CRUDE LOVE

This isn’t a press release.

It’s a reckoning.

I didn’t set out to write a memoir.

I just started writing—because not writing started to feel like drowning in a room full of people smiling for the camera.

So this is me, telling the truth in pieces.

Some of it might read like fiction. It’s not.

Some of it might sound like trauma with good lighting. It’s worse.

But mostly, this is just my story—the one I carried in silence, in shame, in lipstick and designer bags. The one I buried under grit, charm, and a very polished “I’m fine.”

I’m not writing for sympathy.

I’m not writing for revenge.

I’m writing because I survived it—

and survival deserves a damn chapter.

This isn’t a polished memoir.

This isn’t a marketing rollout.

This is me, finally putting words to things I spent years trying to forget.

I didn’t sit down to write a book.

I sat down to breathe.

To see what would come out if I stopped editing myself into something palatable.

Some chapters will be messy. Some might be beautiful.

This one is neither.

It’s just true.

I was nine.

I was told it was a safe place.

It wasn’t.

No one came for me.

So now I’m coming for the story.

No editor. No ghostwriter. No filter.

Just a Southern girl with a voice that used to be locked in a box—

and a story that refuses to stay quiet.

If you’re here, thank you for reading.

I don’t need you to understand everything.

But I do hope you feel something.

🗣️ Comment below or reply to this post. I’m listening now.

👉 Leave me some feedback: I’m just figuring this out as I go—so if something resonates, if something stings, or if it makes you remember something that landed. What made you pause?

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