Dear Julia Roberts:

You and I met in 1988 when I saw you as an up-and-coming actress in a film called Mystic Pizza. I didn’t really know you, but I was intrigued by the film’s name; I grew up less than fifty miles from that little pizza place in Mystic, Connecticut. My husband used to ride his bike past the real Mystic Pizza all the time. His grandmother lived near there.
I remember watching that film, seeing a young actress with a certain twinkle in her eye thinking, boy she’s going to go far. And you did.

Pretty Woman is one of my all-time favorite movies. I used to binge watch it repeatedly, watching that Cinderella story end like every young girl thought it should; with the guy getting the girl and the girl getting the guy. Of course, having Richard Gere be the guy didn’t hurt, but that’s another letter.

After that, there was no stopping you. Every film you made, to me, was a hit. Watching you play different women, some strong, some not so strong, helped me believe I could do whatever I wanted with my life. And I did.

I lived vicariously through your characters. Notting Hill and Runaway Bride were two more of my favorites. But when you portrayed Erin Brockovich in 2000, I think that was one of your best films. It allowed me to see a more serious side of you as a strong woman with a passion for the underdog. Talk about perfection; you played it well.

As time went on you continued to impress. Taking time to have and raise a family, immersing yourself in philanthropic ventures, and speaking out about causes that are near and dear to your heart. I’ve really enjoyed watching blossom into a beautiful, passionate and talented woman that I’ve come to admire.

I know we’ve never met, and likely never will. But I wanted to know that you’ve made an impact on my life. And for that I’ll be grateful forever.

the day you begin at your lowest is the day they need you to smile,
to “look like you want to be here,” to put on the mask,
so you don’t ruin his day, so you don’t make her uneasy.
honesty is selfish, so you force the grin,
the dam holding back grief as it threatens to flood,
an apology for daring to express a neurotic emotion,

intrusive thoughts rush through cracks,
the fracture in understanding reality where you don’t know how to accept what’s true,
having faith in the dark of your closed eyes that you will see light when you open them again,
these truths that shape your identity and guide your actions,
an inundation that leaves you horrified by what belongs to you,
until you fortify for mind with a pill
as i slip into comfortable delusion, breathe shallow,
my medicine tastes like lobotomy.

the hollow platitudes of condolences that feel obligated to speak by the collective obligation to speak,
“hope you feel better”
“you sound crazy.”
pressing at the seams of your fragile control.
it thrives on this quiet, this forced calm,
i’m impatient.

makes you wonder where the clear water went,
if it was ever there at all,
makes you feel like you had it coming during the day you’re at your lowest,
when you’re meant to lead a presentation for your boss- pace your self and inhale deep so they can’t hear tremble in your voice,
when you’re meant to join your family for dinner- running through multiple choice scenarios in an attosecond to formulate the intricate lie you’ll tell your mother in lieu of causing her worry,
when you have no thoughts to share as tour body puppeteers your actions to fulfill your daily routine,
somewhere deep within no matter how hidden,
a forcefully forgotten memory of trauma is randomly triggered and you lose control, embarrassing yourself by letting see the face behind the mask,
the pain behind the smile,
makes you feel like you deserve to hurt*** yourself

Dear Betty Crocker: (My mother’s name is Betty)

I met you at an early age. You were in my mother’s kitchen long before I was born, but you were not there alone. Another woman, Fannie Farmer, graced my mother’s kitchen in her small cookbook collection.

Fannie was much older than you. Her original cookbook was published before 1896 for the Boston Cooking School. The book I inherited from my mother was last copyrighted by Wilma Lord Perkins in 1959. The binding is compromised, the cover torn, but the pages are intact, although stained from years of use.

I remember my mother using both cookbooks often. By nature, she was not a good cook. She stayed in a lane of soups and stews that left a lot of room for error without being inedible. Although, there were times when she concocted creations that left much to be desired. Like the time she “emptied the refrigerator” and decided to put shrimp cocktail sauce into my father’s homemade Sicilian gravy. Horseradish, an ingredient in cocktail sauce, gets hotter when cooked. This made the gravy so spicy it was not fit to eat for young children with delicate palates. Epic fail.

You and Fannie spent years trying to teach my mother to cook. While there were glimmers of success throughout the years, ultimately she would not master the craft.

A tradition in our family, as in many families, was that my mother would cook our favorite meal for our birthday. One of my last birthdays before she died, my mother made one of my favorite meals: galumpkis (polish cabbage rolls). She made them in the crockpot (stew-like meal) and served them over egg noodles. It was one of those comfort foods from my childhood.

The last time she made them something went terribly wrong. They were dry and burnt and not at all what I remembered from my childhood. Turns out she had forgotten to add the liquid ingredients to the crock pot. I think that was the last time she cooked for me. From there I would bring ingredients to my parent’s home on my day off and cook for them. It worked out better that way.

Betty, I gave you a bad wrap for a while. Pictures of a perfectly coiffed woman in a red dress with a white collar was what I remembered. Back in the day, there wasn’t all the information there is today, so I drew my own conclusion of who Betty Crocker was. For me, the stigma of being a stay-at-home mom cooking cobblers and pies was not what I was in for.

When I received my own copy of your cookbook for a bridal gift, I smiled the obligatory smile, feeling like I was pigeonholed into being the perfect wife. But as time went on, I learned that I needed you. My mother was not a great example and taught me little about cooking with fresh ingredients from scratch. Now I’ll admit I’ve had my fair share of mistakes, none of which I can blame on you or Fannie. Like the time I left chicken quarters on the grill unattended on low for over 30 minutes. By the time I got back to them, they were so dry that they were more like chicken dust than chicken quarters.

Or the time I made nacho pasta out of a can of nacho dip I bought to get us through a storm. Those who know me know I don’t eat much canned anything, but I don’t like to waste food either. This was my way of using something instead of throwing it away (boy, wonder where that came from).
My husband and son, who tasted it and refused to eat it, still kid me to this day. When I ask what they want for dinner, their response is anything but nacho pasta.

Betty, I am honored to call you friend, and Fannie too, but now you sit at the table with the likes of Ina Garten, Giada DeLaurentis, Joanna Gaines, and Paula Deen, just to name a few. These ladies are included in my collection of over fifty cookbooks written by various chefs, both men and women. I believe you paved the way for their success.

In closing, I’d like to thank you and Fannie for laying the foundation for woman, and men, to create an entire industry around feeding people delicious food to fill our bodies and our souls. Bon appetite (let us not forget Julia Child).

Dear Wynonna Judd:

You and I could be sisters, I would be the older one. I’ve listened to you and your mom for years. Your angelic voices heard on the airwaves of country music. With hits like Why Not Me (1984), Grandpa (1985) and Love Can Build A Bridge (1990), you were always on my radio.

Then when your mom died in 2022, I felt I’d lost something too. But my loss of hearing your mom’s beautiful voice was nothing compared to your loss of a mother and a life long singing partner. I’m sure the whole is deep, and still healing. I lost my mom in 2016 and there are still raw spots in my heart.

In 1993 you released Only Love, your second single. Your voice is so pure and vulnerable. That song moved me. That time in my life with a bit of a fog. My kids were both born and I realized that my marriage was simply my unrealistic fairy tale.

Only Love allowed me sail away from my reality to an island of green and be free. I could feel my feet on solid ground even with the waves coming crashing down. That song was my source of strength during a turbulent time. I hung on your every word.

I must go for now, knowing I can put my trust in just one thing, for me it’s God and his love. I hope you have a blessed day; one filled with only love.

Dear Sara Evans:

In 2005 I went through a nasty divorce after 20+ years of marriage. The man I married, had two children with, turned in a monster, turning my kids against me, lying to close friends causing a wedge that would never be released.

The scars of that marriage ran deep. To naively love someone for over two decades, left raw emotions; some of which may never heal.

Fast forward to 2010, when I heard your song A Little Bit Stronger, the true healing began. God sent you to me through my radio. As I listened for the first time, I sobbed uncontrollably. You wrote my anthem song.

Since that time, you have been by my side like a best friend. Since I first heard it, that song has been part of my music library. When I need a little boost, there you are to remind me that each day I am a little bit stronger.

Last weekend my husband attended your concert in Hiawassee GA. I worked early that day, so I was tired, but I had to stay. I loved listening to your new songs are well as your past hits. But your last song was the one I’d come to here.

Sara, I can tell you that, although I am in a good marriage now, and at a good place in my life. That song brought me to tears, and I could feel your words infusing me with strength.

I’ve got to close for now, I’m busy today, getting stronger. Thank you for being a source of strength even on my weakest days.

A symbol of love , a reminder of warring bloodshed,
Such is the dichotomy
That lies in the power of the color red.

Red is willpower, the mind of “She”

She who is openly strong
She who is secretly kind.
Cheering from the front
But lingering 2 steps behind.

Red is bold, the exclusivity of “She”
She who is reclusive
A rare treasure to find.

Red is danger, the strength of “She”
Red is this fiery woman
The little girl has dared one day to be.

Red is desire, the passion of “She”
A shade depicting her struggles,
A sign of her unwavering, rebellious thought.
Color of the scars from all the battles she fought.

When she needed to stand out, it was her color of choice,
The color of celebration,
Color of her freedom, her will, her voice.

Every day the search is so real
In obvious, yet often vague fashion
The path is forever passing through
Mirage and tangible peaks and valleys

When molehills turn to mountains
When that oasis ahead offers nothing
Only barren and deserted ground
The insurmountable desire to fade becomes
An obstacle we struggle to overcome

Every day the struggle is sincere
How to permeate and see beyond
Our perceived vision of that molehill
The lying mirage we cling to in hope
Of quenching that continuous thirst on the journey

Strive to find the meanings lying in wait
Infinite is their patience the meanings exists
While often not simple the reward is priceless
Knowledge is power and awareness the weapon

Search and struggle brings truth
Even if only your own to hold
Because at the end of every path we choose
Is a new one only you can walk

Kosmic_Kachina2469

I felt like my death is long overdue
I use to enjoy life when I was with you
Look into my eyes and what do you see
Just the leftover mess of what you made of me

As memories turn to lessons i look to see life in a new light
Fighting back my nature to not let my love turn to spite
Despite my best efforts i still was not enough
Tell me was what we had ever real or all just a bluff

I gave you all i had in spite of my status
But despite all that you painted me red black and blue like i was your personal canvas
As i pick up the pieces of whats left of me
Will i finally find myself and be set free?

Invisible. A wish that with each passing day the desire to become tethered with it grows. It was always my answer when I was asked, “What superpower would I choose given the chance?”

It was always invisibility. It’s a period where you are free from the confinements of reality, and everything that comes with it. Free from judgement from other people, free from inconvenience but also securing a safe space to truly be yourself.

Lately the story behind that spark, my desire, it derives from
unwanted attention, unwanted burdens, piling up, and weighing me down like unyielding cargo.

It’s the attention through the eyes of a lustful man, stopping to stare at me while I work, making small talk when it’s clear I don’t want to be friends. His gaze, his voice were like spiders crawling into my skin, sending painless shockwaves of panic through my veins, like a mini earthquake racketing in my body.

It rippled my nerves with anxiety, taking my thoughts to a dark place, swearing to myself that I’ll never be caught in a dark alley with him, wishing I can disappear so his eyes and slimy smile can stop looking at mine.

There’s also life issues, and personal struggles, burdens like struggling to contain your emotions, because you feel too deeply, and now you’re putting yourself out there too much, or you take things the hard way, or you get told you’re too sensitive. You just feel TOO MUCH! It’s overwhelming, so much you start to feel drained in your heart, your soul, your spirit, and self worth.

The burden of it all, juggling life’s chaos, searching for balance, and all that jazz. I struggle everyday, trying to do enough so that I am a fully functional stable, healthy, human being.
A woman.

Yes, snap out of it, Paige.You are more than this and who you are is better than this. You’re better than this.

Listen, I’ll be honest while I’m still going, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take a toll on me.

And then I remember, one night, I painted a seamless life, an escapable vision, and a fruitless chase for it. A mirage that I will never obtain but always yearn for.

To be alive but invisible would be a kaleidoscope of possibilities, shifting and unfolding, basking in a beautiful, colorful life, relishing in a chance to live in peace, free from mental torment, and wallowing in the quiet stillness of a misty sanctuary, where the soul roam unseen.

It is a dream that I would die for.

“The two important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why”-Mark Twain.
Life’s numerical milestones have changed .
I view 46 as 30+ 16 rather than 50-4 Mathematically and philosophically.
46 was a nameless nobody . Turning 46 just meant a step closer to the golden years and nothing more than that.
But now , this previously insignificant number has a whole glamour quotient of its own. A modern day new kinda big deal .
Feeling “ 45+1” or “almost 46” does sorta have a grounding undertone to it. A settling sense of self assuredness.
Chances are at this juncture, you are where you shall be for the rest of your life..atleast in most aspects of your life.
So it’s best to acknowledge all of it , embrace it, celebrate the done-its and get over the have-nots.
My so-called big birthday beckons me in a few days. And I feel fine. In reality, I feel more than just fine.I feel feisty and fine. Each day bringing with it an epiphany of sorts. The realization that aging gracefully means learning to detach and step back . Ironically, learning the art of detachment is not a lesson in learning to let go.
It actually involves quite the opposite. It involves recognizing and holding on to all that is relevant and enriching. And no , age is not just a number. How we wish it was! It is way more layered than that.
Physically, the 45 year old body is not and organically should not be what it used to be . Aging naturally is the sign of a life well lived. Trying to reverse age, is trying to relive a life that wasn’t done right the first time.
Mentally, growing older is freeing. With my absolute abandon and unapologetic arrogance , I sense and honestly quite like the new me emerging-subtle silver streaks, sagginess, striations , self love et all! I feel old enough to recognize my mistakes but young enough to make some more!
So bring on my birthday baby, let the wisdom grow and show! On my face, on my cake!
My dear age-Add those candles with each passing year as you wish, but you can never blow out the fire that gets fiercer every minute within me!

In the darkness, I’m alone, floating on a cloud of dreams,
where reality blurs and paints a picture of my mind dancing freely,
taking solace in the emptiness,
escaping the inevitable
to a void where struggles on all fronts
dissolve.

To a single adult like me,
name any struggle you’re facing
and I can likely tell you
that I was there before coming here.
Still gonna be waiting for me
for when I get back though.

God, it was serene, the feeling,
like being wrapped in a cozy blanket
on a cool night in your bed;
while your worries melted like butter
into a fleeting absence.

And when there’s night,
there’s day,
and like the sun in the world,
yours will rise again in your mind,
which reminds me of
the one thing I always loved about
the darkness,
because in it there’s nothing there,
no light to illuminate
any harsh reality
or truth
waiting to cause havoc in
your heart and mind.

And if it were up to me,
I’d manifest my thoughts into a person,
and kill it
so my mind can finally have peace.

I’d stay in the darkness forever,
if that meant being free.