Savage & Sacred

  There was a time I celebrated everything. Not in a confetti-and-champagne way. More like a "hey, we made it through today, that counts" way. I had a kid. And I was trying to teach him something important — that wins don't have to be big to matter. That noticing the good stuff, even the tiny stuff, is how you build a life that doesn't crush you. Got through a hard homework assignment? Win. Made it to school on time? Win. Chose kindness when it would've been easier to be a jerk? Big win. I wasn't just teaching gratitude. I was teaching him how to see his own life. How to find proof that he was doing okay, even on the hard days. And it worked. But somewhere along the way — between survival mode and starting over and losing things I thought I'd have forever — I forgot. I stopped counting my own wins. I stopped noticing. I got so focused on how far I still had to go that I forgot to look back at how far I'd already come. And here's the thing about gra...

You know that saying — " When the going gets tough, the tough get going "? What does that even mean? Because I feel like I'm tough. Not muscly tough — mentally tough. Emotionally tough. I've been through a lot in my 40 years. Stuff nobody knows about because I don't talk about my problems like they're for everyone to hear. I think that's weak, tbh. And that's another word I've been thinking about lately. Weak. Because sometimes? That's exactly what I feel. Weak. Like I didn't try hard enough to prevent all the shit that brought me here — to this trailer, with no food. Eating rice for weeks. Pasta for days. It's ridiculous. So what's the fucking point of all this? To teach me a lesson? Okay — taught. Got it. I have a voice and I'm using it. Am I supposed to feel this shitty about myself? Because if that's the goal — job well done, universe. But here's the thing: All you're doing is pissing me off more. And me being pi...

  There's this energy you get when you first start something. The spark. The "holy shit, this could actually work" feeling. The thing that makes you stay up until 4am building, creating, believing. It's not infinite. And nobody warns you about that. They don't tell you that hope is a resource. That it leaks. That every setback, every silence, every "no one's buying, no one's commenting, no one gives a shit" moment drains the tank a little more. Until one day you wake up and the spark is just... dim. Not gone. But flickering. Tired. Wondering what the point is. I've been there. More than once. And here's what I've learned: The spark doesn't die all at once. It dies in small moments. When you refresh the page and see zero sales. When you post something you're proud of and hear crickets. When someone you thought would show up for you doesn't. It dies when you compare your chapter one to someone else's chapter twenty. It d...

  I've been put in this damn trailer for a reason. I know that much. My safety? Probably. My sobriety? Definitely. A place to get shit done without distractions? Yeah — and I have. I've gotten so much done. 24 blog posts. A book on Amazon. Another one drafted. A shop. Content going out. Learning Python. Building a whole brand from nothing. Three months. I did in three months what most people take six to do. Maybe longer. So... what now? Is the universe just waiting for all these seeds to sprout? Because I planted a lot of them. A lot. Or am I still planting when I should be watering? Am I doing too much? Not enough? The wrong things? I've never been more confused about what direction to go in my entire life. And the fucked up part is — I'm not lost because I'm lazy. I'm not stuck because I gave up. I'm confused because I did the work. All of it. Fast. Hard. Alone. And now I'm sitting here in this trailer, waiting for... what? A sign? A sale? A fucking cl...

It's 4am. I'm in a fifth wheel trailer. My dog is under the blankets because it's cold. I haven't eaten today, and I'm writing a blog post about building a brand. If that sounds unhinged — yeah. Maybe. But here's the thing: I'm still building. Not because I have a plan. Not because some podcast bro told me to "bet on yourself." But because the alternative is giving up, and I'm too stubborn and too pissed off to do that. So let's talk about what it actually looks like to build something from nothing. Not the cute, curated "started from the bottom" story. The real one. The one where you're googling food banks and editing your website in the same hour. The one with a little bit of gangster under the crown. Section 1: The Lie You've heard it. Probably from someone with a ring light and a course to sell. "You need money to make money." "Invest in yourself." "Your first year in business, expect to spend ...

I'm gonna be honest with you because that's kind of my whole thing. I feel like a failure today. I've been building, creating, posting, writing, grinding — and my bank account still looks like a cry for help. I have products that nobody's buying. I have content that nobody's seeing. I have a whole vision and zero dollars to show for it. And I'm tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind of tired that makes you wonder if any of this is even worth it. The Lie We Tell Ourselves Here's what I'm NOT going to do: pretend I'm fine. I'm not going to post some "rise and grind" bullshit and act like I've got it figured out. I'm not going to slap a motivational quote over my pain and call it content. That's not me. That's not this brand. Savage & Sacred was never about having it together. It was about being in the mess and still fighting. What's Actually True So let me tell myself — and you — what's actuall...

Coding has literally helped my ADHD spirals that I have more now that I'm sober. I don't have that off switch anymore and I'm not turning to booze for that extra off switch either. Coding has a set of rules that my ADHD brain needs to grasp onto and survive the chaos thats inside of my head. In which I am still learning how to navigate. My brain doesn't like traditional rules.. I will break every one if I get told I have to do something a certain way. And then get angry about it when it doesn't work out.  Python has helped because it pulls me out of that "oh i have to do things a certain way in order for the code to work" and then it calms me because python isn't your traditional tactic to staying sober but it sure helps my adhd brain stay in its lane. That's probably why i like it, not everyone can do it. My grandma use to joke when I was a kid that, whatever she wanted me to do she should tell me that she didn't want me to do it because then ...

HEY VAL The AI with an attitude problem. (But it’s your problem now.) THE MANIFESTO Big Tech wants you to buy a $1,200 glass brick every year just to have a "smart" assistant that snitches on you. We say fuck that. Val is built for the burner phones, the cracked screens, and the people who actually value their privacy. She’s local, she’s encrypted via Web3, and she doesn't give a damn about Google’s data centers. // LIVE INTERACTION PREVIEW YOU: "Hey Val, is Google listening?" VAL: "They’re trying. But I’ve wrapped your data in so much encryption it would take them until the heat death of the universe to read your shopping list. You're welcome." SAVAGE Optimized for low-end hardware. We squeeze every drop of power out of that $50 ZTE phone. SACRED ...

  Okay. Gather 'round. Let me tell you about the time I thought I was gonna get rich by being mean to men on the internet. If you don't know what findom is — it's "financial domination." Basically, guys PAY you to boss them around, take their money, and treat them like garbage. That's... that's the whole thing. And I thought: I'm broke. I'm bossy. I have internet access. This is my calling. SPOILER: It was not my calling. I made profiles. I studied what other findom girls were doing. I learned the lingo. I got my "bow down, pay me, you pathetic wallet" energy ready. You know what happened? Absolutely fucking nothing. Turns out, findom is a SATURATED market full of women way meaner and way hotter than me, with professional lighting and Amazon wishlists longer than my arm. And the men? The ones who actually PAY? They're not just looking for any bossy bitch. They're looking for THEIR bossy bitch. It's like a weird, specific, para...

 When You Stop Numbing, Life Gets Loud (And That's the Point) Here's what nobody tells you about sobriety: **everything gets louder.** Not in a bad way. In a "holy shit, I forgot colors could look like this" way. --- The First Few Weeks Were Weird I'm not gonna lie—at first, feeling everything raw felt like sensory overload. Like someone turned all the dials up to 11 and forgot to give me the manual. Coffee tasted stronger. Music hit different. Conversations with people actually... mattered? Wild concept. But here's where it gets good. --- ☆ The Excitement You Forgot Was Possible Remember being a kid on Christmas Eve? That buzzing, can't-sit-still energy? **That came back.** Not just for big things. For EVERYTHING. - Getting a text from someone you actually like talking to - Finding a new song that makes you want to drive with the windows down - Waking up on a Saturday with zero plans and infinite possibilities - Actually laughing—not that half-present ...

Because healing isn't just about moving forward – it's about saying goodbye to someone you used to be. And sometimes, they don't want to leave. You ever have one of those dreams that feels a little too real? The kind where you wake up and your heart is pounding, not because it was scary, but because it felt... comfortable? Like slipping into an old pair of shoes you swore you threw away. I had a dream the other night about dealing drugs. And here's the thing – I didn't wake up horrified. I woke up conflicted. Because in the dream, I wasn't panicking. I wasn't running. I was just... doing it. Like it was normal. Like it was still me. And that's the part that messed me up. Because I've done the work. I've fought for this new version of myself. I've sat in the discomfort, faced the ugly truths, rebuilt from the ground up. So why is she still showing up? Why does that old identity keep creeping back like she has unfinished business? The Part of ...

  Let me tell you about my dog. Glizzy is a Mastiff mix. 90-something pounds of brindle muscle, white chest patch, floppy ears, and absolutely zero understanding of personal space. He's not a therapy dog. He's not trained to do anything useful. He doesn't fetch my medication or alert me when I'm having an anxiety attack. He just... exists. Aggressively. In my space. At all times. And somehow, that's exactly what I need. When I'm spiraling — when my brain is doing that ADHD thing where everything is urgent and nothing is getting done — Glizzy will just walk over and SIT on me. Not next to me. ON me. 90 pounds of "stop what you're doing and pet me." It's hard to have a panic attack when there's a whole horse-dog in your lap demanding attention. He doesn't care that we live in 5th wheel. He doesn't care that my partner's locked up. He doesn't care that I'm sober and struggling and some days I don't want to get out of be...

The thing I absolutely do not like about this whole sobriety thing is that my brain won’t let anything slide anymore. All the things I didn’t like when I was messed up. All the things I didn’t deal with properly. All the things that hurt — they come back around when I’m finally still enough to notice them. Being ADHD, my brain doesn’t process things in a neat order. It jumps. It montages. It stacks unrelated thoughts on top of each other when I’m trying to sleep. So I’ll go from “oh wow, rice again” to “fuck this fucker, I hate his guts” with about fifteen other thoughts in between. I just looked at the time and realized I’ve been laying here for three hours cycling through excitement, boredom, anger, and sadness like it’s a highlight reel I didn’t ask to watch. My poor brain. And I’m not even tired yet. Of course I’m not. Writing is the one thing that’s helped me stay somewhat sane through this. Even if nobody reads it. Even if it just exists. Getting it out of my head and putting it ...

This list of "I wish somebody told me sooner" keeps getting longer. Rebuilding is never easy. The list of things I need just to survive today keeps growing, and nobody warns you about any of it. Like wifi. Man, without that, being sober sucks - a lot. And being out in the country makes it worse. I'm in a 5th wheel, and this tin can loves cutting out my signal. Sanity checks have become a daily thing. I wish there was a group for recovering addicts that said: "Hey, I'm sober. No plans to use again. I'm also jobless, on government assistance, and just need a safe, stable place to live. Rent to me." But there isn't. Because the second you mention recovery, or assistance, or anything that hints at your past - people look at you like, "Oh... they're part of  that group . How nice. Next." If you've found a group that actually helps with this, let me know. I'd join in a second.

What Nobody Tells You About Getting Sober (and I Wish They Had) Nobody tells you that getting sober doesn’t just take the drugs away — it hands your entire life back to you, unfinished. I want to write ugly things right now. Things that make me feel better about myself. I want to scream at the top of my lungs to anyone reading this: don’t get sober. Just kidding. Mostly. But jokes aside — I’m not freaking out because I’m sober. I’m freaking out because I didn’t realize how much of a mess my life actually was, or how long I let other people hold it together for me. I put my trust in someone else. I stopped being my own hero. And now that the drugs are gone — and the money is gone — there’s no one left to fix things for me but me. Which means I have to deal with everything I avoided. Everything I postponed. Everything I was told not to worry about because “someone else would handle it.” That’s not how it works anymore. So yeah. I get to pull up my big‑girl panties while life is actively ...

To the dog that kept me sane when everything else fell apart; I hate to admit that an animal literally saved me from myself. When I would spiral and get lost in my thoughts, he would ground me and bring me back to the present. He kept me going in more ways than I can even admit to. There's no shame in that, honestly. If it weren't for him, who knows where I would be and who I would be with. I thought I was protecting him, but he protected me from the last person I thought I ever needed protection from— and that was myself. This animal that invades my space and thinks he's a lap dog when he's too big to even be one. Brings me peace in the mundane tasks that he forces me to perform for him. He reminds me of the beauty in everyday life — that we all take for granted. That I was taking for granted. Long before I learned how to take care of myself, I learned how to take care of him. And on days when that was all I could manage, it was enough to keep me here. xo Sho ...