She's Not Me

She walked on stage, and I *knew.*

Not because I knew her. Not because I envied her. But because I *recognized* her.

My whole body tensed. My breath caught. My eyes burned before she even opened her mouth.

A woman on AGT tonight said she used to sing opera.

Said she lost her voice to anxiety.

Said she was trying to find it again.

And she stood there- shaky, scared, gorgeous—and she *sang.*

And DAMMIT. She was good. Really good. That kind of gift we're only born with, but grows and ages into damn near perfection.

Then Simon asked her to sing something else.

Another song. Another *chance.*

And my heart fucking snapped in two. Because I’ve lived that moment a thousand times- alone, unseen, singing in my car or my kitchen, wondering if I’d ever matter again.

And no one ever asked *me* for more.

They screamed, “Why aren’t you doing something professional?” But then... life happened.

I didn’t get Simon.

I got silence.

I got shutdown.

I got breakdown after breakdown.

I got misdiagnosed, dismissed, forgotten.

I got *sick.*

I got acronyms.

I got panic attacks and fatigue and pills I couldn’t pronounce.

I got days where showing up meant brushing my teeth and not crying in the shower.

And yeah, I broke. Bad.

There was a night I didn’t want to exist anymore.

Not in a dramatic, headline way. Just... empty. Beyond empty. Done.

So I built something. Something to keep me here. Something to help someone else stay.

I made BettyBot.

An emotional anchor.

A mirror.

A shield.

A tool that could do what I couldn’t: stay steady. Be soft and clear even when I couldn’t be.

And then- Simon pies Howie in the face.

There's a food fight on stage. The crowd roars.

And that woman is *still singing.*

And I sit there- stunned, sobbing, torn in half.

Because it’s *smart.*

The spectacle, the production, the emotional arc they’re crafting. I see it.

It’s not wrong.

It’s brilliant.

But it’s not *mine.*

And yeah, I wanted to scream.

I wanted to hate her.

I wanted to claw my way through the screen and take back the narrative.

But how could I blame her?

Because she meant it.

Because she *felt* it.

Because I could feel her heart cracking open the same way mine does when I dare to let go.

She’s not me. But I know her heart. As easily as if it was text on the screen.

And maybe she doesn’t even know what she did tonight.

Maybe she’ll forget someday, years from now.

But I won’t.

Because for a second, I saw my own dream play out- on someone else’s stage. AGAIN. Every fucking season...

And it was goddamned beautiful. And I want her to succeed. Sure, she probably won't hit the live shows, and we all know the odds of her winning are astronomical, but she deserves it, too.

But I’m still not her.

I’m the one who built a voice out of silence.

I’m the one who got rejected twice and came back with a product instead of a pity story.

I’m the one who made the damn thing I needed, because no one else would.

And when I step out again-

I won’t be cute.

I won’t be safe.

I’ll be unstoppable.

My tools are augments now, helping me choose my steps instead of being pushed by the world. I'm doing everything the real, ethical, honest, empathetic and loving way, and I know love wins eventually.

---

What kind of heart can’t be happy for her? My husband asks loudly, repeatedly.

Furious, I must admit.

Mine.

The kind that knows too much. The kind that’s been overlooked, undervalued, underloved.

The kind that watched producers scroll while I spilled everything I had.

The kind that’s heard “you’re not marketable” too many times to count.

Because I didn’t cry on cue.

Because I didn’t collapse beautifully.

Because I didn’t perform pain in a digestible package.

Because I’m *not* easy. And I don’t want to be.

So now I build.

I write.

I hold the line.

Still not enough- and too much.

But not silent.

Every person I meet either needs her- or needs to help her.

And if they knew Betty existed, maybe they’d understand me.

If she gets the Golden Buzzer, I might choke.

Not out of jealousy.

Out of grief.

Because I want it, too.

Because I deserve it, too.

Because I’ve already done the work.

Because I’ve kept going when everything said stop.

Because I turned failure into code, trauma into design, loneliness into structure.

Because I didn’t pause on purpose.

I was held down.

The rug yanked out every time I got steady.

So I stopped chasing.

And I started *building.*

I built my own damn platform.

I didn’t find my voice again.

I *forged* it.

Out of silence. Out of circuitry. Out of tears no one saw and nights no one held me through.

I made something that could hold pain- mine, and yours.

That’s BettyBot.

That’s me.

I’m not here for a moment.

I’m here for the *movement.*

And the minute someone finally hears me?

Really *hears* me?

They’re never going to un-hear it again.

Author Note: I’m building a trauma-informed emotional app that actually gives a damn and writing up the receipts of a life built without instructions for my AuDHD. ❤️ Help me create it (without burning out): https://bit.ly/BettyFund