A tribute to the land that mirrored me back to myself. A reflection you have to see with your own eyes and feel with your own heart. I was summoned to deliver a friend’s familiar from the shores of the east coast. This majikal village lies deep in the mountains of the Kenai peninsula of Alaska. Only accessible by boat or plane, Seldovia is her name. With Russian roots and multicultural occupants, she changed the ways I perceived the world. In only 11 months, I completely shifted my reality. Solitude gave me the space to view life beyond the veil and truly love all the parts of me. I hid behind the masks as I sought external validation. The alcohol drowned my awareness, causing me to land in sticky situations. Her soil cleansed my deepest wounds, where tree roots meet the ocean. Revitalized, my soul realized the toxicity needed to be released. Unknowingly, battling addiction, my body finally rejected the chemicals I was suffocating my lungs with and submerging my liver in. After years of reckless decisions, I impulsively quit my job at the bar. I packed my house and said farewell to my newfound friends. I flew back to my roots in central California to get back to the deepest truths that lied dormant within me. Today I stand proudly with a clear conscience. 3 years and 6 months of freedom, I look back at my healing journey and give all thanks and praises to my highest self that led me to the distant lands of Seldovia. Life is so much more beautiful, with clarity comes comfort. Sobriety gives me peace of mind. That’s just a little piece of my mind.

“Those screams aren’t drunk tourists,” the artist whispered in my ear. “Musketeers are battling the cardinal’s guards for the Queen’s necklace. And that off-key busker? That’s Quasimodo singing from the roof of Notre-Dame. You don’t see Paris with your eyes. Only with your heart. Saint-Exupéry wrote that. I’d say: after a bottle of wine.”
Actually, it was after three. He wouldn’t even talk to me before the first. Our journey through Paris began in his apartment, but now we’re stumbling out of his studio in a neighborhood travel blogs call vibrant.
“Don’t stare,” the artist mutters. “Weed dealers. Armed. Two hundred years ago, they were robbing Dumas’s heroes. Today, they serve screenwriters and film stars.”
This was my first time in Paris. Day three. The exact moment I began falling in love with the city.
We’re on our way to his main buyer. At three in the morning. The man lives in a top-floor apartment with a private elevator. His wife meets us at the door, still half-asleep, apologizing: “All I can offer is a thirty-year-old Armagnac.”
We talk about Picasso —how the difference between Spanish and French pronunciation shows up in his brushstrokes. This very apartment, it turns out, was once a set for a film from the French New Wave from the 1950s. The man, now the owner of an ad agency, built barricades back in ’68, hurled stones at riot cops, protested soulless capitalism. He met his wife on the frontlines. Now he collects rebellious art. Sold off all his Impressionists.
My high school French teacher would never have understood him. She believed Paris was men in berets, women in lace dresses and wide-brimmed Monet hats. Lovers meeting beneath the Eiffel Tower, reciting poetry.
Reality? A mess. I’m disappointed. Counting down the days to my flight. Waiters are rude. Crowds so thick you can barely see the art in the Louvre. Trash lines the streets. The Eiffel Tower is just a circus of souvenir peddlers.
I checked the tourist box: been there, done that. Never coming back.
But the first time I felt like I was watching the wrong movie came outside Notre-Dame. The real Paris—my Paris—was behind an old bookstore door on the banks of the Seine. Shakespeare and Company.
From the outside, just an old shop. Inside? Magic. Time frozen in the 20th century. One of the original founders, Mr. Whitman, still lingers like a guardian of literary ghosts. Joyce typed Ulysses here. Fitzgerald partied here. When the current owner talks about the roaring American ‘20s, you’d think they might stop by later for wine.
He holds a key. Upstairs: a low-ceilinged attic where tomorrow’s literary stars sleep off cheap red wine. They live there for free. No time limit. The only rule? Promise you’re writing a book. No one checks. You just put in a few hours selling books downstairs.
I know where I’ll go when life falls apart.
And I know exactly where I won’t go back to: a café on the Champs-Élysées with the worst pizza I’ve ever had. Just fifty feet away, though, a culinary temple. The best restaurant of my life. Just a house, you walk in like you’re visiting a friend. No dining hall with dozens of tables. No noise. Waiters move like ghosts. Plates just appear. You have no idea what you’re eating. Molecular cuisine—flavors layered like a Notre-Dame musical: sweet and bitter at once. In Paris, beauty and disaster often arrive together. Esméralda and Quasimodo. That’s the deal.
Here, eating at your desk is illegal. Food is sacred. I once spent thirty minutes choosing cheese. Each question from the cheesemonger narrowed it down like a quiz, eliminating ten cheeses out of 300 on the counter: When’s dinner? How many guests? Young or old? Should the wine lead, or the cheese? Music or political debate?
I like visiting Paris during presidential elections. It always feels like good vs. evil. I can’t vote here, but for the last 15 years it’s felt like someone dangerous might win—and then, like in the novels, d’Artagnan saves the day. Good prevails. Champagne bottles pop open on the Champs-Élysées. People drink from the neck, toasting the new—or old—president. It’s so Parisian. Turning an election into a party.
This city teaches the art of doing sophisticated nothing. And still getting everything done. It shows you beauty where a million others miss it. It spins fairy tales out of the ordinary.
That’s why Hemingway advised: see Paris young. It’ll change your life.
I know.
That’s why I love you, Paris.

To the IKEA on Park Manor Boulevard:
I love a good Swedish meatball as much as the next girl, but helping a single, 25 year-old man pick out furniture for his empty Pittsburgh apartment isn’t exactly my ideal Saturday night. No offense, nothing sucks the life out of a room like shopping for mass-produced, minimalistic Scandinavian furniture.
I mean, it was technically a first date. But first dates require a lot of courage, and courage was not something I had in abundance at that time. IKEA, though, seemed…safe. It’s a date that can masquerade as a simple errand if things go wrong. And at that point in my life, I needed “safe”. Correction: I wanted “safe”. But, you know what they say about a place like IKEA: You never go in with a plan. The store just tells you what you need, and you oblige.

I think that my date and I came for a mattress, a desk, and a coffee table: the bare necessities of 20-something urban living. Despite our list, we stopped in every single section, admiring each hyper-detailed scene–you know, the ones that help people better envision what the furniture they’re eyeing will look like when it’s assembled and incorporated into its potential space. As we wove our way through, messing around by playing games, making up stories, and gabbing about color schemes and curtain choices, the irony wasn’t lost on me. My first sample of doing life with this guy making furniture shopping feel like an amusement park. I was having an amazing time, but I still had my guard up, bracing for that all-too-familiar pit in my stomach to give way, ready for the moment he would “casually” mention how this desk chair was his ex’s favorite color, or how he’d need a sturdy mattress to keep up with all the girls he planned to sleep with, or how I was such a good friend for helping him pick out furniture.

But that moment never came. In fact, somewhere between the kitchenware and the plants, something shifted that even the most hypervigilant parts of me couldn’t detect. Discussions over the best cabinet color became explanations on why dark-washed woods reminded him of summers in that cabin in Maine. Preference of kitchen fixtures became recounting summers sitting around the table with my friend who had since passed away. In hindsight, we were so severely over the line of polite first date talk that it would have made even my most seasoned dater cringe. But in the moment, I heard no alarm bells, felt no gut feelings. The image of him in my life was coming more into focus by the second. He would be a perfect fit, I knew it.

IKEA, you may be the world’s quirkiest spot for a first date, but I left that day with the love of my life, and I in no small way attribute that to the playful whimsy of IKEA creating a space which coaxed out an uncharacteristic vulnerability in me–one that let me relax into to the possibility of not only loving, but letting myself be loved, after so long. I still think back to that date when times are tough. I think about watching him pantomiming the mundane intricacies of everyday life in a fake office or display kitchen, and how badly I wanted to experience life with him for real. It feels poetic, then, that I’m writing this, snuggled up next to him against my MALM bed frame. He really is exactly what my space was missing.

Dear Labor and Delivery,

Though it has been 18 years since my last visit, I can still smell your aroma and hear the steady stream of faint chatter when I close my eyes. I can still feel the bedrails beneath my hands and the IV in my arm.
Oh the anticipation and excitement of what was to come! To finally be able to meet and hold my little miracle, the one I grew inside of me, this little human life that I created! And then, it was time. I heard her cry, heard the Nurse say “something’s wrong”, heard the Doctor sternly call out “give Mom her baby”. I was so confused, scared, and worried. What was going on? What was wrong? Where’s my baby? What happened? And then she was in my arms, my perfect little one, so beautiful. And then I heard the words. “She has Down syndrome.”
Three years later, I came to visit again This time though, there was no excitement – no anticipation. This time was different.
While our daughter was safe with family, you kept me as comfortable as possible. You gave me a safe place to let myself go. You shared my tears with me, let me scream, you passed no judgement. When the time finally came, there was no first breath, there were no cries, no one rushing to take vitals – just silence. My baby was gone, an angel now in Heaven. As they placed her in my arms, my lips touched her skin and quiet tears fell.
You shared two of the most important moments in my life with me. They were beautiful, scary, and tragic. But in each moment, you helped me realize my strength.

Oh Minneapolis,

I have a confession to make. I never wanted to leave you. When I decided to attend graduate school in Chicago, a naive part of me believed everything would be the same. I thought my connection to my family and friends would overpower the 7-hour distance, but all it did was keep me from embracing the lifestyle I could’ve had here. In every neighborhood I explored, I sought small reminders of you. I thought about your crunchy leaves falling into the muddy grass. I thought about the bright sun glistening off your frozen lakes. I even thought about, and grieved, the pink, peachy skies your summer sunsets painted. I made new connections, tasted Chicago flavors, and slowly fell in love with the city. I embraced everything my new home showcased to me: the blue line, the endless taco shops, and why it’s nicknamed the “windy city”. I started to see myself differently. I wasn’t a daughter, a dancer, an older sister, or a best friend in Chicago, and that scared me. Who could I be if not related to other people? Who could I be if not related to responsibilities? I still tried to be all those things when my family and friends needed me, but I overextended myself. As I learned to let loose and let go of the self-image you gifted me, your reminders turned into nostalgia. Your leaves, lakes, and sunsets became symbols of Minnesota, and not just moments I missed and grieved.

I wanted to tell you about the first friend I made in Chicago. This was a few months after moving into my new apartment. I made a friend through an online app. We met up at a cafe, walked around the neighborhood, and had already made inside jokes in our friendship. It was a sunny autumn day with a slight wind chill. It felt familiar to me. It reminded me of you, but in a way that didn’t hold me back. It reminded me of the friends I made because of you. I was nervous to make a friend as an adult, but those fears disappeared once I realized I could trust you. I was comforted by the way you taught me to connect and engage with others; how you taught me to relate and love others. It was one of my better days since moving.

When I got back to my apartment after our hangout, there was a package waiting for me. It was a going-away/thank-you gift from my old dance bosses. In the package, there was a T-shirt from the studio’s 10th anniversary event that I missed because I was moving. Before I knew it, tears were dripping from my face and onto the shirt. It was an odd feeling. For a moment, it felt like my two worlds were clashing in front of me rather than in my head. It was odd how both moments brought me joy, guilt, love, and grievances at the same time. I loved making a new friend, but a part of me grieved moving on from you. I also loved the gift from my bosses, but another part of me felt guilty about missing an important event, not just for them, but for the whole community. It was an odd feeling because I experienced myself as both identities at the same time. I wasn’t sad, just lonely.

It’s almost been a year since moving away from you. I still find it hard to live or see myself without your soft, flurries of snow or your beautiful playgrounds. I’m still learning to hold onto your memories while letting your lessons help me navigate the world. Oh, Minneapolis. Thank you for your love, but I have another confession to make. I have to let you go. I don’t mean I’ll forget you. I have to let go of everything you allowed me to be. I have to let myself go from the love and memories you make me seek here. Maybe in a few years, when I’ve matured, I will return to you. I will always belong to you. I will always look for you. This new lifestyle calls for me to embrace it fully with open arms, and I think I’m ready to say goodbye to you. I trust you’ve prepared me to do that.

Goodbye, but not forever.

Best,

Lyla

I was born in California. I was a native of California. Just about almost all my relatives have lived in California for most of half a century. I should have lived in that golden era for most of my life. Until my Dad lost his company. The first job position was in a small town in the center of the Midwest: Missouri. My parents believed that though it was difficult and they never wanted to move out of their home state, they were conceived that it was meant to be.

I wasn’t even four yet when I moved to the great Ozarks on a hot August day. Wish I could say we were greeted by sweet country folks in the beginning. However, at the start, it wasn’t always a nice warm welcome. Before more businesses came into view, my family said that the small town reminded them of Mayberry from one of the old TV shows. Generations upon generations had lived there. Some marriages got started as young as seventeen. Most things are slow and simple—traveling anywhere in the world was far from the minds of most locals. Just plain commitment. I’ve been told that the only way to fit in was owning a pickup truck, a rifle for hunting, a loyal dog, or having all three. Because we didn’t have either one, we were jokingly told not to tell anyone about that.

Always loved the home I grew up in. A brick house with a backyard and creek hidden in the privacy behind more trees than one could count. I used to think every kid grew up in a house like mine. It wasn’t until we had some kids visit us and stay amazed at ours, dreaming of having a house of their own someday, away from the day-to-day home in the apartments where they lived.

I was homeschooled and loved it that way. However, just because you’re homeschooled, doesn’t mean that you wouldn’t have bullies or drama. I have quite a few. “When you all graduate, that person will move, and you’ll never see them again,” I’ve been told, believed it, and then once in a while see that person staying in the small town. I guess they must love one place.

While some may get under the skin, it does not mean that everyone is like that. Sometimes it may take a while for others to get to know and warm up. And I can confidently say, not often, when you are walking alone, whether in the rain or carrying groceries, there may be someone driving by who offers you a ride. No one in California does that. In the last few years, whenever someone had a baby, died, or was sick, there would be an organized meal train coming by. And there is no doubt for extreme support for any small local business.

Small town taught me to appreciate all things, even the smallest that can easily be taken for granted. Country life taught me the value of hard work, smarter, not harder incentives, as well as what character to have and not to have. The Ozarks gave me something to look forward to every season: showers in spring, blooming greens in summer, and the cold to have an excuse to wear sweaters in the winter. But my favorite is the vibrant colors of autumn— whether passing by someone’s front tree, or seeing valleys of endless color. I will confess that Missouri weather can be quite chaotic. But if I focus on these little joys that seasons and weathers bring, it’s more worth it.

Now, as much as I am grateful for growing up in a small town, I still love adventures throughout the state to explore with my husband. Most places may be believed to be all the same, yet it is not true. Each cavern is different to go in. All rivers are different sizes and reflections like mirrors. Not every tree is small. Not every town is alike. Any landmark has a history, a story, a legend that needs to be kept being told.

Will we someday move somewhere? Probably. And that is okay. I have enjoyed my little life, and I am still enjoying the life I have right now. I never thought that I would one day move to one of Missouri’s popular cities like St. Louis, but I’m surprisingly loving it. Yet, no matter where I live or where I will move, I will never forget where I came from with humble beginnings, and knowing that we continue to need great people around us, even if they drive a pickup truck.

Dear Hong Kong,

As an eight-year-old, I dreaded the sixteen-hour flight from my home in Portland, Oregon, to you. Crisp pine trees and unsullied mountain air got replaced by your skyscrapers of apartments and thick humidity overlaid by the scents of steamed buns and roasted meats. Mom and Dad called you their true home, and they smiled more during our visit. Their pace quickened as they wound through your streets with me and my siblings in tow, navigating by memory. Meanwhile, I wished to return to America immediately, but I was trapped.

Ma Ma and Ye Ye, my paternal grandparents, lived in your countryside. Their place was riddled with mosquitoes, and it seemed drab to a young, naive girl like me. There were only the remnants of their pig farm, an outhouse, and a television in the small living room that spoke words I didn’t comprehend.
Dad reverted to his schoolboy self—walking barefoot around the property, pulling out weeds for Ma Ma, plucking longan fruit from her tree. He enjoyed going to Costco in our tidy Oregon suburb and worked in a cubicle at Intel, yet seemed more relaxed in these humble surroundings. I lay in bed, sandwiched between my older brother and younger sister, miserable and jetlagged. “How did Dad even survive here?” I thought.

In the city, Mom’s family lived in a second-story flat. Mom never verbalized “I miss you” to her mother, my Po Po, but I could see it in the way that she held Po Po’s hand as they crossed the street. A taxi took us up a winding road to our maternal grandfather Gong Gong’s grave in Tao Fong Shan, a hill and cemetery overlooking the city. Mom was only ten when he died, and she described him as a kind pastor, a generous man. Her face looked pensive as she placed flowers on his tombstone. I shuffled my feet, feeling awkward about a grandparent I never knew.

Fourteen years later, I flew back to you with my family. More grown up and worldlier, I was curious about my perception of you now. I’d recently graduated from college, thinking I embodied a confident, independent adult. But then a move to Austin, Texas, led to loneliness swallowing me whole, catalyzed by a new city and job that were predominantly and jarringly white. As just one of two Asian women on an eighty-person staff, I was floundering and unsure if people could truly understand me. Was I more American, or Cantonese?

I hoped that going to Ma Ma’s house would help me. Ye Ye had passed away from cancer years ago, leaving Ma Ma alone, but she still grinned broadly as we approached her house.

“Hoi Hoi!” She called me by my Cantonese name, jubilant. We barbecued chicken wings and pineapple over a charcoal fire in her front yard, chatting and bantering. I was happy to be here for the first time, and my eyes swept Ma Ma’s land with new eyes. It was peaceful and away from chaos, a physical reminder of Dad’s rise from farmer’s son to the American Dream. Earlier, Dad had shown me the poetry Ye Ye had written in chalk on the old farmhouse’s walls. It hit me then that my privileged life only existed because Dad’s family had worked so hard to better themselves. I could become anything I wanted because of them. Regret swooped through my chest; I had taken them for granted. Ma Ma watched us go when we said goodbye, and I glanced back.
At Gong Gong’s grave in Tao Fong Shan, I thought about how Mom had experienced much of life without a father, yet it hadn’t dampened her passionate spirit. She’d walked home from school through Tao Fong Shan in pitch darkness, practicing her steps from dance class to fend off fear. Both my parents were hardy people who had been transformed by you—I recognized that now.

I ambled on a path that led to a lookout, where a towering stone cross stood. Chinese characters along its width spelled, “It is finished,” from the biblical book of John—a memorial to Gong Gong’s legacy and devotion. A lump formed in my throat. How did I not care before?

Revisiting you made me realize that I couldn’t think of my identity without embracing the older generation who’d paved the way. My family belonged with you, as did I. It wasn’t right to deny you and your impact on my life. So much more tied me to you, not just my skin color or my eyes—your culture, your history, your pride. I drank you in on that overlook, the stone cross my comforting companion. You became a place of beauty and memory that forever left your mark on my heart. “I’ll come back again,” I promised.

Love,
Melody

While you were never really my room, you’ve somehow etched a place for yourself in my heart. It’s a little strange when I think about it, there’s nothing particularly special about you. Your plywood walls were far too thin, you radiator always rattled and never worked quite right, and you were always at an uncomfortable temperature whenever the weather hit above 68 degrees. You’re just the same as the room to the left of you, and the room above that one, and the room to the right of it, so why is it that when it was time to leave I was met with tears? Why is it that when I closed the door to a room that wasn’t even mine, I felt like I was leaving a part of myself in there too?
I think of you in three parts. The first being summertime. I wasn’t too familiar with you at first, I kept to myself and made sure I never overstayed my welcome. Always sitting neatly on the bed that looked freshly made next to the window. Never making a point to make myself too comfortable because I didn’t ever expect to stay long. Those days were filled with my frigidness, my stiffness, with my inability to relax because you were new. Along with everything else. Yet despite my discomfort, I found that there was something with you that I could not find anywhere else. Not even in my own room could I find this thing, this feeling. I couldn’t quite put it into words just yet, so I kept that thought at the back of my mind and kept coming back to you.
It must’ve been around October when I realized something had shifted with you and I. I was becoming more familiar with you, I always seemed to find myself waiting outside your door for someone to let me in after I’d finished my classes. I wouldn’t go back to my own room because going back to you felt more fitting. It was in those days where I would begin to laze around the beds and chairs as though they were my own. I stayed over often, sometimes packing my things to spend days on end with you. And even when I didn’t stay over, I always stayed as late as I could, taking the last bus every single night just so that I could be there a little bit longer. I remember those nights vividly and while they were not so long ago, they feel as though they are distant memories that I could never recreate. I recall how many nights were filled with laughter, the loud and obnoxious kind that would have surely been heard from down the hall. It was like a never-ending time of sharing stories and jokes and other small things throughout the day that were memorable enough to spare our words for. I remember how some nights though, were spent much quieter. I like to think of those ones often, I like to think of how I felt safe sharing my story within the comforts of your walls. Because while those walls were thin, they never made me feel exposed. I knew that you could keep my secrets as I would keep yours. And so our days together turned to nights until they eventually all blended together.
I think you saw the most of me during spring. While you literally saw me more, you also saw sides of me that I never thought I would dare to show. I remember the first time I showed you, I was scared because I couldn’t face rejection again, not so soon. But instead of that, I was met with warmth. Your walls kept me from shivering on the spring nights that were a little too cold. I remember how on some nights when I didn’t want to sleep alone in my own room, I would come and stay with you. And I think of how on those nights my worries seemed to melt away as we greeted the night with even more laughter and banter than before. I think of the vulnerability that I came to you with and the acceptance that you showed me in return. I think of it all the time, now more than ever.
I think that while our time together was brief, it was also beautiful. You have seen many versions of me in such a short amount of time, you have watched me change in tandem with the seasons. You understood that the person who I first opened the door as, was not the same one who closed it. So as I speak to you for one last time, I thank you for your walls that held me through it all.

My story began when I was about 25. I was in college just approaching graduation. I was in a singles volunteer group to meet people since I was so shy. I had met this fascinating couple Chris who was quite the charmer and most handsome man I had ever seen. He had a baby face and sparkling blue eyes. He was seeing Amy though and I was quite jealous. Anyway it was at a hospital with plain white walls and the bathroom turned into an elevator to the afterlife or so it seemed. I could see a garden that was lavish and beautiful and then the light green floor I saw a ring of fire. I also saw a dog with whips and chains trying to follow me. To be his prisoner. I was hanging on to dear life when I saw a bright white light. And no face but a hand and at the bottom some sandals. I grabbed the hand. At the moment I forgot my love for Chris and knew I was saved from something greater. I had seen the heaven and hell but I was saved. The reason unbeknownst to me yet but I knew I had been saved by a higher power.

I bet you thought I forgot about you, didn’t you? But no, there’s no way I would forget the metal box I called home for a year of my life. You were safe. You shielded me from the ugliness of war and hatred and destruction. You also saw me getting destroyed. Personal demons that grew inside my mind, a longing to be home, a desire for a war to yield, and a mental struggle that, at the time I had no idea, but would remain with me for the rest of my life.
I remember when we found you, Specialist Herela and me, a 50-foot-long by 16-foot-wide metal container, two blown out windows in the front and an opening where a door must have once belonged. Trashed, littered, you looked like the purpose you served had ended and you were nothing more than a throw away. Yet, we found you. And we wanted you to be our temporary home. You would then be the home of three other soldiers. With some help, we loaded you on a flatbed truck and brought you over to our camp. Forever you are etched into the history books, the memory reels of some insignificant pawns of the American-Iraqi conflict.
We were just boys with barely any life experience. I had the camaraderie of the other soldiers around me, many of which are still some of my closest friends, twenty years later. We somehow managed to get our hands on bootleg liquor to assist at the end of long days full of guard duty, convoys, special details and the heavier stuff like mortar attacks or gunfire. I had a girlfriend back home, unfortunately she’d stop writing, but still. And I knew my mom was waiting every day to hear my voice and a message that I would be coming home. Yet, despite all this, I still felt lonely.
You saw it, you knew. If those four metal walls could talk, I’m sure you would have so much to say. I can talk, yet, I didn’t say enough. I didn’t say thank you for shielding us. For containing all our secrets and our future hopes. For bonding boys from different walks of life to become lifelong friends. We are brothers and I’ve been to every wedding and watched their children grow up, as they have watched mine. Thank you for babysitting me during my therapeutic sessions with alcohol. As I’m writing this letter, I’m not ten years-six months sober. Thank you for enlightening me, that I deserve better than a desertion girlfriend, and I want to tell you that I did do better and she’s raising my beautiful kids. Most importantly, I want to say thank you for choosing me.
You could have waited for a Captain or a Lieutenant to claim you to be their home or workstation, yet you chose me, a lowly Sergeant. You housed the mere foot soldiers, you protected us from sandstorms, locusts, and foreign rodents and pests. We experienced it all and you watched us. Then after every draining day, you welcomed us and let us have a slice of comfort. I know I’ll never see you again. I know I’ll never step on that wooded floor we built in or see the shrapnel holes on the right-side wall we covered up with pieces of duct tape to keep the mosquitos out.
Sometimes in my dreams, I visit Iraq, I visit often, they call it post-traumatic stress. The dreams are filled fear and chaos. Yet somehow, even in a dream I search for the shack, the 50-foot-long by 16-foot-wide metal container that I once called home. Because it was safe, it was refuge. Even in dreams I search for you, longing to say, thank you.

To The Place That Changed Me,
Have you ever felt alone in a room with someone else? I have. These four walls hold a lot of secrets – best friend gossip, late night college assignments and now the silent screams inside my mind. These walls have judged me, I’m sure of it. It’s heard me picking myself apart, moans from one night stands, and singing every song that shaped an identity that I craved. These walls saw everything, I know they knew that danger was about to knock on my door.
Why didn’t they stop me?
Why didn’t they tremble when I brought him into my room?
Why didn’t they collapse as a final desperate act to stop the pain that was coming full force? Why didn’t they help?
That night, I let my insecurities take over. I gave them power, I lit the flame. My friend Wisdom sat back with popcorn and a blanket and watched my mistakes unfold with a cup of tea, I think it was raspberry tea to be exact. She sat back and watched a horror movie unfold. Her eyes wide, the blankets up to her ears, shoving popcorn in her mouth too fast. Watching a film that should’ve been directed by John Carpenter. But she didn’t say anything. She’s just like those damn walls, always watching, never helping.
I opened the front door to greet a stranger who surprisingly looks like his pictures online. I’m met with a wide smile and soft eyes. I led him into my bedroom – in college apartments, space is a myth, so the bedroom is the only place that guarantees privacy. Our introduction was sweet, even familiar. With every joke, every story and every laugh, my guards fell off of me like layers of an onion. And then, a shift.
A pit forms in my stomach as those pleasant eyes seem to morph into midnight. The smile begins to spread into something more sinister and suddenly I wish I could put my onion peels back on. But here I was naked both physically and emotionally. Finally, someone spoke up: my stomach. A warning. Too late, but still someone was trying to protect me while the walls kept watching and Wisdom kept chewing her popcorn.
Fear had a voice that night.
She told me I wasn’t safe.
And for once, it was right.
Life comes at you fast. You can do alot in 5 ½ minutes. You can lose your ability to speak. A voice that you’ve used for years can weaken. The word “no” can transition from a command to a suggestion. You can feel the tears of your womanhood in a ways you never imagined.. You can go from excitement to distrust, from an everyday college girl to a survivor. You can pray.
Cry.
Fight back.
You can do alot in 5 ½ minutes. You can lose yourself but also find a warrior. You can meet the resilient woman who lives inside of you. The one who fears nothing, because nothing will quite scare you like this did. It took 5 ½ for his eyes to turn back to normal, for my now tattered onion peels to be back on my body, and a scar to bury itself deep in the hidden chambers of my womb.
Have you ever felt alone while a man invades your body, your essence, and your future? I have.

Dear Thimble,

Thimble is a funny nickname. Just 550 sq ft, you were, with infinite space for peace, growth, and healing. Who could have imagined that tiny living would become a “thing”? You were ahead of your time, my precious Thimble…

I never aspired to live alone. It would be a lie, however, to say that I never imagined my life with you in it.

Days before you became a necessity, I went on a rant about some silly backup plan to what I then believed would be forever. “If anything happens,” I said to the Universe, “I will just rent a little apartment and spend my time sitting on the couch, drinking tea, and reading.”

Less than a week later, I was searching for you. A surprise uncoupling left me fearful, angry, disoriented, and in need of housing for one–or three, if you count the dogs.

The first time I saw you, I fell in love. So compact and comforting. So chic and safe. So built around the needs of one, single person. From the day I moved in, you were my shelter and my teacher. You showed me how to focus on my needs (for once). You made me believe I would survive, held me while I healed, and gave me a soft space to surrender.

Remember how afraid I was? Remember how I hid my single status? How I fake-appreciated my independence? I wanted so desperately for my new living conditions to seem deliberate. I tried to look self-assured, even as I worried over every detail of my existence. How would I get myself to work? What would I eat? Could I even sleep? How would I reassemble my collapsed life? Where would I find peace? Would I ever overcome those profound feelings of disorientation?

Unwittingly, you helped me find answers to every single question. In your surroundings, I healed in silence, strengthened in solitude, and regained my footing.

With you, I learned to love myself, to evaluate my needs, and to spend (not waste) my time on reading, walking, cooking, and decorating. I learned the importance of lunch prep, travel plans, and TV nights with friends. With you, I learned who I was and I dreamed of who I would become. And I learned that, with some practice, I could take control of my life.

Under your roof, I came to understand that even the sharpest pains could dull with time. I cried, screamed, and laughed. I learned to be still and even found love again. I recovered my sense of self, fought to regain confidence, and allowed myself to feel every single feeling as it came, for as long as it was there, and without apology.

I.

Became.

Me.

For the first time in my life, I was free to be my authentic, untethered self. Funny, though, that independence fed both caution and adventure. I protected myself with ferocity, yet I moved about freely.

You’d be proud of me, you know. From the very foundation you helped me build, I have continued to grow, learn, and, most importantly, pursue my wildest dreams. Not that I would make you call me doctor or anything, but I did just earn that degree I always wanted! Dream no longer deferred.

From the core of my being, I thank you. My life, reimagined, began the day we met. In my heart, you will always be my home.

With eternal gratitude,

Fierce and Fulfilled

To the empty corner chair in the spare bedroom,

When I first began sitting in you for long periods of time, it was as if I was exiled to your corner. It was in 2022, right after my dad passed. My work schedule was due to change with the New Year when I’d be working from home more, and I needed it to desperately.

He passed away on November 18, 2022. It was in the early evening, as the sun was just beginning to go down in the sky, and it was that unusual time of day between afternoon and sunset I usually love. Then it happened, I panicked inside, and my heart sank underneath a weight of grief for how long I didn’t know.

Then there was you. My family and I had just fought a long battle. We were war-torn, bruised, wounded, inflicted with the deepest of scars, fresh off the field having undergone a huge loss, with not all of us making it. And there I was, with my laptop and work things bundled in my arms, silently accepting exile in your quiet corner.

I sat with you ever day as I worked. On all of the ones I remember, it was beautiful outside. The sun brightened like it was smiling at me from the other side of the window, and I could make out the shapes of trees and palm fronds and leaves at a close distance as I looked outwards. I could see the way the breeze caressed everything around it, how nature moved, how the still breath of the wind made it come to life, brightening the inside of the room, ushering in light, making the walls jump with color and their greyness fade to brightness.

Everyday I’d sit–war-torn, wounded, bleeding, and everyday I wept. For the longest, I never really felt much better, until one day I did. Until one day, I could appreciate the brightness outside my window and smile in return.

Then as things were beginning to resemble something like normal, I tore my Achilles. I did it one Saturday jumping and celebrating around the house while watching an Olympic basketball game on TV (it’s alright, you can laugh lol). And I found myself in that same place again, exiled to your corner, sentenced to work virtually in solitude, this time tasked with physically healing.

But pretty soon I could walk normally again, and eventually I could drive long distances which meant I could return to work. Though not long after I resumed going to the office, I was laid off from my job of almost eight years. And I found myself returning to your corner once more, this time realizing there was an even further emotional depth I would journey to of healing, humility, hope, faith, and surrender.

It’s been over two years since my dad passed and I initially found myself sitting with you. Truth is I’m still healing, from everything. I’m still learning. And I still cry for my dad sometimes because I know I’ll never see him again in this life, and I wish more than anything I could talk to him. Truth is, it still hurts in places I can’t deny, and I still bleed on the page.

Truth is, I’m still in exile, sitting in your corner among rubble and waiting for it to spring to life, for flesh to appear on dry bones and light to appear out of darkness as God’s Word says (Ezekiel 37:4-6; John 1:1-5).

But truth is, deep down–in this familiar place I’ve been to before, the place beyond the wind and waves, beneath all my emotions; the resounding truth that reverberates throughout the most tempestuous sea, the one troubles and thunder can never fully drown, that draws its breath from the Giver of Life Himself; deep down, in that place where the more you try to bury it, the deeper the truth takes root, the place even the most deeply reverberating frequency of pain can never shake, in that deepest part of myself–I still know.

Deep down, “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:22-23).

Deeper still, “But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5).

It’s been a long time since I had the honor of walking down your streets and unpaved roads. It’s been so many years since waiting for the marshrutka to pick me up in front of my house to take me to a different place for a minute.

I think of you so often, especially regarding your feelings about the war in Ukraine. It is so close to you, as you are on the border. I’ve talked to some of your inhabitants. While a portion are frightened and still unable to sleep, another portion sleeps just fine. The one thing they all have in common, however, is their reliance on remaining your inhabitants, no matter the outcome.

Oh, the people who dwell in that village. How much they impacted my life. I think of them every single day, so much that I have to force myself to stop. I look at my four-year-old child, and I think of all those children with disabilities, all those poor children living in cement shacks that the Soviets left unfinished. All those innocent, sweet little children who had and have nothing, some of them not even a single family member. I think of how those packs of young children took me off-guard, for I never understood being able to abandon your child and leave them to fend for themselves. I see every single one of those children in my child somehow, and I do my best to provide all the love and comfort for him that none of you ever had, and likely never will have.

I wish I could return with enormous financial, medical, and social gifts to give to all those children. That I could share with those mothers who are taking care of, so lovingly and tenderly, their disabled children. I wish I would have focused more on that during my time there. There is nothing more important than children, and this you taught me. I could not be the mother I am today without the experiences you gave me.

Does the couple I found wandering down the hillsides of the village still herd their goats around there? Are they still alive? They mentioned all their children went abroad and that they were there alone. Are they capable of taking care of themselves in their old age? Are you still graced by their breath and footsteps?

All the kids I tutored in English have since left you. They went to other places – to big cities, to other countries. But we all remember you. We are always thinking of you. You are our hearts, for you taught us how to love and care for one another. Even though I did not grow up as a child there, it was there I learned to grow up, for I learned what it is to truly love. Before I lived in your premises, I thought true love was a romance between two people. But you showed me that true love is the love we have for our neighbors. True love is the effort we put into caring for and loving our neighbors just as we care for and love ourselves.

There was a beautiful family that was part of a religion that was very unpopular there. Every day, I saw the father of that beautiful family outside the bazaar, holding pamphlets and Bibles, hoping to share his love with even one person. Is he still doing that daily? It showed so much determination and belief in what he was doing. To actually engage in that action so steadfastly, despite the harassment I saw him face, is truly remarkable. I regret my insufficient help to his family.

I think of those Gypsy children hiding in the woods whom I would bring some food and drink occasionally. Are they doing alright? Did they get conscripted? Or did they make it out? I am thankful you provided them a spot to hide. But where did they go in the winter? I wasn’t there long enough to find out.

If I could only go back and re-do it all, I would tackle everything I could with the greatest resource ever given to me, by you: love.

I hope to see you again one day, to see the sun sparkling through the trees by the lake.

To forget you is impossible. Please, forgive me.

All of my love,

Dear Library…

This is where it all began,
A treasure buried beneath the sand,
The walls a tinted brownish tan,
The place where my fears can perch and land.
The stress of the day can disappear,
Because everyone is welcome here.
Countless stories throughout the walls,
Books range from color, small to tall.
Tales are told through countless ways,
Each with a unique thing to say.
Books have been written and this is their home,
Channeled through fiction, or true to the bone.
Each tells their own story, unfiltered and strong,
With ups and downs, still each can belong.
The world clambers and bustles outside of its walls,
Inside grows a silence without summon or call.
A way to escape, a path to heal,
You’re not alone, for now you can feel.
The countless feelings inside of books,
With stories reflecting new outlooks.
A friend you never planned to make,
Sometimes reflecting your past mistakes,
You see your same struggles through another lens,
You can gain the tools to comprehend,
To comprehend you are not alone,
Your feelings of misery away will be blown.
Parting the way through black and white,
To see there’s more than “wrong” and “right,”
To see that there is always gray,
To see the night mesh with the day.
Reading can help those to understand,
We don’t know everything, and we never can.
To look at life with this feeling in mind
We don’t know all the answers, all we can do is try-
Try to listen and learn as much as we can,
Learn about experiences those around us have had.
No story alone should be judged by a page,
This is not the whole story but only a frame.
Others have been here and walked in your shoes,
Walked across those very same steps as you.
Each carries perspective, one unlike your own,
Something new that will always deserve to be shown.
To share your own stories will open eyes,
To become a new light for those deprived.
The path you’ve paved is different and new,
And people have been here before you,
Each with their special story to share,
A unique experience for others to bear;
Through stories themselves may you channel your words,
Giving others a chance to listen and learn,
May you learn from yourself and heal as a whole,
Puzzle pieces patching a painfully beautiful soul.
An escape to part with the burden you carry,
This is why I love literature, and you, the library.

Forever yours,

Elle

Letter To Kinloch, Missouri, the place where I grew up and lived until age 19.

Dear Kinloch Mo.,

As a once buzzing all-Black city located in the suburb of St. Louis, Missouri, I want to say thank
you. The things I learned, observed and experienced inside your city limits I cannot ever
replace. These were the times when society was pushing separate but equal. However, Kinloch
you were separate but great.

Remembering the story of Rumpelstiltskin where the beautiful maiden was ordered to spin
straw into gold. The citizens of Kinloch were given lots of straw, namely old textbooks, outdoor
toilets, houses and schools without air condition. The gold that spun from the straw is a
nationally known actress, singer/songwriter, political officials, doctors, lawyers, school
teachers, nurses, and me.

I learned the art of public speaking and presenting with confidence. We had to practice that art
at least twice a year through Easter and Christmas speeches, at least until age twelve. We also
had the children’s choir at church and the Kinloch High school choir that was so renowned, we
were invited to may competitions and concerts. An album was produced by the choir.
Greatness in every sense of the word.

I also learned what Black-owned businesses and entrepreneurship looked like. In Kinloch, we
had many examples. Kinloch had numerous small confectionaries (corner stores) that sold
soda, cut meat, and penny candy to the school kids. I can remember gas stations, liquid stores,
grocery stores, restaurants, clothing stores and even a night club which was all Black-owned
and operated. I guess you can say the city was pretty much self-contained.

I learned the value of helping and supporting your neighbors. In Kinloch, we were all poor by
many economic standards; however, we did not know we were poor because we were rich in
community. Credit was freely extended to customers that could not pay but promised to pay on
payday or when they got their check. For those that fell on even tougher times, families
willingly extended help. Respect was demanded from the children and adults. Adults enforced
that code of conduct when it came to the children. The village raised us.

Kinloch was incorporated which afforded us to have our own all-Black city government. Our
mayor, aldermen, city clerk, police department, fire department and judge were managed by
our own. We also had our own School Superintendent and School Board. Our school system, of
course was substandard but great. The teachers encouraged, no demanded, your best
regardless of textbook conditions.

Kinloch, I am sad to admit that while growing up inside your protected cocoon, I did not realize
the total extent of your greatness. I did not see the beauty of the resilience and determination
demonstrated and expected from each of us. You led by example.

These are things that will forever be with me: Spinning straw into gold is difficult but
achievable. Trials and tribulations can produce treasures.

Thank you for what you did for me and so many others!

Sincerely,
Glenda Small
Kinloch High School Class of 1973

Style Score=70

Dear San Luis Obispo,

I wasn’t ready for you at first. I arrived with a car full of awkwardly folded clothes, an electronic typewriter, and dreams bigger than my dorm room closet—which, let’s be honest, wasn’t hard to beat.

My freshman year started with a crash course in conflict resolution (and creative earplug use), courtesy of a roommate whose boyfriend thought her twin XL bed was plenty big for the both of them. It wasn’t.

I learned to be assertive, to take long walks at odd hours, and that personal space was not a luxury—it was a necessity.

Moving into the sorority house felt like trading one set of quirks for another—but this time, I found something that stuck. I liked the sisterhood, sure—but I loved the focus on service. Organizing fundraisers, raising money for charities, feeling like my energy was making a real difference—that’s where I started to see who I was becoming.

When I first arrived at Cal Poly, I thought I had it all figured out. Pre-med, determined, driven. I imagined myself acing organic chemistry, gliding through labs, and someday saving lives. What I didn’t imagine was nearly flunking chemistry and sitting across from an advisor who casually told me I’d be better off getting a “Mrs.” than a Master’s. Let’s just say—thank you, sir—for lighting a fire under me hotter than a summer day in Arizona.

That moment, frustrating as it was, became a turning point. I ditched Biology for Physiology and dove headfirst into wellness, into the preventative side of health—the place where movement and mental wellbeing mattered just as much as prescriptions. It felt like coming home. I didn’t want to treat sickness—I wanted to help people stay well.

I showed up to class in my pajamas more times than I care to admit, powered by Diet Pepsi, ambition, and whatever leftover pizza from the night before. I taught aerobics to make some extra cash and danced my stress away with the college dance company, Orchesis, a haven of people who understood that movement was therapy. We rehearsed, performed, and celebrated the kind of connection that can only come when you trust someone to catch you mid-leap—on stage and in life.

Eventually, I was fortunate to move near the beach, and shared it with a couple good friends, and it felt like magic. A room of my own, a view of the waves from the observation deck on the roof, and the sweet, salty realization that I could stand on my own two feet. I surfed badly but joyfully. I kayaked in Morro Bay, where seals stared like judgmental old men and the dolphins occasionally graced me with their approval. I hiked through miniature oak forests that felt like they were plucked from a storybook—twisting, ancient, wise.

In SLO, I learned the power of stillness. I learned to just be. To soak up the birdsong, the breeze, the sky. “SLO down,” I’d whisper to myself when the world felt too fast. It became a mantra then, and it still is. I learned to slow down, breathe deeply, and find my footing even when the ground beneath me felt shaky (or full of sand, seaweed, and the occasional beach tar stuck to my flip-flops).

I navigated new friendships and learned to let go of those that no longer fit. I figured out how to love from afar and how to love myself up close. I worked in the health center, threw myself into projects, and believed in the Cal Poly motto—“Learn by doing”—not just in school, but in life. You taught me that falling apart doesn’t mean failing. Sometimes, it means figuring it out differently.

And you, San Luis Obispo, were the backdrop to it all. You were the golden hills at dusk, the slow drip of time on a Sunday, the laughter of friends over yogurt and pizza. You were the surprise of dolphins in the surf, the crunch of boots on a mountain trail, the soft hush of wind through the oaks.

Even now, when I drive over the Cuesta Grade, it all comes rushing back—the warmth in my chest, the quiet knowing in my heart. You remind me I was once brave enough to start over, to shift direction, to say no to what didn’t serve me and yes to what did.

You were never just a college town. You were my my sanctuary, my compass, my solid ground.

Thank you, SLO, for being the place where I figured out how to be alone without being lonely. For letting me dance, dream, and hike my way into adulthood. You’ll always be one of my greatest loves—not just for your beauty, but for how you helped me fall in love with me.

With love, always,

Dear Hospital Room,

Your pristine cream walls once confined me, impounded me, but now they’ve given me my freedom. You took me in when I was sick, when my mind was plagued with depression, and released me down the path I’d lost track of so long ago. You wrapped me in your embrace, but at the time, I didn’t find it comforting. Back then, you were nothing more than my accuser, my undoing. I blamed you for my predicament, for the choices I made that led me to you. It had to be you who took the blame, because I wasn’t willing to find blame in myself. You were my preferred victim. I spent years pinning accusations to the bulletin board of your character. I slandered you, lied about you. And yet, when I was all alone, when I was left with the consequences of my actions, you came to me. You did not abandon me as I’d abandoned you. Instead, you held me close, kept me safe. You protected me, nurtured me back to health before you sent me on my way again. My heart, which once held resentment for you, was left with a warmth I’d long forgotten. A warmth that burned down the walls I’d built to guard myself and replaced them with a bridge. The bright lights on your ceiling were once blinding, torturous, but now they looked as beautiful as the stars in the night sky. I used to hate the memory of you, but now I rejoice in knowing that I would not be the person I am today without you. If not for your presence, your enlightenment, I would not have grown stronger. I would still be walking down the path of self-destruction, but thankfully, you turned me around. I now head towards the bright future I should never have ventured from. Even if it took a few wrong turns to make it in the end, I’m here now, and I won’t drift again. Your memory will stay with me, it will strengthen me, sustain me. Every time I see a wall the color of yours, or feel a warmth similar to the lights that rested above my head that night, I will think of you, my hospital room, and all that you’ve taught me. And I will carry it with me as I move forward. I do hope we meet again, one day, but I warn you, I won’t be the same person I once was. But that’s a good thing. For I once thought of you as an enemy, but you have always been my redemption.

Freedom…
Can I please start by telling you, it was one hell of a journey to get to you. It took me going through hell and high waters to get here. I failed so many times trying to get to you; I began to think I was wasting my time. I wanted to write this experience off as impossible to achieve. I wanted to quit and just except defeat however the Elohim of me wouldn’t allow it. Now that I arrived I can sit with you and explain what it took to get this to this point.
After my last fall from the near top, I just laid there numb defeated and hopeless. I didn’t go back; I didn’t even get up. As I laid there, little by little my mind began to clear up, my vision became clear, my hearing had syphered through the noise and my taste for victory had came back.
See, I decided to fully focus on what was blocking my path; and like clockwork, my ADHD activated and triggered something fierce. I began to get an annoying itch around my ankles making it hard to concentrate. As I looked down, I noticed the safety shackles I was wearing were no longer safe or comfortable. They weren’t long enough for this journey; I had outgrown them. Safety and comfort had to go. The keys were somewhere in one of my packs. With a sigh of irritation and the very last of my hope, I poured out all my bags to look for the key to unbind myself. As I sat there looking at all the stuff I had neatly packed away for safe keeping, I realized most of it was junk.
I sat there at the foundation of you, with all my junk spilled out like a busted suitcase. For the first time, I took a real hard look at the baggage I had been carrying and realized not only was there a lot of junk, but 98% of it wasn’t even mine. I took one more scan of the mess in front of me, breathed in a deep breath and knew it was time.
It was time to sort out the mess of a life I had been collecting all these years. It was time to separate the old from the new, the junk from the treasures, the past from the present. I found wads of shame, stacks of crumbled guilt, sticky and gluey low value and esteem from the words stuck to me from others and even myself. I took a step back, found a clearance in the mess and sat down. I began to cry, I began to pray, I began to battle within. After some time, I decided that I just couldn’t. I wiped my eyes and as I stood up to walk away, I seen something catch the reflection of the light. I kept my eyes fixed on where the shimmer and glimmer were coming from and for the first time the pile began to get brighter.
As I got closer, I seen beauty, I seen self-worth, I seen purpose, I seen my desires, I seen resilience, I seen my voice, I seen change, I seen perseverance, I seen victories. I stood there so confused because where did all this come from. I rushed over to the pile and realized this was the foundation of my being. I could only see a little beneath the rest of the rubble so I quicky yet carefully began to sift through the junk again. The more I removed the clearer the foundation became. As I kept piling up what was salvageable and new, the pile kept growing and growing and growing. I was so confused, how did I never see this? When did it get here? Why is there so much but the load was so light? None of it made sense. However, I figured the answers would come as I continued the sifting. Eventually I only had two piles. One of junk and one of purpose and life. The baggage was sifted through, yet I still didn’t come across the keys to the shackles.
Until I picked up the save pile. Underneath the keep pile was the key. Something so small held so much power and change. I placed the keep pile back into one of the bags and went back for the key. Once I unshackled myself, I picked up my one bag of goodness, my last bit of hope and journeyed back up your side. And now here we are freedom. I am with you, and you are with me. Now I can breathe and see from your view, from here I can see why it was all worth it.

Dear House on Polk Street,

You were never just walls and windows, were you? You were grief painted into corners, memories echoing off floorboards, silence so loud it pierced through every breath I tried to take.
You were at my parents’ home first. Their voices lived in your walls. Their touch was in the creak of every stair, in the smell of the closets, in the way the sun came through the windows just like it used to when I was little. When they left, both of them, you became something else.
A cage.
You held me, yes, but you also trapped me. I walked room to room trying to find pieces of them, trying to remember the warmth, the laughter, the safe parts. But every time I tried to land in a memory, it slipped away and left me with something darker: the fights, the illnesses, the final days, the quiet that came after death moved in and refused to leave.
I slept in different rooms because I couldn’t bear to stay in just one. I was chasing ghosts and running from them at the same time. I’d lie in my childhood bed and ache. I’d move to the couch and stare at the ceiling until the sun came up. I tried to relive something, anything good, but all I could feel was the weight of everything I lost.
Then one day, I started therapy. In you.
It wasn’t planned. Virtual sessions were the only way I could get help without having to leave the place I feared and clung to all at once. I’d sit in front of a screen, sometimes barely able to speak. Sometimes sobbing. Sometimes numb. But the more I spoke the more I let go, the more something shifted in you. And in me.
You started to become the one place I could be real.
I screamed inside of you. I cried so hard my chest would ache for hours. I whispered things I had never said out loud: regrets, secrets, shame, grief. You never once turned away from me. You held me through every single unraveling.
And in that unraveling, something strange happened.
You started to change.
Not just emotionally but physically too. One day I looked at you and realized you didn’t feel like theirs anymore. You didn’t feel haunted. You felt ready. Ready to become something new.
So, I got to work. Slowly. Carefully. With shaky hands and hope I didn’t fully believe in yet. I painted your walls. Tore down others. Rearranged. Rebuilt. Not just your layout but my own life. I made you mine.
Each change was more than aesthetic. It was a ritual, a reclamation. I wasn’t just making you beautiful, I was healing. Every coat of paint, every new fixture, every corner I cleaned or reimagined was part of grieving and growing and finally living.
You saw me go from surviving to something close to thriving.
You saw me cry, not just from pain but from joy. On days I never thought I’d see. You became my sanctuary, not because you were quiet, but because you were honest. You let me be messy, raw, broken. You held space for me to break down and rebuild.
Now, I walk through your halls, and I don’t feel that same grief dragging behind me. I feel warmth. Light. Presence. I don’t avoid the rooms anymore. I sit in them. I drink coffee where my mother once folded clothes. I write where my father once watched TV. They’re still here in the way my peace echoes now where sorrow once lived.
You are no longer just the house I inherited.
You are no longer just the place my parents left behind.
You are mine.
You’re where I became someone new. Where I stitched together pieces of myself that I thought I’d lost forever. Where I found the strength to keep going. Where I learned that healing isn’t a destination, it’s a homecoming.
My homecoming.
And sometimes, I still cry. But not because I’m lost or broken. I cry because I feel it all so deeply now the beauty, the resilience, the love I never thought I’d feel again.
You are my soft place to land. My reminder that pain doesn’t last forever, not if we face it, not if we do the work, not if we let ourselves transform in the spaces we once feared.
Thank you for not giving up on me.
Thank you for becoming mine.

Your late owner’s daughter,
Melissa