Let's Get Messy: Why Talking About my Trauma Gave Other Women Permission to Tell Theirs

 

Here’s what I’ve learned:

When I talk about the ugly, chaotic, deeply unhinged parts of my past and present, other women look at me and say, “Same.”

Not in a cute, “haha I do that too!” way.

More like a “holy shit I thought I was the only one who lived through that” kind of way.

The late-night spiral texts.

The gaslighting that made me second-guess my own memories.

The way I learned to apologize for existing.

The emotional contortionism.

The slow, silent erasure of self.

You know. Casual trauma stuff.

 

I Didn’t Share to Inspire Anyone. I Shared Because I Was Tired of Holding It All.

I didn’t set out to become some softcore saint of detachment.

I started writing and posting about my mess because it was either get it out or let it rot me from the inside.

But then… the comments came in.

The DMs.

The whispered “me too”s from women who had been:

 

• Manipulated

• Made to feel crazy

• Called too much, too sensitive, too emotional

• Shamed for setting boundaries

• Punished for asking for basic respect

 

And suddenly I realized:

My honesty was giving other people permission to be honest too.

Even if it was just with themselves.

 

We’ve Been Taught That Talking About Our Trauma Is “Too Much.”

We’re not supposed to be messy.

We’re supposed to be composed.

Gracious.

Silent.

Heal privately, don’t make it weird.

Forgive quickly, don’t hold a grudge.

Smile through it. Glow up silently.

But f**k that.

Sometimes the glow-up starts with rage.

Sometimes healing means telling your story—even the ugly parts—especially the ugly parts.

Because every time we speak our truth, we:

 

• Break the shame cycle

• Remind someone they’re not crazy

• Light a little fire in someone else’s chest

 

My Life Fell Apart. And Then I Wrote About It.

I wrote about the moments I’m not proud of.

I'm writing about the messy moments that don't paint me in the best light. 

I'm writing about the next steps of this story....and it's not going to be pretty....but it's going to be mine.

I didn’t write to be brave.

I wrote because silence was suffocating.

And it turns out? Telling the truth is contagious.

It opens the door for someone else to whisper theirs.

 

So If You’re Holding It All In—Here’s Your Permission Slip

You don’t have to spill your guts online if that’s not your thing.

But please let yourself tell the truth somewhere.

In a journal.

To a friend.

To your reflection.

To the moon.

To a raccoon, honestly. They’re great listeners.

You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen.

You don’t have to tie your story up with a pretty healing bow.

You can be mid-chaos and still be worthy of being heard.

This Space Is for That

Softcore Detachment isn’t just about merch and memes and raccoons with boundary issues.

It’s a space for women like us—who’ve lived through manipulation, heartbreak, emotional hell—and decided to rebuild anyway.

It’s messy.

It’s not always aesthetic.

But it’s real.

And that’s the point.

 

 

So here’s to the oversharers.

The trauma texters.

The healing girls who still cry in parking lots (so, many, parking lots).

The ones who are still figuring it out, but refuse to stay silent anymore.

You’re not alone.

You’re not crazy.

And if your story feels too heavy—hand me a piece. I’ll carry it with you.

 

Want to get messy with me?

✨ The Let’s Get Messy Journal is dropping soon. I'm obsessed with it. 

✨ Join the Softcore community on IG, FB and join my mailing list here on the website.

✨ Or just leave a comment and say “same,” if that’s all you’ve got energy for today

I’ll be here.

Tea in hand. Knife nearby. Heart wide open.

-----Catalina

#SoftcoreDetachment #TraumaButMakeItFunny #HealingOutLoud