I see you.
Not just the you they pretend to notice,
but the you that lingers in shadows,
weighed down by whispers that won’t hush.
The you that wonders if silence
is the only way to be heard.

I won’t lie to you—
this pain ain’t easy to carry.
It seeps into your bones,
fills your lungs with the weight of nights
that stretch too long, too heavy,
too empty.

I know the darkside.
The way it calls your name like a lullaby,
promising rest where the world
only offers war.
I know how it feels
when the walls close in,
when every breath feels borrowed,
when hope is a language
you forgot how to speak.

But listen to me.

There are others who walked this road,
stumbled, fell, but still found their way.
Not because the weight vanished,
but because they learned—
somehow, some way—
to shift it,
to share it,
to bear it just one more day.

So if tonight feels like the last chapter,
I beg you—
turn the page.

Because the story ain’t done.
And neither are you.

Hold your head high and stand tall, no matter the storms around you. Ignore the noise, the doubt, the negativity—none of it defines you. Breathe deeply, let the weight of yesterday fade, and fill your spirit with the light of possibility.

Place your hand over your heart and feel its steady rhythm—proof that you are here, that you are chosen, that you are blessed.

This moment is a gift, another chance to step boldly into your purpose. No setback, no obstacle, no pain can take away what is meant for you. Walk forward with courage, knowing that every breath you take is an opportunity to rewrite your story, to rise, to shine, and to claim the life you deserve.

You are unstoppable. You are divine. Keep moving forward, Queen!

Grief is a kingdom you never ask to rule.
A place with no stars, no dawn to break.
Endless night.
A place where echoes live longer than voices,
where shadows wear the faces you’ve lost—
but never quite get them right.

It crowns you in silence,
wraps its cloak around your ribs,
tightens until your breath comes in fractured whispers.

I thought I was ready.
I told myself time was mercy—
that knowing would soften the blow.
But grief doesn’t strike like lightning.
It seeps in slowly, like poison in your veins,
until one day you’re gasping,
and you don’t even remember what air felt like.

I try to remember her laugh—
but it’s like chasing smoke.
Somewhere in my mind,
her smile is fading at the edges.
Her voice, just a ghost of a ghost.

I keep pictures tucked away in drawers.
I can’t look at them for too long.
Each glance is a wound,
each memory a blade turning slow beneath my ribs.
But without them, she slips further from me.
I am caught between needing to remember
and not being able to survive it.

How cruel it is—
to lose her twice.
Once to death, and again to time.

My son was born after she left.
A few fractured weeks between his first breath
and the silence she became.
His due date was her birthday.
As if the universe thought irony was a kindness.

Since I was 18,
I have been carving out a life with trembling hands,
mistaking silence for strength,
mistaking independence for survival.
But I was wrong.

Strength is standing in the ruin
and naming every piece.
It is saying:
This hurt.
This still hurts.
It is learning to breathe in the dark.

They don’t tell you how grief is a thief—
how it steals the good with the bad.
How every sweet memory is chased by regret.
How every second of love feels borrowed.
How guilt hangs on your shoulders like a cloak
you can’t remove.

I should have stayed longer.
I should have loved louder.
I should have grown up faster,
instead of pretending I had all the time in the world.

I still don’t know how to carry this.
Most days, I bury it beneath busy hands and silence.
But it always finds me—
in the quiet, in the stillness,
in the moments when her name rises to my lips
but never makes it past my teeth.

Grief is a kingdom,
and I am its prisoner.
There are no windows, no keys, no doors.
Only the ghosts of what could have been
and the weight of everything I didn’t say.

And yet somehow,
even in this shadowland,
I am still searching for light.

So last year my mom was diagnosed with AML and immediately our lives changed instantly, we quit looking at 6 months from now and were thankful for the moment, we still planned ahead but new anything could happen, well Thanksgiving came and noticed my mom wasn’t acting like MY MOM, we had planned a Special Thanksgiving with homemade egg rolls and she was sleeping a lot, well we were praying and Trusting God and on Dec 15th we would take her to the hospital.The doctor told us her instines were twisted and asked if the cancer was being treated our hearts sank, We were planning on spending Christmas with my mom, but the 17th of December I had to sign a DNC for my mom, Everyday I spent with my mom was short.Dec 22nd she would pass away.I spend Christmas eve getting her grave site ready, Im STUNNED at what happened.We now cherish EVERY DAY and WILL MAKE HER PROUD.

The couch. I bought the big leather couch, chair, and ottoman back in 1999 or 2000 I think. I was working on the boats at the time. Had a few boatguy friends that would come right before or right after season to hang out… some pretty big guys. I bought the big furniture in a time when you could get that set for $1500 I think. And it was built to last. I still can’t believe how well it was made compared to what you get now for the same price.

A crush and my brother helped me get it into the house..and it wasn’t easy.
When my ex and I bought this house it wasn’t any easier getting it in here.

Last Spring I tried to get it out of here by myself and quickly realized I might die trying. While it was still standing on end from my attempt at finagling it out the door, I cut out the material on the bottom and saw the bones of it… it was beautiful.. real wood, lots of it… straps were as high quality as the best ratchet straps of today. The springs across the bottom were thick and solid. I cut open the one cushion that had finally broke down, and those springs too, were heavy duty. I ordered a replacement spring pack, which was much lighter built than the original I found, not the old, solid, barely squash support of 25 years ago. I took an awl and sewed the leather back together. I bought a slip cover (pretty nice one) thinking, I could rescue this couch, build it back better and not just toss it away.

As time went by, I just couldn’t sit on it. It sat empty. It looked better on the outside, but it sat like a big ass sad emblem of itself. And it had been ruined from the inside, of another who defiled it.

Gone were the multiple big asses that sat on it, at times slept on it. Gone were the dogs that had curled up on it, scratching it ever so slightly with their paws. Gone were the times I could curl my feet under me, or lay across it with my head in another’s lap watching yet another hunting show…or even better, Walking Dead.

I had hinted to others that I wanted it out, for the past 9 or so months. No one took the hint. I think some things are just meant to be done on your own. So the other night….

I cut it’s coverings off… razor to leather… the leather on couches from back then was much better, thicker, more like hide. Cut out enough foam to get to those nice big chunks of wood that were it’s frame with the skillsaw. Cut it into two manageable pieces… scooted it out the door (still had to get the right angle to make it happen).. pushed it down the stairs, and dragged it to the the far end of the yard.

As I poured some expired peanut oil on it, and put a couple of dry pieces of wood in a cardboard box in the middle of it to get it started…. a sadness engulfed me… as the fire would soon engulf the couch. I had started this with anger, but it ended with grief. Like for real grief.

As I watched that fire (I couldnt believe how fast it went up), the last 24 years of time with this couch went through me.. along with the 21 years with him….it still took a couple of hours to realize that it was just time for it to go, and for me to let go of the idea that I had made it better, built it back better, and to let go of the idea that I could ever sit on it in comfort again.

It was grief.

Then, today someone mentioned to me that I had burnt a couch on the evening of the Super Moon. So there’s that.

Dissatisfied, looking unbothered
Smiles on the outside
With holding information.
Why waste my breath on explaining?
I’m learning to vent through
Poetry and music.
That’s the best way to
Get to know me,
I’m even getting to know myself.
As I sit back and think
Of my impatient past, with
Social anxiety. Had to basically
Learn how to live without the use of
Opiates, I was constantly sedated
For year’s. Knew I had to quit.
Then eventually went cold turkey,
I could probably say Marijuana
Helped me. I’ve attempted to quit
Multiple times go 3 to 5 days
Going through a sickness. Withdrawals
Are no joke when it comes to this.
So I used Marijuana to help
With my appetite and insomnia.
& alleviate my anxiety,
I’ve tried prescriptions
For it but I lost weight &
My appetite. So I let those go to.
To me it wasn’t worth it,
I have even come to a hatred
For pills in general.
Broke some bones after being
Clean. I’ve denied any pain meds
I couldn’t handle the thought of me
Out here hurting inside like that
Again. For years I’ve hidden it
But then eventually people see
And it’s not hidden.
Trying to hide the rattling sounds
Of a prescription,
Went and seen a shrink
Asking questions about how
I feel and think. I did this voluntarily,
In search for answers!
Then went off into
The abyss, as my biological body
Has adapted to certain things
Creating new proteins.
Another moment that turned
Out scary and exciting.
Development of knowledge
As I start to become it.
Now I’m reflecting it,
This is just my story, my
Experience, my testament.
They say we’re all the same
But what works for me
Could be different for other’s.
In my opinion from my
New found perception.
This is just part of my Development
We’re all out here with different views,
Different struggles, different battles.
In every culture in every religion
What it really comes down
To is the belief system.
Integrated with information
Like a genetic memory.
The DNA within,
Conflicting as it’s constantly changing.
Influenced with intuition,
Brings up another point about
Family & traditions, cultural & environmental
Experience. we’re all brought up different
They say only elephants hold
A genetic memory,
But, doesn’t everything have
A natural instinct?
Working on my crown
As I build my wisdom & connection.
I’m very thankful & feel
Extremely blessed to climb
Out of that addiction.

As I lay to sleep crowded of fear.
Full of sadness.
Jammed with uncertainty.
I wake loaded with courage.
Bursting of bravery.
Packed with vulnerability.

We dance in joyful essence as a group
We gather in robust laughter as a family
We shoulder the duties of work diligently as partners
We cook in companionable camaraderie
But why do we cry alone

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
The more I step out of that silent box, the more my inner critic tries to peek through.
The more I raise my voice for my truth, that burden of “silence protects” tries to scream louder than before.
I’ve held my breath for far too long.
Bit my tongue more times than I should “to keep the peace.”
I’ve stood frozen in spots I should have walked away from.
Acknowledging what was is not what is has been a work in progress.
These mini steps that have turned into big steps have been exhausting yet fulfilling.

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
It does not define me, nor will ever define my character. I will not allow such. This voice will now be told across all the noise.
My truth will inspire.
I will gracefully inhale and exhale this breath of mine.
My tongue will no longer hold scars.
I will no longer stand frozen, for I’ve defrosted a long time ago.
What was is just that, was. What is, is just that, is.
These big steps I’ve created have gotten me so far. To this moment.
Bigger steps are being made.

Imposter Syndrome, it is real.
But, it is not me!

a journal on humility
who are you when you have nothing? when you allow yourself to break and sit in emptiness? who are you when there is nobody to motivate you, push you? who are you when it’s just you in a dark room working through battles? how many times can you get knocked down and still be the same person at your core? do you stay true to who you are or does life’s battles turn you into the worst version of yourself? when do you allow life to turn you cold? or do you? do you stay soft, embracing the vulnerability, the rawness of our humanity?

training for a marathon has changed my life. and I’m sure that has been said over and over from others who train for marathons, but I think I have a differing perspective. I started running not knowing I could even run a mile, but I surprised myself with two miles and decided to keep pushing myself to do more. I fell in love with the process and wanting to start gearing my training towards a goal: a marathon. as someone with asthma and vocal cord dysfunction, I knew I would have to adjust in order to complete this hefty task of a marathon. it isn’t easy to relearn how to breathe. and since I have taken on this intensity of training, I have seen some really hard days. the kind of hard days that remind you of your humanity. running through below freezing temperatures, running half marathons on no sleep, running any hour of the day or night, running through stomach issues. all of that will keep you humble if nothing else in life has.

I started seeking humility. seeing how much I can brave through. how tough I really am. and part of that is trauma I’ve accrued throughout life but part of that is finding joy in struggle. finding joy in accomplishing things that are seemingly impossible in the beginning.

I’ve learned as long as you have yourself, you can push yourself through anything. training for a marathon can be so lonely. you learn how to motivate yourself. how to take care of yourself. people may not understand when you have to wake up extra early, run at 2am, miss nights out drinking, squeeze runs in, cancel plans to run. you have to be committed enough to the goal you’ve set to be there for yourself- when nobody else gets it, you will.

my dad always said that as soon as you claim yourself to be humble, you are no longer humble. and I’ve been walking the fine line of staying humble and attaining a great deal of pride. pride is often seen as negative, as one’s hubris. someone who is too prideful comes off as a bad person, egotistical. I wish not to be egotistical, self-centered. that’s why I do the things that will bring me back to my roots, humble me. ground me. it’s grounding to struggle four hours through a run and still make it out. tough conditions like freezing rain will remind you that you’re human. where is the line? I feel as though when we are prideful in a positive way, confidence exudes from us and inspires others to take on an insane task too. pride can be contagious, in a beautifully impactful way. on the opposition, humility can be taken too far. as the man who is too humble knows not their capabilities- they will live in a state of comfort.

I like to live in a way that reminds me I am human- being human is a beautiful thing. when we live in a way that is comfortable, we go blind to the simple facts of the world. we forget our luck that it took the universe to bring us here. we skate through life and allow it to be as is. that’s why we ought to strive for toughness. strive to conquer our fears. strive to live in discomfort, often. they say comfort kills growth but really, the growth never started. the lack of acknowledgment of who we are will keep you out of touch with the world. it’s special to be able to feel attached, in tune with the world. to be reminded that we are a product of the universe. and as easily as we were brought here without knowing, without asking, the opposing could happen. we could disappear from the physicality of the universe.

that’s why it’s important to be reminded of your humanity. as we ought not to go through life forgetting how special it is. not everyone was granted today. use the day. too many people allow it to pass. why would you waste a day not everyone was given? to be so selfish is the opposite of what it is to be humble.

so I run, I train hard. I put effort into my mind, body, and/or spirit every single day. I give myself love, a lot of times tough love. I take advantage of the sun, I chase it, even. for the sun only comes out for so long, to bring us warmth and remind us that even the simple gifts are to be enjoyed. the sun comes and goes to remind us of the impermanence of all things good. that things need to experience darkness to appreciate the light.

that’s part of running, experiencing some serious darkness and tough times in order to reap the benefits. some runs you have to be brave enough to tough it out. teach yourself to stick through hard things. how to show up for yourself when everything sucks. how to remain in touch with the world. how to stay grounded. how to not let pride overtake. as my proudest moments have come from the other side of darkness. pride is a direct product of struggle.

those who allow themselves to be humble, to experience struggle and pain achieve a level of pride that is earned. you earn pride. if pride is displaced, that is where is forms into ego, cockiness. only when pride is deserved will it come off as humble. only then will others be inspired by the feats you took on, conquered. until then, maybe you’re full of it. maybe you need to be grounded somehow. most people do. but it’s all part of walking the walk. embodying the things you strive to represent. identify with.

imposter syndrome and the dunning-kruger effect rival. as some feel undeserving, unaware of their capabilities. and some lack self-awareness to the extremity of believing they are invincible, in a way. unwarranted confidence versus lack of confidence. and, somewhere in-between the two, you might find someone who knows struggle, who finds there way through it. who deserves the pride they exude. that is true confidence, humility, humanity. the coexistence of the best and worst parts of yourself. acknowledging the parts of yourself that are weak. being proud of the parts of yourself that are strong. learning what it means to be human.

Dear Mary, daughter of Joachim:

I thought it appropriate to write to you on this eve of the celebration of your son’s birth.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when we met, but it was very early in my life. As a child, I was introduced to you through my Catholic upbringing. I learned of you and revered your place in history as the mother of Jesus Christ.

Through teachings in the church, I learned that you were chosen by God to deliver a son who would eventually die for our sins. As a mother, I can’t imagine giving birth to a child that I knew was destined to die to save the world. That’s a heavy burden.

Through stories told in the Bible, I learned that not only did you and Joseph take on this challenge, but you did it with the utmost grace.

How proud you must have been as Jesus taught us to live in God’s light, to do His work and act in ways that put the rest of us to shame. Through every adversity, your son rose to the challenge, even when He was falsely accused of witchcraft.

Ironically, those who questioned His powers were the same people who brought Him to the cross.

Mary, if given the chance, you and I would have a cup of tea and talk for hours. I have so many questions, one mother to another.

In closing, I’d like to thank you for your sacrifice as Jesus’s mother. I’ll refer to one of my favorite Christmas songs: “Mary, did you know that your baby boy will save our sons and daughters . . . And when you kiss your baby boy, you’ve kissed the face of God.”

I can remember the feeling clearly. I can still taste it, I can still feel the weight of it dragging on my heels, filling my lungs, and chilling my bones.
I am grateful I made it out alive, because looking back I can see that I needed serious help, but help was not coming for me.
I lived with severe depression, suicide ideation, low self esteem, and a handful of other BPD/BP symptoms that went undiagnosed for years.
I was never introduced to the idea of coping skills, boundaries, self care, and I had never heard of things like self fulfilling prophecies, victim mindsets, and justification/avoidance/etc. I wish someone would have brought these things to life, because I think I may have realized sooner that I wasn’t alone or the one to blame for the awful sadness that clawed at my chest like some tortured animal.
I began self-harming as a form of punishing myself. I believed that I was selfish for even breathing. I hated myself so much that I truly, truly believed that I deserved to get hurt and I should feel guilty because if I loved my family then I wouldn’t poison their life by being present in it.
Often I would fall asleep in tears, praying to wake up as someone else or to not wake up at all.
It breaks my heart sometimes when I look back. As a child, I just wanted to be loved and important, and as a teen, I just wanted to be loved and beautiful.
I wanted to be beautiful more than anything.
To me, beauty was something unattainable and far away.
I really was an ugly duckling , so to speak. I don’t believe there are more than 3 photos of me from the time I was in 2nd grade to about 5th.
The summer before 2nd grade my babysitter decided to shave my hair off. On top of being malnourished and having extreme dental issues, having no hair was enough to push me to become a social outcast.
Those little kids treated me like I wasn’t even human.
But every day I woke up just hoping to have a good day. I could forgive my worst enemies without blinking. Every day I just wanted to have a good day.
But I started fighting a lot, partly because the other kids thought I was a boy and partly because I wouldn’t tolerate being bullied any longer. After some months went by, even the adults at school and around public spaces were confused about my gender, and a few had even asked me to stop saying I was a girl.
I felt betrayed and confused. I learned during that time that I could hurt people back if they insulted me, and that love is conditional to beauty.
I moved away after 7th grade for 2 years but was forced to move right back.
They acted like I was a completely different person.
Now people suddenly expected me to be female?
I couldn’t hang out with the guys anymore, and if I did they were trying to throw game at me? I couldn’t wear whatever I wanted anymore because people couldn’t control themselves? I’m supposed to do my hair and makeup and wear dresses and walk in heels now?
Deep down I yearned to be in touch with that femininity that had been denied to be so long ago, but it was hard.
I tried to be grateful, because I knew some people’s journey required surgery and years of hormone therapy. To be told your something that you know your not and trying to play pretend as something else causes a pain I can’t describe, so even though I was secretly relieved I wasn’t sure how to just “be a girl.”
I obsessed over my appearance, I would often stare at my reflection until tears welled in my eyes and whisper to myself these horrible things like, “you’re so freakin ugly. No wonder your mother drinks all the time. No wonder everyone hates you. Your so freaking stupid look at you. I wish so much that I could just beat you up, I hate you so much.”
… It was just one vicious cycle after another.

There are a lot of factors that led to my escape from the prison of that perspective.
But the main one I want to share happened on my own.
Its strange, because now I am considered “hot.” Sometimes I even feel beautiful, but not a whole lot. That’s okay with me, though. I wish that the younger me could feel even the small approvals I give myself, even the smallest kindnesses… But it wasnt until the day I came to this conclusion that any of my self esteem started to change.
I realized… There are worse things to be than ugly.
It may sound ridiculous or even obnoxiously obvious… But this thought had never actually occured to me before.b
There are better things to be than pretty. There are worse things to be than ugly.
I mean, id been through some of them. Being lost in the woods, feeling heartbroken, searching for a missing person that you care deeply about, losing a parent to prison, and being miserable were just a few of the things that I went through personally that I decided in that moment were much worse than being ugly.
This was a breakthrough.
I don’t NEED to be pretty. Sure I want to but do I NEED to be?
Hell no.
I was tired of chasing people’s love, tired of wasting so much energy on their approval. I was just plain tired.
I realized that people couldn’t see right through me. They couldn’t see the damage beneath the surface.
The day I stopped caring if I was ugly or beautiful changed my life. Because that’s the day I started caring about if my life was beautiful or not. I started caring about what I was doing and not about if others cared.
This led me to getting some painful dental surgeries that ended with dentures and a normal smile, some crazy tattoos, and a few hair color choices I could have left in the bottle but mostly it led me to freedom.
I don’t know if my story is unique or if anyone else out there is trapped by the beauty myth… But just in case I’ll say it again:
Beauty does not define value.
Others do not define your beauty.
Your value is yours to see and appreciate. You set the bar for how you will be treated and respected.
Beauty does not define importance, power, or entitlement.
Beauty is not just appearance.
Love yourself, you will see the change in your reflection yourself.
You are beautiful, you are worthy, and you are human.
There are so many worse things to be than ugly.
-a horrible person
-attacked by wolves
-evil and cruel
-dying
-mean
-lost
-sad
-going through the motions
-uncaring, inconsiderate
-starving
Etc. Etc. etc.