Whispered Words

05/31/2025

we’ve launched, darling—
just the beginning,
a soft introduction
to something blooming wild + true.
welcome to the start of me.

wwthtgrlinbloom.com

with ink + bloom, 🌻

Embracing Authenticity | Navigating Humanity

05/30/2025

did you miss me, darling?
i’ve been quiet—but never gone. just living the kind of life that doesn’t always make it to the feed. motherhood. heartbreak. healing. growth. softness. wreckage. writing poems in my head when my hands were too full to hold a pen. i never left, i was just in it.

facebook’s whispered words has been my safe place for a long time. it’s held so many versions of me. but soon, that chapter will close. and as hard as that is, it’s time. i’m ready for something that fits who i am now.

my old handles on other platforms didn’t feel right anymore either, so i let them go. .inbloom is home now. this name, this space—it holds all of me. no more fragments. no more shrinking. just me, blooming out loud.

and quietly, something really beautiful has happened.
i’ve been offered a poetry book deal. it doesn’t even feel real to say that yet. i hadn’t shared it widely until today, but i want you to know—because so many of you helped me get here. your comments, your messages, your witnessing. it mattered. it matters. thank you for seeing me.

we’ve also got our own site now. if everything flows like it should, it’ll be live by the end of the day. it’s not just a website—it’s a landing space for all of me. for my writing. my story. my chaos. my clarity. my softness. my fire. it feels like breath.

i’m bringing everything from facebook with me. the poems. the posts. the truth. i’ll be picking up exactly where i left off—only now, with more room. more story. more soul. some things will be rewritten. some expanded. all of it—real.

i’ll be dropping the link soon.
i hope to see you there, darlings.
we’ve only just begun.

with ink + bloom, 🌻

04/08/2025

i have four children, and not one of them has needed the same version of me.
i have had to grow and shift and break and rebuild myself over and over again,
each time meeting a new little soul who needed something different from the mother i was before.
and i’ve done it—sometimes gently, sometimes painfully—because that’s what love demands of me.
i’ve been the soft one, the firm one, the scared one, the steady one,
the one who cried in locked bathrooms,
then wiped her face and went back out like nothing was unraveling inside her chest.

i’ve raised my tone.
i’ve lost my temper.
i’ve said the wrong thing, and immediately felt it settle in my bones.
i beat myself up more than anyone else could.
i don’t need to be reminded of where i fall short—i live with that knowledge daily.
but i also know this: i have never stopped showing up.
not once.

and parenting my youngest,
it’s a whole different level of showing up.
her brain runs at a speed the world doesn’t slow down enough to accommodate.
she is radiant, reactive, intuitive, chaotic, brilliant.
new environments light her system up like a fuse,
and sometimes the fallout hits us all in waves.
we redirect. again. and again. and again.
and still she spins out.
and still we stay.
because we don’t give up on her.
we don’t walk away just because it’s loud and misunderstood.

i was in conversation recently, standing with a friend,
and my daughter crossed a line—sharp words of disrespect met me where I stood,
i didn’t yell. i didn’t stop.
i pointed in her direction—
i firmly redirected her.
and my friend—without hesitation, right there in the moment—said,
“that was terrifying.”
not because i was scary,
but because i stayed grounded in two places at once.
i didn’t break connection.
i didn’t lose control.
i parented in real time,
and i held my boundary while holding my presence.

and that is what this parenting journey is—
real-time redirection, real-time repair, real-time heartache and hope.
not every parent will understand that.
but you do.
the ones who know what it means to advocate through exhaustion.
to teach the same boundary for the hundredth time
because your child’s brain just doesn’t absorb it the same way.
to watch strangers judge a single moment
while knowing they weren’t there for the thousand soft ones before it.

i am not perfect.
but i am present.
and if you are out there—
doing your best, even when it feels like it's never enough—
i want you to know:
you are not alone.
you are not invisible.
you are seen.
i see you.
and i am with you in every loud, overwhelming, tender, beautiful, messy second of this work.

with ink + bloom, 🌻

04/06/2025

good morning, love—
has anyone reminded you
what a fu***ng miracle it is that you’re still here?
that you keep waking up,
even when the weight tries to bury you quietly?

you carry galaxies in your bones
and grit in your smile.
you are the kind of brave
they don’t write about often enough—
soft, tired, still trying.

you are every wild, radiant thing
that refused to quit.
the flame that stayed lit in the wind.
the bloom that cracked the concrete
and didn’t apologize for taking up space.

so fix your crown—
not because it’s crooked,
but because you earned the right to wear it.
because you keep showing up,
even when no one claps,
even when your hands are shaking.

and that?
that’s fu***ng powerful.

with ink + bloom, 🌻

04/04/2025

Don’t panic.

It’s muscle memory at this point—
a phrase I think without thinking,
woven into the architecture of my day like brushing my teeth or locking the door,
except it comes with clenched fists,
ribs too tight around lungs that forget how to be soft,
a body that turns against itself at the sound of a familiar song,
at the flash of a memory I didn’t ask for.

This one hit harder.
Two hours of coming undone
in the front seat of a car
on a stretch of Interstate I’ve grown to fu***ng despise.
I cried in cycles—
loud, messy, gasping sobs that tore through my chest
and left me grabbing at my sides like I could press the ache back in,
like I could hold myself still long enough to keep from slipping through the cracks.
My breath came in ragged spurts,
hyperventilating through clenched teeth,
as if pain could be outrun if I could just stay quiet enough.
But this wasn’t quiet.
This was breaking in real time.
This was being seen.
And I didn’t care.

It wasn’t dramatic.
It was just real.
Just grief.
Just exhaustion.
Just the collapse of too many days where I smiled through the burn,
too many moments I swallowed my own voice
so someone else could speak louder.
I didn’t want to fall apart that way—
with my wife beside me, with my partner behind,
with my kids in the backseat,
with no way to tuck it all back in.

But the panic didn’t care.
It never does.
It’s a beast that shows up whenever it wants,
sits on my chest like it owns the place,
rips my breath away and dares me to act normal.

The medicine helped, eventually.
Not like magic—
just like sedation.
Just like soft edges
and quiet.
It gave me sleep,
not peace.
It gave me silence,
not safety.
But for a while,
it was enough to keep the sobs from stealing me whole.

And still,
after the world settled and my body came down,
after the shaking slowed and my ribs stopped clenching like fists,
I stared out the window at that endless fu***ng highway,
and I knew—
I don’t just hate the panic.
I hate that fu***ng interstate.
The way it holds memories in its shoulders,
the way it demands silence from me,
the way it winds like grief and doesn't let go.

And maybe—
maybe I hated you, too.
Not in a way anyone could see,
not loud or sharp or dripping with rage,
but in the quiet corners of my chest
where disappointment settled in like dust.
Maybe I hated you
for the way your absence always felt like my fault,
for how I kept showing up
while you kept leaving in smaller and smaller pieces.
For how I grieve someone
who let go like they were never holding on,
who disappeared like I was the one who vanished first.
Because even now,
without meaning to,
I still carry your echo like it belongs to me—
like it ever really did.

Don’t panic.
I said it again as the calm settled over me,
not because it stopped the pain,
but because it was all I had left that felt familiar—
a thread I hold onto
when everything else breaks loose.

Don't panic.

with ink + bloom,
🌻

03/26/2025

There’s a quiet sort of reckoning that happens when you stand between the pull of the earth and the rhythm of the water. When you finally stop performing strength and just become it. You’re not here to be pretty for the world. You’re not here to shrink into silence or fit into frames that dim your light. You’re here to feel—to remember what it means to take up space exactly as you are: unfiltered, untamed, and wildly honest.

No one talks about the sacred rebellion of choosing to love yourself in the middle of unraveling. Not after the healing. Not when it’s easy. But in the thick of it—when your hands still shake and your heart still holds memory like glass. You are doing something radical. You’re showing up with cracked-open grace and saying, “Even here, I am worthy.”

It’s not about being fearless. It’s about letting the fear walk beside you while you root yourself anyway. It’s about letting the sun touch your face and not flinch. About letting the wind rearrange your hair and not apologize for the mess. Because this moment? It is yours. And there is no version of you that needs to be more palatable, more polished, or more acceptable for that to be true.

You don’t need to prove your worthiness. You are the proof. The way you’ve kept going. The way you’ve held your softness in one hand and your survival in the other. The way you let the river hear your silence and the sky hold your breath. You are not waiting to be chosen anymore. You’ve chosen yourself.

And that, my love, is where everything begins.

See you soon, darlings.
༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/21/2025

On Tuesday, I made a group chat.
Not for planning dinners or tracking chores—please. We’re not that organized.
No, this one’s strictly for our orange menace of a cat: Mudgey.

The group name?
"Mudgepudge, wtf? And WTF is that? 💀"
Because honestly, he is the question and the answer.

We’re not a normal family.
We’re the kind who bonds over memes, sends each other blurry cat photos at midnight, and celebrates the unhinged glory of one very spoiled feline.
Mudgey isn’t just a cat—he’s the family chaos coordinator.

He came home with me in October. Petite. Proud. In his prime.
Five months later?
Thick. Sassy. Shaped like a cinnamon roll.
His prime is “allegedly” behind him… until it’s the middle of the night and he’s back at it, doing martial arts on the furniture and chasing demons only he can see.

He used to leap with grace.
Now? We lift him like royalty.
Because a helping hand never hurt anyone, and dignity is optional in this household.

Mudgey lives for the finer things:
Window views. Car naps. Human laps. Pillows. Chin scratches. Tummy rubs (when he allows them).
And pets—so many pets.
Every morning, my daughter greets him with,
"Oh my sweet, sweet Mudgey,"
then gives him an aggressive love-pat and a royal es**rt to his food bowl.
It’s a ritual.

He enjoys long, slow walks… to the kitchen.
And thanks to his loyal humans—especially our eldest daughter—his bowl shall never runneth empty.

Oh, and did I mention my wife makes him catnip tea?
Yes. Actual catnip tea.
He sips it like a Victorian gentleman and then climbs into a pile of laundry like it’s Versailles.

I used to think “orange cat energy” was just a meme.
Now I live with it.
Now I serve it.

Mudgey’s spoiled.
He’s dramatic.
He’s absolutely perfect.

And honestly?
We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy Friday, darlings–I hope your day is beautiful!
See you soon!

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/18/2025

If you understand, then you likely know how layered this journey is. Parenting isn’t easy—and that’s not something I say lightly. I love my children deeply. I have four beautiful souls here with me and two I carry quietly in my heart. Each of them is entirely their own person, full of wonder, uniqueness, and light. Watching them grow has been one of life’s greatest gifts. But there are days when I sit with the weight of it all and quietly wonder—am I doing this right? Am I enough? I do everything I can to nurture them, to support their mental health, to create a safe place for their feelings, their struggles, and their dreams. I want them to grow into thoughtful, kind humans—people who leave the world a little gentler than they found it. But being a parent is hard, even when it’s wrapped in love.

Right now, I’m sitting on a park bench, watching my daughter play after another appointment. We talked today about some of the challenges she’s been facing. She was recently diagnosed with ADHD, just like her brother was before her—but this time, it feels different. Her ADHD shows up in ways that are louder, quicker, more intense. The way she thinks, speaks, responds to the world—it’s her own rhythm entirely. And sometimes, I get caught in my own overwhelm and forget that she’s not trying to be difficult—she’s doing her best inside a world that isn’t always built for the way her mind works. She’s only nine, and yet she’s navigating something so complex, so consuming, and I have to remind myself: it’s hard for her, too.

For my daughter, ADHD looks like getting up and down again and again in a small exam room. It looks like slipping on medical gloves and pretending to be the doctor. It looks like asking rapid-fire questions without waiting for the answers, not because she’s not listening—but because her mind is already moving on to the next wonder. It looks like grabbing a book from a take-one-leave-one stand and imagining whole worlds inside of it. Her ADHD is curiosity, movement, brilliance, energy. And yes—it’s also chaos. It’s also overstimulation and miscommunication and exhaustion, for both of us. There are moments when I feel overwhelmed. But it doesn’t mean I love her any less. It just means I’m human, too.

I remind myself every day that parenting is not just about guiding them—it’s about understanding them. And just as I am doing the best I can, so is she. I try to be honest with her. I try to let her know that being a kid is hard sometimes, and I see that. I see her. I try to offer myself the same kindness, too. I don’t always get it right. I raise my voice more than I wish I did. I have moments I wish I could do over. But always, always, I come back to love. That’s what grounds us.

Parenting a neurodivergent child stretches you—it grows you in ways you didn’t expect. It asks for more patience, more softness, more strength than you think you have. But even in the hardest moments, I wouldn’t trade a single piece of who she is. Not her boundless energy, not her endless questions, not even the chaos. She is mine. I am hers. And together, we are learning what it means to meet each other exactly where we are, with grace, with love, and with a whole lot of heart.

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/15/2025

2024 was my year—until it wasn’t.

I had plans. I had goals. I had momentum. And then, I got hurt. Everything stopped.

If you’ve ever been independent to your core, you’ll understand just how hard it is to suddenly need people. Before my injury, I did everything on my own. I didn’t have to rely on anyone for anything—big or small. I had patience. I had strength. I had control.

After the injury, I lost all of that.

My body betrayed me in ways I wasn’t prepared for, and mentally, it wrecked me. I wasn’t just physically limited—I was emotionally spiraling. The depression, the anxiety, the panic attacks—they didn’t just show up quietly. They hit like a freight train.

And the hardest part? I hated needing people. I hated not being able to function the way I used to. Having someone help me with things like getting dressed, making meals, or cleaning up after myself felt so invasive, even when it came from love. I felt like I’d lost my autonomy. Like I wasn’t me anymore.

So what does that have to do with these pictures?

Well, while I was home recovering—on Workers' Comp, frustrated and restless—I started pulling apart my kitchen. At first, it was more of a “maybe this will give me something to focus on” type of thing. But it turned into so much more. The process was slow, painful, and nothing like how I’d handled projects in the past.

This time, I had to rely on my wife and my partner to do the physical labor I used to power through on my own. They carried the weight—literally and figuratively—while I sat nearby, guiding them, teaching them how to use my tools, explaining measurements, and walking them through each step. It became a team effort, even if every part of me wished I could do it myself.

That’s been one of the hardest lessons—accepting that even when I can’t do it all, my voice, my knowledge, my presence still matters.

I used to thrive off DIY projects. They were my therapy when my brain wouldn’t shut off. My calm when the inside of me felt like a storm. When everything else felt chaotic, building something with my hands made sense. It grounded me. It gave me purpose.

But after the injury, the thing that once centered me felt impossible. The thing that used to be my peace became my frustration. It became my grief. It became a mirror, reflecting everything I felt I had lost.

Still, I refused to give up. Bit by bit, I found ways to reclaim pieces of myself.

The kitchen project started in June. I thought I could knock it out in a week or two—maybe three at most. That turned into months. The timeline kept stretching because my pain kept getting worse. Every time I made progress, I was knocked back down. Again. And again.

Eventually, my primary doctor stepped in and changed the game. She listened—really listened. She didn’t brush me off or minimize my pain. She walked alongside me through every conservative option before we ended up where I never wanted to be—on narcotics.

I didn’t want that. At all. It broke something in me to accept it. But we had tried everything else. And the truth is, they helped. That temporary relief allowed me to move again. It gave me a window to breathe and function, even if it wasn’t perfect. And with time, with the support of my people and a lot of trial and error, I learned how to navigate it.

I learned how to work with my tools again. Not standing up for hours like before, but sitting. I had to adjust. Adapt. Take breaks more often than I ever wanted. I cried. I screamed. I had moments where I questioned if it was even worth it. But I kept showing up for myself, even when it was hard.

And here’s the part I’m most proud of: I didn’t just guide the remodel. I antiqued all my cabinets by hand. I turned something old and lifeless into something textured, full of soul. And then—I built my own countertops. From scratch. Every board, every cut, every seal—I did that. Me.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t painless. But it was mine.

This remodel has been the biggest project I’ve taken on since my injury. I wish I had better before pictures, but honestly, I never liked the kitchen enough to take any. It had cheap particle board cabinets with a veneer finish, and after 11 years, I was over it. I got a quote to have someone else update it—just a simple facelift—and they wanted over $9,000. That was laughable to me. I knew I could do it. And I did.

Nine months later, I have a kitchen. Kind of.

There are still things to finish. A few cabinet doors to tweak. Some trim. And the floors—I still want new floors. But I look at what we created, and I see so much more than paint and wood. I see pain. Progress. Patience. I see every moment I wanted to give up and didn’t. Every meltdown I had. Every small win that reminded me I’m still capable—even if the way I get things done looks different now.

This injury took a lot from me. But not everything.

Because what I still have? Is fire. Is grit. Is a whole lot of stubborn determination.

And the truth is, healing isn’t always about bouncing back to who you were. Sometimes, it's about becoming someone new with the pieces that remain.

"You don’t have to come back the same to still come back strong. Sometimes, the rebuild is the bravest part of the story."

See you soon, darlings.

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

03/13/2025

“As I like to tell people who come to me in crisis—if it ever gets so bad that I simply can't take it anymore, I can always just kill myself tomorrow.”

Those were the last words I read before bed last night.

Heavy. Haunting. Honest.
I felt every ounce of the weight they carried. They lingered, humming through the silence like a quiet truth we rarely dare to speak aloud.

I found this book during my recent trip to Washington, D.C.—in a store called Politics and Prose. A stranger on the sidewalk had recommended it after my mom asked for local spots worth seeing. I’m so thankful they did. That bookstore… was magic. The staff were kind, attentive, genuinely eager to help. My mom and I wandered in together, and I got lost there for a couple of hours. I hadn’t just happened into a bookstore like that in ages.

March 7th, 2025. That’s the day it changed.

That’s the day the book found me.

Yes, found me. I’ve been searching for a poetry book I love—and I’ll get to that at a later time—but what pulled me in first was the psychology section. I’ve always found beauty there. Psychology, to me, is the poetry of the mind: its mechanisms, its mysteries, its resilience. I could spend hours lost in its study.

That’s when I discovered Clancy Martin.
I hadn’t heard of him before.

The book was titled How Not to Kill Yourself—and yes, I know. The first reaction might be discomfort. Confusion. Maybe even judgment.
“Ew, what?”
I get it. But stay with me.

My reaction wasn’t “is he serious?”—it was curiosity met with a quiet, aching intrigue. The title did what it was meant to: it made me pause. I picked it up, fingers running along the cover, taking in the bold words daring me to look deeper. I flipped to the first pages—praise for the author. Then the back cover, where I lingered on the summary, feeling more and more drawn to the story.

The book chose me.

Last night, I finally opened it. As my wife studied for her psychology class, I read beside her in silence… until I couldn’t anymore.

It wasn’t that the content was unreadable—it was that I needed to share it.

I got to a line that read:
“I realize how bizarre it sounds to be simultaneously thinking that I have to finally kill myself while also knowing it was lucky that my previous attempts had failed.”

I reread it. Again. And again.

Then I read it aloud.

My wife looked up from her textbook, curiosity in her eyes, and I started over—reading the preface aloud to her as she listened.

The preface? It came in loud. Raw. Human.
It held me tightly in its honesty.

The final sentence echoed through me (the one I opened this post with), and as I turned the page to see Part I: Suicidal Tendencies, I knew this book wasn’t just a read—it was going to be an experience. A mirror. A lifeline. A reckoning.

This book explores what suicidal ideation looks like—what it feels like. And maybe that’s why I was so drawn to it. Because so few are willing to talk about the hard parts of life without shame attached. So few allow space for the “dark” without casting judgment.

Recently, a dear friend of mine confided in me. She was suicidal. And it broke me.

But it breaks me every time. Just as I know it breaks her when I tell her that I’m struggling, too. That the thoughts won’t stop. That I’m exhausted by my own mind.

That morning, I felt her sadness before she even spoke it. Silence between us often says what words cannot. Life had cornered us both, and we needed each other more than we’d realized. We went about our routines but we also just…talked. We showed up. We heard one another. We asked the hard questions. We softened where the world had made us rigid.

That conversation didn’t fix everything, but it helped. It reminded me how vital it is to hold space for one another. She’s part of why I bought this book.
But not just her—
My friends.
My kids.
My wife.
My partner.
The people I love.
The ones I’ve loved and lost.

And the ones who suffer in silence—out of fear of how they’ll be perceived.

This book may seem “dark,” but to me, it is illumination. It is truth. It’s the unspoken belief so many of us carry—that we are the reason life hurts so badly. That if we disappeared, maybe the world would be better.

But that’s a lie.
The world is better because you are here.
Yes, you, the one reading this.

I’ve walked in those shoes. I still do, sometimes. I’m not ashamed to say it. I wish none of us had to be ashamed to say it.

Because the human experience? It’s messy. And the idea that we’re supposed to walk through it unbothered, untouchable, unshaken—well, that’s not only unrealistic, it’s cruel. Life hurts. And if you’ve ever wanted to die—please know you are not alone. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

In this past year alone, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wanted to die. And not because of anything simple, but because of everything. The chaos. The heartbreak. The grief. The pressure. The life of it all.

But even in that pain, I’ve found beauty.
And I’m still here.

This book? It’s more than a title. It’s a conversation with the soul. And I’m ready to dive deeper into it—with anyone who’s ready to go there with me.

If you’re struggling, please—don’t carry it alone.
There are people who get it.
People who get you.

Lean into those who cradle your heart with care. The ones who stay. The ones who listen without needing to fix it.

I’ll be one of them.

Because life is hard.
But it’s even harder when we try to do it alone.
And you weren’t meant to carry it all by yourself.

So please, don’t let the small voice inside convince you you’re nothing.
You are everything. And I am so damn glad you’re still here.

Please stay. It does get better.

See you soon, darlings.

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻

02/11/2025

𝙇𝙚𝙩’𝙨 𝙏𝙖𝙡𝙠 𝘼𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙄𝙩—𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙏𝙞𝙢𝙚.

Workplace corruption, double standards, and a system built to protect the wrong people. Sound familiar? It should. Because too many companies claim to operate with integrity, yet behind closed doors, it’s all 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝘀𝗺, 𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿-𝘂𝗽𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. And let’s be very clear—𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁. It’s the 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘦𝘴, too.

Soon, we’re going to start talking about two companies in particular—𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝗶𝗹𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲, 𝗯𝗼𝘁𝗵 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗥𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗮, 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗶. One, my former employer, where I had a front-row seat to the dysfunction. The other, a company I haven’t worked for directly but have seen enough of their dealings to know exactly what goes on. And the stories? They’re eerily similar. 𝗥𝘂𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲. 𝗘𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘆𝗲𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗺. 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝘀 𝗮 𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘆𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴—𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 “𝙍𝙪𝙡𝙚𝙨” 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝘿𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝘼𝙥𝙥𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚

Let’s talk about policy—that golden rulebook that’s enforced when it’s convenient and ignored when it’s not. When management wants to push someone out? 𝗣𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗰𝘆 𝘀𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀. When a favorite employee breaks the rules? 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗹𝗮𝗽 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁—𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁.

And the second 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 are mentioned? Suddenly, everyone is in panic mode, acting like they’ve been following procedures all along.

🛑 The cleaning supplies magically get stocked.
🛑 The missing documentation is suddenly in order.
🛑 Supervisors—who are normally 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 to find—are now very 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 and 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘧𝘶𝘭.

But when 𝗻𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴? That’s when the truth comes out.

❌ Policies are bent, broken, or flat-out ignored.
❌ Favoritism is the real rulebook.
❌ Safety, professionalism, and fairness? 𝘖𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭.

𝗟𝗲𝘁’𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝘀𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗿𝘂𝗴 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗲𝘀. These companies preach about “strict” zero-tolerance policies, but if management had to take a test? 𝗛𝗮𝗹𝗳 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗱𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘆𝗲𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆’𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗼 𝗲𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲. You want to enforce a policy? Fine. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝗮𝗿𝗱.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙮𝙚𝙚𝙨 𝙒𝙝𝙤 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙢

And it’s 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 Let’s talk about 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘆𝗲𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲.

⚠️ The ones who stir the pot and turn professional settings into toxic environments.
⚠️ The ones who clock in, do the bare minimum, and still get rewarded—because they’re friends with the right people.
⚠️ The ones who bring their personal drama to work, create divisions between staff, and manipulate situations to make themselves look like the victim.

And then there are the 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗲𝗿𝘀—the ones 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗹𝗼𝗮𝗱, 𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗳𝘁𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀/𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿. And what do they get in return?

❌ 𝗕𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗼𝘂𝘁.
❌ 𝗟𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
❌ 𝗪𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲-𝘂𝗽𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀, 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗿𝘂𝗹𝗲𝘀.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 “𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙀𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙮𝙚𝙚” 𝙄𝙡𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣

You know who gets protected? 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗱𝗼 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗮𝗿.

✔️ They might not be great at their jobs, but they’re great at playing the game.
✔️ Maybe they’re friends with management.
✔️ Maybe they know how to kiss up just enough to stay in favor.
✔️ Maybe they’re related to someone in charge.

Either way, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆’𝗿𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲.

And then there are the ones who speak up. The ones who report misconduct, ask questions, and actually try to make the workplace better. And what happens to them?

🚨 𝗥𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
🚨 𝗪𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲-𝘂𝗽𝘀.
🚨 𝗦𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻 “𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗲𝘀” 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝘅𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲.

Because in places like these, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘁𝗵 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙇𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙥 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙚

Now let’s get into 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁—the people who are supposed to lead but are more interested in control.

Let’s talk about 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁. The way 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗺 𝗶𝘀 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 from employees but is 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 practiced by leadership. The way supervisors 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗳𝗳, 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗹𝗲𝗱𝗴𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗺𝘀. The way some of them act 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁—but still hold power over people who 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 know what they’re doing.

Let’s talk about 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻—𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗶𝘁.

❌ Schedules change 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲 with no warning.
❌ Employees are left 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸 about important policies.
❌ Decisions that affect everyone are made behind closed doors 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸.

And let’s talk about 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝘆𝗽𝗼𝗰𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘆.

Management loves to enforce drug policies, right? 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗳 𝘄𝗲 𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺?

How many of them would pass? Because I can promise you—𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗲 𝗿𝘂𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗶𝗹. But they’ll 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 be held accountable, because 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻’𝘁 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙨 𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜

This isn’t just talk. I have proof.

📲 𝗦𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀.
📝 𝗙𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘆𝗲𝗲𝘀.

Because while 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝘄𝗶𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘁𝗵 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁, 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗶𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗲.

But you know who does?

🚨 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗲𝘀. The ones who pretend to be perfect but are just as guilty as the ones they call out.
🚨 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗽 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘁𝗵 than admit they played a part in it.

So let’s talk about 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴.

More importantly, let’s talk about 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱.

Because when 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘆𝗲𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀, it’s not just a toxic work environment—it’s a 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲.

This is 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴. I’m 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴.

❌ 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵. ❌

𝗕𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗲 𝘂𝗽. 𝗕𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗜’𝗺 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗼𝗼𝗻.

༝༚༝༚
-𝚝𝚐 🌻