Dear younger Katrell,

Hey there, teenage Katrell! I really want to let you know a few things that can help you out with life. First and foremost, you’re going to be ok! You will not suffer from the loneliness you are feeling at this moment. But you will learn to forgive and heal from the hurt your parents put you through. It was not intentional. There are no handbooks on how to be a parent, so they are trying the best they know how. You will be ok, after you were touched as a toddler. We were only 4 years old; it wasn’t your fault. But with that being done to you, you will protect your own. Just make sure you learn from your mistakes and build that relationship with Christ. It’s installed in you. Go to Christ about everything and not humans, for they don’t have a handbook either on how life is supposed to go. We all are just going with what we see. It’s ok to take chances, though. That’s what makes you different from the rest. You love to take chances, but watch out! Don’t follow the crowd. Don’t listen to that friend, she’s lost, too. Pray before everything, and use your intuition. You will have some good and a lot of bad days, but you will see how God looks out for His/Her children. You don’t have to do anything to the ones that hurt you. Your angels will protect you. You will also need to understand this: that word, LOVE, people use it to get what they want out of you, so pay attention to their actions. Love doesn’t hurt. For Love encourages you to do better. Love is everything you read and your mother used to read to you in the Bible. Remember, “True Love Waits”. She gave that to us entering the 6th grade. Don’t let anyone show you differently. Now we went through life loving hard, and its gotten your heart broken by the most important people in your life. But here’s the good news! You’ll be just fine! No one, not even you, are perfect. But you are a splendid mother, as you always wanted to be. You are a great provider and protector of your children, and they love you deeply. You’re also a great friend, sister, and daughter. Everything you dream turns into reality, so keep dreaming. Don’t worry, God got us! No, you won’t be with your first love, not even your second. There’s a good chance that the 3rd one is a charm. That one became one of your bestest friends, so don’t think that the world is over when you have to let go of love. Love has always been important to us, and I finally figured out why. But it takes patience. A lot of it. We barely have that at your age, and even now it’s tough. When you want it, you want it right then and there. But that’s not how the universe works. It takes patience. So slow down, focus on your craft because you have a lot of it in you. Don’t rush it either. That’s where patience is so important. No one taught you that there’s more to life than love. I mean, yeah, that’s important, but you also need to focus on bettering your craft than about these boys, cause they are only distractions. You (we) wrote our first 2 books and we’re working on so many more. Remember, you love writing, so keep a journal. That will help you not to repeat the same cycle. As you grow up you lose alot of your loved ones along the way, so cherish them. Love on them hard and hear goes that word again, be patient with them. You are a very brave individual. You have overcame so much. Instead of running away from your issues, write through them. There are people depending on you. After losing your sister made you question why did she have to leave this earth? You got so mad at God and stopped going to Him/Her about your problems and things ended up very bad for you. That decision you made did not make anything better, you only got lost again but you never lost your faith and with that God let you see her one last time in your dreams and from then on you kept following your dreams. You have always been a go-getter so don’t stop and remember No distractions. Remember to also be kind. No matter what. People will take your kindness for weakness but don’t let them change you God have you to be. I love you with my entire soul but please don’t forget to stay focus, be patient and trust God. Those 3 will bring you success in everything you do.

Love Always,

Your older self.

style score 77%

Dear Love,

Our love started like a seed planted deep in the soil. The darkness surrounding that seed represented us—jumping in blindly, not truly knowing each other or ourselves. We didn’t understand our triggers, our traumas, or our insecurities. We were two different people carrying heavy pasts and unhealed wounds. A mixture of excitement and fear in our new relationship occasionally caused conflict.

But all we knew was that we saw the good in each other and felt a love worth fighting for. And somehow, that was enough to try.

As a new couple, at times we fought each other even as we fought the world. We didn’t realize we were repeating unspoken patterns or how different our perspectives of the world were. We pushed and pulled, trying to drag the other into our own world instead of learning how to build one together.

With the sun shining on us through the darkness, within the cracks in our chaos, we found peace, joy, and laughter. With every argument, we learned a little more about each other.

That gave us the opportunity to see one another for who we really are. Our guards came down, and with that, we helped each other heal. We softened the hardened places—healing the inner child within—even while standing in the storm. We learned to fix the mess amid the storm, and slowly, we grew—together, not apart.

We began showing up for each other in the ways we both needed. Where the world had hardened our hearts and spirits, we became each other’s haven. Every day, we wake up and say, “I choose you. I choose us.”

We no longer use our past against each other; we only look back to see how far we’ve come.

Just like a garden, we have tended to what we planted—our love. We pulled out the weeds—our toxic traits and immature habits—and watered the roots with patience, grace, and understanding. Day by day, we nurtured what had been broken in our relationship, allowing love to blossom.

Like a sunflower, we stretched above our struggles, always turning our faces toward the light. Like a rose, our love flourished through the seasons, growing stronger not despite the challenges but because of them. We have become strong together and we’ll remain strong, hopeful, and full of grace.

Yes, we started backwards, but God turned it into something beautiful. God put us together so that we could grow in love, be rooted in faith, and bloom into something rare and real.

Today, we are still going strong. Our separate worlds are becoming one rooted in trust, respect, and understanding. As a couple, we have learned each other’s ways and the reasons behind them. Together, we no longer play screaming tennis; we talk through our disagreements and fight only the world outside our doors, protecting what we have built and keeping it sacred.
We continue to water each other and lift each other up. We have blossomed together—and we will continue to bloom.

Forever choosing you and matching effort

—Me

style score 100%

I’m 19 and I’m nervous about my future. There’s so much pressure. In high school, the rush was to get into a good college, join clubs, and get good grades. College admission defined my path. I didn’t think farther than that.
I only had one dream: to make Guam a better place.
I chose the college offering the best financial aid; I got what I wanted. Majoring in biology and joining a sport that provided a scholarship. I was less proud and more terrified. Not a thrill-ride: no, it was an ugly monster I didn’t know how to fight or befriend.
I found it: the spark. It led me to pour myself into presentations, relationships, and journals filled with dreams. I was ready to conquer the world because I understood my potential and believed in myself.
This same spark filled my soul — it made me who I was. Excited. Passionate. In school, I was number eleven, a well-known social butterfly and advocate, in a serious five-year relationship. I was running with no breaks.
Once I got into college, the spark mutated into fear, homesickness, and guilt. 5,500 miles away from home, I was one of few to go off-island for college in my school. Rank didn’t matter, resume wiped clean, relationship ended. Restarting, I worried I was falling behind.
Instead of As without studying, I got Fs while studying. Meeting people with better backgrounds, advantages, and grades. I was failing school and life.
I didn’t think I was the best on Guam, but I thought I was special. Only to find out, I’m a failure — didn’t even get a headstart.
My athletic career concluded; resulting in disability, chronic pain, and no scholarship.
My spark had died, and it seemed I had died with it.
New to the states, little family, single again, I couldn’t concentrate. Sleepless nights from severe pain. The notion that I couldn’t fit in etched itself in my bones, digging my grave deeper till I only found dirt in my lungs with no one to grieve the loss except myself.
In my grief, I turned to bulimia and addiction to cope. I lost friends and family who felt helpless and frustrated.
They would ask me, “What happened to you?” Just a knot in my throat as an answer.
I almost gave up.
When you lose everything and everyone, you’re supposed to keep fighting, like an awe-inspiring battle, but I let them win.
There should be a positive turnaround here but there’s none. I still struggle every day, but I am my only advocate — no one else.
I asked myself how to get back the spark, questioning my morals, ethics, and happiness. Choosing between happiness or stability and glory.
What was next in my life? I’d ask myself. I knew the answer, and I knew it would disappoint the people I love. The excited expressions from being a STEM major would lead to disappointment when they realized I’d changed.
I cried a lot.
About the helplessness I was feeling, the anxiety about my future, the fear of peaking in high school, the guilt of losing everyone, and the realization that my future was doomed.
I hated myself.
Then I asked myself: what was I living for?
The spark.
With a slap across the face, gritting my teeth, I made a deal with my dad. Apply for this STEM scholarship and have a full-ride internship — a plan my family would be happy with — or change my major with their disapproval… but I would be happier. Obsessively waiting for a response, I wanted the only thing I kept receiving: failure.
When I finally got my response, “Congratulations, you failed!” I was free.
Remember that dream about making Guam a better place? I decided to become a social worker.
This isn’t a fantastic essay about how I’ve gotten my happy ending. No, I haven’t, yet.
But this is the first step to getting better.
Trust me, I’m still figuring it out. I have bills to pay, pain to manage, grades to keep up. But Social Work feels like home, and I think I’m starting to see the spark again.
Weak but glowing, it feels familiar. I almost wanted to cry when I saw them again — there you are, I thought.
I’m 19 and I’m worried about my future. But I think I’ll be okay. And I hope one day the spark is strong enough to bring back the passion I’ve missed — and a passion to think more about my future.
Life is unexpected. You lose your spark, you lose yourself, but then you find it again, even if it’s weaker.
To whoever is reading this: there is light in the darkness. Go out there and find your spark. Or don’t — you get to choose.
That’s the beauty of life.
84%

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

Dear World,
Let me tell you how my season has blossomed.
Think of my mind as the flower, my thoughts the petals.
For a long time, they stayed curled—tight, unsure if they were even worthy of blooming. My thoughts repeated, stuck in survival, wrapped in fear. I was alive, but not living. Thinking, but not thriving.
Winter was cold—not just outside, but within. My body slowed. My spirit quieted. I moved through the motions, but something in me waited. Longed for warmth. Waited for light. Waited for me.
And now, spring is here.
Slowly, gently, I unfold. Each day, I peel back a petal. I let more of me breathe. I don’t force or rush it. I’ve learned that blossoming isn’t sudden perfection—it’s trusting the process. Even when it’s messy. Even when it hurts.
This season, I’ve learned grace.
I no longer shame myself for resting. I don’t call myself lazy for moving at my pace. I’ve stopped watering people who never poured into me. Instead, I pour into myself—little by little, day by day.
I’m unlearning the lie that growth must be loud. Sometimes, the deepest healing happens in silence. In solitude. In softness.
There was a time I shrank to fit rooms too small for me. I questioned my voice, my power, my presence. But now? I’m learning to take up space—not with arrogance, but with rootedness. Blossoming means returning to who I’ve always been.
Truth is, I’m not broken. I’m not behind. I’m blooming—in my own time.
Some days are still hard. Some thoughts still stay closed. But I don’t fear them anymore. I’ve made peace with the parts of me still growing. I no longer force them open. I trust the season I’m in.
Spring is teaching me the beauty of becoming. That softness is strength. That joy isn’t something I chase—it’s something I grow.
Right now, my life blooms in small, powerful ways. I set boundaries without guilt. I show up for myself. I feel the sun on my skin. Music hits deeper when I’m not rushing. I’m letting go of people who made me doubt my worth, and I’m finding peace in simply being.
I don’t need perfect to feel whole. I don’t need a big transformation to prove I’ve grown. My evolution is quiet. It’s in how I speak to myself. How I choose peace over proving. How I finally believe I deserve a soft, intentional life.
This spring, I am my own garden.
I plant patience.
Water creativity.
Pull weeds of doubt and comparison.
And I bloom—fully, freely, finally, for me.
To the world, I say this:
We all bloom differently.
Some bloom late.
Some bloom in silence.
Some bloom again and again after being cut down.
And all of it is valid.
All of it is beautiful.
So if you’re still waiting for your season—trust, it’s coming.
If you’re still in the cold—know warmth is on its way.
And if you’ve begun blooming, even just a little—celebrate it.
You’re not who you were. You’re becoming someone stronger, softer, and more true than ever before.
I am.
And I’m proud of that.
With love,
Lanaya ♡
(style score: %100)

This is the worst moment of your life. Within six months, your father left, the pandemic handed you jobless, and now you’re homeless after the fire and your fiancé left because of the stress. At this moment, you’re in your pajamas since that is all you escaped the flames in. I know you’re sorting through donated clothes in your piss-stained hotel room, trying to find something to wear to the gas station down the street. You’ve likely never felt so empty; expect a hard recovery. However, the promising news is that not only do you recover, but you also flourish. Su su.

First, I must bear the sad but semi-sweet news that you still do not talk to your father, or rather, he does not talk to you. Despite his continued public disapproval of you, you’ve found inner peace. Your life is not sinful, Katie, nor are you selfish. This has been a tense buildup no matter how well you performed; you could never be his perfect daughter. Now, you choose to surround yourself with so many loving people that his absence no longer bothers you, which sounds surreal, I’m sure. Su su.

Second, you’ll end up meeting a man here pretty soon, and boy, is he a piece of shit, but trust me on this. It will be stressful, and many tears shed, but even now, you hold no resentment as it matured you and increased your passions and rectified your morals. He’ll help you meet your husband; again, trust the process. Su su.

You also work in bridal now which you love and yes, it is almost identical to “Say Yes to the Dress” and you’re doing it in Los Angeles! Hundreds of gorgeous gowns surround you in your beautiful boutique, some are your own designs. Your apartment in LA is in a beautiful cozy spot, nothing too grand but better than the basement unit you were used to living in. Su su.

Oh, how could I forget! I almost did not mention, but you are now a professional actress and singer. Yes, your lifelong dream became fulfilled after you moved to the city for more opportunities. You started off modeling, which got your connections and headshots. Soon, you met your amazing voice coach, who helped you gain even more opportunities, and she helped guide you up to a more successful career. You also won an Emmy last year, big congratulations! Your award, from the PSWC (not nationals), is beside me as I type this. You just finished your role as Sandy in “Grease” and received three standing ovations. You possess brilliant talent, so please, do not stop singing and performing. Su su.

This life we live is great. We did not obtain the material sense of luxury, but what we have is more than priceless to us. Your life’s incredible sense of peace, considering all we’ve been through, is overwhelming to write about. You are very young, yet incredibly strong, and I just want to thank you for laying the foundation of who I now am. You are resilient, compassionate, kind, and deserving of unconditional love. I hope these words can provide some comfort to you as you rest, and trust me, there will be a reaping of what you have sowed. Su su.

(Style score: 100 percent)

I’ve always been interested in all things God-related. I’m passionate about learning more about how to grow spiritually. I’m convinced I want to lead a more intimate life and relationship with God.

Now that I have three children, I see things from another perspective; sometimes the problems at home are overwhelming, and that’s when I see my spiritual life blossoming in all its splendor, because in these moments I turn to God.

I’ve learned many things related to fasting and prayer, and I’ve even put them into practice. I feel that with each passing day, God reveals new knowledge to me that undoubtedly increases my faith.

My spirituality is blossoming wonderfully. I feel more and more intimacy and connection with God as the days pass. My faith is bearing fruits of peace, joy, temperance, and wisdom. I feel like a more secure woman at the side of my Creator, knowing that he loves me above all things and will never abandon me.

My life is blossoming beautifully because my faith is placed in God. When life becomes uncertain and difficult, my faith rescues me from the storm. It is then that I realize my life is changing thanks to the power of the almighty.

It is beautiful to be blossoming in the hands of the one who created me, because he knows both, the beautiful petals of my roses and the sharp thorns of my stems. He prepares me for the harvest and waters the soil in which I am planted with a shower of blessings.

In this process of spiritual blossoming, God is responsible for my life turning out in his way. He makes the beautiful, and sometimes even the withered, within me blossom. I am sure that this spiritual blossoming will be ever deeper and more lasting. My flowers will be the most radiant in my garden, which is my home.

I feel my spiritual life blossoming amazingly. God is the fertilizer of my life, the one who, with his power and my tears, makes the withered flowers in my desert to bloom. He provides the means for me to flourish in every aspect of my life. I only have to place my faith in the most wonderful being that can exist in this life.

My spiritual life is blooming. I can perceive it in every answered prayer, in every moment of intimacy I spend with God, and I can feel his love. He always has ears ready to listen to me. He always comforts me in unimaginable ways. I have felt that my spiritual life is in full bloom because God has placed people in my path who guide me more and more into his presence.

Now I can be sure that I am blossoming spiritually because I can be aware of God’s infinite power. I am waiting for God’s confirmation and affirmation of my calling on this earth so that this spiritual blossoming may be multiplied, spread and transforms in what God has already destined and prepared for my life to come.
style score 77%

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

Dear Unsealers,
When Carmella and I married each other, we opted to write our own vows. Keeping them under wraps until the big day was both tantalizing and tricky. I found that the more I wrote and the more I homed in on a vision of dedicating my entire energy to building a life with her, the more I wanted to tell her all about it. I would catch myself dabbling into words or phrases from my vows at dinner and quickly reeling them back in, smoothing the moment over with an awkward laugh.
Then, the most beautiful thing happened on our wedding day, when we revealed our written vows. Independently, but remarkably in sync, we both used the same tree metaphor to describe our love, life together, promises, and future hopes. The vows exchanged spoke of tending to this tree- providing shelter, shade, and sunlight to it through our committed acts of love. Our imaginations both visualized working together daily to trim the damaged branches, to tend to the weak spots, to water the roots, and to do all we could to aid that tree in growing to its sky-high potential.
The metaphor felt like a perfect fit then, and in the time since, it’s only grown (pun intended 🤓) even more apt- especially since welcoming two daughters into our lives, both branches and blossoms beautifying this sapling.
Alongside the beauty of the journey, it’s important to note that parenting hasn’t always been a breeze. We’ve weathered our share of storms from sleepless nights to interminable illnesses to the vortex of endless questions about how best to guide, coach, and support without coddling, spoiling, or impeding- and yet, the tree stands stronger for all of this.
Roots provide resilience.
And now, my wife has within her the gift of new life, our son. As we prepare to meet him, I return once again to that tree, reckoning with and reveling in this new bloom. The words below are for him and for us, fertilizer and freedom.
When we met your sisters, we met with new dreams.
The tears from our eyes, flowing in streams.
It’s hard to think of a time when they weren’t here,
And still, despite knowing the beauty of the gift,
I’m tempted at times to give into fear-
To wonder and worry at this frightening fruitful frontier.
Can I truly be trusted to tend to something so dear?
Will I even know which way to steer?
I’m still learning who I am and who I can be…
So how can I start to pioneer possibly?
How can I, a blind man, teach someone to see?
But then those bright eyes and even those cries
Remind me to tell those fears fast to flee.
When I look at our children, and gaze at their faces
Then I see the wonder, the magic, the glorious traces,
And I’m reminded of love and all of its graces,
All of this splendor reminds me to breathe.
And now, I remember.
There’s new fruit on the vine
A new star to shine
In this family constellation of love.
As you come to our home,
And you add to our poem,
We’ll help you to fit like a glove.
And even when it’s tough,
When we’ve all had enough,
We’ll stick together through each push and shove.
We’ll give water and shade and sun each day
Providing what’s right as you grow and you play,
You precious gift from above.
For this tree where you’ll bloom
Will have always have room
For you to become who you are.
We’ll show you the ropes,
All in the hopes
That you’ll find your own way to go far.
We’ll water and weed,
Give you what you need,
Leave the door to our hearts always ajar.
Though the world may be dark,
And the threads may be thin,
We’ll ground in the light that’s within.
We’ll keep our hearts open, and keep these hearts free
For now, my son, it’s you who will be
Another beautiful branch of this bold tree.
So grow, little branch, in your own gentle way.
Let us be the roots who steady each sway.
Through the seasons that change, and the storms that will come
This tree’s where we’ll be, this tree’s where we’re from.

My style score is an 82%.

Dear World,

You ever look up, squint at a cloud, and think: “eh, 3/10?” Yeah. That’s me now. That’s my blossoming.

I’ve become a self-proclaimed cloud critic.
Every Sunday, I lie on a patch of grass behind the volleyball pit outside my building and review clouds like they’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. That one? “Too try-hard.” This one? “Soft edges, tragic backstory, 4.5 stars.” The one just floating past there? “It’s giving… raccoon in therapy.” I have a Notes file titled Sky Stuff. People stare. I wave like royalty.

At first it was a joke. Something to do when I didn’t know what to do with myself. But then it became a ritual. A quiet kind of devotion.

Because clouds don’t ask to be perfect. They show up, they shapeshift, they fall apart mid-performance and still drift like it means something.

I think I’m learning to do the same.

Style Score: 66%

You still carry the moon on your back.
Do you remember?

That crescent—delicate, deliberate, inked into your left shoulderblade when you were still trying to believe in softness. People probably still assume it was for the aesthetic. For the symmetry. For the romance of the night. But no.

We got it because we didn’t feel whole.
We etched it there because something in us was always waxing, never quite arriving.
We needed proof that becoming could be permanent.

I wonder if it’s faded now. If time has thinned its edges, made the ink blur like memory. Or if someone has ever pressed their lips to it, slow and reverent—kissed it like a poem, breathed against it like scripture. If their lips lingered there not for beauty, but for belief.

I wonder if you’ve forgotten how we used to stand before the mirror, tracing that crescent like it was a spell—like if we followed its curve with steady fingers, we might summon the parts of us we hadn’t yet grown into. That little sliver of moon was the first thing we ever claimed when everything else—our voice, our wants, our right to take up space—still felt like someone else’s permission to give.

Do you remember the words we used to whisper like a secret between ribs, like a prayer we were afraid wouldn’t be answered?

“Don’t let this be all I am.”

We wrote it everywhere—in the margins of notebooks, within late-night drafts, between sighs we never let anyone hear. We moved through the world like half-drawn maps, ink bleeding at the corners, hoping someone might take the time to chart us. To name the mountains we carried, to find the oceans we kept quiet.
I kept thinking wholeness was waiting on the other side of becoming—after the right city, the right love, the right version of our body, or our laugh, or our name.

But you—you live in the after.
So tell me: what did wholeness turn out to be?

Was it loud, or did it hum beneath your skin like a lullaby?
Did it arrive like a thunderclap, or slip in quietly, like morning light across bare feet?
Did it demand your attention—or did it just… wait for you to notice?
Do you still chase things too hard?
Do you still replay moments in your head until the words feel holy?
Do you still ask the mirror if you’re enough?

I hope not.
I hope you ask for everything now—clearly, unafraid.
I hope you sleep like you deserve to be rested.
I hope you speak like the world was made to listen to your voice.
I hope your reflection greets you like a soulmate.

I wonder who you became when no one else was looking.
I wonder if you ever danced wildly and forgot to be self-conscious.
If the moon on your back finally made sense—not because it made you whole, but because you stopped needing to be.

And if you’re reading this—then I kept going.
Somewhere beneath your ribs, I’m still curled up and watching.
Still hoping. Still cheering you on. Still trying to become the kind of woman who makes the stars look twice.

Ink doesn’t lie.
That crescent?
She’s still mine. And now she’s yours.

With love,
Your old, half-lit self.

Style Score: 79%

For the longest time, I’ve had a fear of being perceived. When I noticed anyone noticing me, I would freeze. Whatever I was doing would cease. This would continue on until I reached my twenties. Having many gifts of expression can become overwhelming because you aren’t sure of where to start.
Since I was a child, I have always had a love of writing, singing and movement. I treated each of these journeys as a singular path, not truly realizing how connected all of my skills were in the world of the arts. I would sing with my sister, Imani, into the late hours of the night. Imani would come home from school and teach me the skills she learned in vocal training.
Although I was a writer, I didn’t understand the concept of songwriting. I was fluid in the art of writing short stories, poems, and essays. The concept of songwriting used to make my head ache. I would begin thinking too much about the structure of the song, the melody and the lyrics. It all seemed a difficult skill to master. Until I met someone that gave me an opportunity to create something new. He asked if I wanted to create my very own musical EP.
It was time to put myself to the challenge and treat this as I would any writing assignment. It was necessary to dial down the doubts playing in my mind. When I selected the instrumentals, the words flowed effortlessly. By allowing myself to flow and not worry about mistakes, I discovered how creative I could be.
My inner dialogue improved as I allowed myself to embark on this newer journey. Treat yourself as you would treat your favorite person in the world. I began reading more books that supported having a healthier mind. By taking the time to observe my own thoughts and making adjustments has been the reason I could say yes to trying songwriting.
I had to switch my mindset to listen to the music and the melody the way a singer would. It felt like I dialed into a radio station while listening to the beats simultaneously. I began hearing lyrics and a fresh flow for each track. It was at this moment I realized I was allowing myself to flow. Once I solidified how I wanted everything to sound, I got into the studio and recorded each song.
Although the journey has just begun, I truly am grateful for where this has led me so far. I have met quality people that share in my love of art and music. This new chapter in my life is called Bloom.

Pro Writing Score:100%

Early spring is bringing tiny green leaves to the tips of your twigs.

Last year we planted you. We were so proud of your place in our yard. Big plans and juicy apples were expected, but then a plague of deer came and ate all the budding, baby apples you had sprouted. Deer ate many of your leaves, too.

We were devastated.

As the end of winter approached and you looked so frail, we worried you might not make it to year two. All sticks and no style, you looked weak after months of cold and snow and ice and wind.

You survived. You may still thrive.

We have a plan to hide your apples this year, to try and save them from the many savage deer that will come for your tasty fruit. My wife read that one inventive gardener hangs Christmas tree decorations, red and green bulbs, on the branches of her apple trees. The deer try their best to bite them, but they are quickly made frustrated when they can’t break through. They give up and get going. We will try this trick this year.

Our dreams for you are blossoming as you grow, and we hope you will sprout apples as spring turns to summer.

We will water around you daily. You are in a sunny spot. We will protect you from your predators.

All signs point to Pink Lady apples in the future.

Godspeed.

ProWritingAid Style Score: 76

Life has felt aggressively slow,
As if time has a personal vendetta on my goal.
I lay in bed as the sun glow,
These four walls are taking a physical toll.
My inner voice turns my bed into quick sand,
But I refuse to let my thoughts have the winning hand.
I step outside and I breathe in peace,
I step towards everything that I have planned.
Sweat beads down my face as I walk,
My breathe is strained and I can barely talk.
A bird just flew by and made a low coo,
The beauty in its feathers are bold and true.
I’m glad I decided to get out of the bed this morning,
It really takes one step at a time, I’m learning.
My thoughts of failure still reside,
But I am stronger now so I push them to the side.
I am not able to do much in this season,
For financial, credit and many other reasons.
But what I can do is take another step,
And do everything I can to prep;
For what is owed and was stolen from me,
Will be replenished in my pocket’s times three.
I step again as I struggle to breathe,
I step again away from everything I need to leave.
The passing cars, the beading sun, that gust of wind,
Reminders that a slow life is a luxury and a forever win.
I don’t want to live life focused on the next success,
I want to live life walking away from unnecessary stress.
Another step makes my lungs wheeze,
Another step makes my legs freeze.
I pause where I stand, and reach out my hand.
Towards a rose that blossomed from a bush.
I wrap my hands around the stem and give it a little push.
The thorns are sharp and my hands depart,
As the rose rest back in its place.
So, I leave it right there and continue on my pace,
Because peace and beauty needs its space.
Better understanding for what I need is blossoming this spring,
I tread on my walk and smile at everything life is about to bring.

Style score: 70%

Dear Younger me,
You don’t know it yet but you love life! You’re happy and healthy and living it to its fullest. Between concerts and music festivals you’re always doing something. And believe it or not, you’re not on any medications anymore! You took yourself off and never looked back. The thought of hurting yourself hasn’t even crossed your mind in I don’t even know how many months. I know life is scary and you’re so unsure right now, but please keep going. You’re going to be so happy you did.

Do you remember our first funeral?
How terror, unnatural poise, and a light blue dress
bound our fragmented shards
so tightly that they fused like plates of armor,
unyielding and permanent—
a mold to shape past, present, and future experiences?
Ones devoid of the therapeutic scent of lavender?
Yeah, me too.
And we still seek the warm hug of purple blossoms
underneath a smiling summer sun,
taunting us from breezes that cannot touch our skin,
and the reassurance in the face of overwhelming loss and upheaval
that we will be okay because we are loved.
And we are. Loved. Okay.
Despite being an unrecognizable lump of tarnished metal
electroplated and reforged too many times to count,
bits of funerary fabric adding a mosaic of color to the gray,
we are strong and beautiful like Vermont wildflowers—
a sea of scents swaying among long, emerald grasses,
infusing the wind that rushes from now to then
with a healing perfume that will cease to exist after we are gone
and leave him in a molten suit gasping for air.

Style Score: 100