Melodie Joy Artistry

Melodie Joy Artistry wanderlustdr.com

Living on my ⛵️A journey of resilience advocating against narc-abuse | All-Inclusive Travel Curators 🌏 | Art | Photography Discover magic in the DR 🇩🇴 Planning Proposals, Elopements, Small Groups, Hosting women to heal.

Looking out my window today, It came sudden, this relief. Like something I’d been holding for years, finally set down.I ...
13/07/2026

Looking out my window today,
It came sudden, this relief. Like something I’d been holding for years, finally set down.
I was remembering the angry car rides. The phone flipped face-down all the time. Hidden apps and messages. The day he erased me off his social media and called it “hacked.” The car ride that ended my life with him — another app, another younger woman. Affairs woven through his phone, his email, his Twitter. “Work trips.”
Before any of it came out, he’d already made me believe I never wanted him. That’s the trick. Years of wondering. They find the crack before you even know it’s there, until you’re the one apologizing. A cycle with no exit. His Betrayal was My fault. My responsibility. My duty to carry. Something was wrong with me —
If you’ve felt this — hear me. It was never you.
I understand that now, because I understand what it was doing to my body the whole time. My nervous system, keeping score. Never knowing if I was the only one. Or enough. Or beautiful enough. Intimacy became a test — not desire, an audit. Was I still chosen? Still his? Not connection. Just quarterly reviews of my worth in my own marriage.
The fear of lost tempers and angry conversations. Feeling like it was a never-ending battle — stay and keep the peace, or leave and lose everything.
Today, I look out the window and I don’t brace. I don’t wonder where his mind is. I don’t wait for the floor to drop. We don’t have much in material things, but I have everything. Our quiet doesn’t scare me anymore. The intimacy runs deeper than I knew was possible — and I know now, it was never just about s*x.
I feel safe. Today, Looking out my window, your hand on my thigh, driving me somewhere. Catching your glance Small compliments. Being reminded I’m your everything. Never forgetting to open my door. Adjusting the temperature for my comfort. An extra stop, just for good coffee, sunlight, a mental reset, sourdough. Calling me outside to watch the sunset, then the moon, with you.
Looking out my window — I see it now.
It was never me. I was enough.
If you are doubting, Don’t.
It’s not you. You are beautiful, wanted, worthy, and you are enough.

I haven’t written in a while.Life pulled me into the beautiful chaos — planning my daughter’s wedding, reimagining my co...
07/05/2026

I haven’t written in a while.
Life pulled me into the beautiful chaos — planning my daughter’s wedding, reimagining my company, and myself. But in it all, I knew the day was coming. The day I’d have too. Face all of it in one weekend — the pain, the fear, the years I spent making myself small.
I spent months preparing. Reminding myself that that I was not alone. When the moment came, my body, once trained to shrink in his presence, stayed still. My breath, steady. The therapy. The work. The relentless rebuilding of myself, worked. I didn’t hide. I didn’t turn away. I simply stood. His charm that once blinded me, was a worn-out mask. I watched him work the room with that familiar, frantic energy, and I felt something I didn’t expect. Nothing. Not the inner scream I had nursed alone. Not the abuse, not the sharp sting of panic. I looked at the person that had caused me so much pain, the voice that had distorted my reality for years, and I recognized a ghost. — a moment that belonged to a different women in a different time. At some point, the memories came fast, heavy, the ground shifted under me. The old version of me started to crawl back. The spiral. But the people who know exactly who I am. Who stood close, surrounded and reminded me that I was loved, and not that woman anymore. This is what healing looks like. No-one has the power to dim me and I’ll continue to stay angry enough. If you’re still in the rebuilding — still in the trenches of putting yourself back together — keep going. The day will come when you look and feel nothing. And that nothing will feel like everything. I will never be done. I will keep changing my stars for as long as I have breath in my body — healing, growing, evolving, and trying to leave every place I touch better than I found it. I will stay loud. Loud against abusers. Loud against the ones who manipulate, betray. I will not shrink, I will not whisper. If you have lived through betrayal, abuse, narcissistic behavior, or a relationship that made you question your worth — I see you. I stand with you. You are not crazy. You are not too much. You are not alone.
We don’t just survive this. We rise from it.
…

The Mirror’s TruthShe stood before the mirror longer than usual today.Not to criticize the lines around her eyes or the ...
08/04/2026

The Mirror’s Truth
She stood before the mirror longer than usual today.
Not to criticize the lines around her eyes or the way her shoulders carry the invisible weight of years. Today, she looked differently — like an archaeologist studying something ancient and sacred.
In the dance of healing, trauma reshapes us.
She is tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. This is a tiredness that lives in her bones — worn down by years of betrayal, of abuse, of loving people who make her feel like she is never quite enough. Tired of waking up and doing it all over again. Tired of missing her mother with an ache that never fully quiets. Tired of worrying about everyone else while she is quietly falling apart inside.
Weaving strength from sorrow.
She thinks about the version of herself who didn’t know if she’d make it through. The one who cried on bathroom floors, who smiled through rooms full of people while quietly drowning. That woman had been handed loss after loss and still — still — she showed up.
The betrayals had tried to teach her she was worthless. The abuse had tried to make that lesson permanent. And for a long time, she had believed it.
But she was never the problem. She was always the survivor.
Displaying scars as jewels that reflect the beauty of survival.
She has been so hard on that woman. Demanding perfection from someone who is simply trying to breathe. Trying to heal. Trying to believe, against all the evidence life has handed her, that she deserves softness too.
You didn’t just survive, she tells her reflection. You rebuilt yourself — brick by brick — with broken hands. While grieving. While exhausted. While the world kept asking more of you.
She touches the mirror gently, the way you touch something you finally understand is precious.
The woman looking back isn’t perfect. She is better than that.
She is real. She is here. She is enough — she has always been enough.
And her scars? They aren’t wounds anymore.
They are jewels.

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