The Night Before It All Comes Crashing Down.

Anxious, alert, and afraid to miss the moment the mask finally slips.

It’s the night before Diddy’s trial, and I’m wide awake.

Not panicked. Not crying. Just wired. Buzzing. My anxiety feels like an electric current under my skin.

I’ve got this pressure in my chest that won’t let up and part of it is the fear that I won’t be there when it all goes down. Not in that courtroom. Not in that moment. And it kills me.

Because this trial matters. It’s not just another tabloid moment or celebrity downfall.

It’s a reckoning.

And I’ve followed it closer than most people will ever realize.

I’ve studied every court filing, every timestamp, every lawsuit that came and went under the radar. I didn’t do this for clout. I did it because something in me recognized the truth before it was ever confirmed.

Diddy wasn’t just famous. He was foundational.

He shaped culture. He was power.

I wanted to be J.Lo. I wanted the dresses, the spotlight, the man with the empire.

My best friend auditioned for Danity Kane. I memorized every word of “Show Stopper.” I wanted to be Dawn Richards. To be seen. To be wanted. To be chosen.

But now I know what being chosen meant.

Cassie, collapsed on the hotel hallway floor.

Diddy expressionless, wrapped in a towel, walking after her like she was something he lost track of, not someone he loved.

And Dawn Richards, maybe buried beneath a pseudonym in court filings, still waiting to be heard.

People made jokes.

They laughed about the baby oil.

About the surveillance video.

As if this was just sex and celebrity gossip.

As if we hadn’t just watched a man walk past a woman he allegedly assaulted—calm, casual, like it was normal.

And then came the raid. That mansion, pristine, expensive, perfect, looked like power. But when the feds swarmed it, everything changed.

The illusion cracked.

It stopped looking like success.

It started looking like a front.

And now, the trial begins.

I should be there. I need to be there.

Not for the drama. For the truth.

For the women who didn’t survive long enough to testify.

For the teenage version of me who didn’t know better.

For the mother I am now, trying to raise a child in a world where people like Diddy are protected until it’s too late.

I’ll be up early tomorrow. Locked in. Reporting.

Because even if I’m not in the courtroom, I’m in this fight.

Watching. Archiving.

Witnessing.

If you feel that ache too, the fear of missing the moment the mask comes off. You’re not alone.

You're not crazy.

You're just awake.

And once you're awake, you don't go back to sleep.

— Alice