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Georgia

<h1>The Battles You Can’t See</h1>
An Honest Look at Mental Illness, Survival, and Choosing to Rise Again
By ☽Karlee Alyssa🦋

I live with severe anxiety—both social and general. It’s not just being nervous. It’s my heart pounding like I’m in danger when I’m only walking into a grocery store. It’s overthinking every word I say, convinced people are judging me. It’s sweating through my shirt before I’ve even opened my mouth.

Depression is just as brutal. It makes everyday life feel impossible. Some mornings, even brushing my teeth feels like running a marathon. Depression isn’t sadness—it’s emptiness. It’s feeling like nothing matters, like I’m moving through life with no color, no energy, no reason.

On top of that, I can’t remember the last time I slept well. Chronic insomnia keeps me awake while the world rests. My body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to shut down. I lie in the dark, replaying every fear and every regret, until the sun comes up and I’m already drained before the day has even started.

Trauma adds another layer I never asked for. PTSD and CPTSD keep me carrying the past into the present. A sound, a smell, a tone of voice can rip me back into memories I wish I could bury. My body reacts before I can even process it—shaking, crying, shutting down. Trauma doesn’t ask permission; it just shows up and takes over.

And then there’s ADHD. My mind runs like a browser with too many tabs open. I start ten things and finish none. I lose focus, forget what I was doing, and spiral into frustration. It feels like my brain is always racing but never reaching the finish line.

Living with all of this at once is exhausting. It’s a war I fight inside myself every single day that no one else can see. Some days I manage to push through. Some days I just survive. But either way, I’m still here. 

And that matters. Because every time I wake up—every time I choose to keep fighting—I prove my strength. I may carry anxiety, depression, trauma, and sleepless nights, but I also carry resilience. I carry survival. I carry a determination that even my darkest days couldn’t kill. 

I am still here. And that means I still have a chance to heal, to grow, to build the life I deserve.

Magma makes every moment matter. Create digital, mini-magazines to share your life’s greatest experiences.

Mental illness tried to break me—but resilience wouldn’t let it. Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@alexxingplus?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Alex Sherstnev</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Unsplash</a> — @undefined's mag on Magma

Lifestyle

<h1>Unapologetic Flesh</h1>
On claiming pleasure without apology.
By☽Karlee Alyssa🦋

My sexuality isn’t something I tuck away.

It’s not a secret I hide behind small smiles or polite silence. It’s woven into me—the way I move, the way I kiss, the way I express it in everything I do, the way I can’t help but crave connection that’s both skin-deep and soul-deep.

I’ve learned not to be afraid of wanting.
Not to be ashamed of needing sex the way I need air. When I want someone, I show it. In the way my eyes linger, in the way my body leans closer, in the way I express it, in the way my hands don’t hesitate. 

Sometimes it’s tender—the kind of sex where every touch feels like a promise, every kiss like it could heal something broken inside me. Other times it’s raw and rough, sweat-slick and urgent, like I’m trying to climb inside their body just to feel how alive we both are. I don’t pretend otherwise.

What I want, I ask for.
What I feel, I express.
If I ache, I let it be known.
There’s no shame in being turned on, no guilt in loving the way a man’s breath catches when my mouth finds his skin.

My sexuality is mine—it doesn’t exist for approval or applause.

It’s how I claim joy, how I burn off pain, how I remind myself I am alive and worthy of every ounce of pleasure this body can handle. 

I don’t filter it.
I don’t dilute it.
I live it—messy, hungry, soft, wild.
And I’m not afraid of a damn thing it brings out of me.

My sexuality is mine—it doesn’t exist for approval or applause. Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@devasangbam?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Dev Asangbam</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Unsplash</a> — @undefined's mag on Magma

Romance

<h1>Tell Me Again, That I’m Yours—Part III:</h1>
<h2>The Becoming </h2>

It wasn’t just love anymore. It was language. A silent one we spoke with glances, with touch, with the way he always reached for my hand in the dark like he couldn’t sleep without knowing I was still there.

—

We didn’t need constant words—we had presence. Like when I was lost in thought, staring out the window with coffee, and he came up behind me just to rest his chin on my shoulder and let the silence wrap us both in something warmer than speech.

He started saying “we” without realizing it. “We should try that restaurant.”
“We could put a hammock out back.”
“We should take your son to the beach this summer.”

That “we” started to feel like home.

⸻

One night, after a long shift and a harder day, I came home to soft music playing. The lights were low. My favorite hoodie of his was folded on the bed, and a single note sat on top:

“You don’t have to be strong tonight. Just come be mine.”

When I walked into the living room, he was there—arms open, like refuge.
I sank into him like a prayer I hadn’t realized I’d been whispering for years.

He didn’t try to fix me. He just held me. Let me unravel. And when I finally looked up, mascara streaked and red-eyed, he kissed my forehead like it was the most beautiful part of me.

⸻

Later that night, he didn’t undress me like he wanted my body. He undressed me like he worshipped my soul. Every scar. Every stretch mark. Every story my skin had stored.

He kissed each one like it was sacred.

And when we moved together—slow, deep, real—it wasn’t about sex. It was about becoming. About safety. About knowing that love could be fire and softness.

He whispered “I’m not going anywhere” into my skin like a vow.

⸻

We started dreaming out loud after that. Not just about forever… but about how we’d build it.

Where we’d live. What the porch would look like. What pets we’d have. What we’d name the baby, if one ever came.

It wasn’t fantasy. It was blueprint.

And that’s when I realized:

He wasn’t just the man I was falling for.

He was the man I was becoming myself with.

Not fantasy. Blueprint Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@roderick_laka?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Roderick Laka</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Unsplash</a> — @undefined's mag on Magma

Astronomy

<h1>The Lesson Of Us</h1>
<h2>Not all soulmates heal—some scar you so you finally learn.</h2>

He wasn’t meant to be my forever. I see that now. He was the kind of person you collide with, not the kind you build with. At first it felt like fate—instant, magnetic, bigger than both of us. But underneath it, there was a heaviness I kept trying to ignore.

With him, everything was intense. The highs made me dizzy, the lows cut me open. I thought that kind of passion had to mean love, but really it was chaos. We kept repeating the same arguments, the same cycles—makeup, fallout, repeat. I kept telling myself it was worth it because the connection felt unshakable. But what I didn’t want to admit was that it was also toxic.

He knew how to get under my skin, how to pull the best and worst out of me. And I let him. I stayed longer than I should have because I was hooked on the way he made me feel alive, even when it was destroying me. I confused his intensity with depth. I thought the fire meant we were meant to be, when really it was just fire—burning me down.

Looking back, I realize he wasn’t a mistake. He was a lesson. He forced me to face the parts of myself I kept ignoring—why I accepted less, why I confused pain for love, why I thought being chosen sometimes was better than not being chosen at all.

It hurt like hell, but he showed me what I can’t allow anymore. He made me stronger in a backwards way. Because of him, I’ll never again mistake chaos for connection. I’ll never again fight for someone who won’t fight for me.

He wasn’t my forever. He was my wake-up call.

Some connections aren’t meant to last—they’re meant to wake you up. This was one of those soulmate contracts. Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@deandon?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Dean Cui</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Unsplash</a> — @undefined's mag on Magma

<h1>Iron In My Veins</h1>
I am not the tragedy. I am the proof it didn’t win

I’ve been broken open, left bleeding in the dark corners of my own life, learning the language of silence because nobody stayed long enough to hear the scream.

I’ve been told to shrink—to be softer, smaller, to fold my edges down like paper cuts.
But the truth is, my edges are the only reason I survived.

I am the bruise that healed into armor,
the scar that glittered instead of faded.
Every betrayal stitched me together tighter, every loss carved space
for a stronger version of me to stand in.

Resilience isn’t pretty.
It’s not a sunrise Instagrammed to perfection.
It’s waking up after three sleepless nights with eyes that still burn, yet refusing to bow.
It’s saying, I’m not fine—but walking forward anyway, because “fine” was never the point.

Self-worth isn’t a gift they hand you.
It’s a war you fight inside your own chest.
It’s looking in the mirror, seeing the wreckage, and still whispering—you deserve more than this.

And overcoming?
That’s not a finish line.
It’s not a medal or a moment.
It’s a choice I keep making every damn day: to get up, to keep breathing, to remember that my story isn’t just what broke me—it’s what I built from the ruins.

So call me stubborn, call me a storm,
call me a survivor—but understand this:
I am not the tragedy.
I am the aftermath.
And the aftermath is alive.

I am not the traged, I am the proof it didn’t win. Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@rgaleriacom?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Ricardo Gomez Angel</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Unsplash</a> — @undefined's mag on Magma

Wellness

<h1>Who I Am When I’m Alone</h1>
When Silence Isn’t Empty

When I’m alone, I don’t have to perform. There’s no version of me holding it together for anyone else’s comfort. I’m just… me. The real one. The messy one. The one who sometimes leaves the laundry in a chair for days or reheats the same cup of coffee three times because I can’t be bothered to finish it.

The silence gets loud. Some nights it feels like background rain—soft, steady, almost comforting. Other nights, it’s a storm that won’t let up, throwing every memory, every regret, every loss at me all at once. I stand in it anyway.

When I’m alone, I notice things I usually ignore. The way the kettle screams like it has something urgent to say. The way the ceiling seems to listen when I talk out loud because I don’t trust my own thoughts locked inside my head. I’ll set down an extra coffee cup for nobody, like I’m leaving space for people who aren’t here anymore. It looks crazy, but it feels like a ritual—like I’m refusing to let absence erase them.

￼I replay old conversations, scroll old pictures, listen to playlists that wreck me but still feel like home. Some songs drag me back into versions of myself I thought I’d buried, but I let them. I let the memories come and go. Sometimes I even argue with them. Sometimes I just sit there and let them tear me apart quietly.

I try to take care of myself when nobody’s watching. Cut fruit into small pieces because I know I’ll avoid it later if I don’t. Keep water in the fridge, light candles for no reason, make the space feel safe because sometimes it doesn’t. I’ve learned that even the dumbest comforts matter when you’re the only one holding yourself up.

￼When I’m Alone, I don’t pretend I’m strong. I just… practice it. Strength looks like sending the text even when I’m scared of being ignored. It looks like dragging myself to appointments I don’t want to deal with. It looks like whispering my friends’ names into the dark, the ones I’ve lost, as if saying them out loud keeps them real.

I cry at stupid commercials. I talk to plants like they can hear me. I stand in the doorway of my son’s room just listening, memorizing the silence of safety. I remind myself I am still here. That my heart is still beating even on days I wish it would quiet down.

When I’m alone, I’m not lonely. I’m just me—unfiltered, uncut, sitting in the wreckage and the beauty of everything I’ve lived through. I am the sum of every door I closed and didn’t die. Every night I thought would break me that didn’t. Every morning I forced myself out of bed when it felt impossible.

Before I go to sleep, I check the locks twice, not because I don’t trust them, but because I don’t always trust life to stay steady. I leave one light on, just in case. For me. For the ghosts. For tomorrow.

And every night, whether I believe it or not, I tell myself the same thing:

I’m here.
I’m trying.
And tomorrow can come.

￼

Alone doesn’t mean empty, it’s where I meet myself without the mask, in the quiet chaos and fragile rituals that keep me standing. 

In the quiet, I meet the version of me no one else sees. Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@tonydetroit?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Tony Detroit</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=magma&utm_medium=referral">Unsplash</a> — @undefined's mag on Magma