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Why I Write (And No, It’s Not About You)
Let me be very clear for the inevitable day when she finds this blog—because let’s be honest, she will.She’s stalked me for thirteen years, obsessing over a life that doesn’t belong to her.So, for the record: I don’t write because she lives rent-free in my head.I write because this is how I exorcise the weight I’ve carried around for over a decade.It’s not about her. It’s about me.My healing.My story.My truth. He lied.Big lies.Twisted, self-serving lies meant to paint me as the villain, so he could justify chasing the easiest piece of ass he could find. And isn’t that how it always goes?The man says he’s “unhappy,” that his wife…
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Origin Story
The fire that started it all. Note from Vienna:This was once my About Me. It was the first thing I ever wrote for this space. I’ve grown since then. I’ve healed. But this? This still holds the heat of everything that broke me, and the voice that came roaring out of the ash. This is where it begins. It’s the version of me that rose from silence and shadows.The version that no longer tiptoes around the truth.This space is where the healing begins—and I mean all of it. My story starts when I was a child.I experienced trauma in my youth—events that shaped the way I saw myself, the way…
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When They Made Me the Villain to Justify Their Affair
Because rewriting my character was easier than owning their betrayal. Let me tell you something about people who cheat and the ones who help them do it:They don’t want the truth.They want a story. And in order to live inside that story without choking on their guilt, they need a villain.That’s where I came in. I was the wife.The mother.The one holding our home together while he unraveled.But in their story?I had to be the problem.Too angry.Too jealous.Too boring.Too emotional.Too much.Too little.Too something. Because if I were human—if I were loyal, good, patient, and hurting—then they were the bad guys.And that’s a truth they couldn’t bear to carry. So they…
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How to NOT Be the Other Woman
In case your momma forgot to teach you not to be trash. Dear Diary,Today I did NOT wreck a home, because I have morals and a brain stem. Honestly, it’s not that hard. There’s a whole world of emotionally available men out there who aren’t contractually, legally, or spiritually bound to someone else—but somehow, some women still manage to trip and fall face-first into married dick like it’s a damn Slip ’N Slide. So in the spirit of community service (and because mockery is cheaper than therapy), I’ve compiled a list of very real, very necessary tips for how not to be the pathetic cliché known as “The Other Woman.”…
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They Tried to Rewrite My Role—And Failed
When the Side Piece Starts Playing Mom I was already drowning.The separation was fresh. My body was shaking from the aftershocks of betrayal. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept. I was running on fumes, trauma, and prayer. And then—he dropped another bomb. “I hired a tutor.” Like WHAT?Not a heads-up. Not a question. Not a discussion.Just a decision—about my child, made without me.And not just any decision—one that was whispered into his ear by the gatekeeper bestie and the other woman. Because of course it was. The Audacity to Interfere I can’t even begin to describe the level of rage that coursed through my body in that moment.These women—who had…
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The Aftermath
The Bomb Dropped There’s just something so FUCKED about the aftermath.It’s not just the shock of it all—it’s the shitty, grinding devastation that follows.The minutiae of life that you totally take for granted when you’re married—things like the bills, the health insurance, the vehicles, the taxes, the rent or the mortgage. One day, you’re a power couple. A dynamic team. A family building a future.And the next? You’re picking up the shattered pieces because your husband decided to walk in and detonate a whole-ass bomb in the middle of your living room—blowing up your marriage, your life, and your child’s entire world. He wanted a divorce.And for some reason, he…
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The Day My Life Burned Down
It didn’t happen all at once. There was no epic fight. No sudden confession. No dramatic breaking point. It was a slow unraveling.A series of quiet, cruel moments.Each one cutting just a little deeper.And the worst part? I didn’t even know it was happening—because I was already carrying so much pain that I couldn’t see the betrayal through the fog of it all. We were struggling. Not because of us—at least, that’s what I thought.We were drowning in his depression, his mental health spiral.I was exhausted, trying to hold both of us up.And I honestly believed we were in it together. So when I left for vacation with our son…