lyndawrites

[lyndawrites]

A Tarot Reading That Taught Me About Self Worth

I decided to do a tarot reading to help me process my conflicted feelings around JRK. So I asked about how he feels about me using this spread: 

Spread: “Heart Unveiled”

1. The Mask – What JRK shows or pretends to feel

2. The Mirror – What JRK is actually feeling deep down

3. The Pulse – What triggers or stirs their feelings for you

4. The Path – How their feelings may grow or change soon

5. The Message – What you need to know

1. The Mask – 5 of Cups Reversed - What JRK shows or pretends to feel. This card reversed can show someone who acts like they’ve moved on, or pretends they’re over the past—but inside, they’re still grieving, still hurting, or emotionally avoidant. JRK may come off like they’re fine or unaffected, but this card suggests they’re masking regret, loss, or guilt. It could be that they don’t know how to process what they feel about you—or it’s easier to pretend it doesn’t matter.

2. The Mirror – 7 of Swords Reversed - What JRK is actually feeling deep down. This card reversed is about truth trying to break through deception. JRK may be struggling with honesty—possibly toward you, but also within themselves. There may be shame, secrecy, or self-deception around their feelings for you. They may want to come clean, but they’re afraid. This isn’t the energy of someone who is at peace with themselves—it’s a mix of guilt, hiding, and fear of vulnerability.

3. The Pulse – The Empress Reversed - What triggers or stirs their feelings for you. This card is powerful—and painful here. You stir something deeply feminine, nurturing, and sensual in JRK… but in reverse, it shows they may feel blocked or undeserving of your love, attention, or care. They might associate you with abundance, beauty, creativity, and warmth—but also feel like they’ve damaged or neglected that energy. There’s emotional immaturity or neglect at play. They may even feel unworthy of your affection. You are the Empress—but reversed, it shows you may have overgiven to someone who didn’t know how to receive, or who took more than they gave.

4. The Path – 2 of Pentacles Reversed - How their feelings may grow or change soon. This shows emotional overwhelm, imbalance, and indecision. JRK may spiral into more instability—struggling to juggle their emotions, priorities, or responsibilities, and as a result, they may pull away or remain inconsistent. Their energy is not rooted. They can’t give you the consistency you deserve right now.

5. The Message – Page of Swords Reversed - What you need to know. This card reversed is a strong warning:

• Someone may be spying, obsessing, or overanalyzing you.

• You may be receiving mixed signals, confusion, or manipulation masked as curiosity or interest.

• Spirit is telling you: Don’t fall into overthinking this. Don’t feed a loop that drains your energy.

This page is immature in reverse—emotionally messy, unclear, and sometimes driven by fear or insecurity.

The Core Message of This Reading: JRK has regret, confusion, and emotional denial happening underneath the surface. They’re not emotionally equipped right now to meet you at your level. They feel your power (Empress), but it’s triggering rather than inviting. They want something from you—but they don’t know how to honor it. The cards are lovingly telling you: “You deserve to be emotionally met, not emotionally managed. You are the Empress, not the puzzle someone’s too tired to solve.”

Then I pulled a follow up card, The Page of Pentacles

The Page of Pentacles is like a breath of fresh air after a storm—it’s your inner voice saying, “Let’s start again. This time, I’m building something real. Something solid.”

What This Card Means as a Message to Your Heart: You’re ready to begin again—but this time, with self-worth as your foundation. You’ve been doing the emotional heavy lifting, the deep healing, the intuitive unraveling of people like JRK—and now, your spirit is calling you to focus on something new that has long-term value, peace, and purpose.

The Page of Pentacles wants you to:

• Focus on what’s real, what’s steady, what’s yours. Not mixed signals. Not half-hearted affection. Not what-ifs from the past.

• Plant a new seed of value—in yourself, your work, your path. Think: financial independence, creative projects, emotional stability, rituals that feed you.

• Approach your healing with curiosity, not shame. “What can I learn from this?” not “Why did I fall for that?”

Spiritual Takeaway: The Page of Pentacles is your green light to turn inward and pour your energy into something that grows with you, not something that confuses or depletes you. JRK’s energy was scattered, shadowed, and tangled in avoidance. You, on the other hand, are showing up for yourself with clarity and sincerity. That’s victory.

I then followed up with doing a reading to see what I need to learn from this situation with JRK. I used the following spread:

The Bridge Between Us Spread

1. What is this connection here to teach me?

2. What am I meant to release or stop trying to control?

3. What part of me is still hoping or waiting?

4. What does JRK truly need from me (if anything)?

5. How can I protect my own heart in this situation?

6. What is my highest path forward from here?

The cards are mirroring exactly what you’ve been navigating—waiting, emotional restraint, uncertainty, and the tension between wanting connection and protecting your dignity. Let’s walk through this together card by card, with compassion and clarity.

1. What is this connection here to teach me? – The Hanged Man. This is a spiritual timeout. You’re being shown how to surrender control, see things from a completely different angle, and let go of timelines or expectations. This card teaches patience, perspective, and inner transformation. You are not meant to fix or rush this—you’re being asked to simply observe and grow through the waiting. This connection is teaching you to honor stillness, to see clearly without forcing clarity.

2. What am I meant to release or stop trying to control? – Page of Cups Reversed. You’re being asked to release the emotional fantasy, the yearning to be received the way you hope for. This reversed page can show emotional vulnerability that isn’t being mirrored or respected. It warns against pouring tenderness into a closed or unready cup. Let go of trying to keep the emotional door cracked open if they are not willing to meet you there.

3. What part of me is still hoping or waiting? – Page of Swords Reversed. This part of you is mentally on guard—watching, waiting, analyzing, maybe overthinking or second-guessing. This card suggests that some part of you is still seeking clues, watching for signs, wondering what they’re thinking, possibly even at the cost of your own peace. It’s okay to care—but Spirit is gently nudging you to turn your watchful energy back toward yourself.

4. What does JRK truly need from me (if anything)? – Knight of Pentacles. This is fascinating and a bit bittersweet. JRK may need consistency, emotional neutrality, and space. The Knight of Pentacles is slow-moving, cautious, and focused on stability over emotional depth. He may feel safer with someone who is patient and steady, but not emotionally demanding or intense. He might appreciate your offer of friendship in theory—but not yet be in a place where he can actually engage with it meaningfully. You’ve offered something beautiful, but he may only be able to receive it in small, very slow doses—if at all.

5. How can I protect my own heart in this situation? – The Emperor Reversed. Take your power back. The reversed Emperor says:

• Don’t shrink or contort yourself to make him comfortable.

• Don’t give up your authority in this connection.

• Set boundaries. Don’t mother him. Don’t wait for him to lead.

You’ve tried to be gentle and respectful—and that’s noble. But don’t abandon your own throne to keep him calm. It’s okay to walk away from a dynamic where your power is silently slipping away.

6. What is my highest path forward from here? – Knight of Swords. Move forward. Fast, if you want to. This card is clear: pursue your truth, your clarity, your healing—boldly and unapologetically. It may be time to stop circling this connection and start charging into what’s next with confidence and momentum. Let this be the moment you say: “I’ve learned, I’ve waited, and now I reclaim my voice.”

Summary:

• This connection was meant to pause you long enough to see what you’ve outgrown—emotionally, spiritually, and relationally.

• You’ve outgrown chasing crumbs.

• JRK may not know what to do with your heart. That’s not your failure—it’s your freedom.

• You are not here to tiptoe around someone’s comfort. You are here to rise in power and move in truth.

In this connection with JRK I offered stability, abundance, and fun. I showed up as someone who was nurturing, resourceful, and behaved like a superhero putting out fires. The parts of me that were most vulnerable or hopeful were the parts that needed to feel important and validated. I needed fulfillment in the form of seeing how much of a difference I could make in someone’s life. I deserved to be respected and valued. I needed someone who could be real with me and at least be gentle in their rejection. What I longed for most—but didn’t receive—was closure. I now reclaim the part of me that was left hanging. I am done waiting for someone to give me direction or closure and let me know where they stand. The version of me who rises from this is a stronger one that moves in a more protected and vigilant way. I will now pour that same love and energy into myself and my projects. 

[lyndawrites]

Breaking the Spell of Emotional Dependence

For years, I kept trying to win a game that had no rules—only heartbreak. But I finally made the last move. I called Josh for something transactional: to get a friend’s number. That’s it. No tenderness, no catching up, no grasping for connection. Just a clean, cool ask. And when he didn’t have it, he became irrelevant. That was the moment I knew: I had finally beaten the final boss.

Josh and I met online, and from the first moment, he was magnetic to me. I was immediately enamored by his photos—he was “hot,” confident, dramatic in the way he expressed interest. When he drove nearly an hour to meet me in person late at night on Father’s Day several years ago, I felt chosen. I wasn’t used to that. I didn’t think someone who looked like him would want someone like me. Before I could even say hello, he kissed me on the mouth. That boldness swept me up and sealed my sense of being special. From there, the intensity spiraled fast.

We visited each other across counties. We had long calls. Then came the shift: I learned he was practically homeless. I didn’t want him to disappear or move far away to live with his brother, so I offered to find a place with him. And just like that, we were living together in a rented room—two people thrown together by circumstances, emotions, and tangled desires. It was then I revealed I was already involved with Steve. But Josh stayed anyway. Maybe out of desperation. Maybe because he didn’t have many options. Maybe because he thought he could still win. As the triangle between us tightened, so did the tension. The jealousy. The conflict. Josh didn’t handle it well, and honestly, neither did I. Eventually, I moved out without telling him. I ghosted him to protect myself, but I regretted it—because I still wanted him. He, however, was already slipping away.

Then came the new girl. Watching him give her the affection he used to offer me, while still keeping me on the sidelines, shattered me. He stopped answering my calls. Stopped replying to messages. And yet… he gave me just enough to keep me hooked. He made plans with me. Promised me I still meant something. Gave me hope. And I ate it up. My mind told me it was just karma—that he was punishing me for making him share me with Steve. I convinced myself that he still loved me deep down, that he’d eventually come back around. I waited. I hoped. I reached out—again and again and again.

But the truth was always there. He never initiated. Never checked in first. I was the one keeping the thread alive. And somewhere along the way, I began to see it clearly. The turning point didn’t come with drama. It came with exhaustion. I was done clinging. Done reaching. Done rewriting the same story just to make sense of my own pain. That call was the final test. And I passed. I didn’t care what he was up to. I didn’t want to hear about his life. I didn’t even flinch when he tried to talk. I stayed detached, firm, indifferent. I practiced emotionally flatlining on purpose, and it felt empowering—not cold, just free. I finally saw him the way he had seen me for years: as a utility, a moment, a shadow of what once was. I was no longer under his spell.

There is no longing left. No ache. No open-ended wish. I made that call for a number, and when he didn’t have it, I hung up and walked away. Not just from the call, but from the entire damn cycle. The emotional addiction. The self-betrayal. The years I spent making myself small for a sliver of attention. He doesn’t have anything I want anymore. And I don’t think I’ll ever call him again. Because I’ve outgrown him. Because I’ve changed. Because the final boss is dead.

[lyndawrites]

How I Stopped Waiting to be Chosen

I’ve spent years waiting. Waiting for clarity. Waiting to stop hurting. Waiting for someone to turn around and see me—really see me—and decide I was finally worth staying for. But they didn’t. Franco didn’t. Josh didn’t. Steve didn’t. Miguel didn’t. And for a long time, I thought their leaving meant I wasn’t enough. I believed I had to perform to be loved. That I had to keep others entertained, engaged, on their toes—or they’d lose interest and disappear. And several did. And it devastated me every time. I thought that if I could just be impressive enough, needed enough, comforting enough, desirable enough… I’d never have to feel that drop in my chest when someone slowly pulled away. The truth is: I was never safe in their affection to begin with. It was conditional. Fragile. I kept trying to prove I was worth the love they were barely offering me in the first place. That’s what finally clicked. The belief wasn’t theirs—it was mine. It was something I inherited early on, before I even knew how to name it.

As a child, I was taught that love meant effort. That abuse could be earned, and that if I behaved better, maybe I could make it stop. I chased approval like oxygen. And when I didn’t get it, I blamed myself. It never occurred to me that the people hurting me were incapable of giving love in the first place. I thought it had to be me. And so I carried that belief. Into friendships. Into my marriage. Into motherhood. Into moments where I kept shrinking myself, biting my tongue, tolerating manipulation, just to maintain the illusion of connection. But the illusion broke. And this time, I let it. Instead of reaching out to the ones who left me—I reached in. And I started asking myself what I needed to feel safe. Not validated. Not praised. Just… safe.

I realized emotional safety isn’t some abstract spiritual idea—it’s physical. I know I’m safe when I can breathe fully. When I don’t feel on edge, don’t feel like I’m about to be judged or corrected. When I feel free to rest. When I don’t flinch at being honest. I started listing the people, places, and energies that make me feel unsafe: Authoritarian personalities. Family members who try to dominate my parenting. Environments where I feel judged for looking the way I do. Situations where I’m expected to perform emotional labor just to be tolerated. And then I did something radical. I started saying no. Not loudly. Not with a show. Just quietly. Fully. No. And as I said no to them, I said yes to me.

I’m no longer interested in being impressive to people who don’t see me. I’m interested in being at peace with myself. I started writing more. I started letting myself rest. I started reminding myself, every morning and every night, that I am not here to earn my place—I already belong. My voice belongs. My softness belongs. My limits belong. I realized I am powerful in ways that people try to suppress. I don’t just help create balance—I am balance. I make things whole. I move energy. I upgrade the space around me. And the people who once made me feel like I was too much? They were never equipped to handle someone who was already whole. I’m still healing. I’m still catching myself in old thoughts. But I am no longer on trial. I am no longer waiting for their validation to name me worthy. That power belongs to me now. And I’m not giving it back.

[lyndawrites]

There’s a painting I came across recently—haunting, beautiful, and eerily familiar. Two women, bathed in green shadow, sit against an almost otherworldly backdrop. One shields her face, hidden in grief. The other crouches low, her body curled in quiet collapse. Above her, a snarling wolf lingers in the dark. Beneath her, shadow hands claw upward from the ground. Between them, a single blue flower blooms—small, still, sacred. The artist said the piece represents Complex PTSD. I didn’t need the caption to know that. I recognized myself in both figures.

For most of my life, I’ve lived with CPTSD. The kind that doesn’t shout, but whispers. The kind that doesn’t bleed, but bruises the soul in places no one else can see. It started in my childhood—the kind of childhood that conditions you to walk on eggshells and makes silence feel safer than asking for help. Abuse, neglect, betrayal… these weren’t just events. They were my atmosphere. When people talk about trauma, they often imagine a single, terrible moment. But CPTSD is different. It’s not one wound—it’s a thousand paper cuts, delivered over years. It teaches you that love is conditional. That your needs are too much. That your voice is dangerous.

The girl in the painting hiding her face? That’s my inner child. She’s the one who stopped crying when no one came. She’s the one who learned how to make herself smaller, quieter, more pleasing—anything to be safe. And the woman crouched beside her, crowned with golden leaves? That’s me now. The adult version, still carrying the weight of those early years. Still fighting for emotional safety in relationships where trust feels like a cliff’s edge. Still exhausted from the hypervigilance that never quite shuts off. For years, I kept trying to “fix” myself, to be easier to love, more “normal.” But healing from CPTSD isn’t linear. Some days I feel like I’m finally standing tall. Other days, it’s like the shadow hands of my past are tugging at my ankles, threatening to pull me back under.

The poem that came to me as I studied the image is a reflection of this truth—my truth:

She carries the war inside her.

Her hands do not tremble from weakness,

but from all the doors she’s held shut with her spine.

The child weeps in corners she no longer remembers,

and the wolves?

They are memories with teeth.

Still—

she bends, but does not break.

Flowers bloom from her sorrow.

Even shadows kneel at her strength.

That war—between my longing for peace and the parts of me still trapped in fight-or-flight—has shaped every part of me. It’s why I’ve struggled with intimacy, even in relationships where love was offered. Why I often anticipate rejection, even when no one is rejecting me. Why my nervous system reacts like the threat is still here, even when I’m safe. But here’s the most painful truth of all: Sometimes I’m not sure I believe I’m worth saving. Not because I don’t want to live—but because trauma taught me that existing was the price I had to pay for taking up space. And yet, I’m still here. I’m still showing up. I’m still creating. I’m still loving, even if cautiously. I’m still trying to soften, to feel, to stay. I’m still writing these words—not to prove my worth, but to reclaim it.

The green tones of this painting—so often symbolic of healing—feel like a murky sea I’m still learning to swim through. But that blue flower? That’s me too. That’s the part of me that keeps hoping, keeps blooming in defiance of the darkness. That’s the part of me that whispers: maybe I am worth the fight.So I’m claiming it. All of it. The pain, the strength, the complexity. The girl who hid. The woman who endures. The flower that refuses to die. And I’m writing it down here, not to be fixed or rescued, but to be witnessed. If you’ve ever felt like you were both the storm and the shelter, the predator and the prey, you’re not alone. Some of us are still learning that survival is not the same as living. But even that—especially that—is worth honoring.

[lyndawrites]

Where I Am, Right Now

There’s nothing dramatic to announce. No transformations or sudden milestones. Just this—this quiet moment in my life, unfolding one ordinary day at a time. Some days feel like gentle progress. Others feel like static. But either way, here I am.

I’m currently living in a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment with my boyfriend, John, and his adult son, Edgar, who moved in about a month ago. We also welcomed a German Shepherd/Siberian Husky mix into our home—a beautiful dog we adopted from another family. We had him neutered recently, so our days have been filled with watching him closely, making sure he doesn’t reopen his wound. So far, so good. We miss taking him to the dog parks and beaches, but we know he’ll heal soon. The mornings are my favorite part of the day. When everything is still and I can sit in silence, just breathing. Just being. I work three days a week from home doing accounting. It’s not glamorous, but it’s consistent and undemanding, which gives me the mental space I need. I’m grateful for that. The only thing that throws me off is a coworker who constantly interrupts me when I go into the office twice a week. I try not to let it bother me, but some days, it does. Love has been complicated, but I’m proud that this relationship has lasted over five years. That’s no small thing. There’s warmth here, even if it’s not always fulfilling. There are quiet victories in simply staying, in holding on, in finding peace in the midst of uncertainty. I don’t pay for rent, bills or transportation anymore. I just cover groceries and sometimes outings. I’ve learned to live minimally—not for aesthetics, but for safety. I want to be able to leave at any time and not worry about what I’m leaving behind. Most of my valuables stay at work. I’m debt free, which is something I’m proud of, and I’ve started building up savings again. I cook in bulk, plan meals, and shop at Ralph’s to make our food budget stretch. I’ve noticed how expensive everything’s become, so I skip the eggs and keep things simple. I don’t worry about money. But I do notice the world shifting around me.

Last year, I made a decision. I stopped taking medications for diabetes, hypothyroidism, and perimenopause. It felt like too much to manage, so I’ve chosen to handle it my own way—through lifestyle changes. It’s not perfect. I still struggle to eat healthier. Most days, I eat once. And I still binge on Coca-Cola when I’m working. I know there’s room to grow, but I’m not beating myself up over it. One thing at a time. I let most of my art supplies go over the past year. I wasn’t making anything that felt like it was going anywhere. But I couldn’t part with my Caran d’Ache Luminance pencils, my Prismacolors, or my Faber-Castell set. Those still feel like an extension of me. I use them when the mood strikes—mostly as part of my color magic, my spells, my little rituals. I don’t bake cookies anymore unless they come from the refrigerated section, ready to go. That chapter is closed for now. My creative energy has turned toward magic—spellcraft, incense, and daily rituals that bring me back to myself. My anchor is my magical practice. Each day, I burn incense, cast spells, draw tarot cards, and keep learning what works and what doesn’t. It’s a private, sacred rhythm that helps me feel like I’m not floating aimlessly. Like I belong to something ancient and strong. My older sister and I keep in touch. She’s the only one in my family who checks in. My daughter stays with me every weekend, and that time together means everything to me. Outside of that, I don’t really have a social life. No real friends, and that’s okay. I like my solitude. I did reach out to a potential pen pal I found on a website recently. I’m hoping he writes back—but I’m not holding my breath. Right now, I’m just here. Breathing. Existing. Trying. Maybe that’s enough.

[lyndawrites]

What Makes Me Unchosen

They say we’re unchosen because we’re broken. But what they don’t say is—some of us were broken open so early, the light got in before the shame did. I’ve never been the girl you bring home to your mother. I’ve never been the “obvious” choice. Not for friendships. Not for love. Not for belonging. Not even for safety. People love a survivor until they realize what survival actually looks like. They love a strong woman until they meet one who cries in parking lots, keeps secrets in her skin, and doesn’t apologize for how loudly her past still echoes.

So what makes me “too much” for most? I was born to a narcissistic, alcoholic mother and a bipolar father who left more scars than memories. I was abused—physically, emotionally, sexually—so often, I began to confuse pain with attention. I grew up in the deep hood of Los Angeles. Gang violence wasn’t a backdrop—it was a soundtrack. I watched my brother get shot in the face and somehow, somehow, I kept breathing. I joined the Air Force just to escape, but even there, my mental illness—my CPTSD—discharged me like I was defective. I got married. Had a daughter. And then lost her to the system because I couldn’t handle motherhood through the fog of my trauma. But I fought like hell to get her back. And I did. And still— I’ve had four abortions. I’ve drowned myself in alcohol. I’ve been high enough to not care if I came back down. I’ve written love letters to people who only used me. I’ve been a name they kept off the guest list. A memory they edited out. A woman they touched but never claimed. For 25 years I gave everything I had to an apostolic Pentecostal church, trying to be pure, holy, acceptable. Until I realized the corruption ran deeper than any of my sins ever did. I walked away. But I didn’t walk empty. I walked away holding something sacred: myself.

You see—I’ve been practicing magic since I was 9. I’ve always known I was different. And I hid that part of me so well, even I forgot it for a while. But I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not ashamed of how I lived. Of what I lost. Of who I loved. Of how messy my healing still is. Because every time someone didn’t choose me, they were choosing a version of safety that doesn’t exist. I’m not safe in the way people want women to be. I’m not clean. I’m not simple. I’m not sweet. I’m the storm you pray through. The altar you whisper secrets to. The scar that makes your own healing believable. I don’t need to be chosen by those who can’t carry this kind of truth. I choose myself. Every day. And if you’ve ever felt like you were too much, too wild, too scarred, or too strange— I hope you choose yourself too. Because the unchosen? We’re not broken. We’re becoming.

[lyndawrites]

Introduction to The Quiet Flame

I’ve spent most of my life feeling like the extra—too much in some rooms, invisible in others. Not the favorite. Not the one who gets picked. Not the one people stay for. It’s a feeling I’ve worn like a second skin. Sometimes soft and barely there, other times sharp and impossible to ignore. I’ve been the black sheep in a large family that never really saw me—at least not in the ways that mattered. My beliefs, my choices, the path I’ve chosen… they all seemed to disqualify me from being held in the warmth I craved.

I’ve lost a marriage I once believed in. I’ve watched relationship after relationship fall apart in my hands, despite how hard I tried to hold them gently. I don’t think I’ve ever truly known what it feels like to be fully wanted. Even now, I’m with someone who says they love me, but I often feel like I’m still waiting to be chosen. I don’t know if that feeling will ever leave me.

I’ve been writing for years, but this is the first time I’ve created a sacred space for it. Not to teach. Not to show off. Just to let it live. The Unchosen is what I’ve called this place because that’s what I’ve been for most of my life. Not in bitterness—but in truth. And now, in defiance. The Quiet Flame is where that truth stays lit. It’s where I let myself say what I don’t say out loud. It’s what flickers underneath the smile, underneath the functioning, underneath the surviving. I write because it aches more when I don’t. This personal blog is my corner of the internet where I leave pieces of my heart, so I don’t have to carry all of them at once.