Goodbye, Galveston

Articles for the Independent Political Report, plus all-new original, regularly published content debuts 05.11.2026

Atop Sun Mountain. Santa Fe, New Mexico. Elevation 7,940 feet.

Last week I climbed a mountain. Twice. Metaphor.

Fourteen years. That is how long I lived in Galveston. And I am aware that some of you may have wondered where I have been for the last five or so of those. Although I was not aware while it was happening, that era of my life was a craggy cliff-walk that was preparing me for this very moment—on the precipice of a new career, a new voice, a new purpose. And new heights.

What had the appearance of a marginally successful writing career during my time in Galveston was fraught with both professional and personal hardship. Despite the fact that every word I wrote and spoke about Galveston was crafted with a sincere admiration for my subjects, as well as with a heartfelt desire to glean real truth and understanding from them, my work was copied, exploited, misunderstood, used by carpetbaggers and conmen to make a quick buck. My articles were reprinted by publications long after I had ceased employment with them. I was not paid for these reprints. Some even claimed illegal ownership of my work. I sent a cease and desist to a copycat tour company, and they just sent me one back—like I was the one in the wrong for using material I developed and spent a decade researching. I devoted six years of volunteer labor to the City of Galveston as chair of an advisory board to the City Council, creating spreadsheets and formulas (yeah, I’m a math whiz, too) so that the funds we oversaw were disseminated fairly according to eligibility and merit, only to be unceremoniously ousted when I made it clear that I would not stand idly by while a former and current mayor (then councilman) attempt to exploit the Hotel Occupancy Tax for votes and pet projects. For years, I tried to rise above it. I pasted on a smile and conducted tours, speaking engagements, and interviews; I continued to use my talents to elevate the city, despite members of my own community, my city government, and even people who claimed to be my friends, stabbing me in the back again and again.

All the while, no one knew the line item slowly being etched onto my soul’s CV—Domestic Violence victim Survivor. But I am not ready to talk about that yet. My story is unique and therefore too complex for a paragraph. It is something I have chosen to approach with dignity and purpose, not revenge, because it is a story that involves extreme suffering on my part, but also remorse, therapy, and reparations on his, after I had already left completely on my own volition, to be clear. If you have met me, the level of kindness and compassion I possess is not an act. (If you met me and I was a bitch that was also not an act, She’s a Rainbow. Not the point.) I can mourn the lost years of my life and also offer grace to the abyss into which it sank, because I refuse to accept that anything that happens to me does not have a larger purpose. I mean, look at where I am now, having tea with you fine folks. In whatever way I choose to eventually tell this story, I want to honor my journey as well as his. Maybe that seems weak to some, or maybe to others like it could not have been that bad if I am so calm about it. No friend, that demonstrates the amount of healing I have done, not the temperature of the hell I have traversed. Trauma’s a bitch. I have enough pain to process, and so does he, without creating more to carry into my future.

For my crowning setback, that relationship simultaneously lifted the veil on a cycle of toxic narcissistic abuse in my life that began within my family of origin. This one is much easier for me to discuss, almost too easy…mostly because I spent the entire summer of 2021 hanging out in my garage, smoking copious amounts of weed and cigarettes and reading every possible book I could find on Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) and toxic families. Realizing the truth about my childhood when I was well into adulthood was staggering, because it was not an indication of my ignorance but rather of the potent power of psychological abuse, especially at a young age. Little by little, what used to seem like random memories started trickling in; the things I remembered were so odd, like the only logical reason I stored these specific, otherwise meaningless memories was so that 35 years later, I would know I was right.

I had been conditioned, brainwashed my entire life—manipulated, gaslighted, and made to believe that I was responsible for the entire family’s shortcomings and emotional failings—and I did not even know it was happening. I began to trace how this trauma I did not even know I had, affected every corner of my existence and set me up for personal and professional failure. I could finally name what I had felt my whole life—scapegoat child. Suddenly, every twisted twist of my life made complete sense, tainted by this ingrained sense of unworthiness that permeated every encounter, every relationship, every job.

The psychological and emotional abuse continued throughout adulthood. It was all I had ever known, and so I thought it was normal. I thought it was normal to yearn for a parent’s affection, to twist yourself into knots so they would not harm you or judge you, to beg for emotional scraps from a block of ice disguised as a dinner table (all it takes is a nice tablecloth). Seen through the brokenness, hopelessness, and desperation of my life at the time, the truth of what I experienced as a child and the still ongoing psychological manipulation hit me like a wrecking ball.

My entire world was collapsing around me at the same time the foundation of my life was rupturing, and all that was left at the bottom of the heap was a bare-assed Kimber, stripped down to nothing—no career, no community, no family, no safety, no security, no money. But I had my dog. I had my chosen family who stood by me with patience and understanding as I navigated this minefield. I had mad talent because no one can ever take that away. Best of all, I had nothing left to fucking lose.

I tell you none of this for sympathy, but so I can leave it behind. So that I can prove to myself that the fact that I went through it does not define me, but the fact that I survived it absolutely will for the rest of my life, and of that I will never be ashamed. Deeply wounded, yet whole for the first time ever.

I tell you this to say goodbye—to Galveston and all that it contained, my home and my career; to all that it drained from me without gratitude or acknowledgement, my talent, my time, my love, my devotion. And I move forward, triumphantly, with what it left me: open eyes that will never see the same, scars on my soul etched in saltwater and sunshine, hope for the future, and a fierce knowing that the woman emerging from this wreckage is who I was always meant to be.

Climbing Mount Galveston took me lower than I had ever hoped to be, but damn it feels good to be a gansta of light, absolutely unstoppable. So in the immortal words of Ted Lasso, Galveston, “Fuck you. And thank you.” Fuck you for the pain, the betrayal, the ingratitude. But Thank You—for my beautiful chosen family; for the amazing buried stories you allowed me to excavate with love and understanding; for teaching me the nature of resilience; for being my training ground, my obstacle course, and my refuge all at once.

And now, the Rebuild. The Rise. Because the mountaintop is not the destination, it is the launchpad.

And so—fellow free-thinkers, real libertarians (that means not you, Mises), independents, my CPTSD crew—DV and Narcissistic Abuse victims and survivors and cycle-breakers, spiritualists, enlightened agnostic deists, philosophers, holistic healers, anyone who wants to learn how to think not what to think, and most importantly, anyone who cares about the future of our beloved nation…

Stay Tuned. New Substack, content, and articles for the Independent Political Report debut on Annie’s favorite day. (Yeah, you’re mad now but you won’t be when that earworm reminds you to come back…when was that? SING, Eleanor!) Links are below—follow now to receive alerts and updates.

Important note for future reference: I have two writing voices—professional and personal, identifiable by either the complete absence or exorbitant use of profanity and pop culture references. It is totally fine if you do not like both, but I have been hiding this Kimber for far too long and she is PISSED, so just know she is not going anywhere no matter how many “language!” comments I get. Plenty of my prior work is available to demonstrate that I take my art very seriously.

Lastly, if you wish to engage with me, please understand that despite my willingness to confront difficult and controversial topics, I am not here to change minds. I am here to be a refuge for those who think the same way, so they will know they are not alone. Forthright debate, sincere questions and answers, and displays of critical thinking are welcome in the comments, but I will always ensure that my pages are safe, peaceful, and uplifting spaces. One of my core beliefs is that being an enlightened person means being able to know when to tell people to go fuck themselves.

Until next time with love,

Kimber