Dear Former Self,

I know life is hard for you. I understand how just existing is painful. Once you dreamed of being happy, or at least content. Now you only dream of death. Don’t give up though little one. Start believing that happiness is within reach, that you can and will find it someday.

You think you’re so wise, but there’s things you still don’t know. Someone should have told you that what you’re feeling is a sickness of the mind. Instead they let you believe you are bad – antisocial to hide away, stubborn not to eat, and “always airing your dirty laundry” when you finally do speak. This sickness, this clinical depression, has eaten away your confidence, overwhelmed you with sadness, and closed you eyes to hope. It’s trying to kill you and right now it’s winning. But you’ll get strong, find the help you need, and beat this thing back.

Someday those endless stream of doctors will lead you to some good medicine. You’ll have to keep up with a lot of pills, but it will quell that mad misery plaguing you. You will get to know your sickness inside and out, including how to zap it’s energy and hold over you.

I will not lie. You will never kill the beast. But your dream of happiness is still achievable. You can learn to tame the monster, hold it at bay, and when it grabs you, you’ll be able to loosen yourself from its grip. As you grow bigger, it’ll get small and weak.

Someday you won’t be alone in your struggle either. You’ll find love and understanding in real friends and a life partner who takes care of you when you can’t care of yourself. This love will fill your dry well of loneliness and you’ll feel warmth instead of that chilling cold.

You’ll manage a semblance of normalcy – and not as a show, but genuine stability and satisfaction. You won’t be happy all the time, but you will come to a place where you realize you’re happy with your life. No longer will you dream of death. Instead you’ll dream of exciting new adventure lying ahead. Oh, and adventures you will have – summitting snowy peaks, riding trains through India, making wine with your cousins in eastern Europe, skinny dipping in the Pacific Ocean, studying under the Dalai Lama, and so much more.

So don’t give up little one. It may take a while, but some day your dream of happiness will come true.

Dear Jamie Kern Lima:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Jamie. We’ll stay in touch.

It was Diwali eve.
Walking about on the crowded streets of a busy bazaar, with a handful of unnecessarily full shopping bags, I attempted to absorb the capitalistic madness and the sensory overload all around me. Evidently, I had spent too much time away from home, and had clearly lost the knack of smart street side shopping. A skill over which, I had unwittingly relinquished my mastery.
Looking to purchase those lovely bangles from the street stall, I found myself shamelessly bargaining with the vendor to reduce the ticket price by 200 rupees(2 dollars) . Not because I did’not want to pay the extra couple of bucks but because it felt like a gratifying activity to engage in .There was something ego boosting about seeing someone succumb to my whimsical wishes.
It was then I felt a gentle pat on my back.
In front of me , well below eye level stood a little boy who if had to guess, was no older than possibly 8 years. A boy whose smile matched the smiles on the colorful balloons he carried and intended to sell. I was smitten and felt an instant liking. Right away, I experienced a fondness for his face, his untainted innocence, his purity, his aura.But I had no logical need for his giant balloons, then or ever at all. Sadly realizing this, I gently shooed him away. His face fell but he didn’t move. It was clear he wasn’t just about ready to give up on me yet.Mustering up courage , he begged me for help stating he had’nt eaten in a while and any money I could hand out would go a long way in feeding him and his sister.I wanted to help him but I had no local currency. As I rummaged through my purse I kept glancing at him, half expecting him to grab my purse any minute and run away. But he waited patiently. “I am sorry but I don’t have any local money” , I informed him sadly.Although he was disappointed , at some level I believe he could sense my genuine intent to help.Sheepishly he folded his hands behind his back and stuttered” Aunty, it’s ok. But can I walk you to a store near by? They have firecrackers and accept credit cards”
I found myself smiling involuntarily.
Clearly, it wasn’t a very thought out request . He was hungry and needed food. He has no need for frivolous fireworks. He just wanted them.
In front of me , I saw just a child. A child searching for joy in unsuspecting ways. A child who had no plan about his next meal. A child who had his priorities all wrong.
He was a child and that was all there was to him.
And that fact , justified all aspects irrational about the “please” he said to me that day .As I accompanied him to the store and got him the fireworks he desired, he walked away elated while I walked away with an awakening.
Sometimes, it is ok to just not foresee a future.
Sometimes, It is ok to be frivolous.
It is ok to look for instant gratification.
It is ok to not have a plan at all for some tomorrows.
Vetrivel and many such kids continue to live their lives by the day.
All they have is this today
A today that can never guarantee that a tomorrow shall even be.
All they have is this today
A today to tide through
In hope, joy and wishful childlike glee.

Dear Julia Roberts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Wynonna Judd:

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Sara Evans:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dearest Readers,
When was the last time you were told “this is what’s wrong with you” and you believed it? For me? I have yet to believe what doctors tell me. Ever since I can remember it has always been “Oh, this is what is wrong.” or “you’ve been walking on a broken ankle for a week.” I am almost always misdiagnosed or told “it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” I was born 3 months early with a hole in my heart, a heart murmur and severe lung issues. 3 months later, I contract viral meningitis and the child abuse begins shortly after. I was adopted and raised on a farm, but oractically lived in hospitals and doctor offices. I have 4 different types of migraines that took several years to diagnose because “You don’t have the typical symptoms so it can’t be that.” I was misdiagnosed with POTS disease when in fact, it is a congenital heart defect. I also have brittle bones, an undiagnosed hypermobility disorder, osteoarthritis, Hashimoto’s disease, healed skull fractures from the child abuse, scarring on my brain from the meningitis and a benign brain tumor that no doctor will touch because “it is in a vital area, but it’s not causing any symptoms.”
The moral of this story is, do not ever accept a diagnosis first thing. If your gut is telling you “something is wrong.” please get a second, third and fourth opinoion. It may just save your life!