✨ The Glitter Bow

There comes a moment — quiet, not dramatic
where a woman doesn’t snap.
She simply remembers.

She remembers the child who thought kindness could fix anything.
She remembers the woman who learned it could be her undoing.
She remembers that the ones she trusted to love her
were the same ones laughing at her pain.

She remembers how easily she forgave —
even when they were never sorry.

She remembers all the times she kept the peace
while the only thing breaking was herself.

And word by word,
memory by memory,
she begins to unfold.

She remembers that truth isn’t loud
it ends the noise.

So she wraps up the past in a rhinestone-studded folder that says:

“Here’s every time I made myself small so you could feel big.
You can return them, along with my time and energy.
And don’t forget your complimentary go-fuck-yourself bow on the way out.”

I haven’t just been quiet.
I’ve been archiving
storing every slight, every injustice,
every WTF-did-I-just-live-through moment.

Like a walking vault of unspoken truth
wrapped in good manners.

Let’s be really clear:
I didn’t survive all of this to be polite.
I didn’t carry receipts just to file them in silence.
And I sure as hell didn’t walk through fire just to whisper.

The Glitter Bow?
That’s just the beginning.

Christina Swearingen

Art & Words © Christina Swearingen | That’s What She Said Series
officialthatswhatshesaid.com

When The Lights Went Out…

I didn’t know I was center stage until the curtain fell.
I didn’t know it was a performance until the audience vanished.

The first time I realized everything was going to change was when I stood in the wreckage of my own life, surrounded by people who loved the story but never checked on the one who lived it.

They came for the tragedy. They whispered about the weight I was carrying but never offered to lift it. They wanted me to mourn like it was a scene to be remembered. And when the services ended, they returned to their homes… while I returned to an empty one.

I was thirty years old with two young boys. One of them asking every few minutes, “Where’s my daddy?” And all I had to give him was: Daddy died.

Diapers. Grief. Silence. Sadness. That was my stage.

That’s when it shifted. When I stopped expecting the crowd to stay. When I realized most people come to see if you’ll fall apart, but not to hold you if you do.

There are years behind these words. The exhaustion of constantly being watched, while no one truly saw me. The impossible tightrope walk between modest enough, mother enough, faithful enough… and somehow always too much. Too present. Too blonde. Too quiet. Too visible. Too unhealed to be holy, but too strong to break.

I carried both pain and purpose, and I showed up anyway. I never fit their category, their definition of what it might look like to experience things they’ve never held. I am the ONLY unmarried person in my family.. the ONLY single mother and the ONLY one who has ever suffered ALONE.

I’ve stayed quiet to protect people, not to protect myself. There’s a lot I’ve never said. Not because it didn’t matter, but because it did. I’ve held things that weren’t mine and buried truths to protect people I loved. Even after they were gone. I never wanted to climb a social ladder using secrets as rungs.

But silence can be misunderstood and sometimes your grace becomes their greenlight to rewrite your life as something unrecognizable. I never asked to be the center of anyones story. I just wanted to live one of my own. But when lies get louder than the truth and the rumors tried to rewrite my character I realized something. Keeping my silence was out of respect but I don’t owe anyone my voice. I’m done pretending that things didn’t happen.

There’s a saying people love to throw around. “You choose your hard.” Maybe? But let me tell you what I didn’t choose. I didn’t choose to become a widowed mother. TWICE. I didn’t choose the betrayal or the lies from the only father figure my children knew. I didn’t choose to give him everything I had for him to leave us penniless and still trying to feed children he said he loved. I didn’t choose to be manipulated. I didn’t choose for everyone to judge me based on lies. I didn’t choose to go through this alone. Especially when I gave so much.

But I did.. and I am. Not for pity. Not for applause. But because there’s someone out there who needs to hear the realest version of this story. Not the pretty blog, not the pinterest perfect aesthetic, but the grit and truth of what it takes to keep going when the world keeps handing you more than anyone should have to carry. So if you’re looking for 5 easy steps to build your brand or fix your life.. this probably isn’t the place. But if you’re here because you survived things you didn’t talk about, because you gave more than you ever got or you’re rebuilding from scratch and noone ever clapped for you.. then pull up a seat. Because I’m going to talk about it. All of it.

I didn’t choose my HARD (that’s what she said)lol.. But I made decisions based on the choices that I had at the time... Quietly, while everyone judged.. And sometimes I have to believe that I wasn’t meant to break, I was meant to become unshakeable.. unfuckwithable.. But I also have to believe that I was meant to shine the light on those people that were pretending to be holy instead of whole.. The only thing they were full of .. was holy shit..

Love isn’t measured in the spotlight… It’s measured in who stays when the lights go out.

AND that is something rarer than most realize.

C. Swearingen

Betrayal Trauma: Stabbed With a Smile

Betrayal trauma isn’t just a broken heart.
It’s not some ridiculous Dr.’s note to get you out of responsibilities.
It’s more hard core than the porn your mom made that produced you… (jk, stay with me lol).

It’s being stabbed with a smile.
Like the person holding the knife studied you first,
figured out where it would hurt the most
and twisted it.

It’s like someone broke into your world,
used your trust as the key,
and took everything you built…
everything you were building…
everything you were becoming.

It’s like being awake in a nightmare,
watching it all fall apart,
too stunned to scream.

Mourning a life that should’ve been.
A person that never existed.
A love that lied the whole time.

It’s the numbness that burns,
and the silence that’s loud.

It’s a kind of pain that doesn’t just break you
it rewrites you.
Quietly. Permanently.

There are no words for it,
because it was never just one thing.
It was everything.

It all shattered slowly,
one quiet betrayal at a time.

You wake up one day and realize
the person you loved didn’t just lie to you
they built their comfort on your collapse.

They watched you pour everything
into a life they never planned to keep.

It’s not “he hurt me.”
It’s “he knew.”

It wasn’t an accident.
It was cold. Calculated. Evil.
And they enjoyed it.

They conspired.
Coordinated.
Gossiped.
Laughed.

They rejoiced in your suffering.

Intentionally.
Maliciously.
Methodically.
Executed.

You were never let in on the truth
until the timing was right
for maximum damage and maximum satisfaction.

All while they smiled to your face.
Professed to love you.
Made future plans…
as they bled you dry.

You never had a chance to defend yourself.
They smeared your name
before you could even open your mouth.

Knowingly misrepresented who you are.
Tried to ruin the very foundation of your being
your existence,
your livelihood.

The moment they realized you might speak truth,
they rewrote the story.

First quietly, strategically.
Planting seeds in the minds of people you trusted.

Plotting.
Planning.
Twisting your words.
Resulting to reactive abuse
so later, when you did finally speak,
you’d look like the villain in their script.

The silence that follows feels like it will break you.
You watch yourself function on the outside
while breaking into microscopic pieces underneath.

Your body keeps moving because it has to.
While your soul lays facedown in the wreckage.

You tuck it in.
Tidy up your truth.
Smile with a mouth that tastes like betrayal.
And carry on like a soldier who never enlisted.

Holding a thousand puzzle pieces
from someone else’s game
and they’re all blank.

The human body was never designed
to carry this level of cognitive dissonance.

There’s no closure.
No apology.
Just silence.

Silence from trusting someone too deeply.

He said I love you with a handful of knives.
He didn’t just walk away
he walked away with my tenderness in his back pocket.

My silence, twisted into a weapon he could use later.
My story, still bleeding out,
while he pretended nothing happened.

He didn’t lose me.
He threw me away.

Then threw himself a party with my money,
my things,
my life,
and the lies he told to justify it.

I’m not broken.

I was blindsided.
Betrayed.

But I’m still breathing.

I didn’t just survive him.
I’m becoming undeniable.

This time, he lit a fire he can’t outrun.
With his own words.
His own actions.
His own decisions.
His own hell.

Constantly looking over his shoulder,
scrambling to cover the last lie with the next lie.
Wondering when I’m finally going to reveal it all.

And I am revealing it all.

Because I kept the receipts.
Not because I wanted a way back.
Not to destroy him
he did that to himself.

But because he’s a goddamn idiot.
And it genuinely pleases me
to expose that level of dumbassery.

And more importantly,
to bring awareness and love
to anyone else going through this.

Every gender.
Every culture.
Every generation.

You are not alone.

It will get better.

And if your only satisfaction right now
is picturing yourself sticking your pinky finger
down their peehole
your pinky finger of justice, if you will

just know this:

You’re not alone.
Much love. 🔥✨

-Christina

The Message Never Changed…Not Really

Across every culture, every timeline, every ancient book, every whispered prayer
it’s always been the same:

Live with truth.
Love without agenda.
Choose humility over glitter.
Protect the sacred.
Walk away from the illusions of power, greed, and ego.

But the world? Every era.
Every empire.
Every generation…

Keeps building shiny new distractions.
Keeps calling glitter gold.
Keeps selling lies dressed as salvation.

And because glitter is easy- just like your mom (jk, just making sure you’re still here)
and truth is heavy
the masses keep falling for it.

Over and over.
Century after century.

Anyone who questions it are labeled crazy for seeing too clearly,
Dangerous for refusing to bow…
Difficult for not going along with the charade…
Unstable for choosing heart over hype.

Because they can’t buy you, control you, seduce you, or shame you…
they’ll try to erase you.

Not because you’re wrong.

But because you make their carefully constructed lies tremble.

WTF DID SHE JUST SAY?!!

The Taint Files
Taint nothing but the truth, honey.

The first time I ever heard the word “taint,” I was 19 years old.
Some guy at work cracked a joke, and everyone around me burst into laughter, except me. I didn’t get it.
So I asked.

And I’ll never forget the moment this sweet little old lady leaned over and whispered in my ear:

“Honey… it taint your ass, and it taint your kitty.”

Well.
I guess that sums it up pretty damn nicely.
And apparently… it lives in my brain rent-free now.

So here I am, years later, spiraling into a full-blown metaphorical breakdown of what it means to be tainted.

Because some people?
They really are just… tainted.

Not good.
Not bad.
Just a dark patch between two portals of purpose.

Full of nerve endings.
But no direction.

Taint doing good.
Taint doing bad.
They just taint.

Floating in a weird little void between meaning and mediocrity and calling it growth.

It’s always the ones who taint shit that pretend that they are.
Telling shallow lies to make each other feel safe in their stuckness.

✨ Welcome to the wormhole. ✨

- Christina

WE’RE NOT THE SAME

There’s something you never counted on...
And that’s okay because some people can’t count.

You thought if you lied long enough, manipulated hard enough, and changed the narrative fast enough, the truth would lose its footing.
But here’s the thing:
I never needed to make up a story.
YOU wrote it for me.
And now? I’m just here to read it out loud.

You were taught to conquer.
I was taught to care.
You learned to manipulate.
I learned to protect.

I was raised to value people,
you were raised to value things.
So no…
you and I?
We were never the same.

You said you hated liars, thieves, cheaters, and gossipers.
What you really meant was that you hate when people do those things to you,
because that is EXACTLY who you have become.

You warned me about snakes in the grass, psychos, pathological liars, and manipulators…
Not knowing you were giving me your own biography.

I’m not here to throw dirt.
I’m here to grow the tree you tried to chop down when you thought no one was watching.

Your shame isn’t mine to carry.
Your burdens aren’t mine to hold.
Your mistakes aren’t mine to correct.
Your lies, your choices are your consequences… not mine.

I live my life based on truth.
You live your life based on a fictional story where you’re consistently the hero.

It’s crazy to me that you handed me a narrative so warped and twisted that it was undeniably yours.
I never needed to lie or exaggerate.
The facts alone are so outrageous that no amount of seasoning could make those lies easy to swallow.

I used my voice to speak your lies.
You’re an exceptional storyteller
but not in a way that brings you honor.

My restraint was never weakness.
It was mercy.
And even that has a limit.