As I lay to sleep crowded of fear.
Full of sadness.
Jammed with uncertainty.
I wake loaded with courage.
Bursting of bravery.
Packed with vulnerability.

We dance in joyful essence as a group
We gather in robust laughter as a family
We shoulder the duties of work diligently as partners
We cook in companionable camaraderie
But why do we cry alone

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
The more I step out of that silent box, the more my inner critic tries to peek through.
The more I raise my voice for my truth, that burden of “silence protects” tries to scream louder than before.
I’ve held my breath for far too long.
Bit my tongue more times than I should “to keep the peace.”
I’ve stood frozen in spots I should have walked away from.
Acknowledging what was is not what is has been a work in progress.
These mini steps that have turned into big steps have been exhausting yet fulfilling.

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
It does not define me, nor will ever define my character. I will not allow such. This voice will now be told across all the noise.
My truth will inspire.
I will gracefully inhale and exhale this breath of mine.
My tongue will no longer hold scars.
I will no longer stand frozen, for I’ve defrosted a long time ago.
What was is just that, was. What is, is just that, is.
These big steps I’ve created have gotten me so far. To this moment.
Bigger steps are being made.

Imposter Syndrome, it is real.
But, it is not me!

I will remember November 18, 2024 as the day I not only celebrated 39 yrs on this planet but a day I became a self publishing author for the very first time.
One random June night, I got this idea as I was watching Bob’s Burgers to write a book. I’m an avid journal writer, so the joke between siblings was they’d have to wait til later in life to read those journals. I told this sibling I’m thinking of finally writing out my story. Write a book. A memoir. Share my story of how I took my childhood traumas and used them as my motivation to heal. To break those generational cycles. To share my mental illness stories of how I don’t let anxiety and depression dictate my life.
Fast forward to today, my book is selling like hot cakes. Within the first 24 hours, my book sold over 30 copies. These last 30+ days, I sold 99 copies. One shy of 100! My message inbox is full of positive feedback. My text messages bring tears to my eyes. This heart of mine heals with each word these eyes read!
If you asked me a year ago if I would be an author, I would have told you absolutely not. I would have told you my story isn’t impactful like I think it is. I would make the remarks of whose going to read a memoir about healing and finding one’s voice. I’d just respond with such negative feedback. Haha!
Here I am, sitting at my weekend job writing about how I became a self publishing author on my 39th birthday. How I took that joke amongst siblings and made it a reality. Reading more positive feedback on my memoir about healing and finding my voice. Here I am, writing to you, the reader, about how you too can write that book about your story. About taking those traumas and turning them into motivation to heal. Inspiration for others on the same journey.
Let me leave you with these fancy words that were spoken to me at the beginning of my book process: “If you continue to joke about something, it is no longer a joke. It is a dream. It is your reality!”

I can remember the feeling clearly. I can still taste it, I can still feel the weight of it dragging on my heels, filling my lungs, and chilling my bones.
I am grateful I made it out alive, because looking back I can see that I needed serious help, but help was not coming for me.
I lived with severe depression, suicide ideation, low self esteem, and a handful of other BPD/BP symptoms that went undiagnosed for years.
I was never introduced to the idea of coping skills, boundaries, self care, and I had never heard of things like self fulfilling prophecies, victim mindsets, and justification/avoidance/etc. I wish someone would have brought these things to life, because I think I may have realized sooner that I wasn’t alone or the one to blame for the awful sadness that clawed at my chest like some tortured animal.
I began self-harming as a form of punishing myself. I believed that I was selfish for even breathing. I hated myself so much that I truly, truly believed that I deserved to get hurt and I should feel guilty because if I loved my family then I wouldn’t poison their life by being present in it.
Often I would fall asleep in tears, praying to wake up as someone else or to not wake up at all.
It breaks my heart sometimes when I look back. As a child, I just wanted to be loved and important, and as a teen, I just wanted to be loved and beautiful.
I wanted to be beautiful more than anything.
To me, beauty was something unattainable and far away.
I really was an ugly duckling , so to speak. I don’t believe there are more than 3 photos of me from the time I was in 2nd grade to about 5th.
The summer before 2nd grade my babysitter decided to shave my hair off. On top of being malnourished and having extreme dental issues, having no hair was enough to push me to become a social outcast.
Those little kids treated me like I wasn’t even human.
But every day I woke up just hoping to have a good day. I could forgive my worst enemies without blinking. Every day I just wanted to have a good day.
But I started fighting a lot, partly because the other kids thought I was a boy and partly because I wouldn’t tolerate being bullied any longer. After some months went by, even the adults at school and around public spaces were confused about my gender, and a few had even asked me to stop saying I was a girl.
I felt betrayed and confused. I learned during that time that I could hurt people back if they insulted me, and that love is conditional to beauty.
I moved away after 7th grade for 2 years but was forced to move right back.
They acted like I was a completely different person.
Now people suddenly expected me to be female?
I couldn’t hang out with the guys anymore, and if I did they were trying to throw game at me? I couldn’t wear whatever I wanted anymore because people couldn’t control themselves? I’m supposed to do my hair and makeup and wear dresses and walk in heels now?
Deep down I yearned to be in touch with that femininity that had been denied to be so long ago, but it was hard.
I tried to be grateful, because I knew some people’s journey required surgery and years of hormone therapy. To be told your something that you know your not and trying to play pretend as something else causes a pain I can’t describe, so even though I was secretly relieved I wasn’t sure how to just “be a girl.”
I obsessed over my appearance, I would often stare at my reflection until tears welled in my eyes and whisper to myself these horrible things like, “you’re so freakin ugly. No wonder your mother drinks all the time. No wonder everyone hates you. Your so freaking stupid look at you. I wish so much that I could just beat you up, I hate you so much.”
… It was just one vicious cycle after another.

There are a lot of factors that led to my escape from the prison of that perspective.
But the main one I want to share happened on my own.
Its strange, because now I am considered “hot.” Sometimes I even feel beautiful, but not a whole lot. That’s okay with me, though. I wish that the younger me could feel even the small approvals I give myself, even the smallest kindnesses… But it wasnt until the day I came to this conclusion that any of my self esteem started to change.
I realized… There are worse things to be than ugly.
It may sound ridiculous or even obnoxiously obvious… But this thought had never actually occured to me before.b
There are better things to be than pretty. There are worse things to be than ugly.
I mean, id been through some of them. Being lost in the woods, feeling heartbroken, searching for a missing person that you care deeply about, losing a parent to prison, and being miserable were just a few of the things that I went through personally that I decided in that moment were much worse than being ugly.
This was a breakthrough.
I don’t NEED to be pretty. Sure I want to but do I NEED to be?
Hell no.
I was tired of chasing people’s love, tired of wasting so much energy on their approval. I was just plain tired.
I realized that people couldn’t see right through me. They couldn’t see the damage beneath the surface.
The day I stopped caring if I was ugly or beautiful changed my life. Because that’s the day I started caring about if my life was beautiful or not. I started caring about what I was doing and not about if others cared.
This led me to getting some painful dental surgeries that ended with dentures and a normal smile, some crazy tattoos, and a few hair color choices I could have left in the bottle but mostly it led me to freedom.
I don’t know if my story is unique or if anyone else out there is trapped by the beauty myth… But just in case I’ll say it again:
Beauty does not define value.
Others do not define your beauty.
Your value is yours to see and appreciate. You set the bar for how you will be treated and respected.
Beauty does not define importance, power, or entitlement.
Beauty is not just appearance.
Love yourself, you will see the change in your reflection yourself.
You are beautiful, you are worthy, and you are human.
There are so many worse things to be than ugly.
-a horrible person
-attacked by wolves
-evil and cruel
-dying
-mean
-lost
-sad
-going through the motions
-uncaring, inconsiderate
-starving
Etc. Etc. etc.

I was strong… Loneliness so deep, like the sea.
I was strong—I didn’t need nobody.
I was so strong, I needed everybody.
I was strong enough to pass as Happy-Go-Lucky,
Even when the cracks showed under the weight.

But strength, they say, isn’t always a gift.
Being “The Strong Black Woman”—what a cruel myth.
A title dressed in resilience but laced with chains,
Hiding the truth of my heart’s quiet pains.

I was strong, even when they looked past me,
Strong, even when disregard was all they’d see.
Strong enough to hold the world,
Yet too strong to be held myself.

They called me strong like it was praise,
But strength became my cage in so many ways.
No room for tears, no space for need,
Just a shell of power, a soul to bleed.

But what of my vulnerability?
Why is softness seen as fragility?
I’ve learned that strength isn’t just standing tall,
It’s also knowing when to let yourself fall.

I am both—strong and tender, bold and unsure,
A mixture of fire and water, pain and cure.
I am whole, not in spite of my duality,
But because I embrace all that makes me me.

So don’t call me strong if it means I must break.
See me as human, for my own sake.
Strength isn’t a shield; it’s a choice to be free,
To honor both the strength and softness in me.

The ghost of “us” still lingers, a haunting refrain,
A melody of memories, a bittersweet pain.
I grieved for the future we’d never attain,
Two souls entwined, then severed in twain.

We’re like two planes in the sky, headed in two different directions,
A near hit or miss, a fleeting connection.
I gave it all I had before I ever decided to quit.
Deep within the depths of my heart, you’re someone I’ll always miss.

But the weight of “what ifs” began to erode,
A heavy cloak of sorrow, a lonely road.
I knew I deserved better, a love that would unfold,
A story where my spirit wouldn’t grow cold.

So I broke the chains, shattered the illusion,
Found the strength within, a silent revolution.
Each step forward, a victory, a new constitution,
Rebuilding myself, a slow, steady evolution.

The sting of regret still lingers, a phantom limb,
But I’m learning to breathe, to finally swim.
In the ocean of life, I’m no longer adrift,
I’ve found the courage to rise, to finally shift.

Truth be told, we’re better off apart,
But our connection is one that genuinely touched my heart.

Walking the dogs at night,
They don’t ask for much.
My pups,
just a stroll.
They teach me so much,
to stop and pause,
to look up and sniff.

So much can be seen!

I hear the children laughing and yelling and the sound of whistles from the referees.
The sky is bright with both baseball field lights and the full moon.
The leaves already brown and orange and crunchy under my feet
An owl in the distance mixes with the aromas of rosemary by the sidewalk’s edge.

I feel a presence.

I see my grandpa in my mind’s eye, dressed in white,
wearing a hat and smoking a cigar,
strolling behind me, whistling then lowly singing a song I have never heard
but feels familiar just the same

(Even though I didn’t know him or the song in this life…)

The moon, the stars, the kids in the distance, the sound of panting and patter of paws on the concrete-
It doesn’t get better than this,
And it is just Monday.

Hey you ;
Thank you ;
Thank you for being here ;
Thank you for creating Truth that keeps the noose loose as you choose to continue through the fears ;
Thank you for trying your best even when it seems like every seam that holds yourself together has been Severed and ripped to shreds ;
Thank you for trying your best even when it seems like everything you’re thinking is like a hoarders dream, thoughts of a convoluted mess ;
Thank you for trying your best even when things that are in and out of your control seem to spin out of control, and you try to hold on to the right when it seems like there’s nothing left ;
Thank you for staying alive, even though every day seems like a daily struggle just to survive ;
Thank you for choosing to resume these pages of life, even when you’re burnt up and exhausted and no longer want to write ;
Thank you for being here ;
Thank you for being you ;
Sincerely true ;
From me to you ;
Thank you ;
;

I put my thoughts in compartments, your’s labeled,”Pink’s Ribbons.”
Where we were free, no worries or cares. Just you & me- running, falling, barbecuing, writing rhymes, drinking Coronas, smoking, laughing, until we couldn’t breath. Always getting a free pass from jail or VIP stat for just being us. We were wild cards aka “Dueces Wild.” We never gave a shit of what others did or thought. We always lived in our bubble of no hopes or dreams- dirty jeans, boots and a Newport hanging off of our lips while we spoke & drove on a whim of recklessness. Time has been good to us. I’ve grown to live in the moment, as you, even if the moment means picking up a pen & remembering our past in drafts. No one really knew us, for I only showed the club and you the heart- though we freely loved life- never pressured the future or over thought the past. We just lived- and everyday that we do, it’s so worth it. I show traces of white hair, a few lines on the edge of my lips reminding me how I always laughed, even throughout the toughest struggles. Reminding myself that I am a believer of noncoincidence & we come across people & situations in life for reasons unknown at the time until you reflect. Some part of me died throughout the years. The world looks so different today-in a positive light. Where my dimension has excelled to a different place spiritually. Who knew that growing from within meant enlightenment. This is my sweet spot. The place that I wish more of us could find. As we always knew we are the chosen ones. Star children with gifts we hid not to sound crazy to the “norm”. Who could I have possibly wanted shared with most-those/these moments. Only we know how we reached the depth of destruction only to be reborn and rise from our ashes, as you have always been my lucky star. Yesterday, today, tomorrow and forever~11/11💖 We both equal 18- the number of Life & Abundance. The life we continue to decifer & cherish until the depths of the universe-and that’s how much I love you. Deep to the nebulas in the galaxies of the Milkyway, the Andromeda & to the Whirlpool Galaxy~I’m so blessed to have you next to me in our universe~sharing I can’t give you or thank you enough for just being you in my life~
#PinksRibbon #ScorpioSisters

i have been shaken
By: Jim Kellogg
(The Queer Poet)
12-2-24
i have been shaken
by your trembling breath
slumbering in my arms
the melody it makes
when your heart is at ease
our bodies intertwined
our souls harmoniously dancing
the tune of unadulterated love
once in a lifetime magic
tears flow like nature’s uncontrollable fury
as i read this poem
i have been shaken

Spring, not sprung.

People can look like they’re fine, but inside they’re crying.
Many are trying, too many dying, I’m flying on some parachute of prayers.
To the God’s who will listen. To the points of the cardinal directions.
I look up and no longer see Orion who has always been my protector.

My hands fall short of magic. My generosity exceeds in deeds, grateful to bless, but somehow not enough to me. I know life is unalome, never even keel- my path made me stronger, wounds have healed.
Although the deeper I dive, the pain becomes real. I deal. I’ve observed on every level, inhaled, exhaled and weighed it on the scales. It tips. Balance is off-
When the whole world is upside down and right side up, I still live in my bubble. When I’m lost, I retreat. No white flag, no olive branch, no phone calls, just me- in the corner with a pen and paper, crying. For everyone I’ve lost, for everyone I’ve ever loved and had to walk away from, for everyone who bears the weight on their shoulders but wakes up and smiles at the world, I am you.

Spring, but not sprung.

Let me feel the rain on my face as I know it waters the flowers that blossom in the spring.

I miss my family and friends who are in another realm. Let their energy protect mine. Allow me to shine like gold in a river on sunny day.

I need my magic or I am useless.

To the God’s~ Please protect us.