Vanishing Acts

When the danger is immediate,

go without ceremony.

Leave mid-sentence if you have to.

Abandon the cart in the middle of the aisle

when the man who hurt you

appears in a store he has no business being in.

You don’t owe anyone an explanation.

Walk straight to your car.

Lock the doors.

Drive until the air feels safe enough to breathe.

Turn the music up loud —

angry lyrics, heavy bass,

something your chest can pound along to.

Sing until your voice cracks.

The clean escape is not rude —

it’s the only way you survive.

When the noise is constant but not urgent,

fade slowly.

Let messages wait.

Smile less.

Quietly excuse yourself,

find the nearest bathroom,

and let the tears fall where no one can see.

You were taught tears are a weakness,

so when someone points them out

it pulls you deeper into yourself.

In private, you can let them fall freely,

wipe them away,

and return to the room wearing the face

they’re used to.

When the harm runs deep,

go all at once and don’t return.

Change your habits so completely

they become your new normal without effort.

Block the numbers.

Rebuild your life over the spot they once stood.

Letting go barely hurts

when you know you’re protecting yourself

and the children who deserve better.

Toxic people have no place here.

You’ve earned peace,

and you refuse to pass down

what nearly destroyed you.

That’s the part they never tell you —

the absence becomes its own kind of strength.

And when someone says they haven’t seen you in a while,

smile like it’s a compliment.

Tell them you’ve been right here.

Because you have —

just not anywhere they could reach.