And dressing like a librarian who moonlights as a cult leader.
You thought healing was gonna be linear?
That it came with a checklist and a matching yoga mat?
Cute.
I thought that too—until I found myself crying over goat memes
in a thrifted sweater that smells like incense and defiance.
At first, I followed the script:
Daily affirmations, deep breaths,
drinking moon water like I understood astrology
and not just emotional dehydration.
But here’s the thing—
I’m not built for beige.
I don’t gently recover.
I stage full-scale personality renovations
in the middle of the night with a Sharpie, sarcasm, and a flashlight.
Now I heal by quoting Bessel van der Kolk in Walmart,
ranting about systems while bedazzling trauma timelines,
and wearing capes—not metaphorically. Literally.
Because emotional liberation deserves flair.
People say,
“You’ve changed.”
Damn right I have.
I’m two therapists, one playlist, and a psychic reading away
from legally identifying as a haunted TED Talk.
My coping skills include:
- Buying books I won’t finish.
- Turning my triggers into T-shirt slogans.
- Using satire as spiritual practice.
- Naming my inner critic “Karen” and charging her rent.
Because the truth?
Healing isn’t graceful.
It’s glitchy.
It’s neon and noisy and includes a three-day breakdown
because someone said “calm down” in the wrong tone.
But it’s mine.
It’s sacred.
It’s weird as f*ck—with purpose.
And if I have to pick between “normal”
and “cosmic goat lady who survived everything and now hands out emotional glitter bombs”…
you already know which one I’m choosing.
So yeah—if I show up in public
looking like a cross between a spiritual outlaw and a walking group chat,
just know:
I’m not spiraling.
I’m evolving.
Loudly.
And probably recruiting for something I haven’t named yet
but you’ll definitely want to join.
Healing Is Just Getting Weirder With Purpose
Used to sob beneath the sheets,
Now I chant with goats on beats.
I dress like chaos met goodwill,
But somehow found a higher will.
I write, I rhyme, I swirl in ink—
This healing thing? It’s not what you think.
It’s odd, it’s loud, it’s sweet, it’s sick—
And I’m still dancing through every tick.
—The Funny Phoenix, healing on the weirdest wavelength
