Dear unforgettable,

You there. Hunched in the dark, chewing your fingers like regrets, hoping no one sees how hollow you feel. I know you. I wore you.
I bled through your eyes for years. The shadow of shame draped over you like revelations in scripture. Confessing not your sins but your lofty ambitions which will never see the light of day.

Let me tell you something that no applause ever could, or that your father would never say ever since those days where he abandoned you to live with another family. You were enough. Even when you lied. Even when you begged. Even when you waited for her to text back, like her attention was oxygen and you were underwater. Like you thought your father’s love was the unconditional truth that infidelity was your signal for love. You thought love would save you, didn’t you? That if you were beautiful enough, clever enough, talented enough— that they would see you, name you, complete you. You could feel Nirvana in whatever sense of the word that may mean.

But they were never your mirror.
And their validation was never your soul. I remember the nights you’d write something brilliant, then delete it, write it again only to lose it because the voice in your head—the one trained by rejection, not reason—told you no one would care. I remember when “artist” felt like a lie you wore to impress strangers who didn’t matter. Or who didn’t care for your expression of self in your artistry.

You thought pain was your muse.
You thought being broken made you deep.
You thought your sadness was a virtue. But listen, Your sadness was a cocoon, not a home. A cleansing to perfect your self soothing reality that expectations from others was your own self-esteem breaking from your universe.

You wanted proof you were real.
So you gave your body. You silenced your needs. You sacrificed yourself on altars that weren’t worthy of your talents.

But I’m here to say— You made it out. Not because someone saved you. But because you stopped waiting to be saved. Because one day, deep in that pit, you realized that no woman, no praise, no poem was going to hand you your worth.

You had to forge it. With trembling hands.
With no audience. With silence as your witness. You are not a reaction. You are not an echo fading into the abyss of society.You are not what they think of you, or what she didn’t say back. You are a creator.
A builder of worlds from ash. A voice that sings even when no one listens.

So now—stand up. Not because the world asked you to. Not because she finally texted back or your father came home. But because you are still here. And that is enough.

With love.
The You Who Remembers

What is blooming in my Life?

As I sit down to write this, so many things run through my head. But the simplest and yet deepest answer is me.
I am blooming. My true self is finally peeking through. Before trauma, I was me. Me before the abuse. Me before I realized I wasn’t loved by the people I loved. I before the hurt. Me before the pain. Me before depression. Me before anxiety. It’s like my soul has gone home. I am secure in ways I never thought possible. The impostor syndrome is not as bad. I have more control over the things that I can control. I have locked in with my purpose. And I am coming out of the cocoon I have been hiding in for so long. Yes, I still have troubles, but the peace that is in my soul with the ebb and flow of life’s river is something I simply can’t fully explain. I am filled with gratitude, and I honor the Most High to the fullest because I realize now. That every death I experienced to get to this point, every pain, every ache, every heartbreak, was so worth it.
I look forward to the joys and pains of life because I am so much stronger than ever. Each experience allows me to go deeper within myself so I can then minister to people and help them heal. I don’t have to hide who I am or feel intimidated, and I am open to receiving the goodness of life.
I was so broken last year, and I suffered in silence.
I retreated into my old mindset for my final death. So, I guess I am blossoming into the person I was always afraid to be. But now I am not afraid. And I know that I am sacred and I understand how to honor all that I am without shrinking myself. So here is a poem I wrote that is the best way I can describe what is growing in my life…

Is she a phoenix?
Is she a flower?
Or is she a butterfly?
Or maybe she’s a bird?

Maybe she’s rain.
I know for sure
She reincarnates
Time and time again.
She evolves.

Maybe she is a volcano
Active, ready to erupt.
Destruction and rebirth
As her lava flows
Pruning and purifying
The Earth.

Maybe she’s
just a force of nature
Powerful but delicate
As a flower

She sprouts, grows
and blooms…
Maybe she is exactly
Who she knew she was
All along…

I love you. I hope your life is blossoming in ways. As unimaginable as I am!

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.

I have learning disabilities, it’s not one that can be spotted by looking closely at the features of my face. And because it remains hidden I fear that sometimes I am misunderstood because of it.

When I share that I have a learning disability I fear that people see me through a different lens than they previously did.

I’ve had family members who have known about my learning disabilities tell me they didn’t know I was smart enough to make it on the honor roll even though I made honors every single semester of high school.

When I tell people I have a learning disability it’s as if they expect me to then cause a disturbance and act out. But I sit there quietly absorbing everything.

When I tell people that I have learning disabilities they immediately start putting limits as to my abilities and what I can and can’t achieve. So it’s easier to say nothing and silently prove them wrong.

When I tell people that I have learning disabilities people tend to assume that my IEP and accommodations exempted me from hard work. I HATE when people assume that. I worked twice as hard as to learn the topics. And even though my accommodations lessened the amount of math problems I had to solve I would sometimes end up doing more than what I was assigned so that I could make sure I mastered the concept.

When I struggle with learning or doing a task because of my learning disabilities people get frustrated with me and tell me that this should be easy. But in actuality my brain works differently and I may need to see it done a couple of times or have it explained in a different way in order to understand.

When I tell people I have learning disabilities they tend to cheapen my achievements as if I weaseled my way through a Master’s program and was handed a degree instead of earning it myself. In reality though I worked countless hours to make my way through grad school and to end up where I am today.

I had a boss who upon finding out about my learning disabilities made some distasteful and unprofessional comments about them as if I were bad and defective and not fit to serve in ministry. Oh the irony that this was after we had done a whole Inclusion Initiative geared towards people with disabilities. She barred me from helping with it.

When I tell people that I have learning disabilities they often tend to question or doubt my capacity for leadership. But I can still lead and I lead with a greater empathy and understanding because I know what it’s like to struggle.

I wish when I tell people I have learning disabilities they would see me for who I truly am…..

An intelligent
Inquisitive
Attentive
Hardworking
Tenacious
Creative
Problem solving
Professional
Empathetic
Leader

Who demands and deserves respect
And who can do whatever she puts her mind to.