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

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.

31/08/2025

The Velvet Shadow is sharing her vulnerability during a hard lesson.

This is based on actual and real facts.

Chapter 1

Welcome to the journey of the narcissist - in its most valid form and behaviours.







22/08/2025

The Velvet Shadow is extending a journey of healing, walking the Bone Path.

You can survive a narcissist.

For the lazy "bones" no need to read, I've adjusted my way of engaging for you - you can just listen.








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Randburg

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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.