When You Realize the Friend Was Never a Friend

It’s wild how life will put someone in your path and make you believe you’ve found a safe place to land.
Someone you thought was a confidant. Someone who made you feel like your trust was finally in good hands.

And then one day, without warning, you see it.
The truth.
The little cracks in their mask that they tried so hard to keep hidden.

I think the hardest part isn’t the betrayal itself — it’s replaying every conversation, every laugh, every moment you thought was real, and realizing they were just… playing a part. A role.
And you? You were just the audience.

It makes you question your own instincts. Did I miss the signs? Was I so desperate for connection that I ignored the red flags waving in my face?
Or were they just that good at pretending?

People like that… they don’t break you with one big act. They chip away at you slowly, making you believe they care, while quietly stacking the pieces they’ll later use against you.
And by the time you see it, the damage is already done.

I’ll recover. I always do. But what they’ve really stolen isn’t money, or time, or opportunity.
It’s the version of me that still believed people like them didn’t exist.

So here’s to lessons learned the hard way.
Here’s to boundaries.
Here’s to recognizing that not everyone clapping for you is in your corner.

And here’s to the quiet satisfaction of knowing…
if you’re reading this, you know exactly who you are.

Comments

Exposing the Deadly Reality at La Palma Correctional Facility: How Many More Have to Die?

For years, La Palma Correctional Facility in Eloy, Arizona, has been a hotspot for controversy, yet little has been done to address the rampant corruption, officer misconduct, and systemic failures that have turned it into a living hell for those incarcerated within its walls. Most recently, another inmate has died—one of many whose deaths could have been prevented if those in charge had taken real action instead of covering up their negligence. On January 2, 2025, I fought to have my husband moved out of La Palma due to the sheer volume of drugs flooding the yard, which were being brought in by correctional officers. I reported specific names to the Special Security Unit (SSU), thinking that doing the right thing would bring change. Instead, my concerns fell on deaf ears. Now, here we are, with more inmates losing their lives—many of these deaths are suspected overdoses, yet little to no investigation ever seems to result in actual change. A History of Negligence and Deaths This lates...

Two Years for Corruption. Seven Years for Addiction.

There’s something I can’t shake today. And honestly… it makes me sick. I just read about a correctional officer at the same prison my husband is sitting in right now —Lewis Prison Complex—who was caught smuggling heroin, fentanyl, and cell phones into the facility. Not using. Not struggling. Not trying to survive addiction. Smuggling. Trafficking. Profiting. Investigators didn’t just catch him once either. This wasn’t some “bad decision” moment. This was a full investigation—months long—with surveillance, evidence, and tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs tied to it. Let me say that again… A man with a badge, authority, and access was bringing poison into a prison —into a place already filled with men fighting addiction, trauma, and survival every single day. Now here’s the part that I cannot wrap my head around… My husband is serving seven years for doing drugs. Seven years. For addiction. For a battle that started when he was a child—before he even had ...

Four days.

That is what is left. Four days until I walk through prison gates; not as the correctional officer I once was, not as the prison wife who has spent years fighting this system from the outside, not as the advocate who knows policies, procedures, inmate numbers, classifications, grievances, disciplinary reports, and all the bureaucratic bullshit that comes with incarceration. In four days, I walk through those gates as an inmate. And I am fucking terrified. There. I said it. I am terrified. Six days ago, I wrote a blog called This Isn't Goodbye. It's the Chapter Before I Come Home. I wrote about faith. I wrote about trusting God. I wrote about believing that He would go with me. I wrote about trusting the Author even though I couldn't skip ahead and read the ending. Today? Today I cursed at that Author. Today I told God I fucking hate Him. Those exact words. Not a cleaned-up Christian version of anger. Not, “Lord, I'm struggling to understand Your plan.” Not, “Father, ple...

From Guard to Wife: My Journey in the Shadows of the Justice System

Search This Blog