LET THE STORY RISE

She wore the stars they gave her—until she remembered they were never hers to keep.

Some truths don’t break you.

They meet you—right where you’ve been hiding from yourself.

This wasn’t just a quote.

It was a mirror.

“Not just the moment love failed you, but the moment you stopped failing yourself.”—Saira Anwar

Everything in me went still.

Not shattered. Not healed.

Just quiet enough to feel what I’d buried beneath survival.

The stories we carry…

They don’t always scream.

Sometimes they whisper.

Until one day—they rise.

This is one of mine.

And maybe, in some way, it’s one of yours too.

A Day That Changed Everything

There’s a moment when everything stops—

the noise,

the chaos,

the roles we’ve played so well—

and suddenly, you’re face-to-face with what’s real.

That quote found me on a day I now call the unraveling.

It didn’t bring clarity. It brought truth.

Not the kind softened by timing or insight—

the kind that strips away the illusion of control

and reflects everything you’ve tried to ignore.

When the Body Speaks

Sometimes healing doesn’t roar in.

It arrives like light through a crack—

tender, quiet, barely there.

Then life answered.

Not with ease—but with truth I could no longer ignore.

The diagnosis: Squamous cell carcinoma.

A serious form of skin cancer.

On my lips.

The place tied to my voice.

My truth

My expression.

It felt poetic—in the most painful way.

I underwent Mohs surgery—over 20 times—

layer by layer, until half of my bottom lip was gone.

Raw.

Stitched.

Altered—forever.

But what hurt more wasn’t the surgery—

it was what it symbolized:

The words I never said.

The needs I swallowed.

The truths I buried for the sake of peace.

My body had been whispering for years.

That day—it screamed.

And in that moment, I couldn’t help but think of my mother.

I watched her do the same—suppress emotion, swallow pain, carry the weight of everything unspoken.

For so long, I didn’t understand it.

Or maybe, I saw it and just didn’t know how to name it.

Not until her diagnosis: intrahepatic cholangiocarcinoma, a rare and aggressive cancer of the bile ducts.

It was as if all that silence—all those buried truths—had finally taken shape inside her body.

The Promise I Made in the Dark

And I asked:

How did I get here?

I protected my skin. I did everything “right.”

And yet… it still found me.

Deep down, I already knew.

Not in words—but in the way something inside me had been bracing for years.

Maybe this is what happens when you silence yourself long enough—

your body finds a way to speak.

And in that moment, I made a promise.

Not out loud. Just within.

A vow, whispered in the dark:

➤ To stop shrinking for comfort.

➤ To stop reaching for what won’t reach back.

➤ To stop abandoning myself just to be chosen.

Because love without truth isn’t love.

And I’m done disappearing to feel worthy.

That decision didn’t arrive loud or proud.

It crept in—quietly, painfully, over time.

It was slow. It was sacred.

Because love without truth isn’t love.

And I’m done disappearing to feel worthy.

That decision didn’t arrive loud or proud.

It crept in—quietly, painfully, over time.

It was slow. It was sacred. It was mine.

Truth Doesn’t Always Roar

Truth doesn’t always roar.

Sometimes it finds us in the rupture—

in the reflection—

in the quiet, terrifying act of choosing ourselves.

But what does that really mean?

To choose yourself?

Even before the cancer, that question lived in me—

a quiet ache I couldn’t name.

Like something was missing.

Like I was missing.

When Everything Begins to Break

Then came the deeper unraveling—

My marriage fracturing in slow, quiet ways.

My son’s addiction.

My own diagnosis.

The slow collapse of everything I thought was holding me.

But beneath the heartbreak, there was something else—

a restless knowing I couldn’t shake.

Like something deep within me had been trying to get my attention for a long time.

I didn’t know how to explain it. just knew I was here for something more.

And maybe, this was how it would finally speak.

Finding Voice—And Purpose

So I turned to Johnny, who was in the early stretch of his recovery.

I knew he’d understand.

We were both holding things we could no longer carry in silence.

That’s when I started RegiDuke.

Not just a platform—a lifeline.

A way to give shape to all I had carried.

I reminded my son of the power in our stories.

Not to fix.

But to remember we weren’t alone.

Two different battles.

The same silent war.

And we were no longer pretending it hadn’t shaped us.

It was time to bring the darkness into the light.

It was time to heal.

The Question That Changed Everything

That question grew louder this past year—

through grief, betrayal, and the silence of people I thought would stay.

And somewhere in that ache, something deeper came into focus:

I began to understand just how much unspoken pain the body holds.

I saw it in my mother.

She endured more than she ever revealed.

Held so much in. Silenced so much of herself.

And in the end, that silence—those buried truths—took a toll so deep, it killed her.

That terrifies me.

Because I’ve felt that same ache building inside me—

and I’ve feared I might follow the same path.

I’ve said this out loud. To my husband.

To my children.

To friends and family.

I didn’t want to end up like my mother.

Not because I don’t love her deeply—

but because I know what it cost her to hold so much in,

to survive without being fully seen.

I’ve tried to explain the importance of truth.

Of expression.

Of feeling what we carry, instead of burying it.

But the heartbreaking reality is—

even when you speak your truth, not everyone hears it.

Some turn away.

Some shrink from what’s too real.

Some simply... don’t listen.

And that kind of silence?

it bruises deeper than words ever could.

Still—

this is why I keep writing.

Why I keep reaching.

Not for attention.

But for breath.

For the kind of exhale only truth can offer.

Because I’ve lived what it means to stay quiet.

I’ve seen what it costs to carry what was never meant to be buried.

And I won’t do it anymore.

I can’t.

There comes a moment—soft and shattering—when you realize:

not everyone who held you was actually holding you.

But even that truth… led me here.

To this page.

To this breath.

To this self I’m learning to claim.

What Choosing Yourself Really Means

Getting here didn’t mean I had it all figured out.

It just meant I was finally ready to tell the truth—

first to myself, then to the world around me.

That truth keeps evolving.

Sometimes, choosing myself means letting go of the need to be understood.

Sometimes, it’s naming a boundary I once feared would make me unlovable.

Sometimes, it’s simply getting still enough to hear what I truly need.

For me, it began with this question:

If I stopped abandoning myself—what would that even look like?

That question didn’t give me answers.

It gave me something better:

Permission to begin again.

Not with survival.

But with truth.

The Real Shift

But a beginning like that isn’t a finish line.

It’s the start of a thousand tiny reckonings—

moments where the old ache still reaches for something familiar.

And even with all that awareness—

I still found myself reaching.

Not because I hadn’t healed.

But because part of me still longed to be chosen.

I told myself I’d stopped chasing love

And maybe I had.

But I still reached—quietly—

hoping this time, it would be different.

That ache doesn’t vanish just because you name it.

But something shifts when you stop running from it—

and meet yourself there instead.

Let the Story Rise

This is why I write.

Because words—when spoken, written, or simply felt—

have the power to bring us back to life.

They are mirrors.

They are medicine.

Sometimes the most sacred reclamation happens in the softest spaces—

in breath,

in ink,

in being witnessed.

Or in stumbling across a story that reminds you:

You don’t have to suffer to be worthy. You don’t have to disappear to be loved.

That’s the shift I trust now.

I’ve stopped begging for love I had to chase.

I’ve started choosing the kind that begins within.

Now—I speak what hurts before I swallow it.

I rest when I would’ve pushed through.

I write the way I used to dream of speaking—freely, fiercely, mine.

I wear my scars without shame.

I use my voice without apology.

And for the first time—I’m no longer disappearing.

I am here.

Fully.

Finally.

Me.

With love,

~ Regina <3

You don’t have to roar.

You don’t have to rush.

Let it rise slowly.

Like breath returning.

Like truth finding its way back home.

To you.

In you.

Now.

Let the story rise.