Nobody’s Coming to Save Me—And That’s When I Got Dangerous

Let’s kill the fairy tale now.

No one is coming.

Not your mom. She’s dead.
Not your brother. He’s in the dirt.
Not your friends—they’ve got their own ghosts to exorcise.
Not your job. Not your therapist. Not your Spotify playlist or your wellness routine or your goddamn curated morning sunlight.

There is no cavalry.
There is no last-minute rescue.
There’s just you.

You and the ache in your sternum.
You and the sound of your own voice echoing off a bathroom mirror at 2AM.
You and whatever scraps of resolve you haven’t already sold to someone else’s expectations.

You spend your childhood learning to be “good.”
Helpful. Supportive. The one who shows up.
You get addicted to applause.
To praise for your resilience.
You become a martyr with an Instagram account—bleeding for the algorithm.

But when it hits the fan—really hits the fan—
and you’re the one breaking,
the silence is deafening.

You realize you’re alone.
And that’s not the tragedy.
That’s the fucking gift.

Because once you see it—truly see it—
you stop asking the world for permission.
You stop waiting for help.
You stop hoping someone will tap you on the shoulder and say, “Hey. You’re allowed to want something. You’re allowed to take up space.”

You take it.

You become dangerous.

Not in the cartoon-villain, tough-guy sense.
In the “I don’t need your approval to breathe anymore” sense.

The kind of dangerous that makes small men nervous and large systems sweat.
The kind that doesn’t break when denied.
The kind that turns grief into gasoline and sets the past on fire.

You want to know the truth?

Every powerful person you admire had a moment like this.
Not a breakthrough.
A breakdown.

When the last support beam gave out and they freefell into the fucking abyss.

And they hit the bottom.
And they stood up anyway.

They stopped auditioning for love.
Stopped begging for permission.
Stopped dressing their trauma up as humility.

They got loud.
They got weird.
They got free.

That’s what I did.
Or maybe more accurately—that’s what I’m still doing.

Every time I say what I mean instead of what’s polite.
Every time I write something that scares me.
Every time I stop chasing someone who couldn’t be bothered to notice I was drowning.

I become more of myself.
And less of what the world wanted me to be.

Nobody’s coming to save me.
So I started building the lifeboat myself.
Out of rage. Out of hunger. Out of whatever scraps I had left.

And then I set it on fire.
Because I’m not sailing to safety.
I’m turning this whole fucking ocean into a new world.

You want to be free?
You want to be dangerous?

Start here:
Admit it.
Nobody’s coming.

Now act like it.