The Review I Left Unpublished

Back in February, something happened that knocked the wind out of me. Now, I don’t want to rehash any of that, but I did write a blog post about it so you can go back and read that if you want: the truth.

The moment I walked out of that building, there was a lot of anger, anxiety and a dozen of unanswered questions and something in me snapped.

So I did what I know to do, and what I think a lot of us do when we’re hurt and angry and feel like we’ve lost control — I wrote.

Not just any writing, either. I wrote the review. The scorched-earth, tell-all, no-holds-barred account of what happened, how it felt, and everything I thought the world deserved to know. It’s raw, emotional, sometimes fair, sometimes… not so much. It’s probably one of the rudest things I’ve ever written and I admit it, and I’m very self aware, but at the time, it felt like the only way to reclaim even a shred of power.

But here’s the thing: I never posted it.

It’s been sitting quietly in a Google Doc ever since. Occasionally I open it, skim a few lines and close it again. It has become this strange emotional time capsule — one part catharsis, one part caution tape.

Recently I mentioned it to someone in conversation. I said, “I don’t know why I haven’t posted it. Maybe I’m overthinking.” They shrugged and said something that hit my harder than I expected:

“Maybe you haven’t posted it because you care. You care about people and what’ll happen to them if you do.”

And I was like, “Yep, you got me there”.

Because yes—I was angry. I was hurt. And some of that still lingers. And listen, there’s a really big part of me that doesn’t give a f**k. I can post that review any time, anywhere. But beneath all of that anger and hurt, maybe they were right: I do care. Even after everything, I care about people who still work there that are my friends. I care about the fact that they didn’t make the decisions.

And I care about myself, too. About the kind of person I want to be. About whether I’m proud of what I put into the world—not just in the heat of the moment, but months or years later when the anger has cooled and perspective has crept back in.

Writing that review served a purpose. It helped me process something that felt too big and chaotic to deal with internally. It gave shape to emotions that would’ve otherwise buzzed around in my chest like trapped wasps. For that alone, I’m glad it exists.

But hitting “publish” on every review platform that I can find? That’s a different question.

What I’ve realised is that not every wound has to become a public post. Sometimes the act of writing is enough. Sometimes the victory is in not letting pain dictate our voice forever.

I don’t know yet if I’ll ever post that review. Maybe one day it will evolve into something more balanced, more constructive. Or it’ll stay in that Google Doc as a reminder of a difficult chapter I made it through.

For now, though, I’m choosing to listen to the part of me that cares.

And honestly? I’m proud of that.