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Right into a personal apocalypse. Zombies included.

Karma. That’s the word. The bad kind—the kind that actually hurts. And honestly? I probably deserved it.

Even now, when I look back, I still can’t fully grasp how I went from living this picture-perfect life—personal and professional fulfillment, emotional stability, deep spiritual connection, surrounded by incredible people—to watching my entire reality collapse like a goddamn natural disaster.

That’s how it feels, sometimes, when you have a child with the worst human being you’ve ever met. Karma, yes. Because I ended a relationship with a man who, now with distance, I can clearly see was a solid 10 out of 10. Kind, generous, emotionally mature, tall, attractive, took care of himself, adored me—and above all, had a genuinely good heart.

And what did I do?

I convinced myself I needed “more.” That something was missing. That maybe he wasn’t enough. I made him feel inadequate, and I’ll probably carry that guilt for the rest of my life. For being stupid. For letting go of someone who could have been everything.

And then came… whatever this thing is. Let’s call him a “man” for legal purposes.

Immature, selfish, shallow, cruel, cheap, manipulative, dishonest—and worst of all: rotten to the core. A black hole in human form.

At some point, he started comparing himself to me.

Not in a casual, self-aware way, but in that slightly resentful tone that creeps in when someone knows deep down they’ll never measure up. He used to say we were alike—cut from the same cloth. That we were both charismatic, talented, full of potential. I think he believed it, or at least needed to.

Looking back, I can see what was really happening: he wasn’t comparing. He was aspiring.
Because I was everything he wished he could be, but never had the discipline, the courage, or the emotional depth to become.

I’m talented. I build things. I create. I take responsibility. I walk through fire and still show up whole. He, on the other hand, floats. He mimics. He manipulates. He borrows the language of self-growth without doing the work. He watches people like me and thinks that being around us makes some of it rub off.

It doesn’t.

And yet, he’d say things like, “We’re both strong,” or “You and I, we understand things other people don’t.” As if repeating that enough times would make it true. As if saying it out loud could mask the fact that we were living radically different versions of life—me in reality, him in performance.

The truth is, he wanted to be seen as my equal.
But I never needed to lie to be loved.
I never needed to disappear to feel powerful.
I never needed to abandon anyone to feel free.

So no, we were never the same.
He was just standing next to me, hoping no one would notice the difference.

But I wasn’t shocked, either.

Because the crowd he came from—the one I stumbled into like an idiot—was full of darkness. Drugs, shady people, and self-destructive lifestyles, all dressed up in pseudo-spiritual “I drink green juice too” Instagram filters. You know the type: men who say they’d love to be with a woman like you… Right before they start romanticizing a pickmisha who’s just excited to be chosen, unaware she’s starring in the same sad movie with a different costume.

We were from two different planets. On every level. But you know what they say:
When the devil can’t reach you, he sends someone who can.

And destroy you he did—effortlessly.
He didn’t even have to try. I did the self-destruction all by myself.

I’ve asked myself a thousand times how I let it go that far.
How I just “flowed,” and flowed, and flowed… until I flowed straight into the abyss.
Until I convinced myself to become a mother with someone who I already knew was going to be my downfall.

And of course, he didn’t come alone. He came with the full circus—his family included. A crowd of emotional abusers, bullies, manipulators, and enablers. Hienas in human skin, gathering around me while I was just a giraffe in postpartum survival mode, holding my newborn baby in a house full of fake smiles and sharp teeth.

If I could go back, I wouldn’t even have gotten on the plane that flew me into hell.

But here’s the thing: I’m a mother now.
And that changes how you speak. Because talking about this means talking about my son.
And my son is innocent. One hundred percent. He’s everything to me. And I am everything to him.

As you can imagine, his father is absent in every possible way.
By choice, of course. And yet, somehow, he still manages to play the victim from time to time—especially when there’s a new woman around. Poor thing, whoever she is. She probably thinks she found a misunderstood man, a sensitive soul. I’m sure he feeds her a lovely version of why he’s estranged from his child. Probably something like:

“She turned the kid against me.”
“She’s crazy.”
“She just wants my money.”

You know—the classics.

Let’s be honest. No woman with a working brain and a basic sense of dignity would stay with a man who’s abandoned his own child. But for guys like him, playing the victim is the only strategy left. Because taking responsibility would require… a soul.

And look, if he were surrounded by decent people—actual friends, grown adults with moral compasses—they’d hold him accountable. They’d tell him to step up.
But he’s not. He’s surrounded by trash. Which makes sense. He feels right at home.

This blog exists because I’m done pretending.
I’m going to talk about the things no one wants to talk about:
Emotional abuse. Psychological abuse. Legal abuse. Institutional gaslighting. Financial violence.

I’m going to talk about how these men spin the story until we—the mothers—become the unstable ones. The “bitter ex.” The “crazy one.”

Let me say this very clearly:
Hurting the mother of your child is hurting your child. Period.

In a halfway evolved society, that would be a criminal offense. But in countries with low emotional intelligence and even lower empathy, abuse is normalized.
They celebrate it, even. And when they can’t deny the damage, they just blame the woman. That’s how low we’ve set the bar.

Here’s what I believe:
No woman consciously chooses to have a child with a sociopath.
It happens.
And in my case? Maybe it really was karma. The kind of lesson that comes wrapped in blood and tears.

But if there’s one thing that came out of it—besides the beautiful child I now live for—it’s this:
I will never again underestimate a good man.
A man who shows up. A man who chooses love, not control. A man who would’ve made a wonderful father.

It wasn’t meant to be in this life.
But maybe I had to learn it the hardest way possible.

And if the man who was meant to be and wasn’t ever reads this…
I hope it warms your heart just a little.
Because like the old saying goes:
Where there’s no consciousness, there will always be consequence.

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She Is Flowing…