The Writings on the Wall

It's not a typo; the title is deliberate. People say, “The writing’s on the wall,” as a warning, a sign of what’s coming. This isn’t that.

On impulse, I booked a hotel room last weekend, thinking I was taking a sabbatical. I needed a break, maybe a reset, just a few days where I could breathe, all alone, to bask in silence.

But I just ended up alone with thoughts I couldn’t outrun. Thoughts about everything that’s been shifting in my life lately, changes I can feel pressing in, whether I’m ready or not.

So, I wrote. What follows is that collection of thoughts, so it’s not so much a neat essay, but what surfaced in that silence. The writings on the wall.  

Marcus Aurelius (the G.O.A.T.) said: To offend a strong man, tell him a lie. To offend a weak man, tell him the truth.

I’ve caught a lot of secondhand flak (because no one will say it to me directly, of course) for writing about dysfunction. Not because what I wrote wasn’t true, but simply because I wrote it in the first place.

Apparently, the real sin is documenting bad behavior, not committing it.
To that I say: FU. And I apologize for nothing.

I can’t fix dysfunction, but I can write about it. Subscribe and come along for the ride.

Writing is the only catharsis I’ve ever had (well, running too, but I’m currently sidelined with injuries - because of course I am). Some people meditate. Some drink. Others ride motorcycles. I write.

I write about my lived experiences, period. If that bothers you, maybe it’s because honest words leave impressions you can’t erase.

And yes, God knows I’m not perfect either. I think back on the stupid things I did 10, 15+ years ago -  hell, even 10 minutes ago, and I cringe.

Trust me, it’s gonna make great fodder for future stories. Maybe you’ll laugh at my awkwardness and feel a little better about your own.

The difference is, my mistakes never put someone in danger, broke laws, or left collateral damage for others to handle. They were mine to own up to, and I have.

What people don’t see (but love to speculate about) is that dysfunction isn’t just bruised egos and petty grudges. It leaves damage, the kind you can't always see but can definitely always feel.

But I’m not here to rehash that mess—it’s already been said to death. Part of moving forward is working through it.

But I’ll still say this much: I don’t regret a single word. If anything, I regret not writing more.

The truth is that I don’t just write because I’m pissed off or feeling a certain kind of way. I also write when I’m sad. When I remember what family used to feel like.

Holidays at my grandparents’ house weren’t fancy, but God, how we looked forward to them. We looked forward to being together, playing games, eating great food, being silly, and being loud (until we kids got in trouble, that is).

Then my grandparents died, and so did that version of family.

When I married my husband, I thought maybe I’d found it again. He had this sprawling family I couldn’t wait to be a part of. I wanted to learn their stories, celebrate milestones, and create memories. And with some of them, I did from the start.

But over time, others already distant peeled away one by one. Bias and immaturity. Arrogance. Perceived slights and stale grudges.

That “big happy family” I’d envisioned dissolved. Then I realized it never really existed outside my own wishful thinking.

So, why was I sad and tearfully reminiscing about families, you might ask? Well.

I sat alone in that damn hotel room and stumbled upon a rerun of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I’ve seen it a hundred times (the sequels…not so much).

I didn’t expect to cry, but I did. Chalk it up to exhaustion, anxiety, frayed nerves, whatever, but my senses were already dialed up to 11.

There I was, watching two people so in love that nothing could come between them. Hearing him tell her he “came alive” when they met made me cry.

Watching him prove, over and over, that she was always worth choosing. That made me cry.

Watching that big, loud, affectionate family celebrate together. That made me cry, too.  

Watching mothers and daughters have a poignant, generational moment the day before the wedding.
When I married my own true love, we dashed off by ourselves to escape the family drama our relationship had created.

While I have never regretted that choice, remembering I’d never get that sort of moment made me cry.

Because in the end, after all the battles and fractures, it feels like such a goddamn waste of life to spend years fighting your own bloodline.

All I’ve ever wanted - what most people want - was just a space where everyone was welcome, and stayed, even when it got hard.

If these words resonated with you, consider dropping a Ko-fi. It’s cheaper than therapy and keeps me productive instead of doom-scrolling.

I didn’t always use to trust my intuition, but time and experience taught me that when it is literally yelling at me, it has been right every time. And right now, it’s telling me big changes are coming.

And maybe that’s why it has hit such a nerve with me lately: I can sense everything changing in ways I can’t fully explain yet.

I’ve written before about how families fracture while pretending everything’s fine. I’ve never been interested in living that way, though. Give me the hard truth over a comfortable lie anytime. I can take it.

And maybe that’s why I’ve always held to a line to so many people get wrong: the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

People often misquote it as “blood is thicker than water” and think it means 'family first', but it’s actually quite the opposite. It means the bonds you choose can be stronger than the ones you’re born into.

And if your own family is too tangled in dysfunction, you can still build one out of friends, mentors, partners, and the people who actually show up when it matters.

But sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants, and it doesn’t always follow logic or reason. It still longs for the bloodline, even when the bloodline has failed.

That…ache…never fully disappears. It lingers, in me and in anyone still reaching for what’s theirs, no matter the cost, simply because it’s theirs.

I keep looking for the reason behind it all, but maybe some things just don’t have one. Maybe they just are, and the only way through is to feel them, not fix them.

Sometimes that ache cuts closer to home, where everyone may be hurting in different ways, each believing they’re doing the right thing. And in that tension, love and conflict twist together until you can’t always tell them apart

I understand the instinct to protect; it runs deep and comes from love. I also know what it feels like to reach a breaking point. To care deeply for someone and still recognize they crave something beyond what you have always freely given.

To wrestle with the guilt of wanting resolution, even when no outcome feels like a true win.

I’ve learned the hard way that you can exhaust yourself digging for logic in places it doesn’t exist. Sometimes the heart refuses to make sense, so all you can do is just accept it.

And it’s so easy for bystanders to say I chose this path, that I agreed to it, that I should accept the bed I made. Maybe that’s true.

But even chosen battles can break you down in ways you couldn’t predict.

What I hope, more than anything, is that as we move forward, we remember we don’t have to keep fighting the same battle to prove our love or our strength.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is lay the weapons down together and choose peace.

I wish being a writer made this easier. But my brain runs so hot with raw data—reports, arguments, emotions, endless scenarios—that I can’t even sort it into coherent thoughts some days, much less complete sentences.

But what I do know is this: I want what’s best for everyone involved. That will mean changes, and it may mean goodbyes.
It will definitely mean learning to let go of things I’ve held onto far too long.

That’s what keeps me up at night: knowing what needs to happen, but not knowing if I can survive the process. The scars are real, and change demands a cost not everyone is ready to pay.

The best I can do is to walk beside it, stand where I can, and fight to restore myself in the process. I can’t disappear in this, not completely.

Not everything can be explained or solved. Some of it just has to be accepted, even when it makes no sense on paper.

All I know is I can’t keep drawing from a well that’s running dry. Somehow, there has to be a way to honor the pain and still choose my own healing.

At the end of the day, I will always speak the truth and stand by my words, even if sometimes they’re opinionated, crass, or sometimes petty.

I’m only human, after all.

But what matters most of all is what we choose to do next. We’re well past fretting over what’s been said and done already.

I pray for peace, healing, and strength, but not for an easy life. As weird as that sounds, easy has never given me the gifts that struggles have.

After all, we are the sum total of our experiences. Mine is proof that survival leaves behind stories worth sharing.

I don’t know yet what these changes will look like, only that they’re already here, reshaping everything. The writing on the wall is something I’m already living, not just seeing.

The hardest part is holding both truths at once: that chosen family can be stronger than blood, yet the heart still aches for the ties it was born to.

Even when those ties are frayed, even when they’ve never been what we needed them to be, the longing remains.

But maybe change isn’t just loss; maybe, just maybe, it can be the chance for peace where there’s always been conflict, healing where there’s been hurt.

Maybe even celebration where there’s only ever been skepticism.

I don’t know yet if that’s what waits on the other side, but, for the first time in a long time…I’m daring to believe it could.

That’s the reality of this season, the change coming whether I’m ready or not. And all I can do now is face it all and keep carving my own truth into the wall before it’s all written out for me.

And to anyone who thinks I'll stop now? FU. I won't.

Don’t stop here. There’s more where this came from.

Recommended Reads

The Silence Was a Choice – On the cost of speaking up, and why truth-telling is always worth it (even when it hurts).

Beautiful Lies – How daydreams became survival tactics, and eventually, blueprints for reinvention.

Movies: Escape or Compass? – What films teach us about who we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re heading next.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing unapologetic stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in over 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.