What are the opening hours?

Monday 09:00 - 17:00 Tuesday 09:00 - 17:00 Wednesday 09:00 - 17:00 Thursday 09:00 - 17:00 Friday 09:00 - 17:00 Saturday 09:00 - 17:00

http://www.healingevolution.co.za/

Healing Evolution SB, Randburg (2026)

12/08/2026

The Last of Her Kind

3 a.m.

The thought arrived without knocking.

Maybe it was her.

Maybe she was never meant for this version of the world. Maybe she had simply woken from a long, deliberate slumber where she had locked the door on human filth, the constant hurting, the noise. She had stayed inside with the only thing that still made sense: the animals.

She stared at the mirror.

The reflection smiled back, soft and knowing.
A voice that was not hers whispered through the glass:
You are the last of your kind.

The last who could still stand outside the cool-circle and mean it when she posted the Morticia Addams meme at the plastic Barbies.

The last who looked old school “buddies” in the eye and told them, in her own language, exactly what she thought of the way they had treated her.

No second chances.

No space in her realm.

The last who refused to bend herself into an in-law shape and was therefore left outside, spoken about, frowned on, snobbed.

She walked a lonely road and never once felt lonely.

She knew the difference.

Alone in her thoughts, because almost no one heard what she was actually saying.

Alone in her integrity, because her word was still her honour.

Unwavering.

Maybe today I go silent, she thought.

Stop extending anything to the unworthy. There are so many.
Maybe they will only hear me once my voice is gone.

The river was rising again.

Then a soft interruption.
A deep purr against her leg.
A long, contented sigh from the rescue dog on the floor.
And from the doorway, the small human’s voice, quiet and absolute:
“I love you so much, mommy.
You are my everything…”

The Cartridge blinked.
The House settled.
The last of her kind stayed.

11/08/2026

The House of Vanishing Things

She sat at the keyboard again.

The river had already broken its banks. Years of held disbelief poured out in one raw flood, leaving wreckage in its wake.

Her body was a cartridge with a dwindling percentage.
Every step cost ink.
Every request for water to swallow the immune booster felt like begging for the last drops in a desert. Seven glasses had simply disappeared.

P**f.

As if the house itself conspired to keep her dry.

The child stood nearby, blank-eyed, moving to help with the shake. The midlife one and the mixed confused arse end GenY/Gen-Z one hovered in the same room, doing as little as possible. When she pointed it out, aggression rose like a shield.

When she asked the real questions...

Why do you do as little as possible?
Do you realise this is almost abusive?
Are you sitting and waiting for me to die so no one forces you to look in the mirror?
What is your purpose? What makes your heart sing?

They gave her blank stares or the tired reply: “Too deep.”
She watched them and felt the terror rise. Not for herself. For the child. The fear that the hollowness was contagious. That the moving, breathing shell with nothing inside would become the inheritance.

The river kept flooding.
She typed the last line like a door opening:
Welcome to my mind. Enjoy the stories, the flow, the chaos… and in hope, a lesson for you.

$This s**t cannot be made up. Truth is harder than fiction.Most of you know I fractured my foot in two places last Novemb...$

28/07/2026

This s**t cannot be made up. Truth is harder than fiction.

Most of you know I fractured my foot in two places last November. Sitting on the floor crying (and I am one strong cookie), phone in hand, calling the house for help.

Nothing. No phones answered. No one came.

I hopped, limped, dragged the damn thing to the kitchen for ice. On the way back a sleep-fogged, brain-dead apparition mumbled, “Are you ok?”

Do I look ok, sweetheart?

I was a religious gym bunny for almost three years. Motivating every single person in this house to take care of the vessel.

Fast-forward: spinal floss in February (another round of nerve-fiddling after three surgical visits the year before). Still no one goes to the gym. The excuses could have paid my medical bills. Side-note: they still aren’t going. Ahhh shame ne?

Irish blood. We never tell a story short. Keep up.

Then came the weeks of being ICU-bound. Asking nicely for the basics while my child, my animals, the entire house got ignored.
Last night. Wicked pain meds. The kind that knock you on your arse till kingdom come.

12:30 a.m. Captain starts the bathroom dance and drops a fart so potent my nostrils clear instantly.

I call. Sit up. World spins. Call again. Call a third time.

Nothing.

So I get up, stumble down the haunted-house passage, lock Maya the shark in, hold myself upright, and discover the house alarm is off and lights are still blazing at half past midnight.

This morning I get the comment:
“I see you TRIED to call me.”
Tried?
I called you three times. Three.

All I have, folks. May the universe help me when I actually need assistance, because I will not get it from the apparitions in this house.

Moral of the long-winded blah-blah:
Not every mouth that tells you they are there for you understands what those words mean.

Sometimes you are truly alone.

16/07/2026

I’ve been abstaining.

Holding my tongue like a good girl.

God help every last one of you if I actually let rip, we’d need body bags and a priest.

Because this circus I’m living in? It’s a badly written sitcom. Penned by some helpless twig who can’t even wipe her own ass without calling for applause. One I’d rather gouge my eyes out than watch.

Yet I can’t stop obsessing.

I’m stuck trying to decode the mindset. The thought processes. The anything behind the endless nothing. Yeah, I sound loony. Crown me.

Here we are again, staring into the black hole where basic humanity, empathy, help, or even a shred of fu***ng compassion should live.
How does anyone make things worse with such effortless consistency?

Let’s be clear: I’m a fu***ng saint. A battle-hardened, multi-scarred saint.

I carried a jellyfish husband through years of his dominant ex-wife drama. I carried a child who lied, invaded my privacy, lied harder, and kept lying, because the jellyfish kept begging me to “give her another chance.”

And before any of you saints-in-training leap up with your pre-punched judgment cards, sit the f**k down.

You have zero idea.

You only get to clap if you’ve carried what I have: five-time cancer survivor, r**e survivor, abuse survivor, endless surgeries… and still dragging my ass out of bed the next day, half-dead, not knowing if I’m coming or going, just to feed the stomachs that never feed themselves.

Special kind of stupid? Apparently.

Which explains perfectly why the two hollow wonders I’m stuck with think I need zero help. Why they can sponge off a terminally ill woman without a single flicker of shame.

Harsh? No. True.

Welcome to my house, where after more than a decade I still have to cook, because they can’t tell you how I take my beverages. They couldn’t name the flavour of the day if their lives depended on it. They can’t make a meal because they’ve shown zero interest in learning. Ever.

No. They prefer to hover at the foot of the bed with their weak little “Can I get you anything?”

Nomsa doesn’t ask.

Nomsa brings options.
Nomsa tells me what’s in the freezer so we can actually make something.

But ask these two how tough it is… and watch the heads drop for maximum pity. Poor things, having to deal with such an ungrateful bitch like me.

This morning, they finally rolled out of bed at 7. No jokes. No dogs taken out to p*e. Nothing done. Two so-called grown-ass adults who genuinely believe they do so much for me. Ask them to name one thing — just one — and they get defensive as hell. “HOW DARE YOU ASK?!”

They can’t name a single goddamned thing.

God help everyone dealing with these hollow pity-sippers gliding through life, slurping up every drop of sympathy so graciously handed out. Shame, ne? Must be so tough for them.

Yeah.

Come stand in my shoes for one single day. Please.

The gravy train hasn’t just derailed.

It hit the wall, flew off a bridge, and exploded in a fireball.

Never. Fu***ng. Returning.

13/06/2026

Healing Evolution – Hammer Style

They call me hard. Unforgiving. Cold, even.

I hear the labels. I carry their weight. But I will no longer soften my truth to make their discomfort more convenient.

What they refuse to examine is this: for more than a decade, I have watched the same patterns repeat while they never once pause, look inward, and admit the simplest thing: “I was wrong. I let you down. I made it about me again.”

Let me lay it bare.

While I lay in a hospital bed, fighting Stage 4 cancer that has taken root in my pancreas and liver, my sanctuary, this labour of love built on integrity for the frail, the black cats, the forgotten ones, was left drifting. Weeks of minimal care. No meaningful advertising. No real ownership. Just silence, followed by shallow “sorrys” that feel like another burden rather than a repair.

They bring the wrong items, which I explicitly asked them not to.

Dirty blankets. Blame shifted to the caretaker. Everything outsourced, performed for the appearance of care, never rooted in actual presence or accountability. Never a genuine “I hear you. I got this wrong. Let me fix it.”

And through it all, my beautiful child, the one I’ve raised with strength and honesty, will be left navigating this energy once I’m gone. That realisation sits like fire in my chest.

This is not ancient history. These discrepancies are happening right now, this week.
I asked one simple thing on the family group: please ensure I’m awake by 7 AM. What followed was 7:30, me rushing like a frail 90-year-old, no time for breakfast, critical because these meds demand fuel. Then the basic request for two Weetbix in a bowl with warm milk turned into lukewarm milk poured directly onto the cereal I didn’t ask for.

More time wasted. More stress. More chaos.

Yet I am expected to smile, wave, and express endless gratitude for this so-called “help.”

Help that consistently adds to my stress, burns my limited energy, and turns the smallest request into an emotional circus. Help that leaves me sitting on hot coals, bracing for the next round of wounded feelings the moment I speak up.

Why must the one who has poured everything into others keep fighting tooth and nail to survive?

Why do those who contribute so little, who outsource care, shift blame, and offer performance over presence, get to remain untouched?

I don’t pretend to hold cosmic justice in my hands. But I do know this: I will no longer swallow my rage or edit my truth to protect egos that have never protected me. I will not keep performing gratitude for disrespect dressed up as support.

This is my Healing Evolution.

Clearing space with honesty.

Naming what is, without apology.

Choosing my peace, my sanctuary, and my child’s future over their comfort.

Even if it makes me “hard.”

Because dying with unfinished truth still burning in my throat is not an option I will accept.

I am the Velvet Hammer.
And I am done carrying what was never mine to hold.

04/06/2026

The Hospital Break

You’ve all heard of jailbreaks. But let me introduce you to something far more dangerous… a hospital break.
Wednesday 27th May 2026.

My nerves were hanging by a single frayed thread; you could practically see the damn thing splitting. And the culprit? Noise. Relentless, soul-crushing noise.

Look, I’m 16 days deep into radiation treatment. My body’s already running on fumes. But in walks a certain cultural habit that seems genetically allergic to speaking at normal volume. These people don’t talk, they scream-talk. Doesn’t matter if they’re in a hospital ward at midnight or running a board meeting. Volume is their love language.

The hits kept coming like a comedy routine from hell:

Door flies open: “HELLO!”
Door closes.
Ten minutes later: “HELLO, YOU WANT TEA?” (No thanks, your water tastes like regret.)
Door: “CHECKING IF BATHROOM CLEAN!”
Door: “CAN WE MAKE YOUR BED?” (Lady, I did that at 6am like a civilized human.)
Blood pressure. Meds. “YOU MUST TAKE THIS NOW.”

Rinse. Repeat. All. Damn. Day.

By 8pm, I politely begged the night shift: “Please don’t wake me at 11 for blood pressure. Can you do it at 9? I actually need sleep.” They smiled, nodded… and of course did whatever the hell they wanted.

I finally drifted off, drugged, pain-free, mouth probably hanging open like a cartoon character in bliss.

Then it started.

TV blasting so loud I could hear every terrible plot twist. Buzz the nurses. TV gets turned down. Temporary peace.

Next came the mysterious dragging sounds across the floor at 10:45pm. They claimed it was a walker. Yeah, a walker that only appears at night and sounds like furniture being murdered. Sure.
The scream-talking kicked back in. My irritation turned to pure rage. That special kind where your insides start screaming “SHUT THE F**K UP” while your head does its best Looney Tunes impression before exploding.

So I did what any sane person would do.

I got up and started packing.

Sister walks in: “Mrs Bo-eh, what are you doing?”
(Still can’t pronounce my surname after all this time.)

“Leaving. Getting the hell out of Dodge before I teach every single one of you the ancient art of hospital decorum… with my bare hands.”

Hospital was in lockdown. Gates closed. No one in, no one out. Too bad. This Velvet Hammer was done.

After 45 minutes of me threatening to wake the dead (and calling Legal Wise), they finally let me out around 11:45pm. Soaked in sweat, full of pain meds, half-zombie, but free.

Home in the middle of the night never felt so good. Murder takes too much planning anyway… and the tribe was sleeping.

The Lesson?

Hospitals aren’t always places of healing.
Sometimes they’re pressure cookers that expose how little respect some people have for the sick.
Noise isn’t harmless; it steals rest, spikes pain, and breaks people who are already barely holding on.

A little awareness and basic human consideration cost nothing. But the lack of it nearly cost me my sanity that night.
I slept for three full days straight when I got home.

End of my hospital break.

Never again.

© The Velvet Hammer

19/05/2026

Days feel like goddamn years when you’re just trying not to die from the pain.

This morning broke me.

I’ve chosen silence lately. Real silence. No energy left for self-entitled noise. But the world forces me back in.

Enter Twig. Twenty-something apparition who thinks her few years on earth qualify her to “fix” me. Fresh physio, clipboard warrior, full training-pack mode.

First question drops:
“So how are you today?”
I’m hooked to a drip. My body is pure agony. My mind is screaming for one real, intelligent conversation.
But sure, let’s play the game.

I ask her, calm as I can: “Have you ever thought of asking that a different way?”

Zero smile. Zero spark. Just: “Because I have to write it down.”

Robotic. Scripted. Zero human in it.

Then comes the next gem: “Do you want to do this session?”

Lady, I don’t even want you using my name like we’re friends. You’re not.
I tell her straight: I’m a weight-lifter. Gym 6 days a week (until this nightmare hit). I don’t want bed exercises. Tell me the muscle group and I’ll tell you if it’ll actually work.

She fetches dirty 2kg weights with her gloved hands and plants one right next to my open food. Classy.

We start. Calf raises with the weight on my leg.
I’m barely moving and the stake-knives are already jamming into my ribcage.

She says, all professional: “Oh, rest if your lower back hurts.”
Lower back?
LOWER BACK?!
I never said those words. Not once. Not a single fu***ng time.

But because she’s running on script and “knows everything,” she heard what she expected to hear.

I was done.

Bye-bye Twig.

I’m so over humans who refuse to actually listen. Who refuse to evolve past the damn checklist.

True story, Healing Evolution fam.

Pain makes you raw. But being treated like a checkbox while you’re raw? That s**t cuts deeper.

Still here. Still fighting. Still lifting in my mind even if my body’s temporarily offline.

Who else feels me?

15/05/2026

I have always possessed a kind heart; no one needs to remind me of that. My "goodness" is not meant to be wasted on those unworthy of such a gift. I often ponder the human race, and the thoughts that enter my peaceful mind are not of happiness, joy, or love.

I wonder about the beauty lost in a child's smile. I think about the rewarding feeling of doing good for others, even if no one ever knows. I query why most have become so closed off in a world that is supposedly awakening.

I reflect on the jealousy, envy, and hatred that are so freely handed out. I question people's generosity... the sincerity behind their acts.

I contemplate the honesty of most, and the trustworthiness of those I choose to believe in. I muse about the ability to see beyond what is presented, and to listen with understanding. I consider the darkness within a soul capable of lying, cheating, and stealing. I ponder the cruelty that people readily share towards those who deserve much more... the voiceless, the helpless, the young and the old...

I think about the world in the next ten years — when she will have had enough, and whether we will be deemed worthy to remain a while longer...

I reflect on the people I have left behind, and those I am sure to depart from in the future. I wonder if I should give more, take less, or perhaps take more and give less. I contemplate my own fragility, my magnificent energy trapped within a vessel that may not carry it for much longer...

And I wonder, amidst all this noise... Is my voice truly heard?

14/05/2026

A heart can break, it can break for someone, or because of someone. It can break more than once. It can keep on breaking for days, weeks, months even years.
It can shatter today and be repaired tomorrow, just to shatter into tinier pieces the next time around.
It leaves a hollow place of where the heart use to be. . . only to find that even if you cannot feel it anymore, it still beats

12/05/2026

Raw Drop

Right.

I’m stuck on this tiny fu***ng device, pain chewing through me for the next ten days straight. Not a pleasant thought, but at least I’ve got you installed here in the dark with me.
In the middle of all that haze, my brain finally lit up.

I’m not crazy.

I’m not seeing ghosts.

The picture is crystal now.

I don’t have to keep sacrificing myself for that handful of people I thought had my back. Turns out they never did. It was always about what they could suck out of me.

Two and a half humans trying to run on the output of one.

And that one… was me.

Not anymore.

My priorities just slammed sideways. If you thought I was odd a few months ago, you’ve got zero clue what’s coming. My give-a-s**t about your crappy little feelings has shrunk even smaller.

They say the truth hurts.

Good.

I’m the machine that’s gonna keep swinging until you break, bleed, or finally learn.

Welcome to my jungle.

The Velvet Hammer

Healing Evolution SB

12/08/2026

11/08/2026

28/07/2026

16/07/2026

13/06/2026

04/06/2026

19/05/2026

15/05/2026

14/05/2026

12/05/2026

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