---

Greetings my lovelies,

It’s a beautiful day in Tucson—only 80°F at the moment. I’ve had my magic bean potion, and the morning started with me at the keyboard while Ronnie started cleaning down the patio. By the time I finished my shower and did my hair, the patio was done. I’ve come back out here to continue organizing my thoughts and to write, and in the stillness of this clean space, I realized something: I’m done. I’m done writing in a sanitized fashion. I want to be completely honest with you—no filters, no watching my words, no dimming my radiant shine to make my history more “palatable.”

So here I am: showered, hair done, waiting to go out tonight with Ronnie, sitting on a clean patio with Taylor Dayne singing “Tell It to My Heart,” fading into “Maneater” by Hall & Oates. It’s the perfect fucking soundtrack for a reckoning.

I’ve tossed this back and forth—whether to lay my story out for you all. Some of you know pieces; some don’t. But I’m not sharing this to drudge up the past for the sake of drama or pity. Pity is for the defeated, and I am far from defeated. I’m sharing because there is someone out there who needs to know they aren’t alone. For the weak of heart, you might want to close the tab now. My words are about to become real, raw, and extremely honest.

I have twelve posts on this blog that I love. They are the branches of the woman I am now, reaching for the Tucson sun, but branches cannot stay green without healthy roots. And my roots? They have been buried under fifty-five years of high-gloss fairytales and tactical lies.

From this moment on, I am writing the unvarnished truth. I am dragging the reality of my life out of the shadows and pinning it to the page. I know this won’t be an easy read for some of you. It’s going to be jagged, it’s going to be heavy, and it’s going to be uncomfortable. I am no longer interested in making my history “palatable” or “safe” for the people who were there or the people who weren’t.

The Spotlight vs. The Spell

Some might ask why the hell I am sharing the messy, jagged parts of my history now. They think that because I’ve done the Shadow Work, these stories should stay buried in the dark like some shameful secret. They think “healing” means you reach a point where the past just evaporates into a soft, serene meditation.

But let’s get real: shadow work isn’t a weekend retreat with mimosas and affirmations; it’s a lifelong excavation in the mud. There are things—demons, shadows, vampires—that don’t just sit in your memory; they burrow into your DNA. They feed on your silence, growing fat and heavy on every “I’m fine” you’ve ever forced out. They rot you from the inside out until the woman in the mirror looks like a stranger wearing your skin.

These vampires cannot be fought off with store-bought potions or cute rhyming spells like you see on Charmed. There is no magic incantation that can make 55 years of trauma, betrayal, and tactical lies vanish into thin air. You don’t “meditate” away a history that tried to break you. You have to face them head-on. You have to become more terrifying than the ghosts that haunt you. You have to reach into the dark, grab those bastards by the throat, and drag them kicking and screaming into the blinding, unapologetic light. You don’t cast a spell; you cast a spotlight. You make the darkness so uncomfortable that it has no choice but to let go.

The Death of the Apology

I am done. I am finished. I am officially retired from the business of apologizing for my existence.

For decades, I’ve been conditioned to check the volume of my voice, the sharpness of my words, and the length of my shadow. No more. I am done apologizing for living, breathing, and taking up goddamn space. I’m done saying “sorry” for cursing when the situation demands a “fuck,” or for eating what I want, dressing how I feel, and working the way I see fit.

If my clothes are too bright for your comfort—tough. If my language is too “unrefined” for your ears—don’t listen. If my success or my struggle makes you uneasy—look away. I have spent fifty-five years shrinking myself to fit into the narrow boxes others built for me. I’ve dimmed my light so I wouldn’t burn the people around me who were too afraid of the fire. But the fire is what kept me alive.

I am not here to be “palatable” or “manageable” or “nice.” I am here to be me—raw, honest, and completely unhinged from the expectations of people who never had the courage to live their own truth. I am done apologizing for living, breathing, cursing, eating, dressing, working, or simply being.

What “Vividly Rae” Really Means

Before we go further, let’s get one thing straight about what this space is. Vividly Rae isn’t some curated, “live-laugh-love” lifestyle blog where I pretend everything is Sun-Clay and Cream.

“Vividly” doesn’t mean perfect. It doesn’t mean a high-gloss finish or a sanitized version of a “bright life.” To live vividly is to live with the saturation turned all the way up—the neon joys and the pitch-black traumas alike. It’s the courage to be seen in the blinding light, scars and all. It means Deep Roots—the kind that have to push through rock and bone to find the water.

Vividly Rae is the unapologetic refusal to be a pale imitation of myself. It is the grit beneath the polish. It is the truth, even when the truth is ugly.

A Line in the Sand

A note to the readers—and specifically to my mother: This isn’t a performance. This isn’t some calculated move to fuel a family fire or settle old, dusty scores. I don’t need to “win” an argument anymore. This is for me. This is for the girl who was told to be quiet, the woman who was told to be “nice,” and for anyone else currently drowning in a secret they were never meant to carry.

I am officially done being “nice” to protect the comfort of people who never once moved a finger to protect me. Why should I guard your reputation with my silence while I rot from the weight of it? If you find my truth blunt, if you find it raw, or if the “fucking” truth is too much for your delicate sensibilities—move the hell on. I am not here to be “likable” or “reasonable” or “composed.” I am here to be free.

My friend Gail has told me for years that I should write a book, but I have no interest in that world. I don’t want a publisher, some stranger in a suit, making a goddamn dime off my blood, my trauma, or my resurrection. This story isn’t for sale. It’s not for consumption; it’s for liberation.

And frankly, I don’t give a damn about family members or former friends coming at me for “betraying” their version of the story. If you feel “betrayed” by the truth, then you were probably benefiting from the lie. If you want to come for me in the comments of this blog, go right ahead. I might even let your words stay visible so the world can see exactly who you are and the lengths you’ll go to to keep the shadows dark. Your “version” of events was a cage I’ve finally broken out of.

I am done hiding in the corners of my own life. I am done dimming my light because it makes you squint. I am done allowing other people’s tactical lies and “palatable” fairytales to destroy my peace.

This is my exorcism. I am pulling the poison out of my marrow and leaving it here on the page. You can witness it, you can learn from it, or you can get the hell out of the way.

This is my final letting go. The cage is open, and I am gone.