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.

I was strong… Loneliness so deep, like the sea.
I was strong—I didn’t need nobody.
I was so strong, I needed everybody.
I was strong enough to pass as Happy-Go-Lucky,
Even when the cracks showed under the weight.

But strength, they say, isn’t always a gift.
Being “The Strong Black Woman”—what a cruel myth.
A title dressed in resilience but laced with chains,
Hiding the truth of my heart’s quiet pains.

I was strong, even when they looked past me,
Strong, even when disregard was all they’d see.
Strong enough to hold the world,
Yet too strong to be held myself.

They called me strong like it was praise,
But strength became my cage in so many ways.
No room for tears, no space for need,
Just a shell of power, a soul to bleed.

But what of my vulnerability?
Why is softness seen as fragility?
I’ve learned that strength isn’t just standing tall,
It’s also knowing when to let yourself fall.

I am both—strong and tender, bold and unsure,
A mixture of fire and water, pain and cure.
I am whole, not in spite of my duality,
But because I embrace all that makes me me.

So don’t call me strong if it means I must break.
See me as human, for my own sake.
Strength isn’t a shield; it’s a choice to be free,
To honor both the strength and softness in me.

The ghost of “us” still lingers, a haunting refrain,
A melody of memories, a bittersweet pain.
I grieved for the future we’d never attain,
Two souls entwined, then severed in twain.

We’re like two planes in the sky, headed in two different directions,
A near hit or miss, a fleeting connection.
I gave it all I had before I ever decided to quit.
Deep within the depths of my heart, you’re someone I’ll always miss.

But the weight of “what ifs” began to erode,
A heavy cloak of sorrow, a lonely road.
I knew I deserved better, a love that would unfold,
A story where my spirit wouldn’t grow cold.

So I broke the chains, shattered the illusion,
Found the strength within, a silent revolution.
Each step forward, a victory, a new constitution,
Rebuilding myself, a slow, steady evolution.

The sting of regret still lingers, a phantom limb,
But I’m learning to breathe, to finally swim.
In the ocean of life, I’m no longer adrift,
I’ve found the courage to rise, to finally shift.

Truth be told, we’re better off apart,
But our connection is one that genuinely touched my heart.

I watched you from the shadows,
a quiet, steady beat.
You moved through the world
like the ground kissed your feet.

I studied the curve of your laugh,
the shine in your eyes,
dreamt of moments we’d share,
but they were all lies.

I was invisible, a ghost in the crowd,
a whisper, a breeze, never too loud.
But inside, my heart raged,
a storm I couldn’t tame,
trapped between silence
and the sound of your name.

So one day, I stood tall,
my fear on display,
and told you the truth
in the boldest of ways.
But your smile held pity,
your answer a no—
a wound I expected,
but it still cut low.

Yet from that “no,” I found my voice,
discovered in me, I had a choice.
No longer hiding in the cracks of the wall,
I became the light that burns through it all.

Now I walk taller,
no fear in my step,
because loving myself
is the best move yet.

You didn’t choose me,
but that’s okay,
I’ve learned to love me
in a brand-new way.

My life has been a rollercoaster of self-discovery and survival. From a young age, I never quite fit in. In school, I had friends, but I always felt like the outsider. They got the dates, the attention from boys, the spotlight. Me? I was just… there. Tall, skinny, with long hair and hand-me-down clothes, I came from a family that didn’t have much. My father was strict, even into my twenties, and our household lacked the freedom to explore or express who we were.

But the real challenge wasn’t just at home—it was the relentless bullying that shaped my self-image and, for a long time, my life. I was teased, mocked, and made to feel invisible or unworthy. And those scars followed me into adulthood. They left me questioning my value, my voice, and my right to take up space. They turned me into a people pleaser, someone willing to go above and beyond for others just to feel accepted—only to be used and discarded when my boundaries went unnoticed or ignored.

That need for acceptance shaped my choices in ways I couldn’t see at the time. I picked the wrong partners, made bad decisions, and ended up chasing validation from people who never had my best interests at heart. Even in the workplace, I sought belonging, only to be met with superficial acceptance that often turned into exploitation. The same patterns of feeling unseen and unvalued repeated themselves, leaving me struggling with depression, self-doubt, and an overwhelming sense of being misunderstood.

For years, I carried this weight, convinced it was mine to bear. I felt trapped in a cycle of trying to prove myself to people who had already made up their minds about me. But then, somewhere along the way, something shifted.

Now, in my forties, I’ve reached a turning point. I’ve had enough. I’ve realized that the reason I never fit in, the reason I was bullied and mistreated, wasn’t because I lacked something—it was because of my light, my aura, the favor God placed on my life. People weren’t pushing me down because I was weak; they were trying to dim the brightness they saw in me.

I came across a quote one day that struck me to my core: ‘Thieves don’t take from houses or stores that have no value.’ That’s when it clicked—I had value all along. That’s why I was targeted. That’s why I felt the weight of other people’s insecurities projected onto me.

Now, I understand that no amount of changing myself will ever make someone like me if they’re determined not to. And that’s okay. Their opinions don’t define me, and their insecurities aren’t mine to carry.

I’ve stopped shrinking myself for others. I’ve stopped trying to be the loudest voice in the room or bending myself into someone I’m not just to avoid rejection. I’ve embraced who I am—flaws, light, and all.

The journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s been worth it. I’ve learned to set boundaries, to value my own voice, and to love myself without needing outside validation. I’ve discovered the freedom that comes from knowing I am enough, just as I am.

For anyone reading this, who feels unseen, unworthy, or caught in the trap of trying to please everyone else—know this: You don’t need to change to fit someone else’s mold. You are valuable, and your light is worth protecting. The people who matter will see it, and those who don’t? They were never meant to stay in your story anyway.

Hey you ;
Thank you ;
Thank you for being here ;
Thank you for creating Truth that keeps the noose loose as you choose to continue through the fears ;
Thank you for trying your best even when it seems like every seam that holds yourself together has been Severed and ripped to shreds ;
Thank you for trying your best even when it seems like everything you’re thinking is like a hoarders dream, thoughts of a convoluted mess ;
Thank you for trying your best even when things that are in and out of your control seem to spin out of control, and you try to hold on to the right when it seems like there’s nothing left ;
Thank you for staying alive, even though every day seems like a daily struggle just to survive ;
Thank you for choosing to resume these pages of life, even when you’re burnt up and exhausted and no longer want to write ;
Thank you for being here ;
Thank you for being you ;
Sincerely true ;
From me to you ;
Thank you ;
;

Dear Kamala Harris:
I’ll begin by saying that this is not a letter about politics, we’ve all seen enough of that this year. This is more a letter of empowerment and hopes and dreams.
I met you, like most of the rest of the world, in 2021 when you were sworn in as the first black American South Asian female Vice President. You are seated as the highest ranking female official in U.S. history. That’s nothing to sneeze at.
When I sit and resonate about the steps it took you to get where you are, it blows my mind. Not only did you overcome being a female in a world dominated by men, but you rose to every challenge with grace, dignity and beauty. You never said it couldn’t be done, and you kept pushing.
This letter is brief. It’s just my way of showing gratitude to a woman who defied the odds, took the hits when they came and kept going. I admire your tenacity and grit, along with your grace and beauty. You’re the “complete package.”
Thank you, Kamila, for being an inspiration for those of us who may never get the highest-ranking position. We will live vicariously through you.
God speed.

Spring, not sprung.

People can look like they’re fine, but inside they’re crying.
Many are trying, too many dying, I’m flying on some parachute of prayers.
To the God’s who will listen. To the points of the cardinal directions.
I look up and no longer see Orion who has always been my protector.

My hands fall short of magic. My generosity exceeds in deeds, grateful to bless, but somehow not enough to me. I know life is unalome, never even keel- my path made me stronger, wounds have healed.
Although the deeper I dive, the pain becomes real. I deal. I’ve observed on every level, inhaled, exhaled and weighed it on the scales. It tips. Balance is off-
When the whole world is upside down and right side up, I still live in my bubble. When I’m lost, I retreat. No white flag, no olive branch, no phone calls, just me- in the corner with a pen and paper, crying. For everyone I’ve lost, for everyone I’ve ever loved and had to walk away from, for everyone who bears the weight on their shoulders but wakes up and smiles at the world, I am you.

Spring, but not sprung.

Let me feel the rain on my face as I know it waters the flowers that blossom in the spring.

I miss my family and friends who are in another realm. Let their energy protect mine. Allow me to shine like gold in a river on sunny day.

I need my magic or I am useless.

To the God’s~ Please protect us.

Dear Tracy Chapman:

You and I became friends early on in your career. Your unique voice and storytelling style drew me in. “Give Me One Reason” and “Fast Car” were on repeat on whatever device I was listening to at the time.

When I heard “Fast Car” for the first time I was hooked. Those lyrics were so down to earth and touched me in a way that made me believe I could do anything, and that there was no where to go but up.

Even over thirty-five years later, when I hear that song, I crank the volume up (I think I’ve blown a speaker or two listening to that song), and sing at the top of my voice. Your and my voice compliment each other. But certainly not in the same fashion as you and Luke Combs.

Tracy, when I heard you and Luke sing together at the Grammy’s it was simply magic. Watching Taylor Swift and Jelly Roll, singing along, knowing every word, was a tribute to how your lyrics and voice can transform even the biggest stars into your biggest fans. I’m a huge Luke Combs fan so the fact that you and he collaborated on that song was music to my ears.

One of the things I admire about you is that fame never went to your head. You have, and still do, maintain a private life outside your career. That’s hard to do in this day of social media, and everyone wants to know everything about everyone. You’re an anomaly. That’s very cool.

I like seeing you pop up occasionally. It reminds me of my younger years. Your songs touched my soul in a deep way, leaving me feeling hopeful about life’s possibilities.

For now, I’ll say see you later. Hopefully we’ll bump into each other again soon. In the meantime, I’ll be working in the convenience store, stop in some time. It’s just ‘cross the border and into the city.

Dear Jamie Kern Lima:

You and I are new friends. I met you this year when a peer brought your book, “Worthy” in to work. She placed it on her desk near mine and I grabbed it asking, “What is this!”. I was drawn by the title (great choice) and curious immediately. My peer explained she heard about the book and had just started reading it.

I downloaded it through my Audible app and couldn’t wait to start listening. Audible is my best friend. I’ve struggled with reading my entire life. Dyslexia does not have a formal diagnosis, but when I had my youngest son tested for a learning disability it became clear that both he and I have dyslexia. We’re in good company, though. Some of the smartest people in history were known to have dyslexia, and they made it through just fine.

I started listening to your book on my way home from work that day. I was instantly hooked. In your book you described what I, and many other women feel in this crazy world we live in. I loved listening to you tell the story of never feeling that the next promotion was where we needed to go, and all the other areas of life and love left us feeling unworthy.

Your book changed my life. Your words began to make me understand that I was worthy. Worthy of all I wanted in life. That word is in my vocabulary daily. As I work with young women to help them believe they can do whatever they want, professionally and personally. That the next promotion is as much theirs as their counterparts, that they deserve love and being in a toxic relationship is not where they could soar.

When I finished the book, it felt like I was letting go of a friend. But we continued our newfound friendship with your book “Believe It”. Here you brought me through your journey of starting a company from the ground up. When others turned you away, you did not give up. You continued to grow your business organically to become an extremely important cosmetic company. When you sold the company in 2016 for $1.2 billion, all I could think was, “How do you like me now.”

You were told no many times. But you never gave up on your dream. I am inclined to give up too soon. I tend to think I am not worthy of the next big promotion, or I don’t speak my mind for fear of making others mad. Your books have changed that for me. I’m less afraid of ruffling feathers or asking for what I need.

I follow you on Instagram. It’s my way of staying in touch. I love watching you as you continue your journey to help others believe they are worthy of whatever they want. You have a special gift.

Thanks, Jamie. We’ll stay in touch.