Kate Didd

Welcome to my newest blog.

Blah blah blah, Kate’s doing too much but not enough. She’s over the top. She’s dramatic. She’s a loser. Great. Fabulous. I’ve heard it all before. It’s funny, isn’t it, how the people watching from the sidelines always have the loudest opinions?

Lately, I’ve been tearing down my old life piece by piece not in destruction, but in reverence. I’m taking it apart carefully this time. Every brick, every memory, every scar. I’m no longer in a rush to burn it all down. I’m studying it. Learning from it. And maybe, in some quiet way, honoring the woman I once was for surviving long enough to rebuild.

But here’s what I’ve learned: healing isn’t about explaining yourself to people who only listen to respond.

So I ask you, why keep talking to those who don’t care to understand?

When Love Was Chaos

My first husband was pure, unfiltered chaos. Loving him was like trying to build a home in a hurricane. There were mistresses who pretended to be my friends. Lies that twisted themselves into lullabies. Money that vanished without reason, and mind games that kept me guessing my worth.

Closure came not through forgiveness, but observation. Watching him repeat the same toxic dance with someone new.

She was the next “me.” The new project. The next woman convinced she could love him into becoming a man. She reached out, full of questions, questions I had already answered years ago. But the truth is, some people don’t want answers. They want validation for choosing the wrong person and calling it fate.

Have you ever watched someone beg a narcissist for love and thought, I used to be her?

I tried to help her. I really did. Even when she slut-shamed me, mocked me, mimicked his words, I recognized the pattern. The puppet master doesn’t need to speak when his victims learn his language. Still, she gave me something precious: a new standard. The lowest level of treatment I will ever accept again.

And maybe that’s where my healing began in realizing I no longer needed to compete for the bare minimum.

When Kindness Becomes Armor

Ten years passed. Ten years of rediscovering myself, reshaping my peace, and learning that silence can be sacred.

Which brings me to the next chapter my second marriage.

I won’t unpack it all here because some stories are still untangling themselves. But I’ll say this: leaving wasn’t out of hate. It was out of clarity.

People confuse kindness with weakness. They mistake turning the other cheek as surrender. But real kindness, intentional kindness, is power reclaimed. It says:

“I see your behavior, I understand your intent, and I choose not to match your chaos.”

Do you know what it’s like to be so grounded that even your silence speaks boundaries?

Criticism doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s gold. Every insult, every assumption they’re mirrors showing me what others project, not who I am. Because here’s the truth: I’m solid. I know my value. I am the calm after every storm that tried to drown me.

Butterflies and Warning Bells

It’s easy to look back and dissect the past. The what-ifs are endless. The self-blame seductive.

I used to think butterflies meant love. That dizzy, heart-racing feeling I thought it was passion. But I’ve learned that butterflies are actually the body whispering, run. That’s your nervous system warning you that you’re unsafe.

Love shouldn’t make you anxious. It should steady your breath.

Now, my PTSD has its own rhythm. It doesn’t ask permission to appear. It arrives mid-conversation, mid-laugh, mid-life and suddenly, I crumble. Healing isn’t linear. Some days I rise, some days I melt. Both are progress.

Leaving my second husband wasn’t about resentment it was about refusing to rot in complacency. Because comfort without growth is its own kind of death, isn’t it?

The Stranger and the Stillness

And then one night, a dark room, dim light, quiet hum, I locked eyes with a stranger. Nothing cinematic. No sparks flying, no slow-motion moment. Just stillness. A flicker of something familiar in his eyes. Recognition.

We spoke boundaries before small talk. Both of us nervous, both of us guarded. We talked about trauma and healing, about what love feels like when you’ve lost it too many times.

There were no butterflies. No chaos. No panic.

Just peace. Just breath.

Have you ever met someone who makes the air feel lighter? Like for once, love doesn’t demand your suffering?

It’s confusing when peace feels foreign. When calm feels like danger because you’ve only known love as survival. But slowly, you start to believe that maybe, just maybe safety can feel like love too.

Becoming the Rebuild

I think back to that first husband’s mistress, the one who hated me because she didn’t understand me. To the friends who whispered, You deserve more magic. To the second husband who couldn’t match my growth. And now, to this man who says, “I don’t care if it’s messy. I want you. Just you.”

Whether this story lasts or not isn’t the point. The point is that I’ve finally stopped begging for love that hurts.

I ask for what I want.

I give what I can.

And I no longer apologize for being too much.

Because being “too much” just means I was never meant to fit inside anyone else’s comfort zone.

So, to anyone reading this . . .

If you knew your worth wasn’t negotiable, how different would your love story look?

If you could rebuild your life, brick by brick, what would you choose to keep?

Key Takeaway:

Healing isn’t about proving your past wrong, it’s about proving your future right.

You are not hard to love. You were just loving people who weren’t ready.