Sometimes you have to kill yourself.

Sometimes you have to kill yourself.

Not the real kind that ends your life. I mean the raw, ugly, soul-crushing murder of the old versions of you that are slowly destroying everything.

I’m an addict in recovery. Six plus years into this journey, finally free from the substances that once ran my life. I just shut the door on a recent run with marijuana.

I’ve been doing this my whole damn life. Killing off pieces of myself so I could keep growing.

I’ve had to kill the part of me that reached for anything to numb the pain the second life got heavy. The hollow shell who smiled and said “I’m fine” while dying inside, judging my whole worth by how well I could fool everyone. The people-pleaser who gave away chunks of my soul just so others would like me. The coward who talked a big game about wanting freedom but always slid back into the same old shit because the unknown scared the hell out of me. And the fake “strong” version who never asked for help, swallowed every goddamn tear, and acted like needing anyone was pathetic.

Every time I killed one of those versions, it fucking hurt. The grief still sneaks up on me some nights and knocks the wind right out of me. I still grieve some of those old parts. Even when the bad had to die, traces of the good often went with it. I mourned them like old friends I had to bury. There were mornings I’d stare in the mirror and think, who the fuck is this person looking back? But every single time, something realer, clearer, and stronger crawled out of the ashes.

And yeah, some of those dead versions still sprout back up when I’m not looking. They creep through the cracks, whispering that they belong, that I’m nothing without them. I have to grab the knife and slaughter them all over again. The battles never really end, but fuck it, I’m getting better at winning.

At the same time, not everything deserves the blade. Some parts of me are the core of who I am and will always remain. My depth of emotion, the way I feel everything so intensely and stay in tune with it. I take the heaviest hurts and darkest nights and turn them into fuel, into wisdom, into something that connects me more deeply to this wild life and to others walking through their own fires.

There are other pieces I protect just as fiercely: the quiet stubbornness that refuses to stay broken, the curiosity that keeps asking questions even when the answers hurt, and that ridiculous sense of humor that shows up at the worst possible moments. These aren’t flaws to destroy. They’re the roots that keep me grounded and the sparks that keep me moving forward. Killing the toxic versions of myself doesn’t mean erasing everything I’ve ever been. It means choosing what stays so the truest parts of me can finally breathe and grow.

Growth isn’t pretty or gentle. It’s violent. It’s a lifetime of fucking funerals. You bury the old habits, the excuses, the fears, the armor that once kept you safe but now just keeps you sick. You burn it all so the person you’re supposed to be can finally breathe. It’s like a snake shedding its tight, old skin to grow larger and move freer, or a caterpillar dissolving in the dark of its cocoon to emerge as something that can finally fly.

The grief is crushing and the fear cuts deep, but every time we summon the courage to kill what must die, we create space for a life that is finally, fully ours. Raw, free, and unmistakably alive. We are far stronger than the pain trying to keep us small. The best version of us is already raging through the ashes, fierce and unbreakable, and it is worth every tear, every funeral, every brutal rebirth. Keep choosing life, one savage, sacred day at a time. The ashes always bloom into something breathtakingly beautiful.