I Don’t Want Pretty Promises, I Want Something Real

In this post, I write about rejecting empty promises in favor of real, messy hope. It is a heartfelt rejection of superficial comfort and overly polished positivity. It’s a call for genuine hope, the kind that may be imperfect, that acknowledges pain, and shows up despite fear. It's about choosing truth over empty phrases and presence over perfection.

Content Ideas

Don't Tell Me...

Don’t tell me it’ll get better.
Don’t wrap it in sunshine and ribbon and quotes in cursive font.
Don’t give me your best impression of hope if it’s just meant to keep me quiet.

I don’t want pretty promises.
I want something I can hold onto in the dark. Something that doesn’t disappear when the lights go out, and my chest tightens, and everything in me says, not again, I can’t do this again.

I Want...

I want something messy. Something flawed. I want the version of hope that limps. That flinches. That still shows up with scraped knees and a cigarette burn in its shirt.

I want the version of “it will get better” that looks like this:

me showing up when I don’t want to,
breathing even when I wish I didn’t have to,
answering a message with “I’m not okay” instead of lying.

I want the kind of real that hurts a little.
The kind that’s not trying to sell me healing as a timeline or a transformation.
The kind that lets me cry without apology. Without fixing. Without someone leaning in with a solution like I’m a broken machine.

I want the space to be soft and scared.
To be all contradiction.
To say “I’m tired” and “I’m trying” in the same breath.
To admit I don’t believe in anything some days, and still keep going.

That’s what my hope looks like

It’s not a vision board.
It’s not a five-year plan.
It’s not the voice that says, “You’ve got this!” with an empty grin.

It’s the voice that whispers, “You don’t have to get this. Just get through this.”

It’s putting one foot in front of the other when everything aches.
It’s folding laundry with tears in my eyes.
It’s texting “I’m here” to someone who’s unraveling, even when I am too.

That’s my kind of hope.
Not the clean, polished kind.
The kind with dirt under its nails.
The kind that sits with me in silence instead of trying to fill it.
The kind that doesn’t flinch when I say I’m not okay.
The kind that lets me be a human being.

So please...don’t give me pretty promises.
Give me presence.
Give me truth, even if it’s ugly.
Give me your shaky voice, your exhausted heart, your real.

Because the only thing that’s ever gotten me through the dark is knowing I’m not alone in it.

I hope you enjoy reading this blog post. If you'd like to explore it more deeply, read more in this series of thoughts.

HEY, I’M RAMONA…

... And I write for women who shut down instead of breaking down, women who overthink everything, say nothing, and carry their whole life quietly inside.

I don’t write for the confident part of you. I write for the trembling one.
The overthinking one.
The one who apologizes before they breathe.
The one who’s been “strong” for so long, it became a kind of loneliness.

I don’t write for virality. I write for recognition. For the moment, someone whispers, “I didn’t know anyone else felt this.”

That is the metric I serve.

I hope my words and thoughts connect with you.

MY STORY