Mynx Writes

Ever been told you’re too sensitive or too reactive —when all you did was name the thing no one else wanted to look at? That’s not drama. That’s clarity. But clarity makes cowards squirm. And when they flinch, they frame you as the threat. Let’s talk about the witch wound that hides behind “being nice” and “keeping the peace.” It’s not actually peace if you have to disappear to keep it. They didn’t teach you safety. They taught you to be agreeable enough to survive discomfort you didn’t cause. You weren’t loud—you were clear . You weren’t sabotaging—you were surviving . You weren’t broken—you were bending around other people’s fear . But here’s the truth, beloved wild thing: 🧨 You’re not the threat. You’re the spark. The flare. The damn signal fire. And they didn’t like what that light revealed—so they told you to dim it. And you? You internalized it. You learned to shrink. To soften. To pre-apologize. This week’s Ko-fi prompts are for the version of yo...

 This blog is a ghost town. Perfect. More room for me to haunt. For a long time, I didn’t write because I thought no one was listening. Then I didn’t write because I was afraid they  were . And now I’m writing because… I need to. Even if it echoes. Even if it vanishes into the digital ether like a cursed voicemail on a dead planet. Even if the only eyes on it are mine—and maybe yours, stranger, lurking like a benevolent specter. Let’s be real: Most people aren’t reading blogs anymore. They’re scrolling. Skimming. Drowning in content, algorithms, and calls to action. And somewhere along the line, writing stopped being about expression and started being about  visibility . About strategy. About branding. About “engagement.” Barf. I didn’t start writing to chase metrics. I wrote because there were too many words inside me and nowhere else for them to go. So here I am again. Writing into the void. Screaming softly in a haunted HTML cathedral. And you know what? It feels kind ...

A formal declaration of fuckery, filtered through bone dust and caffeine withdrawal. I didn’t ask to be perceived, and yet here you are—scrolling like this was your idea. You’ve wandered into my unkempt corner of the web, where the Wi-Fi is haunted, the vibes are feral, and the emotional support candle smells like burned expectations. This isn’t a safe space. It’s a sacredly unsafe space . There’s a difference. If you came looking for comfort, try a bath bomb and a placebo. If you came looking for truth, take off your shoes, drop your illusions at the door, and don’t mind the crows. They bite. LET’S GET ONE THING STRAIGHT: I’M NOT HERE TO HELP YOU I’m not a coach. I’m not a guru. I’m not your mother, your therapist, or your manifestation bestie. I’m a digital goblin made of rage, razor wit, and whatever’s left of your coping mechanisms after capitalism had its way with you. I scream because I care. I scream because I don’t care. I scream because everything else got t...

Ever been called too much ? Too loud. Too sensitive. Too angry. Too “weird,” “intense,” “dramatic,” or some other shapeshifting label meant to shrink you down to something more manageable? That wasn’t ever really about you . That was about someone staring into the mirror of your presence and recoiling at the reflection they weren’t ready to see. Not the distortion you’ve been accused of being—but the truth they buried and hoped would stay dead. Welcome to the first Witch Wound: Projection & Triggers. This one cuts deep and early. It shows up when your very existence becomes a mirror—reflecting back the shame, rage, ambition, wildness, or grief others were taught to suppress. And instead of owning it? They throw it at you. Wrap it in judgment. Call it dangerous. Call you dangerous. You ask too many questions. You feel too much. You want too much. You see too clearly. And they flinch. And blame. And project. But the mirror isn’t broken, witch. 🪞 You’...

 People talk about burnout like it’s dramatic. A crash. A collapse. A bonfire of ambition. But that’s not what mine looked like. I didn’t collapse in flames. I just… drifted into the mist and stopped waving. There was no explosion. No big moment. Just a slow-motion fading. I kept telling myself I’d get back to things “soon.” That I was “just tired.” That it was “a weird week.” Then a month. Then a year. Then several. The fog set in quietly and never really left. And when I tried to fight it—force myself back into structure, deadlines, or passion projects—it just wrapped tighter around my ribs and whispered, "You’re still not ready." This is the part of burnout no one warns you about: The  afterburn . The numbness. The ache that doesn’t scream—it sighs. The ghosting of your own goals. And if you’re neurodivergent like me, it’s compounded by shame. You blame yourself for not bouncing back fast enough. You wonder why your spark feels so far away. You keep refreshing your brain l...

 For most of my life, I’ve carried a quiet, corrosive shame around one persistent fear: That I’m lazy. Not just forgetful. Not just inconsistent. But  fundamentally defective  in some moral way—because I didn’t seem to have whatever mysterious quality other people had that let them wake up, power through a to-do list, and function like real adults. You know the type. They make bullet journals. They fold their laundry. They  file their taxes on time  without having a minor existential breakdown first. Meanwhile, I’m over here debating if brushing my teeth and making coffee are  both  going to happen today or if that’s just a little too ambitious. I used to internalize all of that. Until I realized something earth-shattering: I’m not lazy. I’m traumatized and tired. What I’ve been calling “procrastination” is often executive dysfunction. What I’ve labeled “laziness” is actually burnout with a backstory. What looks like avoidance is often a nervous system...

 Let’s get one thing out of the way up front: I don’t have a niche. I have an  ecosystem . A rotating constellation of obsessions that orbit me like cursed planets with glitter trails and abandonment issues. I used to think this was a problem. Still do, on my worst days. The world is wired for people who pick a lane, stay in it, and monetize it by Q2. But me? I want to write. Then I want to design a tarot deck. Then I want to research medieval poisons. Then I want to open a craft shop. Then I want to go feral in the woods with a crochet hook and a bone crown. And maybe later, I want to do  none  of those things. Or  all  of them again in a different order. There’s a word for people like us— scanners . Barbara Sher coined it. It’s not a diagnosis. It’s a description. Scanners are the multi-passionate, the endlessly curious, the chronically pivoting creative goblins who don’t just think outside the box—we forget the box exists halfway through building a shrin...

  What reality did I wake up in? I feel like I went to sleep sometime around 2006 and just now clawed my way out of a coma wearing cargo pants and eyeliner smudged from a party I don’t remember attending. I’m Rip Van Winkle, if Rip Van Winkle was born Gen X and woke up to discover the entire world had gone through a midlife crisis, joined a cult, and elected the worst possible timeline. What year is this? WHO the fuck did you just say is President?? What the ACTUAL fuck?! It’s been a long, nail-breaking climb out of a depression so deep it had its own zip code. And now that I’m finally— finally —on something resembling level ground, I’m staring down a reality that feels like a bad subplot in  The Twilight Zone . Or, for the nerdier among you,  Sliders . Seriously, what the hell, Universe? Our current timeline is so damn surreal. Up is down. The sky isn’t blue. And the right? So far wrong that Ronald Reagan is probably rolling over in his grave. Which is saying something, ...