There are days when the world feels too loud, too layered, too dishonest. And on those days, I don’t reach for rose-colored glasses or hide behind platitudes. I don’t scroll past discomfort or dim the truth to protect someone else’s feelings. No, in those moments, I face reality head-on.

It’s not a badge of honor or some rebellious philosophy; it’s simply what happens when I wake up and decide I’m no longer willing to pretend and perform. I’ve spent many years dancing around others’ expectations, absorbing the sharp edges of their unhealed wounds, and making myself smaller so they could feel big. I’ve smiled through subtle digs, brushed off gaslighting, and swallowed my rage to keep family dinners and friendships from falling apart.

But those days are over.

Rawdogging reality means that I’ve truly stopped softening the truth. It means I call out power dynamics when others prefer to keep the illusion of harmony intact. It means I no longer feel guilty about holding people accountable, even if it breaks the carefully maintained family myth or unsettles a friend used to getting their way without me questioning their bad behavior.

The repercussions? Oh, they have arrived. They always do. But I’ve learned that the cost of my peace is far greater than their ghosting or silencing, which they attempt to punish me for. Recently, I’ve stopped worrying about sharing what I’m doing or where I’m going next, as many hint at the pleasure of it all and wonder how they could ever understand why I am drawn to places that reflect this internal transformation in my raw, real-world journey.

It’s mine, not theirs.

So, I’m heading on a long journey to see the Tasmanian devil in the wild and, if luck is on my side, spot the famous cube-shaped poop of a wombat—yes, that’s real. From there, I’ll go to New Zealand, where I plan to enjoy natural wine on Waiheke Island, just off the coast of Auckland, get lost in the peaceful stillness of Milford Sound’s fjords, and soak in whatever quiet magic Christchurch has to offer. No filter, no fluff, just wild lands, wild animals, and the kind of stillness that speaks the truth.

I’m going again, not for some shiny, escapist adventure, but because those lands feel wild and unfiltered, like something inside me trying to remember what it was like to be free before I learned to compromise.

I don’t want an itinerary full of distractions. I want wind in my face and earth beneath my feet. I want to walk until my legs are sore and my thoughts come to a slow pace. I don’t want to get stuck in circular conversations that make me want to leave the table or event, it’s a habit I’ve developed over too many years, marked by guilt. I need space from the noise so I can hear my own voice again and be inspired as I become this next version of myself.

Rawdogging reality, in its most honest form, isn’t about suffering. It’s about clarity. It’s about saying: This is me. No edits. No performance. No mask. And when I return from those wild edges of the world, I won’t be looking for applause or validation. Just Southern Ocean air in my lungs. Truth in my bones. And the unshakable knowing that I didn’t back down.