A letter to my childhood:
You are so lucky.
You’re smarter than even you know.
You are so loved. 
Hug your parents more.
Hug your grandparents more.
Hug everyone you love more. 
Don’t take family for granted; you’ll miss them when they go.
Know that you are safe, even when the words don’t always make you feel that way.
Read everything; it makes you happy.
Never stop learning.
Don’t let mom cut your hair…

A letter to my teens:
You don’t have to look like everyone else; embrace your individuality.
You shouldn’t cry just because you have a healthy human body.
Love yourself, especially when it feels like no one else will. 
Your voice matters, so keep writing; use it to get everything out.
Someday someone will want to hear it.
Keep reading; it still makes you happy.
Cherish your childishness; hold it close for as long as you can.
Don’t date the bad boy; even when he’s better, he still won’t be good for you. 
I know it’s not just a phase, but sometimes it is.
And didn’t we already say don’t let mom cut your hair?

A letter to my 20s:
Your body will never be the same; the accident made sure of that.
But remember we said not to cry about being in a healthy human body 
Why did you stop reading if it made you happy?
It’s okay to like things he doesn’t; you don’t have to force yourself to fit him.
Complacency is not contentment, and contentment is not joy.
You are not stuck.
You owe nothing to anyone.
Letting go isn’t failure or weakness or selfishness.
You don’t have to go back to something that doesn’t work just to make sure it still doesn’t work.
And isn’t there anyone you can trust with your hair?!

A letter to my 30s:
Alcohol doesn’t make things fun after you wake up sober.
Being single is hard, but dating is harder.
You are not cut out for online dating.
Passion can be fleeting, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.
Remember, though, that butterflies are actually anxiety. 
Excuses are not attractive.
Young is dumb, and dumb is dangerous.
Looking is not liking, and it most certainly is not love.
You still shouldn’t date the bad boy. 
You already know how to let go. 
You’re an adult, and it’s time to figure out how to be one on your own.
And, no, there’s no one you can trust with your hair.

A letter to this past year:
Therapy works.
Just because your anxiety was right before doesn’t mean it always is.
Peace is paradise, not boredom. 
Stillness and solitude are the sacred foundations for your creativity.
Travel is more than just a temporary escape from life.
You are a professional, and you deserve to take up qualified space.
You can write.
You can share.
You can be part of a safe community.
You can learn to build a better life outside of what you’ve always known.
Live at your own pace.
Move your body in ways that make you smile.
Enjoy your food, and let it nourish you, too.
Learn to trust and love again; he’s worth it.
And bless all that is holy because we finally found someone who knows what to do with your hair!

A letter to the future:
Progress isn’t linear. 
You’re still lucky.
You’re still loved.
You’re still smarter than you know.
You’re never stuck.
Love others hard.
Love yourself harder.
Love the life you intentionally create.
It’s always okay to explore new ways.
It’s always okay to have a voice.
It’s always okay to let go.
Keep reading.
Keep writing.
Keep sharing.
Keep learning. 
And someday you’ll finally figure out how to do your own hair.

(100% Style Score)

January 2023:
I committed myself
to writing
one poem
every day.

I shared them with others,
competed in slams,
won cash prizes,
got published,
and foolishly felt
my dreams of becoming
a Poet
had been realized.

January 2024:
I only half-recommitted
to trying again—
because
creativity is hard
when drowning in
the uninspiration
of happiness,
of love,
of peace of mind;
because
is it even possible
to create art
without my addictions,
without my anxieties,
without the Sisyphean effort
of figuring out:
Who Am I?

Days…

Weeks…

Months…

Nothingness,
resulting in
a new bout
of paranoia.

Seeking out
talk therapy,
and cognitive behavioral therapy,
and pharmaceutical therapy,
I had forsaken my greatest remedy.

January 2025:
I now stand steady
in a new resolve
to practice preaching
what I teach.

So I resolve myself
to the adventure of
creation without conformation,
without validation,
without enterprise
or end result.

I resolve myself
to myself,
to the pen,
to the poetry,
to fulfill the need
that bubbles up inside
to spew forth the words
that form from the fountain
of my inner-most foundations
as a salve,
as salvation
for my very soul.