Happy Thursday everyone,
How are you this evening? Good, I hope. One more workday for many of you and then we launch into the weekend. I’m excited for it — it’s been a busy week with a few hiccups along the way, and I’m more than ready for some girl tribe time on Saturday and Sunday. John has things he needs to focus on, so me being out of the house for a couple of hours here and there will give him the space he needs to take care of business.
Tonight, I wanted to talk about something a little heavier. Something I honestly thought I had laid to rest. But without warning, I was triggered. Over the last year, I’ve tried to limit how much I write about my life in a cult, but when something hits an old bruise — when someone triggers me — I have to write. And what better place to do that than here with you. You’ve been with me from the beginning, and your support is always so appreciated. Your honest, heartfelt comments help me see things from different perspectives, and I’m grateful for that.
Yesterday, I went to the gym like I always do, ready for my water aerobics class. The day before, I’d met a woman named June, and we’d hit it off right away — two deep‑end girls who prefer to float where our feet can’t touch. When she got into the pool, we picked up our conversation easily, chatting about workouts and life, the way women do when something just feels comfortable.
A few minutes later, a man — maybe in his sixties — jumped into the pool and swam over to us. June greeted him warmly and introduced us. “Carlos, have you met Dawna yet?” We exchanged the usual pleasantries, and for a moment, it was just normal small talk. Nothing unusual. Nothing heavy.
And then, out of nowhere, he looked straight at me and said, “Are you a MAGA?”
I honestly thought I misheard him. Who asks that in the middle of a water aerobics class? I blinked and said, “Am I a what?” But he doubled down, louder this time, “ARE YOU A MAGA?”
It was so abrupt, so aggressive, so out of place that my brain couldn’t catch up. I finally said, “Are you asking if I’m Republican?” And with a scowl, he snapped, “Oh, so you’re a Trump supporter.”
In that moment, something in me tightened. Not because of politics — I don’t discuss politics in the gym, or really anywhere — but because of the tone. The accusation. The way he said it. The way he looked at me. The way he made me feel like I had been stamped with a label I didn’t choose.
I told him calmly that this wasn’t the place for political conversations and that I preferred not to discuss it. But instead of respecting that boundary, he turned to June and motioned for her to follow him to the other end of the pool. And she did.
Just like that, I was left standing alone in the deep end. And something inside me cracked open.
What surprised me most wasn’t his question. It wasn’t even the way he said it. It was what happened inside me the moment he turned away and motioned for June to follow him. My chest tightened. My throat closed. My stomach dropped in that familiar, sinking way I wish I didn’t recognize.
Before my mind could form a single thought, my body had already gone back in time. Back to the years when being shunned wasn’t a one‑off moment — it was a way of life. Back to the days when people I loved would look through me, walk past me, turn their backs as if I no longer existed. Back to the rules, the punishments, the coldness, the silence.
I didn’t think about any of that consciously in the pool. I didn’t stand there and say, “Oh, this reminds me of being shunned.” No. My body remembered it before I did. My body reacted before I had language for what was happening.
That’s the thing about old bruises — they don’t ask permission before they ache. They don’t check in to see if you’re ready. They don’t care how much healing you’ve done or how many years have passed. All it takes is one familiar tone, one dismissive gesture, one moment of being pushed aside, and suddenly the past is right there, pressing against the present.
Standing alone in the deep end, I felt that old ache rise up — the ache of being excluded, judged, and walked away from. And even though I knew logically that this was just one rude man in a pool, my body didn’t know the difference. It only knew the echo. I felt all eyes were on me, even though I knew they weren’t. I couldn’t even find the courage to get out of the pool to leave, so I stayed. I kept wondering, “Why does anyone’s political affiliation matter in a water aerobics class?” I never told him what political party I support, for two reasons: 1) we’re at the gym working out and clearing our minds, and 2) I don’t like discussing politics, especially with a stranger. I respect everyone’s right to choose which party they want to stand by, and I respect even more the choice to have your own opinion. For most of my life, I wasn’t allowed to use my critical thinking skills, and I wasn’t allowed to have a voice.
For a moment, it felt like I lost my voice again.
My reaction surprised me, even though it probably shouldn’t have. I wasn’t really there anymore. I was going through the motions, trying to keep my breathing steady, trying not to let the sting show on my face. I kept telling myself, “It’s fine, it’s just a rude man,” but my body wasn’t buying it. My body knew better.
Carlos left halfway through the class, and a little while later, June made her way back over to me. She apologized, and I could tell she felt awkward about how it all unfolded. But I’ll be honest — I wasn’t overly warm in my response. I told her his questions were inappropriate and uncalled for, and that it made the workout uncomfortable. I told her it bothered me deeply, and that it took everything in me not to lash out when he kept repeating himself.
I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t cruel. I was just… honest. And still hurting.
This morning, I had an appointment scheduled for Edison to come look at some electrical work, and I took the earliest slot. But the truth is, I was relieved. I didn’t want to go to the gym. I didn’t want to risk seeing Carlos. And I wasn’t ready to face June either — not because she did something unforgivable, but because I was still sitting in the echo of yesterday.
And you know what? I’m okay with that.
Sometimes giving yourself a day of space isn’t avoidance — it’s self‑protection. It’s listening to your nervous system when it whispers, “Not today.” It’s honoring the part of you that’s still tender.
I plan to go back tomorrow, even though I’m uneasy about it. Healing doesn’t mean you never feel the old bruise again. It means you learn how to move forward with awareness instead of shame.
If there’s anything I want you to take from this, it’s this: old wounds don’t disappear just because time has passed. They soften, they fade, they stop defining you — but they’re still there, tucked under the surface, waiting for the wrong tone or gesture or moment to brush against them.
When that happens, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It doesn’t mean you’re back at the beginning. It simply means you’re human.
Your body remembers what your mind has learned to live with. And sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is listen to it. Give yourself space. Give yourself grace. And when you’re ready, step back into the deep end — not because you have to, but because you choose to.
Thank you for letting me share this tender moment with you — somehow, speaking it aloud softens the ache just a little.
Have you ever had a moment where something small touched an old bruise in you — and how did you care for yourself afterward? I’d love to hear how you handled it. Feel free to shoot me a text or drop me a comment. I always appreciate hearing from you.
Well guys, that’s all I have for tonight. Thank you for stopping by and taking time to read tonight’s post.
Love Life++
Hugs, Dawna — may the butterflies remind you that we are all still becoming
Love Life with Dawna 