We all have a story, but many choose to tell only the highlights, the palatable parts — snippets accepted by the public. The rest is tucked away in silence. But what if we told the whole truth?
Not just the chapters we survived, but the ones that nearly ended us. Not just the memories softened by time, but the moments that seared themselves into our nervous system and shaped who we became.
The path here didn't move in a straight line. Sometimes the past arrives uninvited in an ordinary moment. Sometimes the present only makes sense when you find its origin in the past.
We cross continents and class lines, silence and spectacle. Poverty and power. Spiritual initiation and institutional neglect. Motherhood, medicine, money, and myth. None of it fit neatly. Until the moment timelines converge and everything changes.
This isn't inspiration wrapped in perfect lessons. It's the whole thing — shards, scars, shadows — a testimony not to tragedy, but to transformation.
Because I was never supposed to be here, not like this. According to the statistics, the curve, the therapists, and the odds… I should have disappeared.
But I didn't.
I walked through fire until I became it.
We all have a story, but many choose to tell only the highlights, the palatable parts — snippets accepted by the public. The rest is tucked away in silence. But what if we told the whole truth?
Not just the chapters we survived, but the ones that nearly ended us. Not just the memories softened by time, but the moments that seared themselves into our nervous system and shaped who we became.
The path here didn't move in a straight line. Sometimes the past arrives uninvited in an ordinary moment. Sometimes the present only makes sense when you find its origin in the past.
We cross continents and class lines, silence and spectacle. Poverty and power. Spiritual initiation and institutional neglect. Motherhood, medicine, money, and myth. None of it fit neatly. Until the moment timelines converge and everything changes.
This isn't inspiration wrapped in perfect lessons. It's the whole thing — shards, scars, shadows — a testimony not to tragedy, but to transformation.
Because I was never supposed to be here, not like this. According to the statistics, the curve, the therapists, and the odds… I should have disappeared.
But I didn't.
I walked through fire until I became it.
Demons – Alec Benjamin
Her words seeped in as I held the phone to my ear. The ground beneath me disappeared. The warmth from earlier evaporated, replaced by a darkness that crawled into my being. My soul grasped for something—anything to hold onto. The air could not steady me as I plummeted into the shadows of the past.
I had spent a lifetime meticulously constructing a world that felt secure, a sanctuary built on the fragile hope of connection. Family was the tether to this world and the only thing that made me feel safe. The sense of belonging I had yearned for all my life was gone. Ripped away, it left me feeling hollow inside. Spiraling, I remembered this abyss.
The house was quiet, but my mind was anything but.
Shards of visions pierced my thoughts.
Familiar in its presence, an old companion whom I thought I had left behind long ago.
Pain reverberated through my soul until the edges of me blurred.
My footsteps echoed down each stair.
Was I trapped in this cycle, doomed to relive the same torment over and over again?
After hanging up the phone, I felt myself pulled into the kitchen.
The room felt heavy.
My eyes settled upon the ominous yet strangely comforting object hanging from the ceiling.
I reached out and slowly ran my fingertips along the strands.
The tightly woven fibers pressed into my palms like a question and an answer.
I lifted the rope with both hands.
Its weight felt heavier than I expected.
The fibers scratched the skin covering my collarbone as the object settled around my neck.
For a moment, I just stood there.
The thought of escape whispered in my ear, coaxing me with the idea of peace.
Time lagged between breaths, each growing louder in my ears.
Teetering on the edge, a sense of calm washed over my body.
I yearned for relief from the relentless ache that gnawed at my soul.
A respite from the turmoil that haunted me for so long.
My leg moved almost on its own, kicking the chair out from beneath me.
In a quick jolt, my body snapped, dropping with the pull of gravity.
The rope tightened around my neck.
My esophagus was being crushed from the weight of my body.
Sharp pulses ran through my spine.
Suffocating strangles, unbearable.
My body twitched.
Oxygen dissipating from every cell.
Asphyxiation clamped its hands around my neck.
Relief flooded my body. Finally, released from the burdens I had carried for so long. My thoughts drifted as my vision blurred. One question cried out. How did I end up here again?
With one last sigh, I released everything that had ever hurt me.
And then — warmth. Sunshine pressing through eyelids. The soft weight of a down comforter. The house, quiet and unhurried. A morning that had no idea what was coming.
The morning greeted me with kisses of sunshine through the window. I welcomed its warm embrace as it squeezed through my eyelids and into the remnants of my dreams. A humming vibrated through my body as I stretched my arms above my head and curled my legs, bellowing out a wake-up call to my limbs.
Pulling up the down comforter and sinking back into fluffy white pillows, I enjoyed one last slice of paradise before launching into my day. Weekends were precious — an indulgence in the pure delight of sleeping in and waking up organically.
My bedroom was a tranquil ocean of blue walls, framed by white curtains that cascaded into pools on the floor. On the right side of the dresser sat a white Buddha, a reminder to detach from judgment. On the left, a tall white elephant adorned with dangling necklaces, reminding me that some memories are meant to be cherished while others are best left behind.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and glanced at my to-do list of chores for the day. Then I caught myself in the mirror. I lifted my shirt and examined my belly, hips, and thighs, checking whether what I saw met my own standards of acceptance. Over the past year, a few extra pounds had softened my once six-pack abs.
I need to get back to the gym, I thought.
My son and his wife live just seven minutes away, so I texted Nate to ask if I could come by a second week in a row. There’s always a twinge when I ask him for anything. The last time I asked for help, years ago, with some financial projections, his frustration rose so quickly that it ended with me in tears, telling him to leave. I swore I’d never ask again.
It’s just laundry, I told myself.
We settled on late morning. His tone was clipped, but I brushed it off.
As I turned onto their street, rows of colonial-style homes lined the road. Stone facades, manicured lawns, and black lampposts dot the sidewalks. The kind of neighborhood where residents wave, and parents stroll with little ones. The ordinary thing I never had growing up.
For the first time in my life, I felt truly loved by a family. My family. One I helped create through circumstances and relentless hard work.
Megan greeted me as I stepped through the garage door, bustling around the kitchen. At about 5’3”, she had a petite waist that contrasted with her curvy, Kardashian-like hips and thighs. Her naturally blonde hair fell somewhere between her shoulders and mid-back. Most days, she wore it straight or pulled up into a playful, slightly messy bun perched atop her head. Since becoming a new mom, this had become her signature look. The state of her bun often reflected her day. On calmer days, it sat neatly in place, but when things got hectic, stray strands escaped in all directions. On the busiest of days, the bun slid down to the side of her head, hinting at the vortex of caretaking she’d been juggling.
The kitchen was a whirlwind. Piles of fresh produce covered every surface. Containers, cutting boards, and appliances cluttered the counters, all part of Megan’s weekend ritual. Amidst the organized chaos, she expertly chopped, cleaned, and cooked. She made all the baby food from scratch using only organic fruits and vegetables. The sheer effort this involved, especially for a working mother with twins who was also breastfeeding and juggling a full-time job, was exhausting to watch.
As I stepped into their home, my first order of business was to head straight for the laundry room. I quickly loaded their high-capacity washer with a full load of clothes, eager to get the chore underway. With that task out of the way, I made my way toward the living room. Passing through the open kitchen, Megan was a force of nature in her preparations.
“Do you need help with anything?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. And not just once, but several times throughout the day.
Megan’s love for cooking was well known, and Nathan often praised her culinary skills and her ambition to become a chef. Knowing it’s best not to interrupt someone in their element, I made sure to stay out of her way as she worked, and I took care of the little ones instead. Meanwhile, my stomach rumbled as I delighted in the savory flavors wafting in the air from whatever she was concocting in the other room.
Nathan, just as busy as Megan, spent the day darting in and out of the house, juggling a mix of tasks. He handled household chores, worked in the yard, and popped in to help with the kids. Standing at six foot three with his dirty blonde hair tied back, he moved through the house with easy, unhurried energy. He cares deeply for his family — that much was always evident. A good man. A much better parent than I ever had the chance to be.
The week’s groceries arrived in the middle of the day’s chaos, and I suddenly realized how hungry I was. As I looked through the bags, I casually asked Megan if I could grab some yogurt.
“Sure,” she replied.
Spotting a container of raspberries nearby, I grabbed a handful, rinsed them off, and added them to my yogurt along with a little raspberry jam. I made sure to stay out of her way in my preparations.
As I was digging into my yogurt, Megan suddenly stopped what she was doing and glanced over at my bowl. Staring at its contents without blinking, she said curtly.
“Oh.”
A faint pause.
“You added raspberries to your yogurt.”
I froze.
Spoon halfway to my mouth.
Did I mess up? Should I have put them back? It’s just a few raspberries.
“Yeeaas,” I squeaked out.
What was I supposed to do? I kept eating, but the moment felt awkward.
In hindsight, maybe I should’ve apologized or double-checked if my choice of toppings was okay. But she did say it was fine, didn’t she? Besides, I clearly remembered the last time I visited. Nathan had excitedly shown me their new refrigerator, opening it up with a grin and pointing out where they kept the Greek yogurt.
“I love yogurt!” I had exclaimed, my face lighting up.
He’d chuckled, matching my smile. “I know you do, Mom. That’s why I’m showing you this drawer.”
It was a small but sweet bonding moment. Yogurt had always been my go-to snack when visiting, and raspberries were an occasional treat.
Shortly after, Megan and Nate said they were going to head down the street to watch the game at her sister’s house.
“Would you mind watching the kids while we’re at the game?” they asked.
“No, not at all. Would love to,” I replied.
After an hour or two, they returned home.
Something changed.
I could feel the atmosphere shift.
Nathan’s gaze flicked between Megan and me, his voice carrying a sternness. “Mom, the yogurt and raspberries are for the kids.”
His words felt like a gut punch.
I paused, staring at them both for a moment, then hurriedly gathered my things and left without a word.
I didn’t know it yet, but this was the moment everything began to unravel.
Not slowly.
Not gently.
But in a way that would strip me down to nothing and force me to rebuild from the ground up.
This is the story of how that happened.
The Phoenix Within: A Soul’s Journey from Complex PTSD and Ten Steps Back to Self
By Tabitha Polenz
Publisher: Tabitha Polenz
Publication Date: July 6, 2026
ASIN: B0H7SFZZZ2
Pages: 352
Triggers: Trauma, abuse, mental health struggles, medical concerns, emotional distress, family difficulties, and discussions of suicidal thoughts
Star Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
What Did I Just Walk Into?
I opened this expecting a personal account about healing. What I received was an emotional excavation performed without numbing medication.
Ms. Tabitha Polenz does not hand readers a polished little package tied with a motivational ribbon. There are no suspiciously cheerful slogans pretending that a bubble bath and a scented candle can repair years of damage. Instead, she offers something far more valuable: honesty.
This book explores what it means to keep moving when the mind and body are still reacting to battles everyone else assumes are over. The author examines painful experiences, complicated relationships, health concerns, identity, parenting, and the exhausting process of trying to understand why certain reactions refuse to disappear.
Here’s What Slapped
The strongest part of this book is the author’s willingness to be vulnerable without turning every difficult event into a tidy lesson. Progress is not presented as a straight staircase leading toward permanent happiness. Sometimes it looks more like climbing three steps, falling down seven, questioning every life choice, and then getting back up out of pure spite.
That felt real.
The writing is deeply personal, but the emotional themes will be recognizable to many readers who have spent years wondering why they cannot simply “move on.” Tabitha shows how earlier experiences can quietly affect decisions, relationships, confidence, physical health, and the ability to feel secure.
The musical references add another layer to the reading experience. They help set the emotional temperature of different moments and invite readers to connect with the material in a more personal way.
This is not an easy read, but it is an important one. Certain sections may require a pause, a deep breath, or several minutes of staring into space while reconsidering everything you thought you had successfully buried.
What Could’ve Been Better
Some portions contain a large amount of information and may feel overwhelming when read too quickly. This is best approached slowly rather than devoured in one sitting.
Honestly, your nervous system deserves snack breaks.
Perfect for Readers Who Love
Memoirs that refuse to sugarcoat difficult realities, honest discussions about mental health, personal growth without toxic positivity, and stories about rebuilding a life from the inside out.
The Phoenix Within is courageous, emotional, and refreshingly genuine. Ms. Tabitha Polenz does not pretend recovery is graceful. She shows that it can be messy, frustrating, nonlinear, and still completely worthwhile.
Five stars for telling the uncomfortable parts instead of only displaying the socially acceptable ones.
Reviewed by Robin for Robin’s Review