If only you could step inside my head…maybe, just maybe, then you could understand me instead.

I tend to get judged based on what others think, see, or feel, but how do you know that what I go through isn’t real?

Constantly fighting my brain with things like my emotions or productivity tends to become a daily struggle for me.

I spent so long thinking something was wrong with me. Turns out, I just had undiagnosed ADHD.

See, people don’t understand that my brain just works differently.
I might not be “book smart” but my brain has powerful creativity.

I might seem lazy, but in reality, I’m overwhelmed and exhausted.
I seem distracted or disorganized cause the thing I just had, I already lost it.

People see mood swings and think that I have issues.
Emotional dysregulation is a struggle that I didn’t choose.

Regardless of the bad that people see in ADHD, I invite them to see the good in it too. We’re creative, innovative, and empathetic, to name a few.

Though we may struggle with things like emotions or being organized, ADHD is something that should start being more normalized.

See beyond the stigma and you’ll be surprised at what we can do.
We’re not broken- we’re brilliant, just with a different point of view.

With each farewell of the sun, I gather my thoughts under the company of the moon. It is only under the moon’s light that I feel whole. It is very ironic that I feel the most seen in the darkest conditions. Perhaps it is because no matter how much the sun tries to shed light on my true nature, it is always overlooked. I glisten under the moon’s light, ready to get to the root of my troubles. Each night I have gathered my thoughts into words, waiting to assemble them into the perfect menu. Collected are the starters, how I came to be. Samples of my upbringing, along with childhood joys and sorrows. Some grow impatient, hungry, and eager to skip over to the main course. Here we have what makes me, me. My likes, dislikes, quirks, core values, beliefs, and more. Each ingredient carefully picked and mixed into each dish. All of me is sprinkled into everything because I am never just one key ingredient 24/7. I am all encompassing. This is where the misunderstandings begin. Hungry to get to the root of me, the starters, which is very important in a full course meal, gets skipped. Things I hold dear to me, things that brought me to the woman I am today, seems to not matter to anyone. We skip ahead and make assumptions from the small pictures next to the main course. Written off because certain parts of me doesn’t seem appealing visually. Not even questioning the ingredients that were carefully put together to make me. Not even bothering to ask. I think it is a human trait to assume. As you are reading this you are making assumptions in your head. You can’t help it. So pick your dish. You still may eat it whole and be disappointed. Did you understand what you ate? Do you care to ask what was in it? No. No matter how good it was, you do not ask. You may come back for more one day, but for now you are satisfied. Then we have desserts. The sweetest part of me. Everyone’s favorite. This will all be eaten with a haste as well. After all is gone, the experience is over. Sadly, everyone’s taste buds are different and will never truly understand what I was truly trying to convey. And even if you care to ask me what that is, will you hear me, or will you only listen?

To the world,
I want you to know life isn’t always simple for me. My privacy and strength perpetuate a life of ease. But if only you could see behind the scenes. You don’t know the burden I bear or the stories I’m ashamed to share. I take my grief in stride, it doesn’t mean I haven’t cried. I have a confession, I too, deal with depression. It’s as though being strong means nothing is wrong. Believe it or not, my family isn’t perfect. Some holidays aren’t even worth the drama; I was always taught to respect my momma. They say you have a home and car, the good life can’t be far. It isn’t always all good, it’s that I handle my problems differently than you would. I’m not one for pity parties, so please don’t feel sorry. My mission is for you to understand that, at some point, life has handed us all a dirty hand. Don’t always assume people are fine, instead do the world a favor and always be kind.

Dear reader,
My name is Colleen and I have ADHD. I’m sending this letter in hopes that maybe my words can explain how I have been misunderstood my whole life because of my disability. Having ADHD is confusing enough as it is but there is also navigating the neurotypical world attached to it. Inside my head, my brain is always working overtime. So many ideas, tasks, attempting to stay focused in the moment, memories, worries about the future, and for some unexplained reason, background music 24/7.
Now that you know a little bit about what’s going on in the mind of a 35-year-old ADHD woman, it might be easier to understand why so many conversations I have are met with confusion and misunderstandings. When I am talking to you, I’m trying to navigate between what you are saying and all the thoughts going on in my brain. For example, I may trail off midsentence and jump from one topic to the next. It’s not because you are boring me or I don’t care about what you’re saying, my brain just can’t stay in one place for too long. I will take all your experiences and then tell you about a similar one that I have had. I am not doing this because I think my stories are more interesting than yours or that your experiences don’t matter, my brain just wants to connect our histories, by telling similar narratives, so that we can share and become closer. I might even interrupt you well you’re talking. I’m not trying to be rude, I want to say what I’m thinking right away, or I will probably forget what I was going to say. Even though it is difficult to express myself accurately at times, I promise I am trying my best to be understood.
My hope by writing this, you can try and imagine what it’s like to be someone with ADHD. Communication isn’t always easy and when there are discussions being held, I believe we are all trying to have what we’re saying be acknowledged with interest, love and care. I know that this is the experience of most neurodivergent individuals talking to others and often being misunderstood. As someone who struggles with situations like this frequently, I want to convey how important it is for others to take the time to ask questions, be curious, and have patience when talking to others. You never know what is going on in someone’s head and lives. Maybe when we strive to engage and listen to others then we won’t face misunderstandings any longer. Perhaps, by discovering how others communicate we can learn and grow together.

Sincerely,

why is “time” used as an excuse for the victims as if I haven’t lived my whole life to the beat of a broken clock?

alarms raising suspicion
ever time things feel too good,
waiting for the other shoe to drop, because the other shoe a l w a y s drops the moment I take too many seconds
to affirm the power you have over me. every single minute detail of every “mistake”
I’ve made thrown in my face

as if… you aren’t the one who brought me here?

as if you aren’t the one who created a life you weren’t equipped to handle?
and instead of shifting to a new timeline,
you leap backwards into the one you are the victim and all you can see is the reflection of his face
when he endured enough.

this pain shouldn’t be mine to bear, but because of you,
I’ve spent my whole life repenting
for sins that I didn’t create
because all you saw in this baby girl was someone who you could FINALLY
control.

a poster child,
& debutant doll
who you could corrupt
into thinking the world would do the same to her as it did to you

but to your surprise,
it did… at your hands
& now you’ve turned your back
on the one person you were supposed to protect.

but what if I told you, she prevailed,

she felt her shit, dealt with it,
turned it in to 7 book deals
and is healing her way through self confidence and relationships a
little bit every day.

how dare I, right?
no longer fall victim
to the trap that you set
but instead learned that even a broken clock is right twice a day,

so I accept
that I am a victim
I have been manipulated and abused.

but unlike you,
I took those 2 minutes
and got myself out because I refuse
to live the rest of my life this way.

I want to tell you a story. A story that shows the voice of someone you might know. Just stay there and don’t move and listen, and you’ll hear what I have to say.

The murder of being different

I know I want to be alive
Alive to see my life continue
I want to continue my life
to see it through
I don’t wanna die
I dont wanna die to the shit that I see in me
I don’t wanna die
I don’t wanna die to any of that
I wanna see this through

(I need to be alive)

…

I need to be alive

…

Those that I see
struggle
In the face of pain
suffering
In the grips of addiction
Homelessness
Stigma
To a life of nothing
nothing

(I need to be alive, for them)

I want to be alive
So they can see
me
Be someone they can believe in
Someone they can say
knows what it’s like to be them
Someone they can trust
Someone they can believe
Someone they can see
that’s just like them

I don’t wanna see them die
I don’t want the murder
of being different
to take place

I’m a young man living a life that can kill. And I don’t wanna die. I realize how important it is to overcome that life.

I heal. And I can see the struggle that others have. I can’t fall back to what I use to do. It’s too important to live. Others need to know they’re not alone. That they don’t have to die. To what almost killed me.

…

Young people in the community of color. They don’t have what they need in life. What they need to know. What they need to survive. What they need to live. And what they need to succeed.

That voice of struggle that you hear. It’s from a young man. A statement of intent. A statement of survival. A statement of hope. A statement that their life matters too. To them.

That voice. Is me. I want them to see me. See my healing. See me in them too. I’m different too. And theres value in that. It’s not fair to be judged. Persecuted. Killed for being different.

The decisions made. By men like him. Different than you. Maybe not different than me…

But were still people too.

I needed help too.

See that I see myself in them too.

It means that these young men and women make different decisons. Not the same as you. Maybe the same as me.

this man. young men and women in struggle.

And sometimes not the best

Men that are different. Men that see lofe different

Not the same as you. Maybe the same as me. Sometimes we make bad decisions.

Being this different causes murder of the soul.

I am loving, I am caring I am kind
But you don’t see because insecurities make you blind

I give freely; I love hard
But my sincerity you disregard

My attitude is one of servitude
To you this may seem odd
But it’s a reflection of being a child of GOD

I give props when props are due
To this I will stay true

You want titles, a pat on the back and accolades
When I comment you think I’m throwing shade

I see the potential in you that others overlook
Your eyes show you have a magnetic hook

I apologize at times my words may be sharp and blunt
But it’s 2025 and there is no time to front

Life is short, we only passing thru
Time to wake up and do what we gotta do

I’m a straight shooter
But what you don’t know is that I’m a mentor and tutor

I give as much as I take
But I don’t have time to be fake

Don’t have time to be sugar coating
For the world to be out their boasting

The way I live, the way I talk, the way I act
This all real it’s just straight up facts

No one wants to see me for who I am
Always thinking I’m running a scam

All I want is for everyone to live and love better
Come together so we can make some of this cheddar

No matter what I do or how I try
Someone always twisting the truth into a lie

Why can’t you see, I just wanna be me

I’m just a real sista from the hood
That’s been mis-judge and mis-understood

So, just let me be
Cause you don’t know me

Dear World,

I’m exhausted. I can’t keep doing this.

I’m trying to be the girl you need me to be—the happy sister, the daughter you can boast about, the cousin you admire, the friend you can always turn to. But it’s all crumbling down. The walls are closing in, and the floor shatters beneath each step I take.

I feel weak. I feel numb. I feel empty.

Every hurdle drains another drop from my lifeline, and I don’t know if I have enough left to keep standing. I try to explain my pain, hoping you might help me, understand me, or even sympathize with me. But no. Instead, you mock me. You tell me to deal with it, to dust myself off, to keep going—as if my suffering is just an inconvenience to you.

I have given him my all. I have given up the person that I am for him. I have given up my bonds, my roots, my connections—just to keep him afloat. I have taken care of him from the moment I laid eyes on him because I knew he was my treasure. I knew he was worthy of so much more in this life.

I showed him the beauty of the world. I showed him how incredible it is to be alive.

Yet now, I am nothing. I am invisible. And no one seems to grasp why that has shattered me. No one sees how I poured my heart and soul into loving and nurturing him. I made sure the world saw only the best in him. And in the end, that kindness has come back to haunt me.

Because now, everyone treats me like I’ve lost my mind for ever wanting to walk away from the best thing that ever happened to me.

When they can’t open their eyes and realize…

I am what happened to him.

I am trying to hold on to the one person I love most in this world, but he isn’t growing with me. As I fight to shatter these walls and climb out of the pit I’ve fallen into, he sinks deeper. I reach for him, trying to bring him with me, but he is nowhere near.

I tell you that having him around is draining me, that his sorrow is suffocating me, that his weight is pulling me under. And yet, all you say is, That’s how it’s meant to be. You are meant to save him.

But the moment I decide to save myself?
The moment I put my foot down?
Suddenly, I am the enemy.
I am a tyrant.
I am the monster.

When I am sick, when I am weak, when I collapse because I cannot keep going, I find myself alone. And yet, he—he is the one surrounded by love, by compassion, by endless care.

Weren’t you, dear World, the one who brought me here? The one who was supposed to love me, to protect me, to see me?

Then why do you shed tears for him while casting me aside, as if my suffering does not exist?

It’s crazy to think that they try to convince me that because you were there while I was at the brink of life, that somehow means I owe it to you to stay by your side. That somehow, that means everything else should mean nothing. That everything else should seem like minor issues that will simply resolve themselves.

But truly.

Am I misunderstood?

Should I really feel misunderstood?

But maybe the truth isn’t that I am misunderstood. Maybe the truth is… you never wanted to understand me at all.

Because truly, these opinions are coming from places that lack so much knowledge and depth.

This set of mountains
moves west, and wester still
until they move north and south
following the six directions.
Their crags speak to the sky
of the events below,
all in the rocky languages
poorly understood by those bound to two feet.
Caressing the earth in moccasins,
he, or was it she
looks about in the craggy heights
for a handhold
in the pegmatite faces of canyons
the reds and blacks in the most deeps,
those purples of sheerness
keeping the less adventurous at bay.
Coming down to the valley
below the gorges of distance barely seen
she, or was it he, knows
that off in the yonder reaches
there might just be a place in that bigness,
to drive their thoughts to.
An abandoned two story ranch house
sits the still, its invisible solitude
quiet now of children’s voices.
The hand split shingles on the roof
still keep the weather out
both the harsh winter snows and warm summer rains
don’t touch the singularity of a dry interior
as if waiting for the family to return
from where they disappeared to, so long ago.
That ranch house perched on the mountain side
has the cook house and porch attached
where a descendant has placed new tin
over it. Then left it again.
And there, under that
is the place where the questions
may have gotten answered,
and maybe not,
perhaps just having raised those inquiries
into the meanings of the lives lived
under the eaves.

A bright, powerful, raging flame.
That flame is designed to burn and spread.
So, it is met with fear—contained, controlled, and extinguished.

Creating orders to always:
Maintain the concrete box around the fire, stoking its flames as intended.

Lavish in the heat exuded from the tiny air holes provided.

Withhold fuel.

Pour water on its red-hot embers to seek amusement in the sizzle and steam.

And most importantly, keep the knowledge of its power a secret—don’t let fire know it’s fire!

But fire will always do what it is meant to do—even if it lingers among embers, conserving energy.

Unrestrained, fire embraces its natural design—boundless, exuberant, transformational.

Some may see only destruction in the flames,
but fire brings creation just as much as it brings ruin.

Only fire determines its true purpose.

Sparks ignite to share light and warmth,
providing and transforming—not just to consume, but to sustain life itself.

She wasn’t a normal person. She was different.
Her hair was medium length, soft and wavy, falling in such a way to frame her face. She had eyes that shone as bright as gems, a green Moissanite shade. Her voice was gentle and quiet, with a raspiness that made her singing voice naturally lower than most women (an Alto). She had a slight lisp and stuttering problem, so she struggled to articulate herself verbally.
She was so intelligent. She loved to read and learn new things. There was a plethora of random facts that she knew, things learned from school and books that she had never forgotten because they were so interesting to her. When she focused on something, 9 times out of 10 she could figure it out for herself without any help. But she wasn’t just book smart.
She was street smart as well. After the life she’d lived, she knew how to outsmart others for the safety of herself and her family. She knew deep down when a person or place wasn’t safe to be around, and she voiced those concerns to those close to her in the hopes they’d listen (which while growing up, no one really did listen until it was too late).
m
She held her head high and purposefully ignored the looks she’d receive from others while in public. She didn’t consider herself beautiful- she was a bigger woman, short too- but that didn’t stop people from staring at her, nonetheless. She knew that half of those looks were full of hatred and disgust from cruel, judgmental people, while the other half were full of lust and desire from men; men she had no interest in being around.
She was bullied as a child, so it didn’t faze her that grown adults had that same attitude toward her even still. She was made fun of for things outside of her control- her voice, her height, her shyness- and it was no surprise that despite her natural beauty, she was called ugly as well. It took decades for her to finally believe that she was perfectly and wonderfully made, exactly the way she was.
She had such a big heart, full of love and compassion for every living thing. She felt deep sadness when witnessing others picking flowers to keep in a vase or causing harm to a poor defenseless animal. She stood up for what was right and wrong, even if others disagreed or mocked her for it. She knew that showing love and kindness went much further than hate and ridicule.
She was sure of her purpose in life; spread love, joy, and respect to everyone regardless of their past or present. She had her limits, though. She was entirely uninterested in truly evil people (like those in office, for example), knowing when to dust herself off and move along when her love and presence were unwanted.
She wasn’t perfect by any means. She was only human, after all. But she tried every day to become a better version of herself, to reconsider old patterns and habits that inhibited her from reaching her full potential. She was patient, and honest. She was so full of optimism and hope, not only for herself and her own life, but for others and their lives as well. She could always find the silver lining for those who needed a glimmer of the hope she had. She was a good listener, and she truly cared for others in a way that made the world scoff. But she could not and would not ever stop being who she was.
No one had to understand her; she understood herself. No one had to love her; she loved herself. No one had to give her anything for her to be happy; she already was. The power she possessed was more than enough for her to make a change in this world, and she knew that.
Now it was time for the world to know.

This is my poem for the contest.

Fool’s Gold.
As I melt away,
Fragments pouring out.
In crystal shards or tears,
A clear substance.
So irregular in shape.
Am I pulled apart, or was I never whole?
Built up through pieces of pieces,
Glued together to represent some semblance of a being.
Would it even be Kintsugi?
The wasted gold, even that will melt.
I am the finest particle;
Smallest in my existence.
Mold me into anything,
Melt the glass and give it shape.
Breathe life into me, and I will be.
I will venture forth.
But the stronger the gust and I will shatter.
And who will hold me then?
Am I bound to the same fate yet again?
The tacky, sticky liquid that forces my arm to my leg.
My limbs are wrong.
I don’t look like this, or at least I didn’t.
What did I look like?
I don’t remember.

Young activities produce experience.

Experience shows up both good and bad.

Bad experiences brings caution back from the wind.

Then love comes as a surprise.

Love of family creates boundaries. 

Boundaries close in on protection.

Protection was confused with judgement.

Judgment lead to non communication. 

Lack of communication created space.

Space emptied hearts and minds.

Emptiness wedged a divide.

To be divided was death.

Death of the greatness of relationships held dearest.

Separation followed the deep sleep. 

Deep sleep slowly stirred with awakenings.

Awakenings felt awkward.

Awkwardness steered to strained communication. 

Strained communication took a toll in counsel.

Counsel calmed emotions. 

Calmed emotions created questions. 

Questions lead to opportunities. 

Opportunities opened doors with revelations.

Revelations carried burdens away.

Burden free hearts opened doors to quality time.

Quality time transcends to honesty.

Honesty produced connections. 

Connections to more glorious relations.

Relations grow exponentially to love.

Love enhances protective boundaries. 

Boundaries constantly, continually being misunderstood. 

(style score 100%)

I don’t hate you; that’s just my hard face.
That face, smudged with abysmal thoughts, tangled feelings and fear; louder than any words I could come conjure up.
My hard face, such a menace, etched deeply with lines of age, pain, worry, trauma.
Here babe, let me show you my soft face.
The one which is vibrant with love, kindness, empathy and forgiveness.
I promise I love you, I’m happy, I’m at peace. I’ll put on my soft face for you, you’ll feel more at ease, without burden or wonder if I want to stay or leave.
That hard face, it doesn’t always tell the truth. I’ll stow that face away, because I love you.

I’ve oft succumbed to subjugation’s crush,
been scarified by sorrow’s caustic calm,
and felt the frantic beat of anger’s rush

—but—

have never dropped the H-A-T-E bomb.

I hold that weapon, ticking, in my soul,
unwilling to unleash it on the world,
to watch it flare, expand with godless smoke,
consume the light and healing I deserve.

An earnest smile outshines the sparking fuse.

They’re blinded by a still and gentle grace
unknowing of the heavy peace I choose,
the strength it takes to snuff abuse’s flame,
enforce a fragile, self-effacing truce—
forgiveness is a battlefield embrace.

Dear World:

Why did you want me to stay in a box? Why did you say to me repeatedly that I was not afraid of you? Afraid of what just because we don’t agree on the same things, we don’t carry ourselves in the same manner, we weren’t raised alike my parents raised me and your parents raised you. You think I have an answer for all things and yet you feel that I don’t always need to respond. Let me say this I am me; I stand up for me, I protect me, sorry I am not passive, sorry I am not timid. You sometimes can knock me off my feet, have me spinning around what did I say this time, or should I have said it the way you preferred, no, no, I can’t we just agree to disagree. If not then I know I will fight you tooth and nail, not physically, not even verbally if you take me their pure silence will come over me. If we can talk and laugh on occasion than we should be able to meet each other in the middle.
I just want to me, and if I had to stand for you or with you it would be unbearable, because you continue to try to break me down, degrade or slander my character. How would you ever see the beautiful flower that I have become, the great creation that was molded. World we have no need to misunderstand each other if respect is put on our names, colorism, and racism erased a real fair share in the piece of this huge pie.
I am tired of fighting, let’s find a better way. How can we come up with a mutual understanding ceasing the misunderstanding? Looking forward to a more productive way, and positive outlook. Let us remove the negative aggression not you just wanting to point the finger at me all the time. Nope, if that is the case being misunderstood is who I will forever be, I MUST STAND FOR ME!

Thank you,
JoVonne
3/21/2025

Dear Silence,
You have been my unwelcome companion for far too long. You shadow my words, twist my intentions, and leave me stranded in a world where my heart speaks a language no one seems to understand.

I have tried to explain myself—to shape my thoughts into something digestible, something easy to swallow. But no matter how carefully I choose my words, they still slip through the cracks of perception, distorted by assumptions, drowned in silence.

You make me question if I should speak at all. If I should shrink myself into something smaller, something simpler, something easier to accept. But that is not who I am.

I am tired of being labeled before I am listened to. Of being told I am too much or not enough. Of feeling like I exist on the edges of conversations, of connections, of understanding itself.

But I am done fighting you. If being misunderstood means I am complex, layered, and real—then so be it. I will not soften my truth to fit someone else’s comfort. I will not erase the depth of my soul just to be easier to read.

So, Misunderstanding, you may follow me, but you will not define me. I will keep speaking, keep feeling, keep being exactly who I am. Me.

And one day, someone will hear me.

Sincerely,
Someone You’ll Never Silence Again

Dear World,

The saying goes, “Sing like no one’s listening, love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like no one’s watching, and live like it’s heaven on earth.” – William W Purkey

But what happens when you sing a little too loud, and the room goes quiet? When you move in a way that feels free but someone decides it’s too much?
What happens when you try to live boldly, unapologetically, while knowing full well that people are watching?
It seems the only time we’re accepted is when we’re small…quiet enough, careful enough, easy enough to digest.

Why does love feel like a one-way street for anyone who dares to show up fully?
Some days, “misunderstood” feels like a second skin. Something we wear even when we’re trying to fit in.
I could’ve sworn I tattooed the word across my forehead the day I shared “30 things I’ve learned by my 30th birthday,”only to be labeled a know-it-all instead of a human being— 
A hermit with external skin, someone who has deeply lived and learned. 
The taste of confused gazes makes it all feel not just real but bittersweet.

What if connection isn’t about needing more, but about wanting to be known?
 To share a thought, a spark, a feeling without it being misread or dismissed.
And still, it gets misinterpreted at every turn.
But I know something now that I didn’t before:
The battle to be understood is not the battle worth fighting. The real victory is in surviving at all.
I fought a ‘silent war,’ one I was never supposed to win.
 But I did.
I escaped with my life and built something greater. Something unbreakable.
 A life filled with love, with defiance, with choice.

And so, I’ve been left with an ultimatum: 
Shrink to survive…
Or let this voice become a flame.

Dan Harmon once said, “Find your voice, shout it from the rooftops, and keep doing it until the people that are looking for you find you.”

To that, I reply with a voice of my own:
 “If there ever comes a time where you have to choose between light and letting the fire die—I hope you choose to ignite.”

Sincerely,


Someone you’ve almost seen