For those who are looking, I love you.
The Truth About Why I Stayed Silent — What I’m Finally Ready to Share
I don’t even know how to write what I want to write. It’s scary to think that one person can feel one way and someone else can feel completely different. Sometimes it holds me back from sharing because the fear of being misunderstood hurts more than my ability to hide my pain. It’s hard.
All I’ve ever wanted was to feel seen. But as I’ve grown older, I realize that my need to be heard was so loud because I was asking for love—the kind I didn’t have for myself and didn’t grow up with. It’s tough being an adult, a mom, a wife, and still feeling like I’m nothing but human, learning how to love.
I carry so many responsibilities, and I’m still carrying bags I didn’t pack. I’m trying to heal myself, to break generational trauma, and to figure out what the right thing is. One of the biggest things I’ve realized is that I used to take people’s love and value as security. If I just loved you the way you wanted, maybe I could stay comfortable forever. Maybe I could just be loved, safe, and content. No more asking. No more doubting.
But this is the only thing I know how to do. To keep quiet. To please. To mask. No one wanted to listen in my personal life except my fiancé, but he’s not the one I’m trying to heal from. I’ve shared my truth with people who asked for it, and suddenly it was too much. I was too much.
Why couldn’t I just do what I was told? Would I get your love then? No. Would you try to understand me? Would you make sure I had a soft place to land when I cried? No.
If this is what I’ve been subjected to, even from people who were supposed to care, then will I ever really be heard?
This is the form I’ve decided to write on because I can’t always speak. For those who know me, and those who don’t, I have a stuttering problem. It started when I was young and got worse over time. I always blamed myself because it’s happening to me. But things also happened to me. Things I’ve never talked about. And I guess I just stopped talking because of the insecurity.
But it’s hard to keep it all in when I feel myself being surrounded by lies. It feels like I’m being suppressed to forget instead of being asked what happened to me. Not by just anyone’s opinion but by the very people I’ve been longing would help me.
Whenever I ask spirit what to do, the answer is always the same. Create. And that’s what I’ve been doing these past five years. I’ve been pouring my energy into things that matter, but it’s also made this feeling inside me get quieter. My happiness has slowly dulled because I can feel the people from my past—the friends and family—talking differently about me. Just because I don’t confront it doesn’t mean I don’t care.
I care too much. It’s hurting me. But I don’t want to keep telling you how it feels because no one changes, and that’s okay. I don’t expect you to.
I’m learning. This is part of it. I need to tell my story. Maybe I’ll share it in small pieces because it’s too much to unpack all at once. But this is me trying.
The Cost of Being Real
You might see me some days shining brighter than you’ve ever seen before, and other days not quite so bright—but that doesn’t mean I’m not okay. I feel people’s judgments and stares, even in places I’ve never been before. I show up as myself. When things are going well, you might see the best version of me. When they’re not, I might look or feel like the worst version—at least to myself. I’m simply working through my own process, putting my energy into healing so I can be even brighter the next day.
I know people often ask out of genuine concern. Are you tired? How are things going today? What’s the problem? I get it. But if I answer you, will you twist my truth into a version that fits your own story about me?
When people ask why I started Zealunity, I can feel their confusion, and it bothers me. What’s so hard to understand? I went through something negative, and I wanted to create what a positive space could look like—something I needed in that timeline of my life. It feels like people want me to say I had some weird dream and plotted it out.
Even when I share my small talk, my surface-level story, no one asks any deeper questions. Maybe it’s because they don’t want to pry, but the expressions on their faces don’t show empathy. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Still confusion.
What are you looking for? Can I answer anything more? Or will that make you face who you think I am—or maybe who you actually are based on the questions you ask? I don’t mind answering your questions. It’s okay to be honest with me. But when my answer doesn’t match what you already believe, are you willing to let that go?
It’s been hard having people around who don’t fully trust me, but honestly, I can’t blame them. You don’t really know me. That’s why, for those who are looking or wanting to connect, I want to be a space you can come to.
To be real and straightforward, I feel the simplest place to start is at the very beginning. I’m not sure how long this will take or what will come from it, but I’m going to try to start there. This is for myself, my kids, my friends, and maybe for anyone who has questions they don’t feel comfortable asking me directly. I hope this can be a place where you can understand how I think and see my perspective on my story. Little bits…
The Beginning of Me: Trauma, Trucks, and Tough Love
I was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, on August 10th, 2001, around 7:30 in the morning. My mom has told me the birth was pretty traumatic. From what I understand, I wasn’t coming out easily. She wanted a natural birth but was open to help. I guess I got stuck—TMI, I know. Then this guy came into the room without warning and told my mom he was going to use some kind of tool to pull me out. I don’t know all the details, but my grandma on my mom’s side and my dad said everyone was pretty upset about how it went down. I never got much more info than that.
I’ve tried to keep this simple because I don’t really know if all the facts I have are true or if some of it is just feelings and memories mixing together. I’ve got a lot of side stories and questions swirling around, but I’m trying not to internalize everything too much.
Mothers are incredibly strong. I don’t mean to minimize that rough experience, but it just shows how life happens sometimes, you know? Anyways.
I grew up surrounded by motorbikes, snowmobiles, 4x4s, tractors—you name it. My grandparents on my dad’s side still own a place with like 50 acres, plus another property with a house, barn, and all kinds of “toys.” The other land is for tree planting. It was a special place to grow up—safe but loud, full of real, messy, beautiful farm life. There’s something about that kind of childhood that sticks with you.
After my parents’ divorce and separation, I’d spend lots of time at my grandparents’ place. It became the place I would stay and a constant refuge throughout my childhood, especially during the hard times. It was also the meeting place for my mom and dad to talk before the “exchange”, and every time they met there, it felt like a ritual or some kind of cult space—like they were stuck in a loop I didn’t belong in.
I don’t remember much about my mom and dad’s house because we moved when I was three. We had to leave after my mom found out my dad was struggling with an addiction. She didn’t know before, she always told me it was new information for her too.
Later on, my dad would bring up strange things without me asking—making these offhand, half jokes about “pain relief” he’d made for my mom. Even as a kid, that felt wrong. I never wanted to ask for more because it didn’t feel safe. As I got older, I realised he struggled to control his emotions, and somehow I became the person who either had to validate his manic moods or bounce back better energy. So that’s what I did. No questions asked, just smiles.
Why Growing Up Felt Like Gaslighting Myself for Years
As I grew up, I think I started to get used to this strange mix of energy around me. It became easy to see others’ actions that I didn’t like as something unrelated to what was really happening inside me. Let’s just say that. I wanted to see love, respect, care, and safety. Honestly, I gaslit myself pretty hard from about age eight to sixteen. But that’s also where my healing began and where I’m learning to be kinder to myself. I was a kid—I didn’t know any better.
I feel like as I go further on this journey, because this feels good, I’ll have more details to share and be able to talk about it more clearly. Sometimes the things I’m working through are what I use to create something beautiful. It’s funny how focusing on the opposite of the negative helps me stop dwelling on it. So yeah, I’ll try to think about it more, but right now it’s hard.
Naturally, what comes to mind is when things really shifted. It all changed when my mom married my stepdad. My dad’s behaviour became harder and harder to understand. My mom started putting me in the middle, making me choose between them. I remember on Father’s Day, if I bought a “bigger” gift for my dad, my mom would pull me aside and tell me how much my stepdad would really appreciate it. That confused me.
At the same time, I knew my stepdad was using my mom to fulfill his own needs for gratitude, and that hurt. He would often look at other women and smile bigger at strangers he’d never met than he ever did at me or our family. It always felt like the life he wanted was just a couple steps away—but he was stuck with us. The life he had was a bit better than where he came from, but still far from what he dreamed of.
It wasn’t just the looks—it was physical and emotional too.
The Wild Nights That Changed Everything — Why I Had to Run to Find Myself
Why would I care? Because I had to do everything my heart was telling me — even when it felt like chaos. Imagine being 15, sneaking out in the middle of a farming field, no friends, no money, just figuring it out alone.. crying. Those wild nights led to some deep self-reflection. I kept asking myself, Taylor, you’re hurting. You say you don’t care, but why? Why does this feel so good? Don’t you want freedom? Don’t you want to be safe?
That’s what pushed me to move out halfway through grade 12. No money. No plan. And honestly? No feelings at all. Just pure, stubborn trust in myself and a fierce need to stand up for who I was becoming. I could feel my mom waiting for me to fall apart—like she was just waiting for me to crumble under all this pressure. And that hurt, because… what the hell, Mom? Your life choices put me in this position in the first place. Every time I ran to you about something—emotional or physical—you’d tell me he was working on himself or that I probably did something to deserve it. Even when you didn’t say it outright, the way you’d look at me or ask, “What did you do?” made it clear you thought I was the problem. Like, Mom, this man, regardless of who he is to us, just did something that made me feel so uncomfortable, and I told him to stop, but nothing changed. Instead of seeing the problem, you turned it on me. I guess I learned that if anyone had a problem, it was because I was telling the truth—but they weren’t ready to hear it. I don’t get saved. So nah, get outta my face. I was doing me, and you do you.
Once again, I was the one creating distance—“She’s going through something,” they said. The only thing I was going through were the booby traps set up by our family. Honestly, can you tell there’s a lot to unpack here? Haha, yeah, that’s an understatement.
But this was also when I found my first real connection with God. It’s not about telling anyone else what to believe—this is just my experience with what I believe. After crashing on my manager’s couch for a while (going sour), I scoured the internet and found a basement suite I could actually afford without being 18. I didn’t know at the time that the owner was the mom of a girl I barely knew from high school someone who, to this day, I’m pretty sure still doesn’t like me. Fair enough, though—we never really hung out, never followed each other, barely even spoke.
Back in high school, we were in the same dance class, and she and her friends used to make fun of me—laughing at me while I checked myself out in the mirror and played with my hair. The only reason I even knew about it was because a girl who was part of that group got paired with me for a dance project when I didn’t have a partner and later told me about it. Maybe she felt bad, but after that, we stayed dance partners every single class.
Anyway, there I was—stuck living in the only place I could afford—the basement, sharing a suite with one of the girls who openly made fun of me to her friends. It was brutal. I eventually moved out when I scraped together enough to get somewhere else, but those months were tough. I think my mom came to see me once, but only to help bring my stuff after I got the keys.
When Everything Fell Apart And What I Found Instead
That period was one of the hardest times in my life, but it’s also when I discovered how much I loved photography and being creative—it was my escape from everything falling apart. That passion grew and shaped me into who I am today, and honestly, it’s why I’m sharing this story now.
These small, messy, painful details make up everything I am. And I want people to know—no matter what I’ll always be open, real, and willing to talk about anything. Because that’s the only way to keep moving forward.
Time alone became more than just a way to escape, it became my foundation. In those quiet, lonely moments, I started peeling back the layers and discovering who I really was, beyond the chaos and pain. Photography and creativity didn’t just fill the silence — they became my voice, my way to make sense of a world that often felt confusing and cruel. It was the first time I felt like I had something real that belonged to me, something that no one could take away.
But don’t get it twisted…this journey isn’t wrapped up in a neat little bow. It’s messy, raw, and far from over. There are scars I haven’t shown, stories I haven’t told, and battles I’m still fighting in the shadows. If you think this is where it ends, think again. This is just the opening chapter.
So, if you’re ready for the real, unfiltered truth — the kind that challenges everything you think you know — stick around. Because the rest of the story? It’s darker, deeper, and way more complicated than you can imagine. And I’m only just getting started.
