Stella Reddy's Story of Hope

Some days, healing feels like standing on the edge of the ocean in Newfoundland, wind whipping my face, salt air stinging my skin, and the waves crashing louder than my thoughts. It’s not always peaceful. It’s not always pretty. But it’s real. And it’s mine.

I’ve learned that healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a spiral. I circle back to old wounds, but each time I do, I’m stronger. I see more. I feel more. I understand more. On the hard days, I remind myself: this is part of the process.

I used to think healing meant never crying again. Never feeling triggered. Never doubting myself. But I know now that healing means I can cry and still feel safe. I can be triggered and still choose how I respond. I can doubt myself and still show up anyway.

Some days, I wake up with a heavy heart. The kind that makes me want to hide away. But I don’t. Not anymore. I sit with it. I breathe through it. I walk the trails near my home and let the wind remind me that I’m still here. Still healing.

Take the Tribunal hearing on Monday. I signed in as an observer, knowing it involved the toxic tenants I dealt with for nine long years. It took courage—real courage—to show up, not knowing if my name would be dragged into it again or what kind of reaction I’d face. But I showed up anyway. And I got my answer.

His tired refrains and lies don’t land anymore. They don’t shake me. I felt it in my body that day: I’m no longer tethered to his version of me. I remained calm. I’m okay with being the villain in his story, because I know now—it’s not mine. His narrative doesn’t define me. He doesn’t know me, and it clearly showed that day.

I’ve stopped expecting perfection. I’ve started choosing grace. Grace for the tears. Grace for the slow progress. Grace for the messy middle. I’ve learned to forgive myself for not knowing then what I know now. That’s a big one. I used to carry so much shame. Now I carry compassion.

I’ve faced my fears—of speaking up, of being seen, of being misunderstood. I’ve walked into rooms that used to terrify me and found my voice again. I’ve rebuilt trust in myself, brick by brick, moment by moment. That trust is sacred.

On hard days, I lean into the truth: I am not broken. I am becoming. I am not weak. I am wise. I am not alone. I am loved.

Healing feels like reclaiming my story. It feels like laughing again. It feels like planning for events and actually looking forward to them. It feels like knowing I deserve joy, even when the past tries to whisper otherwise.

I’ve come a long way. And I’m still walking. Even on the hard days. Always…