Life Inside the Noise
From day one of sharing publicly in a community that supposedly celebrates joy and fragrance, I was met with resistance.
Day one.
I still don't understand what makes some people tick, and honestly, I'm at the point of no longer caring.
How much hate can exist for one person simply sharing excitement over bath products? How can a post filled with joy and enthusiasm provoke such deep anger and cruelty? Emails. Messages. Comments. Even phone calls to my home. Threats. Videos made about me.
And when I respond—after enduring it publicly and privately—I’m labeled the bully. That’s the narrative. Not the years of harassment. Not the name-calling in so-called private groups (which are never really private). Not the whisper campaigns, the backhanded posts, or the manipulation. No, I become the story because I dared to speak.
This isn’t about pity. This is about truth. This is the preamble to change.
For years, I did the work. I gathered information, I shared news, I posted sales and sneak peeks—things that helped the community. I posted what I found, and yes, others ran with it. Pages mirrored mine. I know how quickly that happens—sometimes within minutes.
They say it’s all public. Sure, technically it is. But context matters. Respect matters. Intent matters. When others shared my work without proper credit—work I watermarked or clearly posted on my blog—they gave others their due, but not me. Why? Because it was me.
And when I finally spoke up? I asked politely for the same respect others were given. That was all. But it ignited a firestorm of comments and drama, despite my requests for people to stay out of it. One comment. One tag. That was it.
A week later, someone resurrected the whole thing to stir the pot—again, with name-calling, again, with mocking. And when my husband saw the disgusting messages and images posted to my page, he was done. He wanted it all shut down—everything.
I didn’t delete the content. My Facebook page Life Inside the Page is still there, private but fully intact. Every word, every comment. Nothing erased. Nothing hidden. It’s a record of what’s been endured.
I still keep the blog. Not for validation or applause—but for myself. It’s an archive, a journal, a timeline of years of work. A digital garden of everything I’ve grown and tended. I even created a new space—Bath and Body Works Daily Finds—hoping to start fresh, clean from the nonsense.
But the nonsense followed. Today, again, I saw comments filled with threats—people vowing to report me, mocking what I post. The pettiness continues. The same patterns. Different day.
And my husband asked me again, "Why do you put yourself through this?"
Today... I didn’t have an answer.
What I do know is this: I have always shared with the intent to connect, to delight, to inform. I have the right to express frustration. I am human. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve owned them. But I won’t apologize for asking for decency.
To those who continue to watch, copy, mock, and twist: You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to follow me. But if you use my work, at least acknowledge it. And if you truly dislike me that much, let me be.
It’s simple.
But I know it won’t be simple. Because the problem isn’t the photos or the info. The problem is me—not fitting into your narrative. Not playing by your rules. Not staying silent.
I don’t know what comes next. I may change how I share. I may go completely silent. Or I may find a new way forward that protects my peace. But today, I needed to write this. For myself. For clarity. For truth.
And maybe, just maybe—for someone else going through the same thing.
Because we are all human. And we all deserve kindness—even when we disagree.
And me? I’m still here. Still standing. Still finding light in the scent of a good candle. Still me.
