I was living with PTSD—heavy, unrelenting, layered trauma. The kind that rewires your body to flinch at kindness and brace for betrayal. Honey didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need an intake form. She saw it all—and stayed.

I was never taught the language of trauma, let alone how to recognize it in myself. For years, I dismissed it. Until it started showing up in ways I couldn’t ignore.