, pounding in a feverish frenzy as my body convulsed with the need to beat harder.

The adrenaline was too much.

Pumping through my body with feral quickest I was shaky.

Then his voice cried out, “Alondra, stop!”

Without a thought of understanding where it came from, my body flew back, thankfully.

I panted loudly, my breathing still caught in a frantic rhythm I couldn’t quite yet escape, but feeling the steam emanate off my body that allowed me to blink.

It stung.

My eyes.

Though they were flooded with tears, they were dry.

I hadn’t given myself a moment to blink for fear of those ugly faces disappearing and not taking a balled fist of my revenge.

After my erratic breathing slowed, irregular but taming, I blinked a couple of times.

Dizzy and fatigued, I swayed, air skimming my lungs but never filling them.

And under the spell of this foreign liberation—tainted and tinged with ecstasy, I felt myself finally free from its suffering embrace.

The blur of the red haze lifted.

And here, as she loosened the blindfold tight from around my eyes.

When it fell my breathing cut as my jaw dropped and eye shot wide.

There he was looking at me.

Curled on the floor, breathing hard, something swirling in his eyes, head slightly lifted from the floor.

Lip busted and bleeding.

The look in his eyes—

What was it?

Anger, shock… betrayal?

I couldn’t quite make sense of it.

He looked fearful but bewildered.

Why?

Why was he looking at me like that?

I stepped back.

He wasn’t allowed to be mad at me…

He hurt me not the other way around.

My actions were justified unlike his.

Then again…

An unsettling disturbance made me feel filthy.

Maybe I wasn’t entitled to lay my hands on another person.

No matter the pain or shameful acts they forced onto me.

Maybe this is what it feels like to break.

Maybe finally I was the one who made a mistake.

“No . . . Israel,” I breathed, embers of the fumes distinguished. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

His lower lip jutted out as he squeezed his eyes shut and gave a curt nod. “I know.” His voice shook. “It’s okay.”

I stumbled forward wrapping my arms around me in a death grip, falling onto my knees, my eyelids halfway heavy, “Israel,” I cried as the tears blinded me. “Really, I didn’t mean to hurt you!” I shook my head. “I didn’t want to hurt you!” I shrieked, hating me. “I’m sorry!”

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In a trauma‑triggered surge of rage, none of us fully control what happens next.
Especially when it strikes so viscerally, when we are already at our limits.
Especially when it is inflicted by someone we allowed ourselves to be vulnerable with.

Someone we trusted.

Someone we let in.

In this moment, Alondra didn’t simply get angry at Israel.

Her mind took its own liberty, using him as the vessel through which years of repressed pain finally escaped.

Pain inflicted by those who came before him.

Was this right?
No.

Was she in the wrong?
Yes.

But who could truly fault her?

She wasn’t equipped for this.

She had never been taught how to hold pain of this magnitude, and she could no longer contain it.

So the damage done by past abusers was projected onto the person closest to her.

Many couples fall into this pattern.

Mistaking the one they love for everyone who came before.

Assuming harm where there was fear, malice where there was misstep.

Sometimes the offense is small, yet the response is devastating.

Not because the present moment warrants it, but because the nervous system has never known safety.

It never learned how.

And to teach it how to trust, something must break.
But not like this.

Because when the dissociates haze lifts, there you have it.

Confronted by reality of what you’ve done.

Realizing you’ve crossed a moral line and will simmer in the pits of regret, begging forgiveness and devasted by having harmed someone you love.

Abuse is abuse.

Mental or physical.

No pain grants permission to harm another.
Never.
Especially not someone who loves you—
or someone who trusted you enough to let you close.

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My body jerked as I pushed to wake.

My dream enveloped me, sinking deeper in.

My muscles ached as I felt my body move until a startle broke through.

A knocking sound resounded loudly.

I opened my eyes and gasped, sitting up and whipping my head around.

The sun was shining through the blinds, and I shot my hand to my phone, clicking it to wake.

It was six thirty am.

Alondra was out.

Knock, knock.

No… She was home.

In haste, I yanked the sheets off from over my legs, and bolted for the door.

Another knock came through more agitated than the last.

I made my way down the hall, pulling my shirt over my head and forcing my arms through the holes. Mumbling curse words beneath my breath as my nostrils flared.

I had done it again.

Overslept. Slept in. Lazy. . .

Coming around the corner I looked at the door stopping a moment.

My feet suddenly felt no solid floor.

My chest tightened as my heart raced.

Cold sweats violently sending tremors up the back of my head.

I stared at the door shaking my head.

She really did deserve someone better than me.

But I can’t… give her up.

I never even thought she’d show me this much love.

My jaw hardened along with the line across my lips.

Then, with a knotting of stripped wires in the pit of my stomach, I reached slowly for the doorknob, twisted it as if wringing out my fear and swung the door open.

“Alondra,” Her eyes were frail. Strained.

My heart wrenched.

My eyes widened. “I am so sorry.” I stared at her, each word bitter as poison, though it was not, at this moment I wish it was so that I might spare her any more of this pain.

Had I always been this greedy?

“What time is it?” I forced my head out and looked in both directions. The sun was so bright, I could feel the warmth cascading in a dewy mist. “Who brought you?” I pulled myself back in.

She shook her head, a slight stiffness as her face was flushed pink, lingering into crimson. “Don’t worry about it.” Her fingers secured the strap of the backpack, almost subtle, but I was quick to catch her.

Her hand was shaking. My eyes fastened on her as my heart continued to sink.

Something was different about her this time.

“I’m home now.” She pushed in through the frame and pulled her shoulder back as she passed me. My mouth fell slightly open as my hair stood on end, fried with the wave of electricity.

She traveled deeper into the living room, creating distance as quickly as she could.

My grip on the doorknob tightened, as I couldn’t pull my gaze from her, closing the door behind me slowly. “Alondra,” My throat tightened. The words were so suffocating and disappointing. “I really am sorry—”

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” She snapped, her body trembling as the thick strap around her shoulder crumpled beneath her grip.

I stalled.

My heart dropped from my chest to the pit of my stomach.

The ground was ripped right from underneath me.

What was she—did she know—how?

I apprehensively asked, “What do you mean—”

“Stop!” She shouted, slamming her backpack on the floor and jerking her hands to the sides of her face, straining them from tearing at her hair like she always did

There was no way I could have redeemed myself now.

Everything I wanted to say—confess… I knew it. That time was gone.

A coward. A senseless idiot. I was the asshole I never wanted to be.

I became the man everyone knew me as, not the one who I thought I was.

“Tell me, Israel, please,” She begged as she slowly turned to face me.

Her face was flushing pale, and a consistent stream of tears ran down the sides. My tongue swelled and in my chest a shovel began to dig. Deep.

My jaw hardened as my body seized up and I felt the life from my eyes leave. A cloak of heaviness was placed on my shoulders by… me.

Heavy was the burden that of my breathing.

Why couldn’t I just be here for her the way she needed me to be?

“What do you want me to tell you—”

“That it isn’t true!” Her tears violently flooded in front of her ember eyes as she clutched her chest.

My eyes winced.

“Tell me, Israel! That it isn’t true—That everything they said were lies of bitterness and envy!” She took one step closer, her knees buckling as her body continued to tremble.

I did this to her.

Her mascara was running. Exhaustion was etched across her face. The lines beneath her eyes from nights of no sleep.

“Please, Israel, please!” She looked over my face, waiting for me.

But it wasn’t like I didn’t want to grant her that release. She deserved it from me.

The truth. I just couldn’t get myself to say anything.

My eyes narrowed and my body slightly shook as I gave a subtle jerk of my head, fighting the urge, then freezing.

I can do this.

She deserved more but needed this much from me, at least.

“It’s true. . . Everything is true.”

God how I wish You would just take me.

Her arms dropped to her sides as eeriness grew. “You’re not even going to ask me what I’m talking about?”

I shook my head as my fingers pulled inward attempting to form a fist, but I quickly flexed them outward, letting them dangle.

We had no right to be mad.

My shoulders slumped over and I felt the world tilt off for a minute. The room shifted as I pushed out my feet adjusting them beneath me.

I know she won’t understand, but I just hope she knows how much I hate me –how long I’ve hated me.

“Isreal. . .” Her voice barely audible. “Why would you do this to me?”

My eyes darted to meet her. “I didn’t—”

No. Shut up. Stop.

I pulled my lower lip in and bit down hard. I wanted to make it bleed.

I felt myself wanting to move near her.

Explain to her that everything I did… none of it made sense.

But when you are truly exhausted—burnt down through the thinness of your skin, deeper into your bones nothing ever did.

She stared at me, unwavering… maybe just broken.

This woman…

My whole word.

I wish she’d know… nothing I ever did was to hurt her but to hurt me.

How careless and horrible of this blindness to not see she would be the worst casualty.

It’s hard to see two sides of the story.

Unless you’re in the other person’s head.

But that’s the human flaw and blessing at the same time.

We can’t be.

You can’t read their mind and they can’t read yours.

It’s sacred.

The truth, the poison we feed it makes it a dangerous place.

If we could all agree on one thing, it is that you never truly know what a person is going through.

What they are thinking, viscerally.

Sometimes not even themselves.

And that’s what makes a person like this so scary.

From the start of this scene, Israel’s internal monologue is a ripple of negativity violently tremoring him consistently.

He thinks less of himself, seems to always have, even in the beginning.

With a mind like this, actions don’t make sense as they should.

Words aren’t saying anything.

Because someone like this who thinks so little doesn’t carry that kind of clarity.

And sometimes the harm we cause isn’t born from cruelty, but from exhaustion, shame, and the belief that we’re beyond redemption.

A sort of forced mindset that we are deserving of this misery.

Every lie we tell ourselves is a shadow we cast.

But eventually the sun will come up and you will have to step into the light unwillingly.

This won’t just expose us to who we are – but it will also reveal who we refused to become.

Because love cannot survive where the truth hides.

And the moment we choose comfort over honesty, we begin losing the very person we’re trying to be.

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I knocked on the door. Several times. My heart was racing. My tongue swollen as my chest tightened and I couldn’t help but hold my breath.

Why wasn’t he answering?

I tapped my knuckles on the door a few more times. Each time harder and more agitated then the last.

Please, I threw my head back panting with my mouth sealed tightly.

I stared up at the roof. Eye wide as burning tears clawed at the white in my eyes.

Answer, please.

My shoulders pulled inward as I lowered my chin and began to hang my head when suddenly.

The knob twisted open and the door swung on its hinges, my head pulling along with it. “Alondra?” his voice was low and raspy as his eyes widened slightly. “I am so sorry.” He stared at me. “What time is it?” he peeked his head out and looked in both directions, noticing the rising of the sun. “Who brought you?”

I shook my head, my body boiling with heated emotions. “Don’t worry about it.” My hand gripped the strap of my backpack and the other flexed and lengthened as to prevent them to tremble. “I’m home now.” I pushed in through the frame and past him.

Our shoulders would have hit, but I deliberately avoided any touch from him.

I felt the heat bubbling beneath my face.

The knots in my stomach we’re tightened.

I continued to tremor and it so intensified I could not help but shut my eyes as tears streamed down the sides of my face.

He slowly closed the door behind me. The creak of the rusty hinges alerted me he was bracing himself. “Alondra,” His voice deepened wrapped in guilt. “I really am sorry—”

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” I burst, my body shaking as my grip tightened around the strap.

He was silent for a moment, and my body refrained but was battling the intense jerk to just let it all go.

“What do you mean—”

“Stop!” I shouted, dropping my backpack and lifting my hands to the sides of my face, flexing my trembling fingers that strained and reached to pull at my hair.

He remained quiet.

“Tell me, Israel, please,” I urged as I slowly turned to see him. Each step harder than the next.

His jaw was tightened and a hard line across his lips as his deep brown eyes were locked onto me, sinking into a darker shade. Almost enveloped fully in grief. “What do you want me to tell you—”

“That it isn’t true!” I cried jerking forward as I clutched my chest. His eyes winced. “Tell me, Israel! That it isn’t true—That everything they said were lies of bitterness and envy!” I took one more step forward, my knees buckling and my body convulsing.

My heart continued to race, and I struggled to swallow the heart wrenching sobs bobbing my throat.

“Please, Israel, please!” I held steady waiting for his response —his word.

He stared at me, the silence growing thicker between us—teasing me with suffocation and release from this horrible nightmare.

His eyes narrowed and he shook gave a subtle vertical jerk but then froze and a full nod. “It’s true. . . Everything is true.”

My arms dropped to my sides as a eerie stillness engulfed me, “You’re not even going to ask me what I’m talking about?”

He shook his head as his hands formed into fists but quickly loosened and dangled. His shoulders slumped over and he wobbled a moment as he positioned his feet beneath him to support the immense weight of his reckless and unfaithful decisions.

“Israel. . .” My voice barely a whisper. “Why would you do this to me?”

He lifted his eyes to me. “I didn’t—” He stopped.

I wanted to pull my eyes away, but I couldn’t.

This man. . .

My whole world. . .

How could he hurt me so easily?

In a moment such as this, you honestly don’t think of anything else.

Anyone else, but your pain.

In a moment like this, you just feel like you stepped on a thin sheet of ice and watched it shatter.

Falling through the air while every fiber of your being was being pulled and snapped one strand at a time.

It’s excruciating.

But here, Alondra has a natural reaction.

A natural response.

She wonders why the person she loves so much could have hurt her so easily.

But you see it on his face.

Israel knows what he’s done and —engulfed in grief— it also looks like he was expecting to be found out.

Something he already wanted to confess but didn’t know how to say.

In her initial response, she begged for it not to be true…

And don’t we all hope for that.

But hardly ever, and I don’t like admitting it, does the breakdown ever mean the end, but is open to a new and brighter beginning.

In order to grow, to better oneself there is almost always a point where the person who you were shatters because it stands no chance in the way of the person you're becoming.

While cheating is something I don’t ever endorse and the mere word of it coats a bitterness over my soul, I know firsthand that two humans are given a chance to make a choice that will ultimately lead them exactly where they were meant to be all along.

To love each other through the trials, learn from the mistakes and evolve.

Or. . . Walk away. End it all and never look back, avoiding the burning questions and hoping to never encounter that same mistake.

Alondra and Israel are at that moment.

A single choice must be made.

But which one?

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And writers—don’t we all feel it.

Who really wants to hear from a writer who talks about cutting caffeine, eating pastries in moderation, working out, and loving the writer’s block?

My lifestyle isn’t the aesthetic the writing world glamorizes.
But, honestly, it’s the reason I’m still here.

I’ve lived through depression, panic attacks, shattered confidence, and years of not writing at all. I know what it feels like to lose yourself in the name of “the craft.”

And I know what it feels like to come back.

When I changed how I lived, I became a better writer—not because I became more disciplined, but because I became more well.

Some people hear that and roll their eyes.

“You’re just trying to push fitness culture into our community. Get out!”

But I’m not here to convert anyone.
I’m here because I don’t see many writers talking about this at all.

Readers are taking care of themselves.
Writers? Not so much.

And maybe—just maybe—we should connect the dots.

We celebrate the caffeine-fueled, sleep-deprived, emotionally frayed writer aesthetic…
while quietly ignoring how many writers burn out, break down, or disappear before they ever finish their first draft.

Why do you think that is?

I’ve seen the connection firsthand.

After my first panic attack, I became determined to understand what was happening inside me.

I studied everything I could:

• advanced fiction

• food and mood

• physiology and anatomy

• psychology

• stress management

• and eventually became a certified nutrition coach

Only after I quit my medication and rebuilt my life from the inside out did everything click into place.

Writer’s block wasn’t the enemy.
My lifestyle was.

We shouldn’t be hyping already‑stressed writers to consume more caffeine, sleep less, and push harder.

That’s not devotion—it’s self‑harm dressed up as ambition.

And I’m not saying:

• cut caffeine

• stop eating what you love

• work out every day

I’m saying this:

AI is not the problem.
The lifestyle we’ve normalized is.

You can still love the cozy writer’s aesthetic.
You can still be soft, romantic, creative, and chaotic.
You can still be you.

But you deserve to take care of yourself, too.

I’m tired of watching writers question their worth because they can’t finish a draft they started three years ago.

I’m tired of watching people assume they’re untalented when they’re actually just exhausted.

Writer’s block is not failure.
Writer’s block is a signal.

It keeps us from burnout.
It keeps us from collapse.
It keeps us aligned with who we are.

Instead of asking, “Why can’t I write?”
Ask, “How far have I strayed from myself?”

Then come home.

You’re not going to be a statistic.
I don’t want you to be.

I want your book published.
I want you to feel strong.
I want you to believe in your talent again.

But this lifestyle—the one we never question—isn’t it.

Writers are more prone to depression because our work asks for years of devotion before anyone sees the result.

We grieve in silence.

We measure our days by what we didn’t finish.

We watch the clock tick and wonder if anyone will ever know who we are.

And now, with AI, people can write books in seconds while you’ve been writing yours for years.

I know the ache.

But this is not the moment to surrender.
This is the moment to fortify.

The tides will turn.
I feel it in my bones.

Please hold on.
Please take care of yourself.
Please don’t burn out before your breakthrough.

One sentence.
One meal.
One sip of water.
One step at a time.

You’ll be stronger than you’ve ever been.

And if you’re done living the writer’s life that keeps breaking you, I encourage you to break the cycle.

And forge your own path.

Until next time,

Much love, progress and encouragement.

--Angela

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Hi, my name is Angela, and I’m a nutrition coach, who has studied advanced fiction, brain health, food and how it affects your mood, and who is also working on her debut novel.

I’ve been working on this novel for over ten years—Stay with me—and in the period I finally picked up patterns and cues that have shown—And proved to me—that writer’s block is not the problem.

It’s the solution.

Now, before you skip over this, I’d like to share a little about the basis of what writer’s block is and what it does to the writer who has it.

Writer’s block is a period in time in which the writer cannot conceive any material ranging from words to ideas. Meaning that Writer’s block is “keeping” you from doing the things you so desperately want to do.

Which is write.

I know a writer feels as though they are nothing without their craft. Such as an artist is nothing without his hands.

I’m not saying that it is impossible to create drafts and artwork without something. However, I know that in order to create what we do, it requires skill and knowledge, but much more a mind without limits.

That is what separates us from the rest.

As writers, our mind has limitless potential in what we create. From the corners of the café to the hallowed halls of a gothic castle where a maiden flees, hair whipping, as the beast chases her.

We must stop running.

We must hold still.

We must turn and face the beast, for the beast is our savior in this time of need.

Writer’s block is only scary and the enemy because Gaston sang a tune of might to convince you that it is time to, “Kill the beast.”

And if you didn’t catch that, I mean that the only reason it is scary is because great writers before you told you to be wary of writer’s block and that writer’s block itself is the beast.

After, I stood still. After I studied and immersed myself in the reasons of why I took me nearly ten years to finish a story that blazed so fervently in my heart, I realized it.

Writer’s block is what kept me alive.

Writer’s block is what kept me safe.

Writer’s block is what kept my story from being utter trash, and I mean in the ways that I added certain things that I did not care for because it was “trending.”

So, I cut the fluff. I cut the act.

Writer’s block was my ally.

Every time I recognized its cue, I took a step back and asked myself the following questions:

1. What is missing?

2. What is this resistance?

3. Is there somewhere else my mind needs to be?

4. Is there somewhere else my attention is lacking.

5. Do I need to shift the story?

6. Is something wrong with me?

I know that last one is odd.

But it’s the one that opens the door for the true answer.

Writer’s block is there to warn you when you aren’t staying true to you.

If you’ve gone off the rails of the story’s plot and it isn’t clicking, come back.

If you’ve loused about, scrolling on your phone, but thinking of your draft, come back.

If you’ve cried long and hard about not being worthy of publishing a book but still feel it deep in your heart that you can’t let go of it, come back.

Writer’s block is there to pull you away when you’re about to break, but also, pull you in when you know you’re ready to write again.

Do not fight it.

Writer’s block is a “mental” barricade. But what we’ve never seemed to ask ourselves is… What is it keeping us away from?

And that, my dear writer, is the next answer that you need to find out.

For more on writer’s block, nutrition, mindset, and advanced fiction writing tips, please follow me @angelathescribe where I share my story as well as help you get further along on our epic journey together.

Much love, consistency and progress, Angela.

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Not in the dramatic, cinematic way – but in the quiet, familiar way that burns deeply into your bones when you’ve spent most of your life being the one who shows up for everyone else.

I’ve always been that person.

The one who goes above and beyond without even being asked.

The one who notices when someone is folding inward and muting their own authenticity.

The one who tries to remind people of their goodness when they are blinded because of external and internal factors.

And I think I did that because I was once that lonely girl.

The one made fun of for her weight.

For her glasses.

For her imperfect teeth.

For not fitting the standard of beauty.

For always having her nose in a book or her pencil pressed hard into a scarp of paper.

I was always too giving.

I saw the best in everyone – except me.

Some part of me hoped someone would eventually see the best in me too.

Not because it was their responsibility, but because it would’ve been nice to be gassed up for once instead of being the one doing all the work.

But life doesn’t always work that way.

How convenient is that.

The Realization

You know it took me years to understand this:

It’s not about who you support.

It’s about who you surround yourself with – because the right people naturally support you back.

Starting my blog, my website, and defining what I want out of life made something painfully clear:

There are people I poured myself into who don’t even check if I’m okay.

Not even a “Hey, how are you?”

Not even a “Are you alive?”

And the truth is… they realized something long before I did:

I didn’t have to spend hours listening to the same heartbreak on repeat.

I didn’t have to go out just because you wanted to feel less awkward around people you would eventually abandon me for.

I didn’t have to spend my time, money, or emotional bandwidth trying to rescue people who never once looked back to see if I was drowning too.

I was hurting.

They didn’t care.

And honestly? That’s not their fault.

We never talk about these things.

But when we do… silence.

The Moment That Stuck

But I remember one moment so vividly it feels etched into stained glass bending into the folds of my brain.

I was walking with someone I knew.

I got vulnerable – really vulnerable – and opened up about abuse I had never spoken about before to anyone. I was crying. Shaking.

Finally letting something out.

And she choose that moment to tell me she had finally been intimate with a guy she was on and off with.

So I did what people like me do.

I smiled.

Wiped my tears and said, “I already knew. I had a feeling.”

And she went right back to talking about herself while I shoveled everything I had just unearthed back into the six-foot hole in my chest.

People like that rarely consider how others feel.

They don’t notice the quiet ones.

The wallflowers.

The people who retreat to the corners of rooms.

But I know how these people are doing.

Because there are communities of them.

The Writers in the Shadows

They’re writing novels –fiction or not – that they struggle to finish because they’re afraid of closure.

Not afraid afraid, exactly.

Just convinced they don’t deserve it.

They don’t think they deserve anything.

These writers – these humans with enormous hearts and carefully built walls – aren’t quiet because they want to be.

They’re quiet because every time they tried to speak, someone silenced them.

And then, when they finally find solace in the page, they hear someone say:

“If you have writer’s block, you’re not a real writer.”

How?

How can you say that to someone you don’t even know?

Depression. Work. School. Kids. Life is actively happening for us.

And yet you feel entitled to call someone lazy because they aren’t producing pages and pages of words on a generalized timeline?

I don’t care if you have degrees or accolades – it’s unkind.

If you don’t know these people personally, stop calling them lazy.

Writing is purpose, not privilege.

And if you can understand that phrase then you are the best kind.

To the Ones Who Feel Attacked by That Lie

If you’ve ever felt attacked by comments like that, hear me clearly:

You are not lazy.

You are alive.

You are surviving.

Some of the greatest philosophers didn’t write every day.

They lived.

They felt.

They experienced life.

THEN they wrote.

You are living, dear writer.

And through your novel you are weaving your philosophy, your purpose, your life – one word at a time.

To end this, I’d like to say and implore you to do…

Live outside the book, and your readers will find it in between the lines.

Author’s Note

I wrote this for the ones who were quiet not because they lacked confidence, but because they were never given space to speak and build it.

If you’ve ever felt unseen, unheard, or mislabeled as “too sensitive,” this is for you.

You’re not alone in the corners you’ve learned to inhabit.

You’re not wrong for wanting mutual benefit.

And you’re not any less of a writer for living first and creating second.

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If This Resonated

If this found you at the right moment, consider subscribing.

I write for the quiet creatives, the women rebuilding their voice, and the writers learning to trust their own pace and find one.

You’ll receive essays, behind-the-scenes reflections about my writing, life and book, and conversations about writing, psychology, and the emotional life of creatives.

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I share the truth about surviving anxiety, healing old wounds, and learning why writers block is often a sign your body is in survival mode.

You'll hear how my novel mirrored my own healing journey and why your story might be doing the same for you.

If you've ever felt stuck, overwhelmed, or afraid you've fallen behind, this episode will remind you that your voice--and your dream-- are still worth fighting for. 

For more writing tips, encouragement and resources or if you want to collab visit my website: 

Shadow & Scripture | Find Your Voice—Get Inspired Now

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Beginnings Are Hard—But They’re Worth It

Battling with creative resistance and going another day unpublished can be defeating. I know this firsthand: I’ve spent over ten years working on my debut novel, and along the way, I’ve learned that writer’s block isn’t the enemy—it’s the guide that keeps me true to myself and my story.

As I launch this space, I want to share a bit about why I’m here and what you can expect.

1. Why this, why now

I’m Angela, a nutrition coach who’s passionate about brain health, food, and how our habits shape our creativity. After years of studying fiction and wrestling with my own creative resistance, I realized that sharing my journey—and the lessons I’ve learned about writer’s block, mindset, and nourishment—could help others on their own awesome writing adventures.

This newsletter will be a place to explore the intersection of creativity, wellness, and the art of coming back to your story, no matter how long it takes.

2. What kind of community are you looking to build here

The kind of community I want to build is one for writers, dreamers, and anyone seeking progress over perfection. My hope is to create a space where we can share struggles, celebrate breakthroughs, and support each other in staying true to our creative paths.

3. Be specific

Here’s what you can expect:

• Weekly posts on writer’s block, nutrition, and mindset

• Personal stories from my journey as a writer and coach as well as updates and metaphors from my debut novel

• Tips and prompts to help you move forward in your own writing

• Free subscribers get access to all main articles and community discussions

• Paid subscribers will receive exclusive deep-dives, Q&A sessions, and personalized feedback on your writing or wellness questions

4. Tune into my podcast, “The Divine Writers Block”

I released five episodes ready to stream now. Where I take controversial topics among the writing community and flip them into tools that work for us and further our progress. The wild part about it is I launched it in 2024 and dipped…

Life is so much different now and I will be updating the episodes as well as my knowledge and life goals.

So, I’m gonna upload these through my new podcast, but you can find the original if you look it up.

Tune in to Apple Podcast or on Podbean

Be sure to share and subscribe :)

5. With all that being said…

Much love, consistency, and progress,
Angela

Follow me on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/angelas.writersblock for more tips and stories @angelas.writersblock

Hope to hear from you soon!

Not me, I know that's for sure!

But, from my years of experience, I've learned that music can be either very productive and enrich my writing, or quite the opposite and effect my writing in the most LEAST productive way.

In this episode, we go over the positives and negatives of music and how we can use it in the best ways to better our writing and increase the utilization of the free resource to our advantage.

Thank you, musicians, composers, and ALL involved in creating music. Your efforts and hard work are much acknowledged and MUCH appreciated!

In today's episode, I talk about the steps I took in order to finish writing my book and the things I learned to keep me going and help me stay consistent.