Dear Unsealed,
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
This is beginning of what I would tell my younger self.
I see you, Vicki.
You were shy at a young age, yet bold enough to run out in the front yard shirtless at three years old. Your mom was incredibly angry. You told her you didn’t have any titties yet. This seems that my personality carried me through life. At one moment, I am an empath introvert. Then the next moment you are writing protest songs and standing up for humanity with a pen and computer.
I see you, Vicki.
You were always drawing, writing, and playing music from a very immature age. You are still an empath. How has that worked out? You attracted narcissistic little boys. You went to college beginning in the 70s. You studied everything I could study. You began writing professionally again in 2023. I now see red flags in relationships. I have learned to love myself. You learned to set boundaries.
I see you, Vicki.
You were always a dreamer, hanging out with your imaginary friend, Teddy Bear, singing, and at times, you very depressed. Now, you know how to deal with your feelings by using critical thinking skills and the core values therapy your therapist sent you. I will tell my younger self, “Don’t be so boy crazy! Think expansively, go for the gusto in journalism and education, don’t let the narcissistic nuts get you down, and stay creative.”
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
I say to my younger self those core values my grandma taught me were my guide throughout my life. However, I didn’t always follow the advice given to me by my grandma Carrie Soleta.
I see you, Vicki.
You had so much faith as in the story about the grain of a mustard seed and that phrase your grandma taught you held you together throughout your life. The story about the “faith of a mustard seed” is found in the Bible, in Matthew 17:20. In this verse, Jesus tells His disciples that even faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains, emphasizing the incredible potential of even the tiniest amount of genuine faith. The mustard seed, known for being one of the smallest seeds, symbolizes how something so insignificant can grow into something powerful and transformative.
You were naïve, funny, and bold. You loved writing, art, music, and reading at an incredibly youthful age. You would sit for hours playing your piano and singing those blues from long ago. Leadbelly and Bessie smith were among your favorites. You grew up in a home full of music. You were taught to like all forms of music at a different age.
I see you, Vicki, in your music class in middle school at 14 years old. President John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963, while riding in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. It was a pivotal moment in U.S. history, leaving a lasting impact on the nation. That must have been such an emotional and unforgettable moment, Vicki. To go from the joy and rhythm of singing to the gravity of that announcement was a stark contrast that deepened the impact. Your immediate reaction was to burst out in tears spoke volumes about how much JFK meant to you and your family. His charisma and vision touched many, and it sounds like his loss felt deeply personal to you.
It’s extraordinary how those memories stay with you, etched in time. Vicki, I see you!
Another pivotal moment was your broken right ring finger. Your mom dropped you off at middle school one morning. She warned you not to go visit your boyfriend because if you did, she would find out. You stepped out of the car. As your mom drove off you waved, pretending to walk into the school. When she had turned the corner and was out of sight you turned around, walked down the steps of the school and hurried over to your boyfriend’s house. You hugged him and you guys laughed so hard about you sneaking off to his house. You looked at your watch. Oh no, you will be late for class. So, you ran to school, not aware of your surroundings, causing you to run into an open pickup door. You caught yourself with your right hand, only to discover you broke your right ring finger when you crashed into the door. You walked the half block to school crying your eyes out. When you got to the school to see the school nurse she called your mom. Your mom picked you up shortly after the call. You stepped into her car, “Mom, so sorry. Please don’t be mad. I hurt so much.” She replied, “I told you I would find out if you went to your boyfriends house.” You replied, “Mom, you didn’t have to wish it to hurt so much!”
You broke the same right ring finger at least four more times. You were 14 and clumsy.
I see you, Vicki.
That one day you disobeyed your mom was a year of one broken finger. You had major surgery on your squashed and very broken finger. The surgeons told you they wanted to use you as a guinea pig for a new operation. You had almost completely repaired your finger. They told you they had to cut a nerve to your brain from your right ring finger. They had no idea about the end results. So, for one year I learned to write with my left hand as my right ring finger was repaired and a cast applied so I wouldn’t break it again and protect it while it healed. You called it your right-hand boot.
You now know the result of your nerve severance of your right ring finger is more than likely the reason you hold your computer mouse upside down. There were no computers in 1964.
You drove your teachers nuts in graphic arts classes, but you managed to get them off your back by telling them to back off. You asked them if they had an issue with your work, so, they let you be.
You were way too boy crazy. You hired your neighbor to iron clothes on the day it was your turn to do your chores. Sue, your neighbor loved to iron and told you she needed money to buy a toy, you hired her for the next week. You got away with that for two months. I would sit on your parents’ bed reading musician magazines and playing music. I was supervising Sue. I shared my stipend with her. We were caught. I was grounded.
I tell you that it was very entrepreneurial. Of course, women were not considered in those terms in 1964. Women were 2nd class citizens in 1964.
One incredibly sad moment was in 1966. You were in high school. You dressed in bell bottoms and crop tops. You straightened your curly hair to look like Cher. You wore Indian moccasins to a party one night. Everyone welcomed you. You were given a beer, but you didn’t drink but you sipped it. The three football boys sitting on the sofa looked at the other two football boys in the room, and then they grabbed you yelling at you calling you an Indian squaw whore. They grabbed you, dragging you into the bedroom. They raped you one by one as they forced you to not move holding you down. You weighed 100 pounds at 16. The following Monday, you were stared at, called names. You were bullied throughout high school with Indian squaw whore. In the late 1960s women were 2nd class citizens. It was always the girl’s fault if they were raped. Men were told it was okay. That followed you throughout your life. You could not tell anyone. Now, I tell you at 16, men can be useless and mean, and their tools are nothing but their pee tools.
Your dad sent you to study nursing school in 1968. You graduated from an LVN program in 1969.
Another pivotal moment was beginning college in the 1970s. You could not wait to study everything. Pandoras box was opened, and you were Tinkerbell exploring all the merchandise. You studied Business and union management. Then you studied Journalism.
You flunked marketing because your thesis in business was about name brand clothing labels and how they were the best to buy. Your thesis was about shopping at thrift stores and buying name brand clothes that were name brand clothes but were half the price of Neiman Marcus. It was an exceedingly long thesis with descriptive adjectives, verbs, and nouns that sent your marketing professor into a rage. He gave me a grade of F minus. You switched to a journalism major. There was no Fox faux news back then.
You studied computers and makeup artistry in the 1980s. the 1980s were a trying time for you, you worked at the LA Times and for some reason you turned down the date with the rich guy and went on a date with a guy you had nothing in common with except sex. You were gullible and had way too many hormones. One night at the beach in the dude’s van and you thought you were in love. Despite the differences of cultures as you were from North Hollywood, and he was from South Central Los Angeles. You had two gorgeous babies that weighed ten pounds each. One was born in 1983. The other was born in 1987. You divorced the narcissistic South Central LA dude in 1989. It was a horrible divorce. He never forgave you and still holds grudges against you as he is a narcissist, liar, cheat, and now MAGA. So, how did we get together? He was a gun-loving fool, you were a flower child and political activist, and humanitarian. This has affected you even in old age, as he has tried to turn your grandchildren and sons against you as you stand today. The main lesson you learned from this unique relationship was that you did not go to work at the LA Times to get married or have babies. You love your two now grown men very much, but unfortunately the gun loving MAGA dad has more influence than your empath, creative personality. As he called you, weak and too caring. My oldest son told me I never did anything in my life because I don’t have money. He will ignore me until I make money with my art, writing, and music. His dad and his brother will find something else wrong with me when I make more money. So, you turned it over to God, because it’s too painful to execute your crying all day every day. Breath in, breathe out as the thorns on the stem of the rose hurt and bleed to the point, I had to search for the band aid to patch it up.
You married again, but this time a Yaqui and Chumash Native American dude. You divorced him because of domestic violence in April 2000. You now remember he went off his rocker and became extremely mentally ill as it was hereditary in his family.
You then became involved with an Italian dude named Barberini. He was much older than you. You followed him to Texas leaving your computer job which you would have retired with a good salary and benefits. You guys broke up. Then the Texas cowboy, a University of Texas political degreed narcissist whose boots were even orange. Then you guys broke up in 2016. The morning, he told you he saw demons upon waking up, and you saw angels, was the final day you ever saw him. Your friend picked you up and you spent the week with her before you left to go back to California.
You moved back to LA and kissed the ground when you stepped off Amtrak at Union Station.
Flying monkeys were everywhere as your ex-orange boots nutty mentally ill dude called all your friends.
You shed oceans of tears.
“The term “flying monkeys” in the context of a narcissistic breakup refers to individuals who, knowingly or unknowingly, aid the narcissist in their manipulative tactics. The phrase originates from The Wizard of Oz, where the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys conducted her bidding. Similarly, in relationships, these “flying monkeys” might spread rumors, gaslight, or otherwise support the narcissist’s narrative.
Narcissists often recruit flying monkeys by playing the victim, using charm, or exploiting relationships. These individuals may genuinely believe they are helping or may be manipulated into taking the narcissist’s side. Their actions can amplify the emotional distress of the person targeted by the narcissist.
Understanding this dynamic can be crucial for healing and setting boundaries after a breakup.” ‘As per http://www.veywellmind.com’
This has happened to you with your family, your lovers, your marriages, and some of your fake friends.
You now have had a therapist since 2019.
I am now at 75, creating art, music, and writing again.
I will tell you about my younger self who did not know who you were as a human being for almost your whole life. You loved your teddy bear as your imaginary friend as a child. You have had dreams since birth that have come true. Your grandma Carrie visited you for ten years after she died. You covered up your feelings and scars by dancing on tables and sometimes drinking too much. You no longer drink nor dance on tables. You are learning you are a creative introvert with spurts of extrovert activities and then being a recluse as you are now okay with who you are. You are learning your boy craziness was absurd. Boys are just human beings and have severely damaged egos about whose tool is bigger than the next guy, it’s almost a comedy of errors except now our president is a narcissistic fool and the short tooled damaged ego dudes oversee America.
I have complex PTSD from too many narcissistic relationships and had a meltdown after the election. I spoke with the therapist two times a week for three weeks.
Women are 2nd class citizens again. Bigotry is rampant. My DNA is mixed with three African tribes, Irish, Kerry County, Ireland, London, Indios Mexico, Native American Choctaw, Mediterranean Italian and Spanish, Coptic Egyptian, Red Sea, Asian, and last, but not least, a human being.
You have learned you are a humanitarian, dreamer psychic, empath creative introvert, and to love yourself despite ugly men that have tried to make you into another person by belittling you and sending flying monkeys to your friends.
The final pivot in your life was getting old, excepting your white hair, and not chasing after men. Keep creating with all your music, writing, and art. You have health issues that include kidney disease, parathyroid disease, diverticulitis, and three old spinal fractures. Your diet is lactose free and gluten free except you can eat pan dulce and mozzarella cheese. Mozzarella cheese is from Italy and pan dulce from Spain/Mexico.
I would like to tell you other stories, but you have lived a long time. That’s for a future story.
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
Style Score85%
Style Guide Compliance92%
I EDITED THIS FOUR TIMES. I EDITED IT TWICE IN MICROSOFT WORD AND TWICE IN PRO WRITING AID. WHY DID I DO THIS BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT I DO. I THEN HAVE TO SAY TO MYSELF, “WHOA, VICKI, YOU GOT IT, CHILL!”

Next time I stop to smell the flowers,
I will be sure to also tell them that I, too, bloom this time of year.
Though, it wasn’t always like this, you see.
I had to first learn that watering others before I water myself only causes me to wither.
And for years, I did not bloom because I only focused on “fixing” myself.
But would you dare look at a rose and tell it it’s not good enough?
That it needs to hurry?
Bloom faster?
Be better?
A flower has the luxury of being itself and blooming when it’s ready,
And one day, it dawned on me that I deserve that luxury, too.
I didn’t yet know that if a flower doesn’t bloom, you change its environment — not it.
And so, after many years and multiple moves, changed homes, changed climates,
changed jobs, changed relationships, changed air, water, and energy…I am in bloom.
And this is all to say that I am blooming because I finally feel safe enough to grow roots
and be myself,
And I know now that it was not my own doing but God’s pruning that made the
difference.
I am rooted, grounded, and growing each day,
And I know better now than to let just anyone pick me or enjoy my beauty.

(Style Score 100%)

Dear Twenty Year Old,
You worry too much. Your worry comes from needing to control. The need to control comes from fear of not being enough. But you don’t know to break all that down yet. All you know is the uneasiness. That unsettled state. That uncomfortable churning of the insides called worry.

And because you invest so much of yourself in it, your worry will materialize.
Take for instance the worry that is consuming you right now. The worry about getting laid off from the job that you obsessed over and handpicked, after evaluating, analyzing, comparing, consulting.

That coveted, perfectly crafted job. You *are* going to lose that job. You are most definitely going to get laid off. Ironically, the actual moments leading up to and the moment you are walked out will pale compared to how it all seemed in your worriful imagination. The weeks that follow the lay off will be full of surprises, full of open doors and unexpected openings.

But with that experience, that grip fear has had on you loosens. That bind control puts you in, and your need to control softens. Worry comes undone.

Right now, if I could reach out and see you, I’d hold your face in my palms. I’d look into your eyes and say, enjoy this. Savor this experience of getting laid off. Enjoy the pay package you’ll receive. Take that and travel. It is like a month of paid vacation.

Toss worry into the wind and live with the freedom of knowing: all is always working out for you.

Love always,
-You, the fearless version.

When you think of spring, does the word blossom come to mind? We eagerly await the tulips blooming, the monarch butterflies emerging from their cocoon, and a warm breeze after our winter slumber. Mother Nature enforces change, regardless of our desires. Do we not have the same rhythms in our internal world? Our cells are constantly renewing, our hormones are varying, and we’re all familiar with getting older. All of this happens without our choice. However, we can decide whether we embrace this change or resist it with all our might.
Life has brought me a plethora of experiences with change lately. But if I really think about it, so much has remained the same. I live on an island where the weather doesn’t vary too much with what we consider the seasons. It leaves me to focus more intently on the internal changes. Much of my recent growth comes from both leaving things behind and carrying others with me. My newest companions are awareness and appreciation. Their encouragement is the reason for leaving judgments and expectations behind. Just as a bee encourages a flower to reproduce by spreading its pollen, my companions are encouraging me to blossom by sharing my story.
My life has blossomed lately because I’m finally exploring my interests and passions. When I’m creating, it brings me back to myself. I’ve spent much of my life taking information in and appreciating others’ creations. With this new chapter, I can embody the creative being that I am and find the vulnerability within to share that with the world. When I’m sharing my creations, whether it’s crochet, writing, or digital art, I find my life blossoming. Embracing a fear of judgment and removing expectations offers the courage needed to take a leap of faith. Now I blossom from self-appreciation without waiting for it from someone else. I’m learning to appreciate whatever I create and have learned to love the creative process since dropping judgments and expectations.

Style Score: 100%

For nine months I was unemployed,
Long enough to make a baby,
But no human grew inside me.
Rather I was pregnant with possibilities.
The possibility of full-time teaching.
The possibility of a new career path.
The possibility of becoming a paid writer.
But also the possibility of life-long dead-end jobs
Or accepting I was too ill to work at all.

My first – and last? – teaching position
Wore me down to the bones of my soul.
I had spent sleepless nights planning spectacular lessons
That turned into chaos in the classroom.
Staff who welcomed me with gusto
Soon turned their backs
As I flailed to manage student behaviors.
Nine-year-olds cursed my existence –
“Stupid dumbass bitch!”
“Fucking racist cunt!”
And the unforgettable, “Crooked eyeliner wearing, emo wannabe, cracker bitch!”
So I gave, gave, gave more of my heart
Until those same kids showed me love.
Hugs in the hallway,
Pictures, cards, and candy started flowing in.
They got me through.

But it wasn’t enough to garner the grace
Of admin, who,
At the end of the year,
Told me I wasn’t up to snuff,
That they didn’t want me another year.

Doubt grew inside me
As the passed stress formed into trauma.
Time lingered on,
My hands shaking at the thought
Of ever teaching again.
Those who can’t do, teach, they say.
But how about those who can’t teach either?
Giving up – really giving up –
Crossed my mind.
But I didn’t.
I had help to pull myself back up.
I worked my weakened muscles.
I dove into the inner recesses of my mind,
Dug up the dirt and revitalized forgotten parts.

After three long seasons,
Just as the ice was melting,
I re-entered the classroom.
First as an occasional sub,
But then as something more.
A teacher up and quit and I was the most equipped
To take her place.
Afraid, but brave, I stepped up to the plate.
Tender-toed and wary still,
I didn’t quite trust at first my abilities.
I needed the encouraging words
Of my new cohort.
And they delivered.
“The students love you!”
“What a great lesson!”
“Good job thinking on your feet!”
I found again my confidence
And trusted my instincts.
I remembered why I love teaching.
There were still the challenging behaviors
And occasional curses from angry children,
But it wasn’t breaking me down.

This time I wasn’t holding back either.
I had the best school subject,
A ton of ideas,
And enough passion to infect the most apathetic teenager
With enthusiasm.
I got permission to take students to the garden –
Our garden! –
The one my husband and I started for the community,
But until then, was mostly unappreciated.
Every week, each class learned firsthand
The wonders of growing your own food.
Prima donnas in high heels saved worms.
The outcasts found fame in the ever-impressive broad fork.
The boys who refused to work in class
Shoveled the hardest.
It didn’t take long before my students
Begged for garden days.

I continued the education on classroom days too.
They learned the meaning of organic,
The difference between selective breeding and genetic engineering,
And the adaptations of wild plants.
I collected all sorts of materials for projects and experiments.
There was no money in the school budget,
But the community donated everything
From tape dispensers to gardening gloves.

I wasn’t just blossoming as a teacher,
But was also finding my own important niche
In my hometown –
Where I had only lived for five years
And was usually known as my husband’s wife.

My nerves still stir at times,
Like an actor approaching the stage.
Stress is no stranger either.
But for the first time,
I’ve found belonging.
Like the marigold seeds
Kids unfurled from dead pods,
I have landed upon rich soil
And am only now beginning to bloom.

(ProWriting Style Score: 100%)

Once upon a time, I was a single woman. Then I met the man of my dreams. We had one or two big fights and even broke up for a few years. We reconciled in the year 2013 and got married. The day that I got married is the day that I became a step-mother. The first 2 years of our marriage went well. We really started struggling in 2016. We got hit with the “Perfect Storm”. My husband became unemployed, I started drowning in credit bills and it started becoming almost impossible to keep food in the house. I made too much money to get food stamps, but not enough to keep from running out of food in between paychecks. I grew tired of putting myself in debt just to buy groceries in between pay checks. I started doing some research because there had to be a better way to live. I discovered the wonderful world of gigs, couponing and rebates. I learned how to earn Walmart gift cards from mystery shopping at Walmart. I have learned that I could get paid in gift cards to take surveys about products that I buy at Walmart. I have learned that I could then combine those gift cards with coupons. When I combine coupons with a gift card, I pay next to nothing. I can get vital foods and supplies for next to nothing. I could get cereal and toilet paper for almost free doing this. Then I would use a rebate app to take a picture of the receipt. I would generate more gift cards and even cash from buying things that are on rebate. I would repeat this process repeatedly until my family had everything that they needed. We never ran out of toilet paper or milk again. I blossomed into an extreme “couponer” and now I teach other mothers how to do the same. God gives us all that we need to survive. We just have to figure out how to use what he gives us.

80%

It’s springtime, but I’ve yet to bloom.
Changes are happening, but I feel out of tune.

I’m full of passion and determination,
There’s a world of possibilities, but I’ve yet to find my station.

I’m doing my part, but my life doesn’t reflect it.
Life’s not fair, but it’s not an exception.

I’m immovable, trapped, and I feel hopeless.
I’m trying my best to shake this doubt and find my purpose.

I was so lost at one point, but I’m slowly finding myself.
I can’t do this alone, so I’m asking for your help.

I don’t know what I’m doing; I feel like screaming!
Am I awake, or am I dreaming?

I’ve grown and changed, so I’m not the same.
Not knowing what’s next is all a part of change.

I feel like I’m blooming, and other times I feel stuck.
I think I’m just having a case of bad luck.

No matter what comes my way, I’ll come out stronger.
I can’t bear this pain much longer.

I feel like a flower that’s yearning to bloom.
I’ll wait patiently to see who I blossom into.

(Style Score: 100)

Your smile seems so real. How have we turned out? Do you still love her? Is she still your everything? Is mom still alive or are we talking to her ghost? I bet you’ve done something amazing with your life. Been better than I could ever imagine. Do your eyes still light up when thunder strikes? Or do you fear the way it booms like she did? Do you dress the same way, or have you chosen to be “normal” like the rest? Do you think you’re pretty?

My smile is genuine this time, not something to please others. We’ve turned out alright, but I’ve realized that 28 is still a child compared to how long I want to live. I still love her, and she loves us. Everyone knows now and I hope to call her my fiancée one day. She is my world.

Mom died last December, cancer like dad but so different I suppose. We don’t talk to her ghost much, not like how we did with dad. We miss him more, I think, then her, maybe because her death feels like a void that was already there. I’m actually a teacher; it’s hard work but I think I’m doing amazing at it. They make me smile. It’s not the life I thought I might have had, but I think that’s okay. I still love thunder and rain; It washes away the heaviness of my soul. It hasn’t rained the same in years. I miss it, like an old friend. I dress in what makes me happy which hasn’t changed much, but now I’m learning to love my body even it’s a hard thing to do. Normal is still overrated, but that’s okay, too. I have days were I catch myself in the mirror and I can’t believe this is me. I look beautiful and I’m glowing. There are days I feel like a gremlin and some I am just happy I have someone who loves me in every fashion.

My life continues and I’m glad you were apart of its journey.

Style score 82%

Dear Unsealed,
I wrote a song.
LOST IN THE SHADOWS FINDING THE LIGHT

Dear Unsealed,

Sunrise paints the western sky,

Colors burst as day draws nigh.

A gentle breeze begins to blow,

Whispering secrets soft and low.

Oh, the world awakens, fresh and new,

A symphony of life, for me and you.

Birdsong fills the morning air,

A vibrant tapestry beyond compares.

Dew-kissed petals, softly gleam,

Reflecting sunlight, like a dream.

The world is waking, one by one,

Beneath the warmth of the rising sun.

Oh, the world awakens, fresh and new,

A symphony of life, for me and you.

Birdsong fills the morning air,

A vibrant tapestry beyond compares.

With every sunrise, hope takes flight,

Chasing shadows from the night.

A brand new day, a chance to start,

With open heart and joyful heart.

Oh, the world awakens, fresh and new,

A symphony of life, for me and you.

Birdsong fills the morning air,

A vibrant tapestry beyond compares.

The day unfolds, its beauty bright,

A world of wonder, pure delight.

Lost in the shadows, searching for light,

A path undefined, a future unclear.

Doubt clouded my vision, dimming the day,

But hope whispered softly, guiding the way.

I’m rising above, reaching for more,

Unveiling my strength, unlocking the door.

With every step forward, a new lesson learned,

My spirit is soaring, my purpose is earned.

The journey is long, with trials and fears,

But resilience is born from overcoming tears.

I stumble and fall, but I rise once again,

Embracing the challenges, learning to mend.

I’m rising above, reaching for more,

Unveiling my strength, unlocking the door.

With every step forward, a new lesson learned,

My spirit is soaring, my purpose is earned.

The past is a teacher, the present a guide,

The future’s a canvas, where dreams reside.

I paint my own story, with colors so bright,

Creating my destiny, shining my light.

I’m rising above, reaching for more,

Unveiling my strength, unlocking the door.

With every step forward, a new lesson learned,

My spirit is soaring, my purpose is earned.

Soaring, my spirit is soaring,

My purpose is earned, my light is pouring.

I wrote this today

Along life’s highway

As I walk through the shadows in the dark

I do not fear the moonlit night

I arise in the morning light

Thankful I can see the light

Shining through my window shades

The shadows dissipate from the dark

It is not too late

to open the gate

To watch the sunlight spark!

The shades open up

To see my shadow fade

Score 65%

The Recipe

I have lived more than half a century on this planet. How can that even be? I’ve examined my life and tried to find just the right comparison to make. The perfect analogy. At first I looked for something grand, elusive and brilliant, but found those pieces just don’t describe me. My life is best described as a casserole. Some of the ingredients don’t seem to make sense, at first glance they have no place in the dish at all. Yet, when added to the other ingredients, you realize its purpose. Heartache and tears can cause the dish to be bitter. Life’s pains can seem futile as if they would add too much complexity to the dish. But there is more. Those are just the dry ingredients. When you mix in the joyous expectation from saying the words “I do” you start to see it. Two naive kids building a life together on a dream and a dime. Then comes children with dandelion bouquets and slobbery no reason kisses. Bills and a mortgage are often ingredients you would like to omit, but without it there would be no home for bedtime stories and blanket forts. The baking time is the hardest to accept. You often feel it is done, you are done! But hang in there. There is more to learn and more to do. I felt the recipe was complete, but then along came grandchildren. It is an ingredient that I had never tasted before, both sweet and spicy, perfect for this dish. As the recipe seems to be a hot mess, it allows us to love, to lose, to tire and to grow. What would I change? Sometimes everything and sometimes nothing. Our choices guide our path and our decisions won’t always be perfect. So I will keep adding to the dish. More kindness, more dreams, more love. The casserole is my legacy. The recipe is complicated, and takes a lot of trial and error. Don’t expect yours to taste exactly like mine. Adjust the ingredients to your liking and enjoy.

Style score 100

Lil’ Lesa,

I found you in the cereal aisle. Curled up behind the forbidden—behind the Cheerios, the Frosted Flakes, the Fruit Loops. You had folded yourself into a ball. Only when I moved the cereal did I notice how tiny your body was, how fragmented. Your beating heart hurt, and your soft green eyes were half-mad.

You see me now—ten million miles from the promises we once made—and you think I’ve left you, too. That I’ve forgotten. Forgotten all the things that meant something. You think because I left those promises behind, I’ve become just like them. The inconsistent-parental figures who figured you were better off on the cereal shelf.

But you’d been hiding in that space long before the hurt. Before papa’s drunk-crazed eyes. You were so afraid he’d see you there—thumb in your mouth—and take, shake, rattle all the bones, spitting spattered matter into your face. His drunken-belted fist. It welted, swelled, and stayed. Then he’d make a scene, throwing cereal boxes and other things, saying, “Look what you made me do. Be appreciative that I threw that, tore that, made those—by doing that, I saved you!”

We ignored the lines he crossed—the promises, the relapses, the abuse. Until we couldn’t anymore. Now, I’m silent. I can’t bring myself to speak to him. I try not to care that he can’t move his body along the mountain line or fix the rusted ’67 Pontiac transmission. He crossed too many lines.

As a child, we learned not to move. Movement meant being seen. Stillness meant being forgotten. Momma taught us forgetting. She’d leave you there—not always on purpose, but always forgetting. Forgetting her promises to come back. We are still there, Lesa. Still afraid of being left in places we can’t leave.

When we became mothers, we feared losing our own children. We gripped their hands too tightly, tracked their steps, packed fear into their bodies, and marched them into a fictional battle. And now we watch their genes push them to run. I see it in them—the restlessness, the resistance. The echo of everything we never unlearned.

Underneath it all, we are still the scared child beneath the stairs, behind the book, under the floorboards. I tried to move my little self beyond the scared look. But you go running every time something is hard. Something frightens you, and you run. You used to pull my hand and wonder why my feet turned to concrete.

You said people like us don’t wait to see—we know what’s around the corner. We know that certain footfall. We can’t let them see us cry, never let them see us weep, because they use it as fuel for why they can rain more and take more. And I try to tell you: this time, it’s our children. And with them, they’ve taken my heart, my belief, my hope, my future, my happiness—and all my feelings have run off with them. But this time, I want to see. I don’t want to run.

And you used to pull my hand harder. “Don’t stay,” you said. “It only hurts more.”

But I want to stay. I want to believe this time is different. You don’t trust that, and I get it. I do. But I want you to know—this time, I’m not running.

You had moved an impenetrable part of me—one I forced into silence years ago. You were a figment of my reality, a small inconsequential entity sitting on a cereal shelf. I silenced you, convinced you didn’t matter.

But when I saw you there—thumb in your mouth—it reminded me of all our possibilities. I thought, maybe. Maybe I could love you whole. But you were the product of years and years of parental rejection. There is no easy replacement for that kind of ache.

Still, I kept going. On the cusp of something good—when hope flickered and love started to root—you quieted inside me. Part of you was proud. Proud of the life we’ve built. The stability. The safety. The strength. And yet, part of you was heartbroken. That in protecting our children, we taught them fear.

The doctors called it a blessing when they removed you from me. Said you must have had a defect. But I lost half of myself. There became two versions of me—one still laying silent on the operating table, holding onto you. The other, still sitting on the cereal shelf.

But listen closely, Lil’ Lesa.

You should be proud of me.

We never got everything right. But we broke cycles. We loved better. We’re still learning. Still showing up. And I’m not leaving you behind anymore.

I’m here. Still holding your hand—

Me
Prostyle score: 91

My life has fell apart.
Like the the trees in the fall
But just like the spring
Time, here comes the growth
Spirt. New branches reaching the crown,
New leaf’s Blossoming,
Dancing and blowing freely
While the winds get a Lil breezy.
Standing a Lil taller, feeling
A bit wiser, new heights have been
Reached. Now I’m starting to branch out.
In other words, I’m networking.
Using different platforms
To express my growth & release my pain,
That has been felt with my brain.
Not to brag and boast but
To allow others to Blossom & grow.