Dear Richard Smith,
This may sound strange to hear this coming from myself but, dude… I’m so proud of you. I never relish in our successes but, for once I’m telling you, “You did good kid and I am proud of you.”
Patience, resilience, and strength are the traits you embody. As a child, you were diagnosed with type 1 diabetes which led to a kidney disease diagnosis in 2019. Because of this, your battle with sobriety ended and you’ve refused to go back since. Then, as the world shut down in 2020 so did your kidneys and dialysis became your purgatory.
Breaking down in every way led to a seizure and 4 days on life support. With a knee injury during the seizure, you were now using wheelchairs.
Dialysis appointments 3 times a week for 4 hours draining your life and weakening your bones combined with constant knee biopsies was your routine. Your routine left you without a knee and you still carried on.
Now with rods for a knee and fear of leaving this party you call life early you pursued a kidney transplant. The many dreams of the life you wanted kept you fighting. Constantly being added and removed from the transplant list caused mental torture. Being diabetic made healing impossible.
When this began we knew life wouldn’t be the same but never did you expect your worst nightmares to manifest. December 2022, something very wrong was occurring. You couldn’t remember the last thing you said, unable to think, express, and exist; the rods were destroying your foot and you were going into sepsis. All of your life you’d say, “If I were to my leg I’d kill myself.” In that doctor’s office, you were told, “ Keep your leg and die or amputate and live.” Not accomplishing your dreams, unspoken thoughts, words, and actions flooded your mind. That day you chose life.
Waking up from the worst pain imaginable, a new Richard Smith sprouted. Now full of life, laughter, motivation, and gratitude, this new chapter became your opportunity to turn this loss into a win. A lifelong dream of being able to trek Japan was your fuel to walk again. Through your amputation you learned how to adapt, and think differently; every obstacle was a challenge, every failure was a lesson learned, and every setback was a bump in the road. Health-wise you stabilized.
In June 2023 you started learning to walk again. The next mission? Conquer kidney disease. Back on the transplant list, a few more challenges arose. Through losing vision in your right eye in October and breaking your ribs from prosthetic training you were dropped from the list again. Feeling defeated and half blind the future looked dark. Giving into the fear in February 2024 you went to tell the dialysis center to end your life-saving treatments.
Something in your core wouldn’t allow it. Giving the transplant list one last shot they required you to be able to walk. Within a month you surpassed the test. In May 2024, listed once again your sister tested to donate her kidney to you. To your amazement, she was a perfect match! Things accelerated and a surgery date was set: September 4th, 2024.
Since the transplant our health has been the best it’s ever been, we walk all the time! No wheelchairs!! We live life with the biggest smile, pure happiness in our heart, and absolute gratitude to exist in this moment. After 5 years of dialysis, many near-death experiences, emergency room visits, amputations, and going half blind I know I can overcome whatever challenges I face. Although we have half of our vision and one leg we see the beauty and light in life and continue moving forward one step at a time.
Through our resilience, positivity, and determination I’m able to say, “You did good kid and I am proud of you!”

It’s not a secret that healing is not linear.
It is, actually, a bunch of scattered dots.
Upon connecting them, I should see meaning.
But the picture is still not clear at all.

All I see are reasons proving I was never enough.
The things I learned to forsake because I always got a “no”.
Pleads that now seem simple—not a big ask anymore.
Maybe the problem was I didn’t deserve love.

At least, that is what I was brought to believe,
Through the silence of my unanswered questions.
It’ll take a while to unpack the weight of all these years—
The jokes at my expense, and the hurtful comparisons.

At times, I felt fine in my heart; then, I’d feel devastated.
I would smile, then end up crying at a corner café.
Complaining to my friends became a commonplace.
I learned to disassociate as a means for self-defense.

My ego was fragile and I was reminded to tread lightly,
Since, from war, I did not emerge victorious.
Even in the clearest skies, rain is still likely.
Those words were a mantra for this humble warrior.

Underestimating the passage of time would be unfair.
Some scars are still visible, but at least they no longer bleed.
I was always ill-prepared for life’s deadly game—
In the aftermath of choosing me I felt too weak.

Today, I am no longer overburdened by intrusive thoughts.
I am thankful to the old me for making me who I am now—
So brave inside, yet so soft still to the outside world.
I have grown a little cynical, but perhaps this, too, is healing somehow.

Dear Loleita,
It has taken me a long time to write this letter, but I would be remised if I didn’t do it now. I know that you are shy when it comes to displays of affections or gratitude, and that you are not particularly fond of self-praise or boasting about your achievements. But I want to personally thank you for not letting the words/phrase “You can’t do it” stop you from becoming the person who you are.
I remember one of the first times you were told “You can’t do it” was when you wanted to go down a slide at a park that you and your sisters passed every day on the way home from elementary school. The slide had a plank missing from the platform and to get to the slide, one had to jump over the missing plank. Your sisters told you, “You can’t do it, you’re too small”; but did you listen? No. You climbed the ladder, stepped on the first plank on the platform, took a deep breath, and jumped over the missing plank. You made it over the missing plank and over the slide. You fell to the ground, falling and landing on your right arm, which was later found to be broken. Not only could you do it, you over excelled. The cast on your arm was proof that you could do it. The cast and broken bone would be the first of many “awards or trophy symbolisms” that would document, acknowledge, and recognize your accomplishments that you, in fact, could do it – whatever it was.
Another “award or trophy symbolism” that signaled that you could do it, that you added to your collection, was stitches. They were “awarded” when you, your sisters, and your cousins were playing baseball in the house because it was raining outside. Even though athleticism wasn’t one of your strong attributes, you didn’t let that deter you from participating in the game. When it was your turn at bat, you confidently took the bat and stood determinately on the makeshift mound regardless of all the booing and heckling and cries of “You can’t do it”. The ball was thrown, you took a deep breath and swung. To your, and everyone else’s amazement, you hit the ball. You rounded the pillow bases while the other team scrambled to get the ball. You made it to first, second, and third base. But on the way to home plate, you had to slide to make it. You made it, but in doing so, you slid into an end table causing a gash under your right eye that required 11 stitches.

The broken bones and stitches “award or trophy symbolisms” soon turned to plastic as you grew older. When signing up for a musical instrument in junior high school, all the supposedly “girly” instruments were suggested to you, such as the flute or the clarinet. One of your best guy friends, who played the drums, told you, “You can’t play the drums, the drums are only for guys.” Right then and there, you took a deep breath, and you signed up to play the drums. You had to start at the bottom and work your way up. You played the bass drum, which was bigger than you were, joined the marching band, and carried and played the heavy bass drum for miles through the streets of your hometown. This proved that you, a girl, could in fact “do it” and play the drums. This led to being promoted to playing the snare drum – the holy grail of drums. You were also “awarded” your nickname, “Ladybug”. Ladybugs are believed to represent adaptability, positive change, resilience and metamorphosis. Ladybug signed up for band competitions and made it to the State Championships where she finished and received a second-place plastic trophy.
Eventually, the plastic trophies turned into paper: diplomas, certifications, awards, and notifications; from graduating from high school and university, to earning certifications and awards specializing in your career field, and to getting notified that you had beat cancer.
Now, I have come to the realization that the “award or trophy symbolisms” that documented, acknowledged, and recognized your accomplishments aren’t the tangible things such as the actual physical plastic trophies, paper awards, or even the visible scars from wounds, surgeries, or stitches. Instead, it is the self-assurance that you had deep with inside yourself that propelled you to accomplish sometimes the impossible or sometimes what was needed. You did not hold your breath waiting for someone else to do things for you. Instead, you breathed in the world and ignited the match that lit the determination “can do” fire from within.
As I take a deep breath, I say, “You CAN do it and thank you.”

Thankfully,
Ladybug

Dear Unsealers,

I have never struggled to give thanks to others.
Whether it’s the barista, the waitress, or gratitude for my brothers.
But thanking myself doesn’t roll off the tongue.
Perhaps because it’s hard for me to see clearly
the good lying among
The ways that I see I can improve and grow better.
But thanks to this prompt, and the writing of this letter,

I’ll take the chance to practice more gratitude for me…

With the caveat that this person that you see,
The one that I describe in the lines penned below
Did nothing on his own, instead he was in tow,
To countless great people who showed him the way,
And most of all to his Maker who makes possible each day-
Who gives the gift of life, the ability to move boulders.
So, each thanks to myself comes with this disclaimer: I stand upon so many shoulders.

That means that each thank-you below is both mine and it’s theirs
After all, that’s the beauty of life, the way that it shares.

Dear Paul,

You have had plenty of opportunities to harden your heart. It would have been easy to wall up your heart when your brother came out to you, ending the conversation there. You could’ve shut the door on him, written him off as a “sinner,” but you didn’t. You could’ve shut the door on your parents for putting him into conversations that were conversion therapy adjacent, for making you sit in a church where you no longer felt safe, let alone comfortable. Instead, you saw them as people, trying their best to do what was right. You could’ve treated people who belonged to that faith you left behind as less than you, but you didn’t. You might have done a fair bit of smack talking in the abstract and behind their backs, but hey, you’re only human. Thank you for keeping doors open and maintaining connections rather than building walls.

You could have easily become a career focused man, worried about his role in the world. The dragons you would slay, the conquests you’d engage. Indeed, you did find a way to make a difference in the world, through touching the hearts and minds of thousands of students, but far more importantly, you kept your family and marriage at the center. You are a husband who seeks to be a better listener, a stronger safety and support, and one not too accustomed to see, cherish, and celebrate the gift of your wife’s company and presence. You are also the dad who knows what size of diapers and clothes to buy. The dad who could be with the girls for a weekend without a personal crisis. The pops who knows how pick-ups and drop-offs work. The father who guides and disciplines but also who cuddles and cares. Kissing boo boos while encouraging strength, grit, and get back upness. Thank you for making your family a priority and stepping into the role of husband and father with gusto and in a way that both honors and pushes back against traditional thoughts of what makes a man.

And that is perhaps the most important and last thing I’d like to thank you for. Thank you for living in the sometimes-scary uncertainty of what you call “the intersection.” Rather than picking a side, to be just one thing on any number of possible binaries (e.g. working man v. family man or Christian v. Ally of the LGBTQ+), you proudly advocate for a middle way of moderation. You are both a teacher and a student. You are both wholly unique and the same as everyone else. You are both a man of faith and a man of reason. You are wise enough to admit yourself to be a fool. You are wonderful just as you are, and you have room for improvement. You understand, appreciate, and celebrate the beauty of these and countless other paradoxes. You see that appreciating paradox is indeed the most beautiful and profound piece of life’s ultimate quest-finding peace. Thank you for living within paradox peacefully, for sharing its beauty with others, and for being comfortable in the discomfort of its meaningful evasion of meaning.

I want to thank you from the bottom of this heart of ours. You have consistently found a way to keep it open to love and life, and that is no small thing. And now, in parting, I offer you a prayer for persistence in these and the yet to be seen endeavors.

May your heart stay ever open, no matter what’s brought to your door.
May you always strive to be and do more.
May you more often pause to give yourself praise, and
May God greatly bless you the rest of your days.

Sincerely,
Paul

Dearest dark me,
Thank you for every step you’ve put in when the clouds of your mind were grey & your heart so heavy you felt you could no longer stay.
Thank you for always noticing the same radio song and singing it to my soul when the voice inside was loud. Hold on for one more day.
Thank you for one more day to watch my loved ones grow.
One more day to become the me I am today.
To dream and build again.
To try 8 times til a win!
One more day to wake & be the joy for others.
One more to see the earths beautiful colors.
Thank you for one more day to enjoy myself again
To laugh and turn my face to the wind.
For you are the root to my sunshine state of mind,
Grey today but one more day the sun will shine.

Dear Me,

There are things we carry that are hard to name, memories that linger and pull at us, reminders of moments when we didn’t show up the way we wanted to. I know this pain deeply, the regret, the weight of not having always been the mom we dreamed of being. I know the ache of looking back and wishing we could have done things differently. And I know how hard it is to live with that kind of hurt.

Yet, even as I hold these regrets, I am starting to see the ways we have tried to do better. I’m beginning to understand that when I don’t show up for myself in a healthy, loving way, I can’t truly show up that way for her, either. To be the mom she deserves, I need to have compassion for myself first, to hold my own heart with kindness. And though it’s hard, I am learning that this self-compassion is how I’ll be able to love her in the way she deserves.

I want to thank you for having the courage to face this, for being willing to grow and to keep trying. I’m grateful for the way we keep moving forward, finding faith not just in who we want to be but in who we are right now. We’ve learned that self-love doesn’t come easily, not when there are shadows and things we wish we could change. But even in the darkest moments, we found reasons to keep going, to keep showing up.

Our daughter is a gift, a light that reminds us every day of what’s possible. And so, I’m choosing to hold space for all that we are, to see ourselves not only for what we didn’t do, but also for everything we’re still becoming. Thank you for the love you’re learning to give, for finding the faith to move forward. With every step toward self-love, I trust we’re becoming stronger, for ourselves and for her.

With compassion and faith,
Ourselves

A Letter to Myself:

Oftentimes, you become agitated with the shadow attached to yourself. Why do you walk that way? Carry yourself that way? Why do you choose to carry on with as many times as you’ve failed; with as many times as you’ve been let down, rejected and disappointed?

It has taken years of integrating your own shadow to truly love and shower gratitude upon yourself. It has taken years to appreciate your body and mind; to recognize your own strength and resilience. It has taken time to learn that your body is not something that should be abhorred and desecrated, but something that should be nourished, cherished and upheld.

You’ve witnessed far too much for anything to surprise you any longer, yet you still take the time to search for magic and romance among your mundane, daily tasks. You’ve bared your teeth and soul. Sometimes out of survival, sometimes out of desire.

After everything that has happened to you, you deserve to be spitting angry. You deserve to leave claw marks. You deserve your rage. But you chose instead to alchemize and speak softness into the world, to leave a mark of kindness rather than vindictiveness.

Crawling into the depths of oneself can be intimidating. You may not look into the mirror the same way afterwards. You may question everything you’ve known to be true. It may leave you reeling in the aftermath of grief, discovery, and the shedding of one’s skin.

You accomplished it all with grace.

You wake up every morning and choose yourself. You make the conscious decision to not allow your past to consume and define you. Instead, you choose to brew yourself a cup of coffee and speak lovingly into it. You choose to bestow only kind words upon yourself and allow the feelings to pass as they need to. You provide yourself the space and time that others won’t grant.

I tuck myself into bed each night knowing that I have done what I could with what I have. I clutch my pillow knowing that I love myself in ways that others cannot, or choose not to. I bury myself beneath blankets in the dark with the truth that I’ve chased my dreams. Sometimes the dreams are so close that I can caress them, other times they are state lines and galaxies away. I fall asleep knowing myself.

And sometimes I think that’s more than enough to be thankful for.

Love,

Samantha

I learned that pain turns into shame and shame turns into secrets,
So I found my purpose to turn my pain into poetry
By feeling all of my feelings because on the other side of them is freedom, hope, and healing.
The freedom to express vulnerability with every breath I take
because the grace of God reminds me that I’m priceless and the apple of God’s eye.

This kinky, curly-headed brown skin
Adorned in the richness of my Nigerian roots unfurls the saying, “Naija no dey carry last.”
With every strand of my hair has a story to be told
lies in my DNA with wisdom, to carry light in the midst of darkness.
So you see, I’m freer than I’ve ever been to paint not some but all the colors of me
like blue that whispers peace, like the calm waters and the skies.
Red to represent my love, passion, and fearless spirit that shines so bright.
Purple to remind me that I’m kin to His royal blood that runs through my veins,
And gold to represent the beautifully broken pottery that was nursed back to life,
looking more exquisite than ever before.

I heard that without revelation, there is no transformation,
Like the transformation that has eyes glued to the mirror, looking past me, at the past me.
Since I discovered that the best art comes by embracing the pain,
So it’s why I write these poems to prove that my trauma didn’t bury me; it planted me to thrive,
Like a tree planted by the rivers of living water, which captures not some but all of the beauty of my brokenness.
Since I learned that pain, just like secrets, can only control you if you hold them within.

We’ve come so far I hope you’re proud. I finally am. I’m writing to say you can let me go. I wondered why I was so sad, angry, and mad all the time. I realized I was allowing you to keep my defenses up, from what we’ve been through. I know you’re protecting me but now I need to protect you. It’s time for me to return to my happy, child-like self, my dreams, my goals, my hopes, and all the things little girls think of. The things you were robbed of. It’s time for big Ashley to protect you now. So I’m writing to tell you, you can let me go. We were not helpless, we were not lonely, people do like us, we do have real friends, we do have genuine love, and I can protect us now. So Dear little Ashley, you are now free. We’re finally happy and we’re healed. We love life. We live life. We’re as strong as can be. It’s time to let me go. It’s time to be free. It’s time to get together and be authentically me.