Still Here: Reclaiming My Voice, My Truth, and My Life

 When The Little Mermaid came out in 1989, I was almost 11. At the time, I didn’t just admire Ariel—I was her. A girl silenced. A girl trapped in a world where her voice didn’t matter, where rules were suffocating, and love felt conditional. She gave up her voice to escape. So did I—just in a different way.

I wasn’t allowed to be a child. I was told I lived in a dictatorship. I was helping raise my siblings before I hit middle school. I had to be the responsible one, the strong one, the fix-it-all one. And when I tried to speak up about the pain I was in, I was met with silence… or worse—blame.

Now, at 46 years old, I’m still being told how to live my life. Still being called unstable for explaining the reason behind my emotional responses. Still being scapegoated for decisions that were never mine to begin with.

My sister says it’s not my story to tell.

But let me ask you:

How would you feel if someone tried to erase you from your own life?

If they said you don’t exist—because your truth made them uncomfortable?

She blames me for her dropping out of college—when the truth is, she made her own decisions. She was supposed to go to school during the week and work weekends and summers. That was the deal. I didn’t break it—she did. But somehow, I’m still the problem.

In January, she threatened to evict me. Not out of necessity. Out of control. After a long day of work, cleaning, and homework, I was relaxing in my room—quiet, calm, grounded. She approached me to help her with something, and when I gently offered a solution, she snapped. She chased me down the hall, tried to physically corner me, and shoved herself against my bedroom door. I had to brace it with my shoulder just to keep her out.

That’s not a sibling argument. That’s aggression. That’s abuse.

And yesterday? I went back to my mother’s house to get my mail—with a police escort. Again. She had changed the locks. Again. Illegally. Again. I’ve done everything by the book, and I’m still being treated like the criminal when all I’ve ever done is survive what was done to me.

People say I’m “dwelling on the past.” But the past is still happening. It’s still playing out in courtrooms, in text messages, in police reports, in emotional and physical intimidation.

Let me be clear:

My suicidal ideations weren’t about weakness. They were about being erased, silenced, and scapegoated by the people I was told would love me.

I haven’t attempted to take my life since 2007.

I haven’t exploded in violence since 2008.

I have grown. I have healed. I have fought my way through every system designed to ignore people like me. And I have worked for my stability—emotionally, academically, spiritually, and professionally.

I’ve earned a 4.0 GPA.

I’ve built businesses from nothing.

I’ve rebuilt my life over and over again.

And I’m still standing. Still growing. Still here.

So when someone says I don’t have the right to tell my story?

When someone says I don’t exist?

When someone tries to lock me out—physically, emotionally, or metaphorically?

I speak louder.

Because if I don’t name this, I carry it.

And I’m done carrying the shame that doesn’t belong to me.

I didn’t get a fairytale ending. There was no prince, no castle, no rescue.

But I rescued myself.

I am not the villain.

I am not crazy.

I am not unstable.

I am a survivor, and this is my story.

If that makes people uncomfortable, they can sit with their discomfort. I’ve sat with mine long enough.

Crawling on the Planet’s Face… You Forgot Who I Am

I didn’t forget who I am.
You did.

I don’t need your test.
Not for IQ.
Not for genius.
Not to prove I have something to say.
Because I am the proof.
I am the test.
And the world keeps failing it.

I’ve walked through trauma, injustice, assault, betrayal, silence, and systemic abuse. I’ve risen from accidents, from institutions, from toxic workplaces, from relationships that tried to drown me. And I’m still standing—not just for myself, but for everyone who’s ever been pushed down and told to stay quiet.

You want to call me emotional? Dramatic?
Good.
Because that means I still feel.
And that means I’m still human—something a lot of people seem to have forgotten how to be.

There are signs everywhere.
There are messages in everything.
In movies.
In protests.
In songs.
In interviews.
In documentaries.
In speeches.
In books.
In bodies laid in the street.
In the silence between screams.

But society keeps scrolling.
It’s easier to be distracted than to be accountable.
It’s easier to label someone “too much” than to face what they’re saying.

Do you remember Edward Murrow?
“Good Night, and Good Luck.”
He stood up when others were paralyzed by fear.
He used his voice when it was dangerous to speak.
And that—that—is what this is.

I’m speaking not just for me—but for everyone who’s ever been silenced, mocked, medicated, minimized, locked away, or labeled because the world couldn’t handle their truth. Because people act out of fear. They run. They hide. They avoid.

But I don’t run.
I’ve never run.
I stand.
I speak.
I burn if I have to—but I will not vanish.

People have called me crazy.
For how I think. For how I feel. For the direction I’ve taken my life.
For walking away from a marriage.
For loving someone with an addiction.
For sacrificing time, energy, and pieces of myself in places others thought weren’t worth it.
But I see now—it was never wasted.
None of it.

Every detour, every heartbreak, every sleepless night was preparation.
Every time I doubted my own strength, dismissed my own accomplishments, or ignored the power I was carrying—it was all part of the lesson.
I had to go through it because I learn through experience. I feel the lesson before I name it.
And now I know—this is the season I was made for.

I’m not here to start a movement.
I’m not here to be a spokesperson for your cause.
I’m here to live in my truth so loudly, so relentlessly, that people can’t ignore what it looks like to reclaim yourself.

You don’t have to like me.
You don’t have to understand me.
But you will see me.

Truth is, I’ve always been seen.
Stared at. Watched. Whispered about.
Most of the time, I didn’t even fucking notice—because I was too deep in surviving to care.
But I am wide awake now.
Not in the performative way—in the soul-rattling, eyes-wide, don’t-look-away-from-me-now kind of way.
You see me? Good.
Because I see you too.

Because I’m the living proof that no matter who tries to push you down, no matter how many times they try to silence you or extinguish your fire—
You can still rise.
You can still speak.
You can still burn bright as hell.

I’m not dreaming it anymore.
I’m being it.

This is not just for me.
This is for anyone who’s ever doubted if they could survive.

Look at me.
You can.

Growing Up in the Shadow of Loss: Trauma Behind the Illusion of Stability

Introduction

I was born on December 21, 1978, in Elizabeth, New Jersey. For the first 10 and half years of my life, I lived in the shadows of towering bridges and industry, surrounded by the sound of trains and traffic, and the weight of unspoken tensions. While Elizabeth was home, it was not a place of peace. My childhood was turbulent, shaped by emotional instability, uncertainty, and survival.

In 1989, my family left Elizabeth. What followed was a lifetime of movement. I have moved 29 times—not including the temporary housing and in-between places I can no longer even count. Each new place brought upheaval, another layer of instability that made it difficult to form lasting relationships or feel safe. By the time I reached adulthood, I had learned how to adapt—but at the cost of never truly feeling grounded.

The Cost of Constant Change

Studies show that frequent relocations in childhood can lead to academic struggles, anxiety, and depression. For me, this constant flux laid the groundwork for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)—a condition I didn’t understand until much later in life. I was a child living in survival mode, never sure when the next disruption would come, or when the next loss would occur.

When we settled in Southern Ocean County, NJ, I was surrounded by the appearance of stability. Southern Regional High School, where I graduated in 1996, was highly ranked, with excellent resources, low crime, and strong academic performance. From the outside, it looked like the perfect place to grow up. But trauma doesn’t care about zip codes. Beneath the surface, I carried the weight of fear, instability, and eventually, immense grief.

Loss Upon Loss: The Names I Carry

The first devastating loss came in 1994, when Nicole Trapanese, a kind classmate, passed in a drunk driving accident. Just a week before, she had lent me a quarter to call home. I promised I would thank her every day until she died—and I did, until her funeral. Her death shattered the illusion that life was predictable or safe.

Then came more:

• Lucas Godbolt, a classmate and brilliant artist, passed in a car crash.
• David Dodds, a classmate, also lost in an accident.
• Danyelle Morgenstern, passed in 2013 after a long illness.
• Robin Lennox, taken by a heart attack on January 31, 2012.
• Patrick Johns and Jason Posch, classmates whose memories remain with me.
• Tricia Griffin, survived a horrific crash on July 29, 1995, when a car slammed into trees at 120 mph.

Brian: My Love, My Anchor

In 2006, I reconnected with Brian Heck, my best friend from high school. We fell in love and built a life together, running Hard Core Nutrition from 2009–2019. Brian passed away on June 30, 2017, and with his death, my world crumbled. He was the one person who truly understood my past, my pain, and my heart. His loss broke me open—but also showed me what it meant to love fully.

After Brian’s passing, Stephanie Poulillo, a friend and coworker, covered my spin class at Tilton Fitness. She passed just three years later, on June 27, 2020, at only 25. We shared a birthday. She loved the “Elvis” shake—peanut butter and banana—from our store. Losing her felt like losing another part of myself.

Family Losses That Cut Deep

I was fortunate to grow up knowing both of my great-grandparents, Chester and Mildred Yess, who lived in Elizabeth, NJ. Their presence in my early life provided a rare and meaningful connection to family history and tradition. Chester passed away on June 11, 1996, and Mildred followed on June 21, 1999. Losing them was profound, not only because of the bond we shared, but also because it marked the end of a generational link that shaped my understanding of love, resilience, and legacy.

• My father, Alberto Jorge Jaime, passed October 16, 2016. Born in Cuba, he took over with my mother running Shore Sunrise "The Ride" with our family from 2006 until his death.
• My grandmother, Lucrecia “Cuca” Jaime, passed May 15, 2017.
• My grandfather, Alberto J. Jaime, passed March 24, 2005.
• Floyd D. Jackson Jr., my grandfather, passed October 14, 2009, in Rahway.
• Joan Jackson, my grandmother, passed February 11, 2016.
• Leslie Armitage Nebel, Brian’s aunt, passed August 27, 2016.
• Walter “Walt” Nebel, her husband, passed February 7, 2012.

Clients, Friends, and the Community I Served

Loss extended into my work life—through Shore Sunrise "The Ride" limousine service, Hard Core Nutrition a supplement store, both of which I owned and operated—and every job I’ve held, I’ve built relationships with clients, coworkers, and community members who became like family. Many of them are gone too.

• Shawn Kessler, friend and Southern Regional alum, died September 8, 2011, at 37.
• His brother, Michael Kessler, lost to cancer July 15, 2022.
• Kaitlyn Wilson, a client and customer, passed August 8, 2013, at 21.
• Alex Hoffman, Barnegat police officer and customer, died October 2, 2019.

There are more—people not named here, but never forgotten.

Experiencing so many losses over the course of my life has led to what professionals call cumulative grief—the kind that builds with each loss, never fully resolving before the next one arrives. In some cases, grief can become overwhelming and persistent, evolving into what is now recognized as complicated grief or prolonged grief disorder. These forms of grief can affect your ability to function, heal, and find peace.

For those who want to understand more about these experiences:
🔗 Learn about Cumulative Grief
🔗 Learn about Complicated (Prolonged) Grief

PTSD: The Silent Companion

All of these experiences—the turbulence of childhood, the instability, the loss—built up inside of me until I could no longer hide it. PTSD doesn’t always come from a single event—it can come from living in a constant state of fear, loss, and uncertainty.

For years, I struggled not only with the weight of trauma but with being misunderstood—even misdiagnosed. It is one thing to suffer; it is another to have that suffering labeled in ways that miss the truth of your experience. The process of reclaiming my own story has been painful, but it has also been liberating. I now know the root of my trauma, and I’m fighting every day to heal it properly.

In a community that seemed “perfect,” I carried the invisible weight of trauma. I learned to survive. To smile. To keep going. But inside, I was fighting a battle no one could see.

To better understand what PTSD is, how it can manifest, and how healing is possible, you can read more here:
🔗 What Is PTSD? – Mayo Clinic

This Is My Truth

I carry every name.
Brian, Nicole, Lucas, David, Danyelle, Robin, Stephanie, Kaitlyn, Shawn, Michael, Alex, my family, my clients, my friends—all of them.

I have made it through.
And I am still fighting to live.

This post is for them, for me, and for anyone who has felt unseen in their grief or trauma.

You are not alone. I remember. I carry you. I am healing. And I will never stop telling this story.

For those navigating a lifetime of losses, this resource offers insight into the long-term impact of grief and how healing is possible.

Dedication

This post is dedicated to every soul I have lost—through family, friendship, business, and community.

You shaped my life. You are remembered. You are loved.

And to those still here, fighting invisible battles—this is proof that survival is possible.

I see you. I am with you. And I am still fighting too.

For a personal and heartfelt reflection on grief and healing, I invite you to read this article.

When Enough is Enough: Choosing Peace Over Emotional Chaos

There comes a point when you realize that someone else’s self-destruction isn’t yours to carry. You try. You offer support. You provide resources. You open the door to friendship, understanding, and genuine connection. And yet, some people refuse to listen—choosing to deflect, dismiss, or emotionally manipulate instead of taking responsibility for their own lives.

That’s when you have to make a choice: Do you keep pouring energy into someone who drains you, or do you step back and reclaim your peace?

Step One: Recognizing the Signs

Emotional exhaustion doesn’t happen overnight—it builds over time. Toxic people, whether they mean to or not, create cycles of dysfunction that pull others in. Toxic vampires feed on your emotions, draining your energy with their constant negativity, neediness, and inability to take responsibility. Emotional leeches latch onto your kindness, using guilt, manipulation, or victimhood to keep you engaged.

The cycle often looks something like this:

• They create chaos, then expect you to clean up the mess.
• They refuse to change but blame everyone else for their struggles.
• They push boundaries and make you feel guilty when you enforce them.
• They only reach out when they need something, disappearing when you need support.

Sound familiar? That’s not connection—that’s an emotional drain. If you’re struggling to recognize these patterns, this guide on emotional vampires offers deeper insight into protecting yourself.

Breaking the Cycle: Boundaries Aren’t the Problem

The biggest lie toxic people tell themselves is that everyone else is the issue. They repeat the same destructive behaviors, refuse to reflect, and wonder why they keep losing people. They’ll say things like:

• “People always give up on me.”
• “Everyone tells me the same thing.”
• “I guess I’m just too much for people to handle.”

Instead of recognizing that the common denominator is their own behavior, they push blame outward, making you feel like the problem.

But here’s the truth:

• If someone consistently drains you, it’s okay to walk away.
• If someone refuses to respect your boundaries, you don’t have to explain them again.
• If someone manipulates or dismisses your feelings, you don’t have to justify why you’re hurt.

Toxic people often rely on dark psychology—psychological tactics like manipulation, guilt-tripping, or gaslighting to keep you engaged in their toxic cycle. These tactics may be hard to spot at first, but understanding how they work is crucial for breaking free. If you want to dive deeper into how dark psychology operates, this article on Dark Psychology can help you recognize these patterns and gain insight into the mind of emotional manipulators.

You are not obligated to fix, heal, or tolerate someone who refuses to take accountability for themselves.

Choosing Peace: Walking Away Without Guilt

One of the hardest lessons in life is accepting that you can’t save people from themselves. You can support, encourage, and offer guidance—but if someone actively rejects change, that’s their choice, not your failure.

I found a lot of clarity in reflecting on my own experience with a past relationship, especially after reading something that resonated deeply with me. It was this article on Thought Catalog that explored the point at which someone realizes it’s time to leave. It wasn’t about a single event or betrayal; it was about the accumulation of emotional harm over time—the repeated gaslighting, manipulation, and the slow erosion of one’s sense of self.

As I read those words, something clicked. I realized that the decision to walk away wasn’t about proving a point or trying to change someone. It was about protecting my own peace and dignity.

There was a moment in my life when I read this article to someone and they repeatedly said, “I did all those things to you.” And for the first time, I truly understood the weight of those words—not as an excuse or justification, but as an undeniable truth that I no longer had to accept. The deeper I read, the more I understood: You cannot stay in a relationship where your worth is constantly under attack.

If you find yourself questioning when it’s time to let go, speak with a counselor, a trusted friend, and take time to reflect on your actions. This will lead you to the realization: It’s time to walk away.

When the moment comes where you have to choose between preserving their comfort or protecting your peace, remember this: You are allowed to choose yourself.

American Dream Mall: A Dream You Can Touch, A Reality You Can Question

Finally at American Dream Mall!

I remember when they first started talking about building what is now American Dream Mall. Back when I owned and drove for my limousine company, I would pass by the site regularly, watching as steel beams and scaffolding slowly attempted to shape an ambitious vision. The concept started in 1994 as Meadowlands Mills, later evolving into Meadowlands Xanadu when construction officially began in 2004. After years of financial setbacks, changes in ownership, and reinvention, the long-awaited project finally opened in October 2019 as American Dream—a place designed to merge entertainment, shopping, and adventure under one massive roof.

In many ways, I see my own journey reflected in this place. Just like the mall, I have gone through stages of transformation. Ideas that once seemed certain had to evolve, setbacks forced reinvention, and delays in my personal growth turned out to be necessary pauses for something greater to take shape. The person I am today is the result of years of rebuilding, restructuring, and redefining my own “American Dream.”

Stepping into Big Snow NJ, I found myself facing an experience I had put off since I was a kid. I was supposed to go skiing and tubing in 8th or 9th grade with Karen Sledge, but instead, we stayed at the hotel, enjoying the pool rather than taking on the slopes. Now, at 46, I finally embraced the moment. It was exhilarating, a reminder that it’s never too late to revisit old dreams or rewrite them entirely.

Later, at House of ‘Que, I was fortunate to have Shea as my waiter. Dining out with Celiac disease can be stressful, but Shea’s knowledge and attentiveness made all the difference. He ensured that my meal was safe and enjoyable, turning what could have been a challenge into a positive experience. It’s small gestures like these that leave lasting impressions. Not only was his service top-notch, but he even shared a unique piece of art with me—a recycled jewelry piece made from a soda can tab, crafted by an artist. It was a simple yet profound reminder that transformation is everywhere, even in the smallest things.

This visit to American Dream Mall wasn’t just about exploring a long-awaited destination. It was about recognizing how much I’ve changed and grown—how life, much like the mall, takes its own time to become what it’s meant to be. Sometimes, dreams take longer than expected, but that doesn’t mean they won’t happen. With patience, persistence, and the willingness to embrace new experiences, we can turn both make-believe and reality into something incredible.

Have you ever had a moment where life came full circle in an unexpected way? Drop your thoughts in the comments!