Dear Unsealers,
You misunderstood when you met me.
I smiled. I was witty. I was pretty.
You called me sweet, like it was a bad thing.
Enrapt, we talked until the city woke up.
Perplexed, you’d never lost track of time with someone.
I thought it kismet, dreaming how we’d fit.
You thought it a distraction, star-crossed and dismissive.
You thought I’d negotiate love.
You thought I’d sustain on nothing.
You thought I’d stay anyway.
You thought you’d have it all.
But you misunderstood when you met me.
Just like you misunderstood when I left.
I’m not like all the other girls you’ve dated because I,
I am a woman.

Dear You,
I can’t remember you,
the version of me I hear so much about. They speak of you as if mentioning your name could call you back, but I know you are gone.
It happened without warning. One moment, my mind was yours, the next, we were drowning in darkness. A seizure, they told me, a violent rush of nothing, and with it came hypoxia, the suffocating absence of air that stole my memory. When I woke, the world was unfamiliar, and so was I.
They call it amnesia, a word that feels clinical, indifferent, incapable of carrying the weight of twenty-six years erased in an instant. The memories, the moments, the very essence of who I was, were taken from me without warning. I try to reach for those moments, the ones I should know, but all I grasp is air. And in this forgetting, I am misunderstood.
To others, I am still the person who existed before, but to me, I am an unfamiliar stranger wearing your face. They tell me, as if it’s simple, “You were this. You were that.” But they don’t understand, the girl they remember doesn’t exist anymore, and every attempt to make me her only builds a wall between what I am now.
People wonder what it is like, to lose not just a moment, but an entire life. But I do not know. I did not choose to lose myself. I wish they understood how it feels to be seen as someone you cannot be. There is a profound misunderstanding between us. They look at me, and they see you.
Twenty-six years of moments, laughter, heartbreak, lessons, all of it swept away by time and trauma. And in its place, I stand, piecing together an identity from the remnants you left behind. Maybe I was always meant to start again, not as a replacement for you, but as someone emerging from the absence you left, reconstructing a self that is fully mine, someone who can stand in the space between who you were and who I will become.
So, to you, the girl I cannot remember, I will not mourn you as a loss, nor will I replicate the memories of your life. Instead, I will design a path forward, not defined by what was lost, but by what I choose to build in its place. I will honor you by living, not in the shadow of who you were, but as someone worth remembering.
Sincerely,
The me who now stands where you once were

I have always been seen as normal.

I am a healthy adult man who keeps himself well, surely he can’t have problems?

I survived to now, I have a good job, surely he can’t have trauma?

I don’t have scars that are easily seen, tattoos that show my past, or anger that I hold today, surely he can’t have nausea?

How do you explain to someone that bricks remind you of blood?

How do you explain empty sidewalks remind you of home?

How do you explain that the feeling of change in the pocket is comfort?

How do you explain not being scared of the truth, but what you don’t know?

How do you explain that loud noises reminds you of an angry father?

How do you explain that you struggle with the feeling of being alone?

How do you explain that silence isn’t peaceful, but a tool used to silence?

How do you explain that fighting doesn’t scare you, but talking about what hurts makes pain flow?

How do you explain that there is comfort in chaos, and that peace feels abnormal?

How do people see me as normal and without problems, when all I know is broken bones?

Broken plates, broken hands, broken families, broken loves?

You see me as complete, but don’t see the construction I did to keep together this home.

We all come from pain, we all come from loss, let’s stop assuming each other, and instead get to know.

Because even trees work together so they can reap what is sewed.

Maybe we all need to breathe, and help each other learn to let go.

No matter where I go,
I don’t feel like I belong.
No matter what I do,
I always feel like I’m wrong.

I need to find a place
Where I can finally feel free.
To unlock the rusted gates
For the girl inside of me.

I want to express my feelings,
To speak without disguise,
To share my hidden truths
Without fear behind my eyes.

I crave a kind of company
That’s warm and thats embracing.
But I’m surrounded by fake smiles,
And conforming leaves my soul aching.

The girl inside of me craves to be seen,
To break through this shadowed veil.
She’s tired of living in between,
Of being a ghost in her own tale.

She dreams of a world where she can bloom,
Where her voice isn’t drowned by doubt.
A place where her soul has enough room
To stretch its wings and shout.

But the world feels heavy, cold, and gray,
And the path ahead seems unclear.
Yet I know she’s there, waiting to say,
“I’m ready, I’m finally here!”

So I’ll keep searching, through the pain,
For a space where I can be me.
I’ll fight to silence the disdain
And set the girl inside of me free.

I hate her, she’s ugly
Inside and out
She says stupid things
Has no friends, they’re all out

Her face is too round
Her hair is so mousy
Can’t do her makeup
She always looks lousy

She’s a horrible mom
Her house is a mess
Her husband wants out
She never says yes

She forgets half the groceries
The list on the fridge
She can’t find her keys and
just leaves the garbage

Her kids have too much screen time
They’re always unclean
They rarely listen
They all swear she’s SO mean

At work she’s just coasting
The job is just work
She gives all her effort
But they think she’s a jerk

She forgets what she’s saying
On the phone with her friends
She barely listens
She prays it all ends

I hate her, she’s ugly
She’s cold and devout
Watch it, don’t cross her
Her horns will come out

Then one day I saw her
Drop a plate made of glass
The kids were all screaming
The tv on blast

The room filled with chaos
With her at the wheel
A tear slid down her cheek
And she let herself feel

the babies ran in
With all eyes on mama
They hugged her so tightly
She forgot all her drama

And in that moment,
I saw her much clearer
Tears flowed down my cheeks
While I stared in the mirror

I looked in our eyes
At our too-round pale face
Tucked up my mouse hair
And I scrubbed off my face

She wasn’t the worst
Maybe flawed, but not bad
The weight of her jobs just
almost broke her back

So I gave her some grace
She was doing the best that she could
She wasn’t a monster
I just misunderstood

Our eyes meet.

I smile at you.

Sometimes you smile too.

Sometimes you look away.

We’re not friends,

But we could be.

There’s space between us.

A comfortable distance.

Or does the comfort only belong to me?

I assume it’s there because you want it to be.

You like the space between us.

But what if I’m wrong?

Maybe you wonder if I want the space between us.

I do.

It keeps me safe.

It keeps me from getting hurt.

It keeps me from finding out how you truly feel about me.

Because I fear being rejected by you,

I will maintain my reserve.

I will choose loneliness.

I still remember my younger days, surrounded by friends and good conversations. Everything was magical and beautiful during those moments in my life. My words were heard and my friends paid attention to me. Oh God, I truly felt fulfilled and happy.

I wish I could go back to that time and truly enjoy what it meant, and it’s only now that I realize the importance of being heard, valued, understood, and feeling like an important part of those around you.

My life changed drastically since I got married. Unfortunately, what I’m feeling now is just an enormous accumulation of everything I’ve experienced over these years of marriage. The emotional abandonment has consumed me to the point of degrading my self-esteem and self-worth.

I was usually a cheerful, outgoing, talkative, social person who liked to give and receive attention. I liked being listened to and smiling at my jokes. I felt appreciated for my gifts, skills, knowledge, and personality.

Now I feel trapped in an empty and stressful place, in a home where my words aren’t heard, where my intellect isn’t appreciated, and where my ideas aren’t taken into account; on the contrary, they’re synonymous with madness.

I feel like I can’t be authentic because I’m immediately criticized and devalued. I feel stuck in a muddy pool where no one is interested in rescuing me.

My inner self cries out for happiness and understanding, but my eyes see the exact opposite. Sometimes I feel like my mouth is mute and my hands are tied to the needs of others and not my own.

I demand that in my home I be given the place I deserve, that I be given my space and made to feel that I am a fundamental part of the family’s well-being.

If only my husband and children truly valued each and every one of my efforts, I wouldn’t be writing this letter of help and emotional attention. I’m tired of having to remind them that it’s important to me that they express and show their gratitude for all my daily sacrifices so that they have a clean home, clean clothes, nutritious homemade food, and all the other tasks I perform at home.

It’s easy to ask mom and wife for anything, but often we as women of the home also need that affection, that tender look, that caress, those words of encouragement, that recognition for our work, both in public and in private.

I’m sure that if my husband learned to value me, if he realized how beautiful I am inside and out, he would fall in love with me again. If he only appreciated that I am a unique, special, generous, and hardworking woman, he would die of love for me and every day he would let me know his love and admiration as a wife and mother.

The only thing left for me to do is pray for a change, for a reawakening in my family, for moments of joy and appreciation, for my family to be aware of the important work I do at home for the well-being of everyone.

I hope that one day this letter will remain just a simple memory, a learning process, a painful feeling overcome, and that in the future I can thank God for my answered prayers that came from the depths of my being.

Feeling misunderstood like a hyena seen as threatening when trying to

Protect her pack.

Walking

Into unwanted spaces

Tense

As if an outcast

Waiting for judgement day at Pride Rock.

Approaching conflict with softness and grace that no one else has to.

Exhausted

From putting energy and effort into an environment

That would rather erase your existence

Than acknowledge accomplishments.

Fatigued from social ambiguity while completing mundane task.

Seen

As a target to blame America’s problems on.

I

We did not ask to be here.

However

We

Have created sacred rituals.

Have planted roots of this nation.

Remain inspired by tomorrow.

And I am here and will continue to occupy space

Despite being misunderstood.

Dear Hiring Process That Left Me Behind,

I remember the day we met. I showed up ready. I’d spent hours selecting the perfect, professional outfit—polished but not too much, impressive but not overwhelming. I styled my hair, put on lip gloss, rehearsed my answers. My desk was littered with sticky notes—reminders of the “right” things to say. I had done my research, prepared for every question, imagined a future where this job could be mine.

It’s hard to put yourself out there. It’s hard to hope for something better. It’s hard to risk judgment, knowing you might be found lacking. The process is long, tedious, exhausting. How can someone judge your worth in just 20 minutes? And yet, I logged into that interview willing to take that risk. Because for a moment, I believed it was worth it.

And I nailed it. I answered with confidence, connected with the panel, and left nothing on the table. I left that virtual room feeling lighter, hopeful, even a little victorious. I told myself, “That went well. They liked me! They want me!!” I let myself believe it, let the excitement settle in, let the possibilities unfold in my mind.

And then, I waited. First with excitement, then with patience, then with doubt. Days turned into weeks. The silence grew heavier with each passing day, pressing down like a weight I couldn’t ignore. Finally, I broke it—a polite follow-up, a gentle nudge. But still, no response.

In that silence, I started to disappear. I replayed our conversation, picking apart my own words, searching for the invisible mistake. Did I laugh too much? Not enough? Was I too eager? Too confident? Were my answers too polished? Too rehearsed? Was I simply not good enough? I thought we had a connection. I thought I mattered. But now I wonder if I was just another name on a long list, another voice fading from your memory the moment we disconnected.

I know I shouldn’t take it personally. But I do.

Because to me, you weren’t just another presence in a virtual meeting. You were an opportunity I took seriously. You were a future I was excited for. You were my hopes and dreams wrapped up in a 20-minute conversation.

Now, you are just disappointment, heavy and unshakable—not just of a lost opportunity, but of something bigger. You are the reminder that candidates are so easily discarded, that companies preach professionalism but don’t offer the same courtesy in return. That “you’ll hear from us soon” often means “you’ll never hear from us again.” That silence speaks volumes, and it says: You weren’t worth a response.

And I don’t accept that.

I am worth a response. I am worth a follow-up. I am worth more than the silence you left behind.

So maybe you won’t call back. Maybe you never intended to. But I will not let your silence define me. I will move forward. I will keep trying. And the next opportunity that comes my way—the one that values my time, my effort, my energy—that will be the one worth waiting for.

Sincerely,
The Candidate You Forgot

the day my childhood ended
seems a bit strong
dont be offended
because it might not be wrong

throughout my whole life
i was told that i cant
be this or do that
which leaves me to rant

being a young leader
doesnt make me bossy
i can take charge
and be a bit saucy

just because im confident
and believe that im great
doesnt mean you arent too
sorry you cant relate

i might think im the best
but i know there are better
say youre impressed
that im such a go-getter

fighting for myself
and what i know i deserve
doesnt mean that im full of it
because i have nerve

to say the things i feel
or know to be true
its not going to my head
just because its not you

on one hand i should speak up
but then when i do
somehow im trying to fight
if only you knew

that might not be the case
actually its not at all
im being misunderstood
and made to feel small

i know thats not the intention
i dont want you to think
im saying youre wrong
or making a stink

over the years i have grown
into the person im supposed to be
even if im doing it alone
soon you will see

the day my childhood ended
isnt to be negative
instead its to show
that im changing the narrative

You tell me that you see me
And you tell me that you know
You show up with trite words
You hope will somehow show
You have the best intentions
With peace offerings that fall flat
In covered casseroles and
Withering plants I just can’t
Seem to keep alive either.

There’s no more suffering now
You say to me—and he’s in
A better place without pain
But what you don’t see—is within
I need you to see my pain
Deep into my eyes where it
Holds everything you cannot.

I’m tired of the stupid shit
With all your false platitudes
Please go read the beatitudes
Blessed are the meek they say
Blessed are those who mourn
For they shall be comforted
So please when you’re ready
To mourn alongside me
I’m not ready to pretend
That anything else you say
Is what I need to hear.

My father always told me
I lived life a mile wide
And an inch deep
I was never certain if I agreed
Because although I have traveled
Far and continuously
I believe somewhere inside of me
Unhinged
And I can’t decide if
Seeing too much
Is a privilege or a hindrance
But I do know how deeply
I feel about a wide range of places

It’s hard to look at a parent
And see a stranger
So maybe I take their words
With too much weight
Questioning my own character
So maybe I can relate
But they are the ones who have
Always stood still
And I am the one who seeks change
A mile wide, a mile deep

It’s hard not to be seen

Anxiety is an endless invisible string you carry on your shoulders
Anxiety is often misunderstood and not a simple to-be-fixed mistake
Anxiety is a daily struggle that never stops
Anxiety takes over the mind with overthinking, worries, and constant self-shame
Anxiety can’t a hundred percent be fixed with medication
Anxiety can make you look calm, but you feel like you’re dying inside
Anxiety can cause mental and physical struggles unknowingly
Anxiety can easily cause panic attacks like your lungs collapsing
Anxiety makes you worry over the simple little things frequently
Anxiety can make you practice conversations in your head before you speak
Anxiety makes it uneasy to relax and destress and takes guidance
Anxiety involves every stress of life that makes it worse
Anxiety isn’t just “you’re overreacting” or “just relax.”
Anxiety can cause misunderstandings and misinterpretations
Anxiety can lead to some having a lack of empathy when it’s unbearable to grasp
Anxiety can make you isolate from social situations and want to be alone
Anxiety isn’t for the weak but shows how strong you really are
Anxiety is a big deal of a disorder and is treatable but still tough
Anxiety is a horrible mental struggle that not many understand
Anxiety takes depth to truly comprehend and help those when needed
People who don’t understand anxiety need to understand two things
It is a struggle and know what to do to help and deal with someone who does

Just yesterday, I watched a girl laugh at a joke she didn’t find funny.
Not a real laugh—just a quick, practiced sound,
a reflex built from years of knowing when to play along.
Her friends didn’t notice.
They grinned, clinked their glasses, kept talking.
But for half a second, her face fell,
and I saw it—
the quiet between the noise,
the moment where she was just herself.

And I just stood there.
I didn’t ask if she was okay.
Didn’t tell her I knew what it was like
to sit in a room full of people and still feel alone.
Didn’t tell her that sometimes, pretending to belong
is lonelier than never belonging at all.

But here’s what she didn’t see:
I recognized that laugh because I’ve used it, too.
I’ve filled silences with words that weren’t mine,
nodded at conversations that never really reached me.
And I’ve left rooms where no one noticed I was gone,
wondering if I was ever really there in the first place.

This is how it always is.
People think loneliness is being alone,
but I promise you, it’s lonelier to be misunderstood.
It’s laughing on cue,
filling a space where you don’t quite fit,
and realizing—when the night ends—that no one saw you at all.

I feel everything at 110%,
but I only know how to show it at 10%.
And silence has never been good at explaining itself.

Somehow I’ve spent a whole week
Trying to figure out who I am. And
I’ve been living with myself for over twenty years, and
I’ve seen everyday my nose, feet, hands, and
I’ve heard my thoughts louder than anyone can, and
And yet I can’t seem to figure out who I am.
But identity crisis? No. That was so two years ago.
I’m just a bit incohesive.

I make myself inexcusably late (but excused by my chronic lateness),
Stuck deliberating between
My Pantone two eighty jeans or the two eight two blue
That might match a little better
With my one dollar belt, my eight year old coat, and my handmedown tee
So that people don’t see me
As a frumpy kid who’d be better off
If still dressed by her mom.
I don’t think it’s wrong to put in the effort without putting in the cash,
And besides, it’s not like I don’t have money to spend;
I just choose to treat myself
In moments shared by family and friends.

And before I leave, I glance in that silver coated glass.
Walk away. Return. Another quick glance.
A stranger looks at me
Through brown eyes, brown hair, brown
Skin, but really it’s more of a Pantone one sixty three.
I almost forgot I can’t be brown when there’s colorful people around.
I am so full of muted colors and triumphs
from the past
That I am lost searching for me in the present.
And though my Jewish heritage runs coarse through my blood,
Thick blood like that of the Paschal lamb that is now our mezuzah,
I don’t believe in that stuff.
And though my body is defined by being female,
I either hate it or don’t recognize it.
And though my Mexican heritage flows rich on my skin,
It only shines in the sun in the summer.
The equatorial sun has kissed my blood
But European skies suck out all the fun.
Now my darkest shades come from
The spots on my face, my neck and back dotted,
But I’m the one who put them there.
Just like I’m the one responsible for the bits
That don’t rest nicely on my stomach or my hips.

I’ve peeled back that fleshy pink layer
To examine my mind. I am
A floating consciousness: black and white, cartoon-drawn,
Just a brain and a spinal cord encased in an
Invisible vessel. To the world I am not colorless,
But I wish it were blind to me.
Here, I have no shape or form; I’m either all in power
Or all entropic. But to be who I am, I have full control
Over behavior, traits, the things that make me a whole
Person. What to think. How to speak. Who to be.
My senses are intrinsic to me.
For all I know, you and I could have a different green
Where you, dear reader, see Pantone three six two
But I a three fourteen.

I create and build, crunch numbers ‘cause I can.
I’m proud to present as a woman in STEM.
Ideas bounce around my head, but no structure to my thought,
So how can I build bridges
When I can’t even build a sentence of prose?
Who knows? Maybe by the end of this
I’ll find there’s nothing I can do.
I’ve the EM spectrum in me, but you only see visible light.
My rainbow may be quenched, but
There’s more to seeing than sight.
I’ve spent the week trying to figure me out;
I just had to close my eyes.