This letter is for the boy in me who wanted to be good enough.
I hear you.
I see you.
I still carry you with me.
This is what I’ve learned.

There are moments I’m not proud of: I snap at my daughters for being children. I miss what my wife is really saying, my ego fogging the air between us. I listen to students’ heartfelt confessions and find myself without a way to respond.

Often in the aftermath of these moments, I tell myself, “You should be more. You should be better. You are not enough.”

While I believe these, the great irony is–I continue to convince myself the opposite is true also.

That I am too much.

When I pour my heart out on the page. When I sing at the top of my lungs. When I perform poetry in place of giving a standard order professional presentation.

In preparing to write this letter, I realized that I can’t write to a past version of myself, for these voices still linger; they are present and prevalent still.

And you know what else I realized?

Both of these feelings are two sides of the same counterfeit coin that I keep trying to spend.

I catch myself, too often, trying to deposit these lies into the accounts of my self-worth. I still invest in these illusions. But I’m working to close out that account. To live in the security of truth, not the debt of self-doubt.

It doesn’t come free of charge, to stop paying interest on shame. It takes courage to step away from these stories I’ve both bought and sold–to say: “No more.”

It’s a constant practice—refreshing, reminding, and reimagining—just to put my money where my mouth is, if even for a fleeting moment. Resilience is not found in having it all together. It lives in returning, again and again, to the truth that held you, even when you lost sight of it.

What follows is my reminder: love is the only transaction that transforms us.

I write these lines below for me and everybody else out there consumed by self-sabotage. A bank statement for when we buy into the false narrative of our own definitions.

No more fake news.

Only good news.

So, here’s my memo of our up to date and true credit score:

The screen displays a well-worn message:
Insufficient funds.

And no matter how hard you try,
So long as you keep coming back to this ATM,
You will always get the same message.

If you measure yourself against your potential,
You will focus on your shadow,
Which does nothing but grow as you gaze upon it.
When you allow others to measure your worth,
The numbers won’t add up.
You are not made to fit someone’s bottom line.

Rather,
It’s time to find a new credit union.
No more dealings with shadow bankers of no faith.

Choose the bank that encourages you to
Embrace the brilliant sunshine within.

You are cosmic wonder.
You are the only you in this endless vast universe.
You are loved—
Just as you are.

You can stop the endless spending.
Withdraw from the questions rapid firing through your mind.
Invest in this sacred place
This garden of tranquility
This calm
This balm
This knowledge of your beauty and worth.

You are a human being.
And this means you are meant to dance
Between brilliance and buffoonery.
A mix of
Majesty and mess,
Embodiment and ethereality,
Beauty and blemish,
Bounty and bankruptcy.

Temptation will ask you to label these contradictions as a diminishment of divinity,
As if you have the power to distort something so pure.

It is only in thinking we have this power that we overdraft our account.

It is in taking our own delusional definitions to mean more
Than the breath we share
The dignity which breathes in all
The divine spark that flickers amidst and even despite our forgetfulness.

For after all,
Have you heard of the bank account that cannot be depleted?
Whose currency carries worth through every contradiction?
What collateral secures the sanctity of your soul?

It’s what you were minted for.

It’s the only wealth that cannot be counterfeited.

It’s meant to be received without limit,
and spent without fear.

It’s love.

So, the next time voices—whether within or without—
Try to preach a Gospel of shortcomings,
Do not bow.
Do not bargain.

Let go of that counterfeit coin which never bought you peace anyway.

Letting go in this way is not weakness.
It is the fiercest kind of faith:
Believing you are already worthy
Without proof,
Without profit,
Without performance.

Take this to spend freely instead:
The truth of who you are,
Stamped with love,
Made in the image of enough—
Just as you are.

Dear Big White House,

With your creepy hideouts and shadowed stairwells, I never thought I’d speak to you again. Your memory has been a silent echo, a place I locked away because the truth felt too dark to touch.

I always hated being the last one upstairs. Turning the light off at the bottom terrified me. A part of me felt constantly watched. I felt afraid while living there, especially at night. It sucked to be alone and afraid many nights, which is why I’ve always had trouble sleeping. I’m living proof I’ve never had a secure attachment. I learned to disassociate early. So many bad things happened, but that was just my normal. Disassociating allowed me to speak freely with the thoughts in my head, even in the craziest moments. It was a lifeline.

It was easy to fake a smile, pretending everything was okay, but I questioned it. I’d tell others what they wanted to hear to avoid the worst. Yet, it was never enough to keep me safe. I’ve felt on the run my entire life, not realizing I was running from myself. The past haunts me, but I don’t mind. Some things I shut away for a reason; things got pretty dark.

I’ve learned I can speak openly about anything. Yet some emotions I’ve not yet felt, and I struggle to cope. I’m still learning how to feel things authentically. There’s no right or wrong way to feel, so I go hard for my inner child. She was just a kid, carrying the brunt of so much hurt. This is me letting you know it’s okay for you to tell your story; I’ve got your back. Just use your words, and I’ll use my emotions to guide you through. I can’t go back, but I can show up and be a better example. I couldn’t protect you then, but no one could stop me now!

It’s okay to question your caregivers. It’s okay to use your voice and speak up. Even when scared, you can still be brave. Your story is yours. I’ve got your back, no matter what! I know how it feels to be alone, so we’ll get through this together.

So anyway, back to the story. People came over, and all the teens went upstairs. Teenagers can be very curious. The truth or dare game took a questionable turn. I wasn’t the oldest, but I was the most observant. It started with simple things like prank calls, texts, and crushes. Nothing was exactly happening, but I felt like I invited myself into something unexpected. How did we go from harmless fun to discarding clothes and asking obscene questions? I was curious, yet uncomfortable, specifically about how it would affect us mentally.

No one’s ever spoken about it again. Am I finally facing a core moment of my adolescence? No, I didn’t engage, but I was afraid of what would happen if I left. Other teens I cared about were in that room, so I stuck around despite my discomfort. Is it okay to experience uncomfortable moments with people, yet still feel oddly safe?

This memory has come and gone throughout the years, so I felt it was time to put my experience into words. Yes, I avoided harm; I felt I lost my right to choose. An apology or simple acknowledgment would have been enough, but everyone just went about their lives. I’m closer than ever with a few; others are always excited to see me. I’m not sure how to process that. It’s cool we’re older, but what does this ultimately mean?

You were a place of shadows, Big White House, a crucible of fear and uncomfortable truths. But you also taught me to be observant, to listen more than talk, and to reserve my energy. My voice, once silenced by your shadows, has broken down barriers. It’s more powerful than I ever thought, and I feel freer now.

My resilience stems from my determination to give my inner child everything she lacked, but love and kindness weren’t among them. She has the biggest heart and still loves unconditionally despite all the hurt. Spoken like a survivor who thrives no matter what comes my way. I can handle it; I am wired for this! Life can be confusing, but it’s up to you to keep pushing forward. No one else will do the work. You got this! My story is indeed mine to tell, and it’s a story of choosing bravery, speaking up, and never abandoning the child I once was. And for that, I thank you for the lessons you inadvertently taught me.

Hello there, place that changed me.
Except you are me, aren’t you?
You hold all my memories and experiences.
You comfort me and scare me.

Truly, I can’t be without you.
Thank you.

In 26 years, you’ve endured.
Still there.
Still here.
Don’t you see, yet?
You’re the place that changed me.

Change is weird, isn’t it?
Constant.
Loved.
Hated.

But change… change is good.
You changed me. You did.
Do you know how?

I could’ve been dead.
I’m not.
I could be behind.
I’m not.
I could be poor, but I’m rich with learning and love.
You, the place that changed me, I adore.
You’re silly, and crazy, and always constantly with me.
You’re wise, and funny, and a place that continues to change me.

You’ve been an enigma, sometimes foreign.
But you’re a place still changing me.
I’d like to think I know you,
and just maybe I do.

The place that holds my story is not one most seek out.

A hill of torture.
Where the depth of humanity’s cruelty burns,
Where shame and scorn seem to reign supreme.
Yet—
to the discerning eye,
there’s more here to be seen.

If you climb the hill to this
place of the skull—
Golgotha—
You will ache.

The despair of the condemned will weigh heavily on your heart.
The sight of weeping mothers will fill your eyes, their cries drowned out by the
jeering mob.
You will witness the immense effort it takes
to steal one labored breath.
You will watch as life slowly, savagely slips away
in an untidy and unending drip.

An innocent lamb, unblemished.
A suffering servant who sings of
forgiveness in his final breath.
This willing incarnation of love,
who leaves
no stone unturned,
no heart left to harden,
no moment unmet—
meets the worst of fates here.

Who in their right mind would willingly venture into this space?

Indeed, most of His friends dared not follow Him here.
Most scattered to the winds of fear.

To be honest, I’ve done the same.
Not just in fright—but also in disillusionment.
I turned my back, not due to a lack
Of love,
but because I had the story all wrong.

And my abandoning, my flight (which still happens) deepens the heartbreak here—
but also the capacity for hope.

For I’ve left but also returned.
I’ve stood here again and again,
drawn not by duty, but by the pain only this place can name.

But, standing is only the start.

You must also look with an unflinching gaze.
Observing at His feet—His mother, Mary,
and the other women strong enough to stay—you will feel their pain.

You will feel their power.

Watching the beloved apostle—one of the few who chose to anchor himself
at the feet of the One who called him to new life—
you will grasp that there is more to this place than death, harm, and despair.

You will see, if you too can stand there,
that the grounding and accompaniment on display
are the seeds of light in this den of destruction—
This house of torturous pain,
Nowhere for the faint or hard of heart.

For those seeds reveal that it’s also the home of hope.
The soil from which forgiveness, healing, and joy bloom.

I often stand at the foot of the cross,
watching as Jesus breathes his last.
As he forgives those who spat on him,
stealing His dignity and life.

I pray to have the strength to stand my ground in this place:
To remain rooted in love.
To keep vigil with Him, like the wondrous women whose strength I emulate.
To tenderly remove his wounded body from the cross,
and in laying him gently down,
To take oil and water and wash those wounds
with all the care and attention I have.
To tend to these wounds as my return
for the ways He has cared for mine.

This divine Physician asks for nothing—
and yet, I long to give in return.
In this place, I choose to honor his wholly holy hurts.
And while fear begs us to run like hell from a place like this,
I realize and remember that He is found here.

I see the secret that resides in each puncture:
The stone that blocks the tomb can be rolled away.

But, it is only in journeying to and through this place that
Such boulders can be moved.

Only when you weep and mourn at this Master’s feet
will you gain clarity to see what lies beyond.

Only when you tend to His glorious wounds
will you heal your own.

This place that holds my story
is one I thought I’d left for good.
I chalked it up to fabrication.
I saw the way people wielded this tale as a weapon,
damaging rather than healing.
So I left,
trampling pages underfoot,
letting silence replace my prayers.

When I finally came home,
When I at last heeded that unceasing call of love from above,
I was welcomed with the warmest embrace.
The fatted calf was slain,
a feast held for me.

I didn’t deserve this…

I couldn’t deserve this…

But…

Love doesn’t keep score
or worry about such petty concerns.
Love proclaims ownership, not possession.
It deals in deliverance, not debts.
It fills and does not falter.
Love surrounds, sustains, and never ceases.

Coming back to this place wasn’t a journey home
so much as learning to reopen my tight-shut eyes,
Which is, in truth, an unending process.

You see,
I’ve always been
right here
beneath this cross.
I just couldn’t always
sense
it.

This place where I meet Him
has always lived
within.

A cross carved not in wood,
but in me.

This place that holds my story—
Holds me too.

First, life and death lays in childbearing, some hard choices must be decided. Secondly, I thought about how disappointed I had been all through this pregnancy had even contemplating ending the pregnancy. Now, right now his life or my life stands in the ballot. It was at this time I thought I should have been grateful. I knew this marriage was coming to an end and I didn’t want to bring another child into the mix. I guess I felt like I was between a rock and hard place. It was the spring of 1991 around 7:00 am and I woke up to discomfort. I told my then husband I don’t feel right, let’s go to the hospital.
Once there, of course, vitals are checked, then told I was in labor, however, I had not dilated enough. Mrs. Lane you need to start walking around in the hallway (I thank God I was not sent home). As I begin to walk pain I mean excruciating pain, pain that I didn’t experience with my other two children. My ex then told the nurse. I was hooked on a monitor for a while then I was told to walk again in the hallway. I tried to do what I was asked but again intense pain engulfed me. This time I cried no; no, it hurts so bad. Again, he went to the nurses’ station this time his tone was not as nice “something is wrong with her” immediately a monitor was placed over my stomach; blood pressure machine wrapped around my arm. As I lay in bed, I was closelyevaluated. One nurse left and when she returned, she was accompanied by a doctor. The doctor examined me and looked closely at the readings then told me and my ex what was going to happen. The baby is in distress and the heartbeat continues to decline as you walk, we will have to deliver by cesarean. No, I protested but due to the nature of my condition this was the only way. My ex was called outside of the room and given some papers to sign. The papers consist of content detailing if the surgery would go array. He came back into the room with a stare of fright in his eyes and told me what was proposed then asked what I should do. He was told that they would save the baby at all costs. I said so to hell with me just sign the documents. The preparation was done and at 11:45 am he was cut out of me; 7 lbs. and 15 ounces. This curly head handsome little boy. Looking at him and knowing that he was healthy I could’ve prayed for anything more what I dealt with early on in the pregnancy didn’t compare to my emotions at the time when I first saw.

Dear Barringer,

You gave me so much. Barringer, you gave me love. Barringer, you gave me peace! I know God was there and you would care for me. Barringer, you showed me how to be a woman. Barringer; I learned to survive. Barringer, you showed me one of the most important things. Oh Barringer, you took me in, you kept me warm. Barringer, you showed me so many things and how I needed to perform. You gave me so many tasks. I wasn’t sure what I was able to do. Barringer, you showed me a life and then where I could come home to. I’m here and you told me all the mistakes I made as a mother, as a wife. Even when I struggled, you showed me a place where I knew I belonged. Through the right or the wrong, you were there. I put up a fight and I knew it was worth to fight for. You help me through. I’m so glad I got to be here. I’m so glad I got to love you so, no matter what I am going through and no matter what I see I’m glad you were there. Through parenting, through wifing and through journeys of love. Knowing that joy. I love that I experienced peace. I find it because that’s what God allows me to have. In a place where I find so much. I AM thankful because it is a place where I learned, and found finally that I love me!!!

Forever Grateful,
ME

Dear Teal Lake,

I couldn’t tell just how much you had changed. All I have are some brief memories of standing in your waters and boating with my father over your glassy surface during annual vacations from sixty years ago. That was before anyone knew just how sick he was. Lung cancer claimed my dad shortly after I turned eight-years-old. I had no clue what the ramifications of losing my father would be. Looking back, I see them all too clearly now.

He would have been the magnetic north I needed for my life’s compass to work properly. Without my father, I was all over the map. No guidance. Questionable choices. Poor decisions. General unhappiness. Culminating in hitting rock bottom. With the support of friends, I started over. My wife took a chance on me as a reclamation project. I’ve done my best to validate her decision.

My mother never took me back for a Teal Lake vacation. She was even more lost than I was without my father. My mom was either unwilling to make the six-hour drive back to you or afraid of the memories awaiting her. Perhaps both.

But I never forgot about you and longed to return to your shores, maybe to glimpse ghosts from my past. Over the decades apart, your popularity waxed and then waned. Today, your resort business is just a shell of what it once was. They filled in the pool with dirt rather than water. Nature has reclaimed the golf course. The barn with the mounted skull of the 24-inch Northern Pike that I caught as a boy collapsed long ago. But you were still there, awaiting my return. My wife and youngest child indulged my flight of fancy and agreed to a vacation in one of the few rental cabins left on Teal Lake.

No ghosts and few memories greeted me as we explored the property along your shore. The best option seemed to be to make some fresh memories, and so we did. The property exuded tranquility. Sunsets were glorious. Your water inviting to slide into or glide across by boat.

There was one special moment after an hour swim out to Raspberry and Bird Islands and back that I’ll never forget. Exhaustion and exhilaration consumed me as I laid back in your waters and floated. I stared at the clouds overhead as they seemed to come closer. Were they were coming down to envelop me, or was I was rising toward them? I sensed definite movement, and a rendezvous with the clouds seemed very real and imminent.

It’s funny how your senses can deceive you. I decided against being swallowed by the clouds and perhaps being magically transported to a parallel universe, an alternate timeline, heaven, or a rural pig farm — my idea of hell. After I blinked and looked away, I found myself still on my back in your water with those mischievous clouds far up in the sky. I felt content to be right where I was with chapters, or at least pages, still to write in my book of life. With new memories of Teal Lake to complement the old, faded ones.

Fondly,

Dear 32 acres of pine tree forest and boulder mountains,

My family and I call you, “The Property.” But that name does you no justice. It sounds so simple, so barren and lifeless, so ordinary and unique. The opposite of everything you are.

My family loved spinning the tale of how our family ended up at The Property. Just outside of Cotopaxi, Colorado, my great grandparents built their house 9,000 feet high in the rocky mountains in an isolated community called Indian Springs. I listened, amazed and uncertain, as the story continued with the twist that both of them had seen this spot in a dream and set out to find it, succeeding only after a couple of years. Their dream led them across the Arkansas river, up a windy dirt road surrounded by impossibly high pine trees, and through moss-kissed boulders clustered haphazardly throughout the forest, as if the gods had shaken them in a cup and rolled them across the earth like dice.

They built their house without help, just each other and a few lengthy stretches of optimal weather. They also installed a solar panel, dug a well, constructed a greenhouse, and in only 5 year’s time they were not only living comfortably in a cozy, two story masterpiece in the spot they had dreamed of, but they were self-sufficient.

My grandma also added that in her dream, my older sister Kyla and I would find treasure somewhere in the mountains on The Property. My daydreams filled with Cherokee artifacts and chests of rubies and turquoise.

When they shooed us off, we didn’t mind. We had games to play. I soon forgot that story, but it always lingered in the back of my mind.

Life on The Property was magical. We ran barefoot across all 32 acres. We knew every climbable tree, every cave that was bear-less, every pathway across the jagged disfigured rocks. Chasing each other from sunup to sun-down, we blended into nature like two baby fawns.

We created and played a game called “Niamalis.” In Niamalis, a group of orphans were forced to flee their miserable life at an orphanage because of a series of earthquakes, and upon climbing a nearby rock formation, they accidentally fell into an invisible portal leading to the magical world of Niamalis. Each orphan had unique magical gifts, from the ability to shoot fire from their palms to the ability to shapeshift into and communicate with birds. It was a wild story, and we played it every single day.

But the summers would always come and go much too fast.

During the school year, we lived in an uncomfortably small trailer with our mom, stepfather, and other little sister, Aspen. My parents never left their room, as they were hiding a drug habit I was too young to understand, and so my mom micromanaged us from behind the door, from sunup to sun-down.

By the time I was 6, Kyla who was then 8, and I were responsible for getting ourselves up and ready for school, making our own meals, doing our own laundry, cleaning the house and the dishes, and watching our younger sister, Aspen, who was only 3.

I battled a lot of frustration during that time. Wanting to have nice clothes for school but no laundry soap to wash them, wanting to take a bath but feeling scared of the thin brown layer of something that coated the bath tub wall and floor, wanting to make my stomach stop feeling so hungry but not having the food to soothe it, trying to make friends but struggling with bullies and indifferent teachers, wanting clean dishes but not having the dish soap to clean them, were a few of the major frustrations I faced daily.

I thought that if I could somehow complete these impossible tasks our mother burdened us with the responsibility of figuring out ourselves, that she would be proud of us, and want to spend time with us. Any time at all. But even during the times the house was stocked with laundry detergent or dish soap, my mother was never satisfied with the work we completed, and she remained in her room, untouchable and out of reach.

Things got worse when one of my mom’s friends shaved all of my hair off after I had tried to cut a section of it myself. It was not only unnecessary, but it had a devastating effect on my self esteem and my social life.

I started getting into fights at school because I couldn’t tolerate being bullied. My peers knew I was a girl with a shaved head, but they were relentless, insisting I was a boy who had become a transgender. It seemed like the teachers and staff were not aware that I was a girl, gently trying to persuade me to quit saying I was. I would just stare at the ground, furious tears welling in my eyes. I was sure they could have looked at my file and seen an “F” in the gender category, but if they did, they didn’t show it.

(Since I am part Native American, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch for Cheyenne to be a male name.)

Whenever my mom would come to the school, it felt like a twisted sitcom, where the subject bounced around but never was directly said. I kept hoping that someone would confirm that I wasn’t a boy but a girl, and that the students shouldn’t be harassing me about my gender. Unfortunately, at the time I didn’t have the words to express that need and it always slipped through my fingers.

At school, I was an outcast in a war zone. At home, I was a “quit buggin’ and finish cleaning!”

I felt very alone, and powerless to make change.

But then summer would come, and my sister and I were free, running barefoot through the dry tundra grass, hair billowing in the wind like sails, cheeks flushed, smiles finding our faces once more. The Property was like a whole other world. It didn’t matter that we were orphans, or that our home was a disaster, because we had fallen into Niamalis, and if we trained and practiced our skills, we were undefeatable.

As life moved on, each twirl of the Earth’s rotation around the sun brought more and more chaos. When I was 13, they sentenced my stepfather, to whom I had grown very close, to 48 years in prison. I was homeless and on the streets one Christmas when I was 15, and part of me wonders if the rage I felt could have been the fuel that kept me alive in the bitter Colorado cold. When I was 21, I had my daughter, and my favorite Aunt Teri passed away, just barely missing the chance for them to meet. We lost my great grandfather and this year, when I am now 29 years old, we lost my great grandmother.

I hope one day I will get to find the treasure that she predicted we would find in her dream. I hope I can bring those excited smiles back onto my sister’s face, and I hope I will hold on to the faith that miracles can happen.

Dear 32 acres of pine tree forest and boulder mountains,

You have given me strength, and motivation, and peace. Some may never see you as more than random trees and rocks, but I see you like an old friend, whom I love dearly.

One could even speculate that the treasure had already been discovered. During those sunny summer afternoons, among small barefoot prints pressed into the dirt, wild flower crowns and giggles that echoed for miles, we had found an escape from our pain and sorrow.

My family still lives there to this day, and I’m sure my family always will. Because we know that it’s not just the beauty and the memories that make it so enjoyable.

Dear Property, you are also proof that Heaven exists.

But Im In no rush to get to Heaven.

I’ve got a piece of it right here.

90%

A place that truly had a meaningful impact on me and changed my life. I call it the Bowel Chapel. It was inside of a hospital where I worked. I entered it many time on my breaks, to relax and say a little prayer. Little did I know that someday, that it would leave a stain on my heart.

Before I began my horrific head-on collision with breast cancer, I was one of those nosey patients who didn’t want to wait until my MD gave me the results. I wanted to know now, not later. They are my results, why should I wait. No one will ever understand, until they go through it. The worst part of having cancer is waiting on those first results. The life that you knew, is ovcr. You’re in limbo. You can’t plan, you can no longer laugh and have fun, because you’re not sure how long it will.

One day at work I said to myself, it time. It’s time to find out for sure. I went to my computer to begin my search. I was on a mission. I was aware of the time limit it would take to obtain the results. Once I located them, I immediately wished that I hadn’t. Yet here I am, “I really have cancer”, now what? I totally froze. It was like a dream and I was going to wake up any minute now. This can’t be real. I began screaming inside, why God, why? Why would you do this to me? I depended on you. Through all the prayers that I had obliged you with previous these results. How could you let this happen?

I got up from my chair in a daze and began walking away from my desk, not knowing where I was going. I could hear voices around me, but yet I didn’t. I just knew I didn’t want to be around anyone . I needed to go somewhere to be angry, to hurt, cry and cuss God out loud and I wanted to do it alone. I landed on the first floor, not even remembering taking the elevator down. I kept walking with my head downward, not wanting to have eye contact with anyone. Didn’t want to have to fake a smile nor a greeting, nor did I want to receive one, because it wouldn’t be genuine. Why would it? God has not been genuine. He has totally let me down.

I got even angrier when I spoke of God. Were you not listening during my prayers? Are you truly there? Am I not your child? All of these years, I thought that you were the one thing I could depend on. That’s what I thought. Yes, I had my own personal relationship with God. Now, I’m not sure if he’s even real. How could he? I’m in a stage of hopelessness! As I was walking, I stopped for a moment to seek a bathroom or to find a way to exit the building so that I could go and cry out loud, shed all the tears I could in a hide-away place. I needed to let out the hurt.

As I began to seek an exit, I noticed that I had landed in front of the Bowels Chapel. Why, who knows? I definitely wasn’t going in there. I no longer believe in such. As I began to walk away, something made me turn back towards the chapel and I entered. I was glad to see that no one else was within. I didn’t want to cry in front of anyone nor did I want their pity.

I walked all the way to the front of the chapel and sat in one of the front pews. I sat and began to cry and pray out loud, and I continue downgrading God. Making sure I let him know how I felt. How disappointed I was in him. Suddenly as I’m crying I felt a strong presence, a strange feeling, one like no other. It was as if someone was sitting next to me. I was guided to kneel to my knees, I didn’t know why, but I did it. I began to cry and pray some more, but this time the crying was much harder, but different. It was if I was crying of joy, releasing all my tears. I suddenly heard those spoken words “You will be OK, trust and believe and everything will be OK”.

It was like someone was physically near me speaking, but there wasn’t. I got up from my knees, tears dried up and I began to realize what had just happened. My faith returned. From that day forward, I didn’t have another negative feeling concerning my journey through cancer. Yes, once in a while, I owld get sad, it’s normal, but I kept hearing those words. I carried them with me throughout my journey and I knew one thing for sure, I was going to be OK. My cancer journey didn’t start with my results, it truly began in that precious place, the Bowels Chapel. I was never alone!

Dear Unsealed,
Dear Surgeons and my Primary Doctor,
April 2022 marked a turning point in my life. My battle with COVID in January 2021 wasn’t just a fleeting illness—it lingered, wreaking havoc on my body long after the virus itself had passed.
One night, in unbearable pain, my roommate dropped me off at the ER at Riverside Community Hospital. The pain in my abdomen and throughout my body was excruciating, yet they left me suffering in the lobby. Struggling to breathe, I finally convinced them to let me lie down.
When a nurse finally took me back, I underwent countless invasive X-rays, each one adding to my discomfort. The results were alarming. My stomach was dangerously close to my heart, and my gallbladder was so infected that it had become gangrenous, leaking green bile into my abdomen. The doctor told me, in no uncertain terms, that without surgery, I would not survive.
The weekend passed in a blur as I lay in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs, receiving hydration and antibiotics. Early Monday morning, they wheeled into a surgery that was a procedure that lasted for hours. When I awoke in my shared hospital room, a kind (and very handsome) nurse gently turned me, and through my pain, I joked, “You can turn me anytime.” The dude was alright!
Recovery was brutal. The pain was beyond anything I had ever experienced, a 25 on a scale of 1 to 10. I spent over a week in the hospital, and when the surgeon recommended rehab, I initially resisted. But once I realized how difficult even the smallest movements had become, I knew I needed help.
Before this, I had never undergone major surgery, save for two cesareans in the ‘80s and a broken finger surgery back in 1964. This experience changed my life completely. COVID was not just an illness, it was a cruel bacterial infection that ravaged my body.
When I finally returned home, I had new challenges. My body was weak, and the pain was relentless. I relied on a walker to move around, and even minor tasks, like preparing my liquid diet, felt monumental.
Before COVID, I walked eight miles a week. Now, walking to the mailbox and back feels like an achievement. The transformation was something I never could have prepared for. My diet had to change entirely. Gluten and lactose were my new norm, and worst of all, I had to say goodbye to red meat. No more In-N-Out burgers. It took two years of trial and error to figure out what I could eat without getting sick. Every grocery trip was a painstaking process, reading labels to avoid hours of misery.
Everything about my life from 2021 to now is unrecognizable. We, as human beings, are not invincible. Life is not just lollipops and ice cream. We are not gods. My lifestyle flipped 180 degrees because of circumstances I never saw coming.
In 2023, at the urging of my therapist, I returned to writing. It was a way to reclaim my mind, even when my body felt foreign to me. Adjusting to my new limitations was hard and accepting financial instability was even harder, but I push forward, even when the odds seem stacked against me.
I miss my long walks, my metro rides across Southern California. Losing them hurts my pride, my dignity, my sense of self. But life does not promise us roses without thorns, nor roads without pebbles.
And despite it all, I carry on.

ProWritingAid 100 percent