Healing Evolution SB

Healing Evolution SB The Holistic Therapist In Your Pocket. Real talk

Sometimes - a bit of coo-koo talk

BUT ALWAYS

Authentic, honest and 100% TRUE to who and what I am

People in rescue.“They say people in rescue are rude, short, and generally unpleasant.”I understand why that reputation ...
23/01/2026

People in rescue.

“They say people in rescue are rude, short, and generally unpleasant.”

I understand why that reputation exists — though it’s rarely earned in the way people think.

I mostly keep to my own colony, take in the occasional mini panther, and stay out of the wider circus. But I do read posts from fellow rescuers — especially those written by people I know and respect.

Yesterday was one of those days.

There I am, eyeballs barely functional, trying to focus, while my dog Maya — a pit-cross-with-God-knows-what — lies at my feet. Calm. Grounded. Guarding, as she does.

A friend had posted. One of those posts you can feel — exhaustion, frustration, burnout leaking through the words. So I responded. Kindly. Thoughtfully. In context. Because the author knows me, and I know her.

Important distinction: this part was fine.

Maya has taught me a great deal in the last two years and change. Understanding your dog — the one in front of you — matters more than labels on paper.
Yes, says the human who speaks fluent meow.

Enter… not my friend.

A random human. A drive-by opinion merchant. A professional f**k-nugget.

I get tagged.

Curious, I go read.

Apparently, I’m embarrassing myself. Apparently, I think I know what I’m talking about when it comes to my “mutt.”

Nowhere did I say Maya isn’t mixed.
Nowhere did I deny her pitbull lineage.
Nowhere did I claim expert status, mastery, or divine canine insight.

What I did say is that I’m learning — because arrogance is pretending you already know everything, and that has never been my game.

Still, in strolls Cupcake:

“Sit down. You’re embarrassing yourself. You think you know everything after 11 months with a mutt.”

And in that precise moment, the WTF rose like a tidal wave. No warning. No mercy. High ground useless.

I responded publicly — politely. Because I respect passion, even when it arrives badly dressed and socially ill-mannered.

But the ember didn’t die.

So I climbed into my friend’s inbox instead — not to stir drama, but to say, plainly and clearly: this behaviour is not okay. Not from strangers. Not on her page. Not in the name of rescue.

Because here’s the broader issue:

Within three seconds, cupcake demonstrated exactly why rescue workers are branded as rude — not because we’re exhausted, but because some people confuse “education” with condescension.

Social decorum is a skill.
If you plan to teach humans anything, you might want to acquire it first.

And just for clarity:

I am not a cupcake.
I am a moist chocolate mousse cake.

But subtle insults require nuance, and nuance requires a brain larger than a pea.

🎤
As you were.

mic drop, exits with dignity

© The Velvet Hammer

I have often wondered about the concept of synchronicity.I know what the word means, of course. But lately, I’ve found m...
21/01/2026

I have often wondered about the concept of synchronicity.
I know what the word means, of course. But lately, I’ve found myself standing in front of a mirror, reaching toward memories I would rather not revisit — and the universe, as it turns out, has opinions about that.

I write only from lived experience. From my own perspective. And if we are honest for a moment: every book you read, every lecture you sit through, every presentation delivered with conviction is still just that — the opinion of one person, or perhaps two who decided to tag-team their certainty. It is not the voice of GOD or GODDESS booming through a microphone. It is human interpretation, dressed up as authority.

With that said — here I go.
Perhaps this will serve as a mirror for you as well.

I once knew a man.
To the outside world, he appeared polished, accomplished, respectable. But in my most honest assessment, he was rotten to the core. The mask didn’t always hold. It slipped — just enough, often enough — for me to glimpse what lived underneath.

This is not a “he was so bad” story.
This is a story about me standing still long enough to say: I allowed this.

The reasons are easy to list: exhaustion, illness, being worn down, not wanting to be alone again. All convenient explanations. All true, perhaps — and still irrelevant. In the end, I allowed it, even while I could see the rot.

I have a particular gift.
I see what people work desperately to hide. Not the body that carries them — but what lives inside it. The pauses. The omissions. The things never said out loud. When I look at someone, I know them in ways they have never learned to know themselves.

For years, I never understood why people would contort themselves just to keep another person in their lives — only to remain deeply unhappy.

Comfort, perhaps.
Belonging.
The refusal to feel alone.

Then one day, this man said something — and that was where the mask finally cracked.

“I hide in plain sight.
No one knows anything about me.
I never let anyone close enough to see behind the curtain.”

That sentence should have been everything.
That should have been the moment I walked away.

It was truth — naked, unguarded, and accidentally honest. A fracture in the mould. A way in for the light. But being human, I made a choice. I chose to ignore it.

Choice is rarely dramatic.
It is quiet.
It is deliberate.
And it is entirely ours.

For months — often while drugged, exhausted, barely holding myself together — I told this man exactly how it would end. Not vaguely. Precisely. Call it intuition, clairvoyance, or simply a finely tuned internal compass. Call it whatever makes you comfortable.

What matters is this:
Everything unfolded exactly as I said it would.
Down to the how.

Now someone else sits with that rot.
A new mask — beautifully placed. A smooth, Botoxed face. Emotional eating. A transformation from Lilith-bound rebellion to church pews and Bible study. And I can’t help but wonder: what face did he wear before me?

I have always believed that children do not abandon their mothers — not without reason. I stayed far longer than was safe with a severely abusive one myself. And yet, this woman’s children all left. The eldest labeled the “problem.” The middle child — better left undescribed. The youngest… well. Silence says enough.

The last year (of ROT being in my life), there were fake tears. Forced hospital visits. A performance of concern — while a replacement was already lined up. All I hold now is hope. Hope that the mask slips sooner rather than later. That time accelerates. That rot, eventually, cannot stay hidden.

As for me — I own my part.
I allowed it into my life.
I allowed it space.
I allowed it to spread dangerously close.

And in the years since, I have chosen something else.

I bring mirrors.

Not the shallow kind. Not the kind that ask you to play victim or assign blame. The kind that ask you to sit with everything — what you did, and what you did not do.

Own it.
Be it.
Feel it.

That is where healing actually begins.

Did I fall apart? Of course.
Did I feel robbed? Naturally.

But that polished rot delivered a bitter-sweet lesson I will never forget:

Nothing is ever as it seems.
And if something feels too good to be true — trust that feeling.

© The Velvet Hammer

17/01/2026

When most people are counting down to a weekend reset, there are others who don’t stop.
Self-employed. Rescue workers. People whose work doesn’t politely pause because the calendar says so. Rescue doesn’t take weekends off.

I’ll park the irritation about self-entitlement for a moment.

I scroll through messages and responses, and I want to laugh — but I can’t. I genuinely can’t.
What I see isn’t connection; it feels more like desperation dressed up as sharing.

One person wants me to come and help them never wake up.
Another needs therapy.
Another wants power.
Another is depressed.
And the list keeps going.

So here’s an honest question — one that actually deserves an answer:

What exactly do you want the person reading your message to do?

Before anyone reaches for the soft-focus sympathy speech — stop. Think again.

This isn’t Hogwarts.
This is life.
Life hits hard, often, and without warning. Everyone is trying to get to tomorrow a little less tired, a little less bruised than today. No one is sitting around with spare emotional bandwidth waiting to fix strangers.

The idea that another human is responsible for making you feel better is, frankly, ridiculous.
If that’s how this works, someone please send the memo — I clearly missed that class.

And then comes the line I hear most often:
“But you chose to help people.”

Yes. Help.
Not carry.
Not fix.
Not do the work for you.

Help, in my world, means holding up a mirror — an uncomfortable one. Reflecting behaviour back exactly as it is. Pressing where it’s tender. Including the places you don’t want to look, especially those.

Because lying to yourself is still lying.

No cupcake version.
No watered-down feelings.
No spine-free language pretending to be kindness.

If I can sit with a thirteen-year-old, listen calmly, and ask:
“What would you like me to do?”
Then give options — and let her take responsibility for her choice — surely adults can manage the same.

Because here’s the truth no one likes:
You’ll be held accountable whether you like it or not.

But we seem to live in a Hogwarts fantasy, where everyone believes they’re Harry, and a wand will make reality behave.

It won’t.

And that’s where I stop.
URGH.

© The Velvet Hammer


Everyone has a story.Some just don’t have the stamina to live a long one.Like books.Some are hard cover. Fine print. A t...
15/01/2026

Everyone has a story.
Some just don’t have the stamina to live a long one.

Like books.

Some are hard cover. Fine print. A thousand pages you have to earn.
They don’t entertain you — they confront you. They give you a headache because your brain actually has to work.

Others are softcover.
Three hundred pages. Large font. Plenty of spacing.
Easy to read. Easy to forget. Easy to confuse with depth.

This is where I begin.
And yes — this is probably where I end.

Hard cover.
Worn pages. Recycled. Smelling of fire, wine, silence, and the luxury of not needing to perform for anyone while the world waits outside.

I watch people strut around as if they’re carrying the national archive of human experience inside them.
Same story. Same chapter. Same trauma.
Just told from a different angle, hoping perspective will do the work personality never did.

Then there’s me.

I don’t give you the whole book.
I hand you a page now and then — because I already know the truth:

You wouldn’t understand it anyway.

That’s not an insult.
It’s a formatting issue.

You’re softcover — screaming READ ME, PLEASE READ ME — while mistaking volume for value.

I am a universe inside a universe inside a cosmic joke that clearly skipped your orientation session.

What my body has survived in fifty-plus years would have deleted some of you from the gene pool.
I call you snowflakes.

What my mind has endured doesn’t translate into your language.
This isn’t bravado.
This isn’t a competition.
This is fact.

At twenty-three, a doctor looked me in the eye and told me I’d waited too long.
Breast cancer.
Survival odds: laughable.

Cancer — the word that makes people collapse dramatically in places where I simply stood.

I didn’t care much.

That’s usually where you start calling me arrogant, cold, unfeeling — because in your world, emotional disintegration is mandatory.

Here’s the thing:
Your opinion of me is none of my business.

I am not from this land.
This planet.
Possibly not this galaxy.

I don’t care how you feel about that — you’ll advocate your feelings anyway, loudly, poorly informed, and with impressive confidence.

I care about my corner.
My cats.
My dogs.
The jackals I fall asleep to — when your fireworks and noise addictions don’t scare them into silence.

And if I dare ask why you need to be so fu***ng loud, I’m met with Tarzan-tities, flexi-pecs, and Pretoria-powered copy-paste humans who confuse testosterone with substance.

My book is still being written.
Over a thousand pages now.

Imagine the size of it when I finally leave your planet — because no, I don’t see myself as one of you.
I don’t understand you.
And frankly, I’m no longer trying to.

Afrikaans has a saying: so dom soos grond.

But soil isn’t stupid.
Soil grows things.

You call people pigs — as if animals are the insult here.
You call people snakes — without having the courage to stand in tall grass and face something bigger than you with instinct instead of ego.

And I still haven’t told you anything yet.

Only this:
Cancer at twenty-three.
Five rounds later, still standing.
Two hernias.
A pregnancy that tried to kill me.
Thirty days in ICU.
TM. TMD.
Because I don’t do life in half-measures.

I haven’t even touched the part where I was molested from age four — by a statistically impressive collection of pen*s-driven creatures who mistook access for entitlement.

Go ahead.
Call me a man-hater.
I dare you.

Then the r**e — by my mother’s husband.
Layered neatly on top of what he’d already done before escalation felt justified to him.

Then another r**e.

Then people telling me, “You’re so strong.”

Sweetheart — those are just the highlights.

That’s still early chapters.

There is a story here.
A real one.
A brutal, precise, unapologetic one.

But as I said — you’ll never understand it.

Truth and authenticity don’t translate well in your world.

And that’s why you call me the alien.

The Velvet Hammer








You and I are not the same.And there are many days I am deeply grateful for that.You learned how to copy.How to paste yo...
28/12/2025

You and I are not the same.
And there are many days I am deeply grateful for that.

You learned how to copy.
How to paste yourself into shapes that fit.
How to call it adulting, success, normal.
You learned early that silence is safer than honesty,
that shrinking yourself is the entrance fee to belonging.

So you complied.
And now, as a grown human, you silence yourself —
and call it maturity.

Fear rules you.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Through judgement.
Through whispers.
Through the need to label what you cannot place.

And then there is me.

I do not want your life.
I do not want your rehearsed smiles,
your curated outrage,
your borrowed identities held together with approval.

I do not pretend.
I do not decorate lies and call them boundaries.
I am free within myself — uncomfortably free —
and yes, that unsettles people who survive by masks.

I speak when something must be spoken.
I do not insult — I name behaviour.
You make it personal, because truth feels like an attack
when your identity is built on avoidance.

So you judge me.
You recount the one time — once upon a year —
when my patience ended and your comfort did too.
You forget the warnings.
You forget the honesty.
You forget the many moments I tried to speak softly
before truth learned to burn.

And that burning?
That is not cruelty.
That is acid meeting a counterfeit self.

Am I hard? Yes.
Do I sometimes not want to human? Absolutely.
Do I call people stupid?

Let’s be precise.

What do you call doing the same thing over and over,
expecting a different result,
while liking posts that quote Einstein
and pretending insight equals change?

If I’m honest, calling that stupidity is kindness.
The alternative diagnosis is far less flattering.

Then there are those who dr**e themselves in ALL-THAT —
labels, furniture, gifts, aesthetics —
mistaking accumulation for substance.

Do I like beautiful things? Of course.
But I chose something else.
I chose a sanctuary.
I chose mouths to feed instead of rooms to impress.
And no — insanity is not choosing meaning over appearance.
Insanity is mistaking the appearance for meaning.

What exhausts me is not being misunderstood.
It’s believing — again and again —
that if I speak one more time,
someone might finally hear.

Can you hear me?

I am the Watcher.
The Observer.
The one who sees patterns where you see personalities.
Even I can get lost in the pressure to conform —
but conformity would kill a soul shaped like mine.

“Stay inside the lines,” they said.
“Hide in plain sight.”

Why?
Why must I become smaller so you can feel larger?
When did managing your discomfort become my responsibility?

I cannot make you feel guilty.
You grew that emotion yourself
and buried it where self-reflection should live.

I cannot make you anxious.
That wiring was installed long before we met.

I cannot make you feel inferior —
and honestly, I’m still waiting for someone
to explain how that’s even possible.

I do not create your reactions.
I reveal their source.

And yes — I dare.
I dare to say that book-knowledge without embodiment is cowardice.
That wisdom requires skin in the game.
That observation without honesty is just another hiding place.

Did you catch it?

The Watcher.
The Observer.

I see you.
I simply refuse to become you.

And that —
that is what you cannot forgive.

© The Velvet Hammer

20/10/2025

The Night the Idiots Bowled in My Bath

Friday. Just past midnight.
Rattle. Thud. Repeat.
I wake up to find Bobby and Napoleon playing ten-pin bowling in the bath.
A deaf cat bites me (my fault, she can’t hear me coming), I nearly lose a foot, and apparently, the rest of the house sleeps through Armageddon.

Saturday morning.
No dogs fed.
No cats fed.
No humans moving.
Apparently, feeding the animals requires a diploma now.

By evening, I’m limping around in pain, cooking dinner — because heaven forbid anyone else risk effort.
The dogs, bless their souls, sit quietly at my side.
Animals get it.
Humans don’t.

Sunday.
I drive myself to buy an ankle support.
Ask for help.
Get blank stares.
Ask, “Do you know the difference between entitlement and self-entitlement?”
Silence.
Not a phone lookup. Not a thought. Just... buffering faces.

At that moment, I realised — the human race might actually deserve extinction.
Bring on the robots. At least they follow instructions.

By Monday, I’ve accepted it.
I’m feeding everyone — on one foot — while the “so tired” generation scrolls on their phones.

So yes, I’ll say it again, loud enough for the algorithm to hear:

I. Do. Not. Speak. Stupid.

And to my daughter, in my best mom voice:

“Do not grow up to be useless.
Pretty face, hollow mind — no thank you.”

Younger generations, take notes.
Empathy is not optional.
Common sense is not extinct — you just stopped feeding it.





23/09/2025

The Velvet Hammer Speaks Her truth



19/09/2025

Welcome to the Human Accountability Awards, where excuses strut down the red carpet like they’re haute couture.

Nominees include office workers outsourcing their brains to AI, politicians napping through consequences, and social media scrolling like it’s an Olympic sport. Lifetime achievement? Blame-shifting.

Audience favorite?

Pretending to care.

Meanwhile, the real humans—the ones still thinking, still building, still owning their words—sit quietly in the balcony, champagne in hand, watching the circus while sharpening their pens.

The Velvet Hammer

17/09/2025

Known as the Velvet Hammer: I speak truths that make the disillusioned uncomfortable

17/09/2025

The Isolation

Keep following stories of Healing through speaking out about narcissist relationships.

These angelic-looking hollow creatures are everywhere.

Beautiful to the eye, rotten to the core.

#

10/09/2025

The Withholding

Chaper 3

Heal by speaking and releasing. Even if no one listens to you. Your voice is needed. Allow your ears to hear your story





03/09/2025

The mirror that hangs in the hallways but never shows the truth. The mirror we call friends - those we trust and share with, those who will not risk it all for the truth.

Address

Randburg

Opening Hours

Monday 09:00 - 17:00
Tuesday 09:00 - 17:00
Wednesday 09:00 - 17:00
Thursday 09:00 - 17:00
Friday 09:00 - 17:00
Saturday 09:00 - 17:00

Telephone

+27832750664

Website

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Healing Evolution SB posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Contact The Practice

Send a message to Healing Evolution SB:

Shortcuts

Share

Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Share on LinkedIn
Share on Pinterest Share on Reddit Share via Email
Share on WhatsApp Share on Instagram Share on Telegram

Who Are we?

About:

The demand for healing and coaching has risen dramatically over the last 20 years worldwide. In my search and education, I have not seen the two combined.

Here at Healing Evolution the aim is to heal from the past, understand setbacks, learn from experiences.