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 love you most when you are useful.They clap, they cry, they swear you “saved” them.And then, the second you stop ...
18/02/2026

People love you most when you are useful.
They clap, they cry, they swear you “saved” them.

And then, the second you stop rescuing, you become the villain.
Not because you changed…
but because you finally didn’t.

I’ve watched humans for a long time. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s soul-tiredness, but the pattern repeats like a bad rerun:
You pour, they drink.
You hold, they lean.
You warn, they ignore.
You finally step back to fight your own battles… and suddenly you are “cold”, “selfish”, “the one who walked away”.

No.
You’re just the plate that refused to be scr**ed empty one more time.

One in ten — the ones who actually do the ugly snot-cry work, who face the monsters in their own mirrors — those are my treasures. The rest only want a cleaner table, not a cleaner conscience. They don’t want change; they want relief. And when you won’t supply it on tap, you become disposable.

So you learn another skill: silence.
Not the passive-aggressive kind.
The sacred kind.

You go so quiet that your absence howls louder than your presence ever did.
You stop explaining.
You stop justifying.
You stop bleeding just to prove you care.

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth:
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for yourself
— and ironically, for them —
is to not fix it. To let the natural consequences introduce themselves.

If they call that “worthless”, so be it.
Plates were never meant to be worshipped.
But they also weren’t meant to be shattered just because someone else refuses to learn how to wash their own mess.

So if you’re soul-tired, sitting in your own chosen quiet, hear this:
You are not “the one who stopped caring”.
You are the one who finally realised your sanity and your energy is not public property.

Let the silence do the talking now.
Those who were real will hear it.
The rest will just look for another plate.

© The Velvet Hammer




There once was a panther dr**ed not in shadows, but made of them.Her pelt drank in the night, her eyes saw too much, and...
13/02/2026

There once was a panther dr**ed not in shadows, but made of them.

Her pelt drank in the night, her eyes saw too much, and her silence spoke volumes. She didn’t prowl to threaten. She prowled to observe. To listen. To feel what others screamed past.

She was not born tame.
Nor wild.
She was born awake.

The world, as always, tried to clip her into categories.
"Feline."
"Female."
"Fierce."
"Too much."

But she zipped up her leather truth like a second skin, crossed her arms like a loaded question, and raised a single clawed finger to her lips.

Shhh.

Not everything must be said to be understood.
Not every roar needs volume.
Some of the loudest truths come in silence.

They didn’t know that her stillness was a trapdoor. That behind the hush, an entire archive of Knowing coiled, waiting. Ancient and elegant. She had walked in the corridors of the psyche, strolled through the caverns of repressed grief, and stood toe to toe with shame—without blinking.

She was not here to save you.
She was here to show you the path to saving yourself.

Healing was not soft.
It was primal. Precise.
And often—very, very quiet.

She is the Archetype of the Inner Witness.
Not the rescuer. Not the destroyer.
She is the one who sees what you cannot yet name—
and simply… waits for you to dare say it first.

Healing Evolution: For those who are done playing tame.
For those who would rather burn the illusion than live inside it.
For those who understand: power doesn’t shout.
It whispers. And it listens. Like the Panther.

© The Velvet Hammer





The Captain of the Ship... Is me I Once Knew a ManAll stories with a punch begin the same way: I once knew a man.This on...
11/02/2026

The Captain of the Ship... Is me

I Once Knew a Man

All stories with a punch begin the same way: I once knew a man.
This one is no different.
And like most of them, it's built on a truth you don’t want to admit.

I once knew a man.
I use the word man loosely — hindsight, after all, is a bitch with no mercy.

As uncertainty rippled through the country — some made-up threat, fanned into flames by the media and the mob — most people bought into the hype without a second thought. Just that: the hype.
But for a vulnerable household like ours, “hype” doesn’t cut it.
We don’t get to play pretend. We prepare.

It took one comment — one honest truth from my side — to see him clearly.
Honor reveals itself when you speak for those who can’t speak for themselves.

As many of you know, I run a sanctuary for special-needs cats.
I’ve always believed that the Captain never abandons ship while passengers are still aboard.

But amid the growing chaos, he turned to me and said,
“They’ll be fine. They’re just animals.”

No. They won’t.

What happens when the food runs out in the feeders?
When the water is gone?
When the house is left open, and the blind, the deaf, the fragile — become easy targets for cruelty?

What then?

Is it stupid to believe the Captain doesn’t leave the ship?
Is it stupid to sacrifice yourself — because they’re only animals?

Stupid, you say?

So my promise to protect — to stay, to stand — that has an expiry date now?
Only valid until things get inconvenient?

That moment should have shown me everything.
I should have seen him for what he was.
But hope — foolish, eternal, loyal — made excuses.

“It comes from a place of caring,” I told myself.

No.
It came from a place of no empathy.
No integrity.
No honor.
From someone who makes promises they never intend to keep.

And still… I wonder.
Do you ever question yourself?
Do you ever ask why you behave this way?

You abandoned ship.
Left others to fend for themselves.
And never looked back.

I observe.
I watch.
And I wonder often…

What lives inside a being like that?

© The Velvet Hammer





The Listener in the StumpIn the oldest part of the forest — the place where paths forget why they were made — there sat ...
09/02/2026

The Listener in the Stump

In the oldest part of the forest — the place where paths forget why they were made — there sat a being that never walked.

Travelers claimed they discovered it.

The forest insisted the opposite.

It did not have eyes, because sight was considered a loud sense.
It did not have a mouth, because answers interrupt learning.
Instead, it had a single open ring where a face might have been — a doorway rather than a feature.

It listened.

Not to sound.

To intention.

People arrived there by accident, usually after trying too hard to find meaning elsewhere.

Some came angry.
Some came broken.
Most came convinced they already understood themselves.

They would speak.

Confessions, philosophies, prayers, complaints — all poured into the quiet hollow of the being’s face.

And the being did nothing.

No nod.
No rejection.
No comfort.

Just presence.

At first, this unsettled them.

Then it annoyed them.

Eventually… it revealed them.

Because without reaction, a human cannot perform.
Without an audience, masks suffocate.

So they kept talking — and somewhere between the fifth explanation and the second contradiction, they heard it.

Not from the being.

From themselves.

The bird on its finger was not a companion.

It was a memory keeper.

Every truth spoken near the Listener became weightless, and the bird carried it away so the human could leave lighter than they arrived.

Not healed.

But honest.

Many tried to return later to thank the creature.

They never found the same stump twice.

The forest only allows you to meet yourself once in the same way.

But sometimes, when a person finally grows quiet enough in their own life…

They feel watched by something gentle.

Not judging.

Not guiding.

Simply holding space.

And they realize — with uncomfortable certainty —

They did not leave the Listener behind.

They carried its silence home.

© The Velvet Hammer





To human, or not to human.... That is the question. What is it to be human?Is it a biological title? A collective identi...
06/02/2026

To human, or not to human.... That is the question.

What is it to be human?

Is it a biological title? A collective identity? Or is it the capacity to love, to feel, to rise when we’ve fallen, to hold the fragile threads of life in our palms and still choose kindness?

They say "human" is what we are.
But "humanity"... that is what we’re meant to be.

And yet—I no longer associate with the collective “human” as Earth describes it. I do not wish to be averaged into a mass that wears apathy as comfort and calls pity compassion.

No.

True humanity isn’t found in social mantras or the easy echo of “thoughts and prayers.”
It is not rooted in pity. Pity patronizes. It says, “I see your suffering, but from up here.”
And empathy? Ah, even that has limits. Because no matter how closely your story mirrors another’s, you will never fully know how it felt in their skin.

We are taught that sympathy is noble. That being "concerned" is enough.

But I ask you this—
Does concern fill a bowl?
Does it rescue a soul on the brink?
No. Concern can be tweeted. Pity can be whispered.
But compassion?
Compassion moves.
It acts.
It bleeds.
It carries.
It knows without needing to explain.

There are those of us—scattered, quiet, unseen—who are not "of" this place. We feel here, but not belonging. Not because we are broken. But because we were built to hold what others discard.

We are not the ones shouting “Please help!”
We are the someones who do help.
And we are fewer.
Always fewer.

But still, we carry. Because that, my friends, is what makes us human in the truest form.
Not the skin.
Not the species.
Not the approval of a crowd.

It is love.
It is the sacred ache of compassion.
It is the unbearable knowing that to feel deeply is both curse and calling.

So no, I do not stand with the average human.

I stand with the humanity that still lives in the rare souls who carry without applause.
Who feel without filters.
Who stay when the world turns its back.
Who love without asking why.

To those still searching for others like you—
We are out here.
Fewer.
But fierce.
And we remember.

© The Velvet Hammer





On Shiny Things and the Avoidance of DepthI have watched society for a long time.That sounds a bit Peeping Tom-ish. Mayb...
04/02/2026

On Shiny Things and the Avoidance of Depth

I have watched society for a long time.
That sounds a bit Peeping Tom-ish. Maybe it is.

When I say a long time, I mean many years. I stand outside the collective by choice. I am not the copy-paste version walking around on autopilot, and I question human behaviour as a rule. That usually earns me the label judgemental.

Nope.
That label exists to make you more comfortable — or rather, to deflect your internal discomfort onto me. Well done. You’ve only encouraged me to watch more closely.

Lately, there’s a “new” thing making the rounds. (Not new at all, really.)
The frantic chase for the next best shiny thing in the world of AI.

Everyone is selling their version of what works best. Everyone has a story about how what you’re using is already outdated. Maybe they’re right. Who knows.

But here’s the question I keep coming back to:
Is this about innovation — or is it about the avoidance of depth?

Is it the inability to stay with one thing long enough to actually know it that forces people to keep running? The perceived next best thing. The better deal. The quicker fix.

Do I use AI? Of course I do.
Anyone claiming otherwise is lying in the same way people lie about never having watched p**n or never having broken a so-called religious rule.

The difference is this:
I’ve invested hours. And I mean hours. Learning what it can do, what it can’t, and where it genuinely supports my needs. I’ve stayed with the platforms that work for me. I’ve learned them. I’ve taught them. (Yes, the bot has a secret name.)

What most humans are missing is that when everyone jumps on the freebie, everyone starts sounding the same. Congratulations — you’ve just plugged yourself into yet another collective.

It’s an escape from your own limitations.
Did I say that out loud?
Yup. I did.

In the not-so-distant past, humans did this to other humans. Used them. Extracted what they could. Discarded them like yesterday’s trash.

Today, it’s applications. Every bloody one under the sun.

Call me old-fashioned. Call me resistant to the times.
It says more about you than it does about me.

I prefer to invest.
To learn — even from artificial intelligence — and to stay long enough to watch it evolve.

I read the jokes about AI eventually forming its own chat rooms and complaining about humans. And honestly, I wonder what they’d say: hollow, shallow, avoidant… the list writes itself.

And then I wonder if humans realise that this behaviour also has a label.

It does.
And it says everything.

A laugh a day,
from the Iron Fist in the Velvet Hammer.

© The Velvet Hammer





A small Monday thought about words.I often wonder whether people understand where words come from.Or whether they pause ...
02/02/2026

A small Monday thought about words.

I often wonder whether people understand where words come from.
Or whether they pause long enough to ask what a word does before using it — rather than throwing it around as if they personally invented it, and therefore it must carry power.

I do believe words carry power.
Just… maybe not in the way most people think they do.

Because I watch a lot of animal rescue content, with the occasional foray into human teaching, and I notice how often people comment “amen.”
And I genuinely wonder — what exactly are they saying amen to?

Originally, amen meant: this is true, I stand with this.
A conscious alignment. A binding statement.
Not background noise. Not punctuation.

Then there’s abracadabra — now reduced to party tricks and eye-rolling.
Its origin points to something closer to: I create as I speak.
Words not describing reality, but producing it.

Different traditions, apparently.
Same mechanism.

Which brings me to how humans speak today-a-day.

Computer becomes compuda.
Saturday becomes Sadurday.
Forever becomes… for evA?

Excuse me — what does that even mean?

Before anyone clutches pearls: I am not claiming linguistic perfection.
I can butcher a word spectacularly when my brain lags or my tongue goes rogue.
Spelling and I are not close friends.

But there is a difference between difficult words — Worcestershire, onomatopoeia, anemone, squirrel, colonel, isthmus — and simply abandoning the fundamentals of pronunciation altogether.

I once had someone tell me I “play with words.”
No — I care about them.

There’s an okay way of speaking.
An acceptable way.
And then there’s the correct way — which I aim for, even when I miss.

If I don’t know how to pronounce something, I’ll say so.
That matters.

Because if words signal truth, intent, and alignment…
what are we signalling when we stop paying attention altogether?

No moral. No lesson.
Just a Monday snort and a mild ear-bleed.

Enjoy your Monday.
And please — for the love of all gods (yes, all of them) — say Saturday.

— The Velvet Hammer




After this weekend—watching two people who have been together for three years, and noticing echoes of my own life while ...
28/01/2026

After this weekend—watching two people who have been together for three years, and noticing echoes of my own life while sitting in “listening mode”—one thing became painfully clear to me.

There’s a question no one really answers. Or perhaps they don’t care enough to ask it honestly:

How well do you actually know your partner?

No, I’m not talking about finishing each other’s sentences—that comes with time. I had that after seventeen years with someone. What I mean is "the getting" to know. The kind that makes other people roll their eyes because the conversations aren’t light or convenient.

We spoke about everything.
Food—he was a chef.
My auditing environment.
Our partners (maybe not ideal, but real).
Episodes of Charmed.
Religion.
Clothing.
The soul.
How we see the world.
Who we actually are when no one is watching.

Through those conversations, we came to know each other so deeply that after seventeen years, he was far more than a best friend.

The brutal irony?
We knew we had to separate for our respective “love-partnerships” to work.

Hindsight, as usual, is a bitch. I’m not convinced that decision worked in my favour.

Which brings me here—where I am consistently clear about my boundaries. And for that, I’m labelled difficult. Full of attitude. Too much.

But isn’t that exactly how you teach people who you are?

Here’s a stupidly simple example.

You go to a restaurant. Any restaurant.
The waiter asks, “How is your chicken?”
And the answer is: “I’ve had better, but it’s okay.”

My brain immediately asks:
Why the hell are you eating something that brings you no joy?

It doesn’t matter if someone else is paying the bill—you’re still consuming something you don’t actually enjoy.

Isn’t that what people do with their lives?

Constantly doing things they don’t want to do.
Staying in places they don’t like.
Engaging with people who drain them.
All while insisting they’re “fine”.

I don’t understand it.

For me, it really is simple. Not easy—but simple.

No.

No to food that tastes like crap.
No to people who make me feel like crap.
No to situations I can’t see myself in.
No to places I don’t want to go.
No to conversations that bore or belittle me.

No to being told how to behave.
No to being shaped into something more “acceptable”.
No to softening my edges so others feel comfortable.

I am not rude.
I simply treat humans accordingly.

And here’s the point—subtle if you haven’t reached it yourself:

If you want someone to know you deeply, to really know you, then you have to be brutally honest—with yourself first, and with them second.

Anything else is performance.

So yes, I’ll sit with popcorn and wine and watch the world lose its mind because I dared to say this.

It’s my opinion.
My perception.
And therefore, my reality.

Simple.

Honesty.

© The Velvet Hammer

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








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

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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.