To The Place That Changed Me,
Have you ever felt alone in a room with someone else? I have. These four walls hold a lot of secrets – best friend gossip, late night college assignments and now the silent screams inside my mind. These walls have judged me, I’m sure of it. It’s heard me picking myself apart, moans from one night stands, and singing every song that shaped an identity that I craved. These walls saw everything, I know they knew that danger was about to knock on my door.
Why didn’t they stop me?
Why didn’t they tremble when I brought him into my room?
Why didn’t they collapse as a final desperate act to stop the pain that was coming full force? Why didn’t they help?
That night, I let my insecurities take over. I gave them power, I lit the flame. My friend Wisdom sat back with popcorn and a blanket and watched my mistakes unfold with a cup of tea, I think it was raspberry tea to be exact. She sat back and watched a horror movie unfold. Her eyes wide, the blankets up to her ears, shoving popcorn in her mouth too fast. Watching a film that should’ve been directed by John Carpenter. But she didn’t say anything. She’s just like those damn walls, always watching, never helping.
I opened the front door to greet a stranger who surprisingly looks like his pictures online. I’m met with a wide smile and soft eyes. I led him into my bedroom – in college apartments, space is a myth, so the bedroom is the only place that guarantees privacy. Our introduction was sweet, even familiar. With every joke, every story and every laugh, my guards fell off of me like layers of an onion. And then, a shift.
A pit forms in my stomach as those pleasant eyes seem to morph into midnight. The smile begins to spread into something more sinister and suddenly I wish I could put my onion peels back on. But here I was naked both physically and emotionally. Finally, someone spoke up: my stomach. A warning. Too late, but still someone was trying to protect me while the walls kept watching and Wisdom kept chewing her popcorn.
Fear had a voice that night.
She told me I wasn’t safe.
And for once, it was right.
Life comes at you fast. You can do alot in 5 ½ minutes. You can lose your ability to speak. A voice that you’ve used for years can weaken. The word “no” can transition from a command to a suggestion. You can feel the tears of your womanhood in a ways you never imagined.. You can go from excitement to distrust, from an everyday college girl to a survivor. You can pray.
Cry.
Fight back.
You can do alot in 5 ½ minutes. You can lose yourself but also find a warrior. You can meet the resilient woman who lives inside of you. The one who fears nothing, because nothing will quite scare you like this did. It took 5 ½ for his eyes to turn back to normal, for my now tattered onion peels to be back on my body, and a scar to bury itself deep in the hidden chambers of my womb.
Have you ever felt alone while a man invades your body, your essence, and your future? I have.

Dear Thimble,

Thimble is a funny nickname. Just 550 sq ft, you were, with infinite space for peace, growth, and healing. Who could have imagined that tiny living would become a “thing”? You were ahead of your time, my precious Thimble…

I never aspired to live alone. It would be a lie, however, to say that I never imagined my life with you in it.

Days before you became a necessity, I went on a rant about some silly backup plan to what I then believed would be forever. “If anything happens,” I said to the Universe, “I will just rent a little apartment and spend my time sitting on the couch, drinking tea, and reading.”

Less than a week later, I was searching for you. A surprise uncoupling left me fearful, angry, disoriented, and in need of housing for one–or three, if you count the dogs.

The first time I saw you, I fell in love. So compact and comforting. So chic and safe. So built around the needs of one, single person. From the day I moved in, you were my shelter and my teacher. You showed me how to focus on my needs (for once). You made me believe I would survive, held me while I healed, and gave me a soft space to surrender.

Remember how afraid I was? Remember how I hid my single status? How I fake-appreciated my independence? I wanted so desperately for my new living conditions to seem deliberate. I tried to look self-assured, even as I worried over every detail of my existence. How would I get myself to work? What would I eat? Could I even sleep? How would I reassemble my collapsed life? Where would I find peace? Would I ever overcome those profound feelings of disorientation?

Unwittingly, you helped me find answers to every single question. In your surroundings, I healed in silence, strengthened in solitude, and regained my footing.

With you, I learned to love myself, to evaluate my needs, and to spend (not waste) my time on reading, walking, cooking, and decorating. I learned the importance of lunch prep, travel plans, and TV nights with friends. With you, I learned who I was and I dreamed of who I would become. And I learned that, with some practice, I could take control of my life.

Under your roof, I came to understand that even the sharpest pains could dull with time. I cried, screamed, and laughed. I learned to be still and even found love again. I recovered my sense of self, fought to regain confidence, and allowed myself to feel every single feeling as it came, for as long as it was there, and without apology.

I.

Became.

Me.

For the first time in my life, I was free to be my authentic, untethered self. Funny, though, that independence fed both caution and adventure. I protected myself with ferocity, yet I moved about freely.

You’d be proud of me, you know. From the very foundation you helped me build, I have continued to grow, learn, and, most importantly, pursue my wildest dreams. Not that I would make you call me doctor or anything, but I did just earn that degree I always wanted! Dream no longer deferred.

From the core of my being, I thank you. My life, reimagined, began the day we met. In my heart, you will always be my home.

With eternal gratitude,

Fierce and Fulfilled

To the empty corner chair in the spare bedroom,

When I first began sitting in you for long periods of time, it was as if I was exiled to your corner. It was in 2022, right after my dad passed. My work schedule was due to change with the New Year when I’d be working from home more, and I needed it to desperately.

He passed away on November 18, 2022. It was in the early evening, as the sun was just beginning to go down in the sky, and it was that unusual time of day between afternoon and sunset I usually love. Then it happened, I panicked inside, and my heart sank underneath a weight of grief for how long I didn’t know.

Then there was you. My family and I had just fought a long battle. We were war-torn, bruised, wounded, inflicted with the deepest of scars, fresh off the field having undergone a huge loss, with not all of us making it. And there I was, with my laptop and work things bundled in my arms, silently accepting exile in your quiet corner.

I sat with you ever day as I worked. On all of the ones I remember, it was beautiful outside. The sun brightened like it was smiling at me from the other side of the window, and I could make out the shapes of trees and palm fronds and leaves at a close distance as I looked outwards. I could see the way the breeze caressed everything around it, how nature moved, how the still breath of the wind made it come to life, brightening the inside of the room, ushering in light, making the walls jump with color and their greyness fade to brightness.

Everyday I’d sit–war-torn, wounded, bleeding, and everyday I wept. For the longest, I never really felt much better, until one day I did. Until one day, I could appreciate the brightness outside my window and smile in return.

Then as things were beginning to resemble something like normal, I tore my Achilles. I did it one Saturday jumping and celebrating around the house while watching an Olympic basketball game on TV (it’s alright, you can laugh lol). And I found myself in that same place again, exiled to your corner, sentenced to work virtually in solitude, this time tasked with physically healing.

But pretty soon I could walk normally again, and eventually I could drive long distances which meant I could return to work. Though not long after I resumed going to the office, I was laid off from my job of almost eight years. And I found myself returning to your corner once more, this time realizing there was an even further emotional depth I would journey to of healing, humility, hope, faith, and surrender.

It’s been over two years since my dad passed and I initially found myself sitting with you. Truth is I’m still healing, from everything. I’m still learning. And I still cry for my dad sometimes because I know I’ll never see him again in this life, and I wish more than anything I could talk to him. Truth is, it still hurts in places I can’t deny, and I still bleed on the page.

Truth is, I’m still in exile, sitting in your corner among rubble and waiting for it to spring to life, for flesh to appear on dry bones and light to appear out of darkness as God’s Word says (Ezekiel 37:4-6; John 1:1-5).

But truth is, deep down–in this familiar place I’ve been to before, the place beyond the wind and waves, beneath all my emotions; the resounding truth that reverberates throughout the most tempestuous sea, the one troubles and thunder can never fully drown, that draws its breath from the Giver of Life Himself; deep down, in that place where the more you try to bury it, the deeper the truth takes root, the place even the most deeply reverberating frequency of pain can never shake, in that deepest part of myself–I still know.

Deep down, “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:22-23).

Deeper still, “But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5).

It’s been a long time since I had the honor of walking down your streets and unpaved roads. It’s been so many years since waiting for the marshrutka to pick me up in front of my house to take me to a different place for a minute.

I think of you so often, especially regarding your feelings about the war in Ukraine. It is so close to you, as you are on the border. I’ve talked to some of your inhabitants. While a portion are frightened and still unable to sleep, another portion sleeps just fine. The one thing they all have in common, however, is their reliance on remaining your inhabitants, no matter the outcome.

Oh, the people who dwell in that village. How much they impacted my life. I think of them every single day, so much that I have to force myself to stop. I look at my four-year-old child, and I think of all those children with disabilities, all those poor children living in cement shacks that the Soviets left unfinished. All those innocent, sweet little children who had and have nothing, some of them not even a single family member. I think of how those packs of young children took me off-guard, for I never understood being able to abandon your child and leave them to fend for themselves. I see every single one of those children in my child somehow, and I do my best to provide all the love and comfort for him that none of you ever had, and likely never will have.

I wish I could return with enormous financial, medical, and social gifts to give to all those children. That I could share with those mothers who are taking care of, so lovingly and tenderly, their disabled children. I wish I would have focused more on that during my time there. There is nothing more important than children, and this you taught me. I could not be the mother I am today without the experiences you gave me.

Does the couple I found wandering down the hillsides of the village still herd their goats around there? Are they still alive? They mentioned all their children went abroad and that they were there alone. Are they capable of taking care of themselves in their old age? Are you still graced by their breath and footsteps?

All the kids I tutored in English have since left you. They went to other places – to big cities, to other countries. But we all remember you. We are always thinking of you. You are our hearts, for you taught us how to love and care for one another. Even though I did not grow up as a child there, it was there I learned to grow up, for I learned what it is to truly love. Before I lived in your premises, I thought true love was a romance between two people. But you showed me that true love is the love we have for our neighbors. True love is the effort we put into caring for and loving our neighbors just as we care for and love ourselves.

There was a beautiful family that was part of a religion that was very unpopular there. Every day, I saw the father of that beautiful family outside the bazaar, holding pamphlets and Bibles, hoping to share his love with even one person. Is he still doing that daily? It showed so much determination and belief in what he was doing. To actually engage in that action so steadfastly, despite the harassment I saw him face, is truly remarkable. I regret my insufficient help to his family.

I think of those Gypsy children hiding in the woods whom I would bring some food and drink occasionally. Are they doing alright? Did they get conscripted? Or did they make it out? I am thankful you provided them a spot to hide. But where did they go in the winter? I wasn’t there long enough to find out.

If I could only go back and re-do it all, I would tackle everything I could with the greatest resource ever given to me, by you: love.

I hope to see you again one day, to see the sun sparkling through the trees by the lake.

To forget you is impossible. Please, forgive me.

All of my love,

Dear Library…

This is where it all began,
A treasure buried beneath the sand,
The walls a tinted brownish tan,
The place where my fears can perch and land.
The stress of the day can disappear,
Because everyone is welcome here.
Countless stories throughout the walls,
Books range from color, small to tall.
Tales are told through countless ways,
Each with a unique thing to say.
Books have been written and this is their home,
Channeled through fiction, or true to the bone.
Each tells their own story, unfiltered and strong,
With ups and downs, still each can belong.
The world clambers and bustles outside of its walls,
Inside grows a silence without summon or call.
A way to escape, a path to heal,
You’re not alone, for now you can feel.
The countless feelings inside of books,
With stories reflecting new outlooks.
A friend you never planned to make,
Sometimes reflecting your past mistakes,
You see your same struggles through another lens,
You can gain the tools to comprehend,
To comprehend you are not alone,
Your feelings of misery away will be blown.
Parting the way through black and white,
To see there’s more than “wrong” and “right,”
To see that there is always gray,
To see the night mesh with the day.
Reading can help those to understand,
We don’t know everything, and we never can.
To look at life with this feeling in mind
We don’t know all the answers, all we can do is try-
Try to listen and learn as much as we can,
Learn about experiences those around us have had.
No story alone should be judged by a page,
This is not the whole story but only a frame.
Others have been here and walked in your shoes,
Walked across those very same steps as you.
Each carries perspective, one unlike your own,
Something new that will always deserve to be shown.
To share your own stories will open eyes,
To become a new light for those deprived.
The path you’ve paved is different and new,
And people have been here before you,
Each with their special story to share,
A unique experience for others to bear;
Through stories themselves may you channel your words,
Giving others a chance to listen and learn,
May you learn from yourself and heal as a whole,
Puzzle pieces patching a painfully beautiful soul.
An escape to part with the burden you carry,
This is why I love literature, and you, the library.

Forever yours,

Elle

Letter To Kinloch, Missouri, the place where I grew up and lived until age 19.

Dear Kinloch Mo.,

As a once buzzing all-Black city located in the suburb of St. Louis, Missouri, I want to say thank
you. The things I learned, observed and experienced inside your city limits I cannot ever
replace. These were the times when society was pushing separate but equal. However, Kinloch
you were separate but great.

Remembering the story of Rumpelstiltskin where the beautiful maiden was ordered to spin
straw into gold. The citizens of Kinloch were given lots of straw, namely old textbooks, outdoor
toilets, houses and schools without air condition. The gold that spun from the straw is a
nationally known actress, singer/songwriter, political officials, doctors, lawyers, school
teachers, nurses, and me.

I learned the art of public speaking and presenting with confidence. We had to practice that art
at least twice a year through Easter and Christmas speeches, at least until age twelve. We also
had the children’s choir at church and the Kinloch High school choir that was so renowned, we
were invited to may competitions and concerts. An album was produced by the choir.
Greatness in every sense of the word.

I also learned what Black-owned businesses and entrepreneurship looked like. In Kinloch, we
had many examples. Kinloch had numerous small confectionaries (corner stores) that sold
soda, cut meat, and penny candy to the school kids. I can remember gas stations, liquid stores,
grocery stores, restaurants, clothing stores and even a night club which was all Black-owned
and operated. I guess you can say the city was pretty much self-contained.

I learned the value of helping and supporting your neighbors. In Kinloch, we were all poor by
many economic standards; however, we did not know we were poor because we were rich in
community. Credit was freely extended to customers that could not pay but promised to pay on
payday or when they got their check. For those that fell on even tougher times, families
willingly extended help. Respect was demanded from the children and adults. Adults enforced
that code of conduct when it came to the children. The village raised us.

Kinloch was incorporated which afforded us to have our own all-Black city government. Our
mayor, aldermen, city clerk, police department, fire department and judge were managed by
our own. We also had our own School Superintendent and School Board. Our school system, of
course was substandard but great. The teachers encouraged, no demanded, your best
regardless of textbook conditions.

Kinloch, I am sad to admit that while growing up inside your protected cocoon, I did not realize
the total extent of your greatness. I did not see the beauty of the resilience and determination
demonstrated and expected from each of us. You led by example.

These are things that will forever be with me: Spinning straw into gold is difficult but
achievable. Trials and tribulations can produce treasures.

Thank you for what you did for me and so many others!

Sincerely,
Glenda Small
Kinloch High School Class of 1973

Style Score=70

Dear San Luis Obispo,

I wasn’t ready for you at first. I arrived with a car full of awkwardly folded clothes, an electronic typewriter, and dreams bigger than my dorm room closet—which, let’s be honest, wasn’t hard to beat.

My freshman year started with a crash course in conflict resolution (and creative earplug use), courtesy of a roommate whose boyfriend thought her twin XL bed was plenty big for the both of them. It wasn’t.

I learned to be assertive, to take long walks at odd hours, and that personal space was not a luxury—it was a necessity.

Moving into the sorority house felt like trading one set of quirks for another—but this time, I found something that stuck. I liked the sisterhood, sure—but I loved the focus on service. Organizing fundraisers, raising money for charities, feeling like my energy was making a real difference—that’s where I started to see who I was becoming.

When I first arrived at Cal Poly, I thought I had it all figured out. Pre-med, determined, driven. I imagined myself acing organic chemistry, gliding through labs, and someday saving lives. What I didn’t imagine was nearly flunking chemistry and sitting across from an advisor who casually told me I’d be better off getting a “Mrs.” than a Master’s. Let’s just say—thank you, sir—for lighting a fire under me hotter than a summer day in Arizona.

That moment, frustrating as it was, became a turning point. I ditched Biology for Physiology and dove headfirst into wellness, into the preventative side of health—the place where movement and mental wellbeing mattered just as much as prescriptions. It felt like coming home. I didn’t want to treat sickness—I wanted to help people stay well.

I showed up to class in my pajamas more times than I care to admit, powered by Diet Pepsi, ambition, and whatever leftover pizza from the night before. I taught aerobics to make some extra cash and danced my stress away with the college dance company, Orchesis, a haven of people who understood that movement was therapy. We rehearsed, performed, and celebrated the kind of connection that can only come when you trust someone to catch you mid-leap—on stage and in life.

Eventually, I was fortunate to move near the beach, and shared it with a couple good friends, and it felt like magic. A room of my own, a view of the waves from the observation deck on the roof, and the sweet, salty realization that I could stand on my own two feet. I surfed badly but joyfully. I kayaked in Morro Bay, where seals stared like judgmental old men and the dolphins occasionally graced me with their approval. I hiked through miniature oak forests that felt like they were plucked from a storybook—twisting, ancient, wise.

In SLO, I learned the power of stillness. I learned to just be. To soak up the birdsong, the breeze, the sky. “SLO down,” I’d whisper to myself when the world felt too fast. It became a mantra then, and it still is. I learned to slow down, breathe deeply, and find my footing even when the ground beneath me felt shaky (or full of sand, seaweed, and the occasional beach tar stuck to my flip-flops).

I navigated new friendships and learned to let go of those that no longer fit. I figured out how to love from afar and how to love myself up close. I worked in the health center, threw myself into projects, and believed in the Cal Poly motto—“Learn by doing”—not just in school, but in life. You taught me that falling apart doesn’t mean failing. Sometimes, it means figuring it out differently.

And you, San Luis Obispo, were the backdrop to it all. You were the golden hills at dusk, the slow drip of time on a Sunday, the laughter of friends over yogurt and pizza. You were the surprise of dolphins in the surf, the crunch of boots on a mountain trail, the soft hush of wind through the oaks.

Even now, when I drive over the Cuesta Grade, it all comes rushing back—the warmth in my chest, the quiet knowing in my heart. You remind me I was once brave enough to start over, to shift direction, to say no to what didn’t serve me and yes to what did.

You were never just a college town. You were my my sanctuary, my compass, my solid ground.

Thank you, SLO, for being the place where I figured out how to be alone without being lonely. For letting me dance, dream, and hike my way into adulthood. You’ll always be one of my greatest loves—not just for your beauty, but for how you helped me fall in love with me.

With love, always,

Dear Hospital Room,

Your pristine cream walls once confined me, impounded me, but now they’ve given me my freedom. You took me in when I was sick, when my mind was plagued with depression, and released me down the path I’d lost track of so long ago. You wrapped me in your embrace, but at the time, I didn’t find it comforting. Back then, you were nothing more than my accuser, my undoing. I blamed you for my predicament, for the choices I made that led me to you. It had to be you who took the blame, because I wasn’t willing to find blame in myself. You were my preferred victim. I spent years pinning accusations to the bulletin board of your character. I slandered you, lied about you. And yet, when I was all alone, when I was left with the consequences of my actions, you came to me. You did not abandon me as I’d abandoned you. Instead, you held me close, kept me safe. You protected me, nurtured me back to health before you sent me on my way again. My heart, which once held resentment for you, was left with a warmth I’d long forgotten. A warmth that burned down the walls I’d built to guard myself and replaced them with a bridge. The bright lights on your ceiling were once blinding, torturous, but now they looked as beautiful as the stars in the night sky. I used to hate the memory of you, but now I rejoice in knowing that I would not be the person I am today without you. If not for your presence, your enlightenment, I would not have grown stronger. I would still be walking down the path of self-destruction, but thankfully, you turned me around. I now head towards the bright future I should never have ventured from. Even if it took a few wrong turns to make it in the end, I’m here now, and I won’t drift again. Your memory will stay with me, it will strengthen me, sustain me. Every time I see a wall the color of yours, or feel a warmth similar to the lights that rested above my head that night, I will think of you, my hospital room, and all that you’ve taught me. And I will carry it with me as I move forward. I do hope we meet again, one day, but I warn you, I won’t be the same person I once was. But that’s a good thing. For I once thought of you as an enemy, but you have always been my redemption.

Freedom…
Can I please start by telling you, it was one hell of a journey to get to you. It took me going through hell and high waters to get here. I failed so many times trying to get to you; I began to think I was wasting my time. I wanted to write this experience off as impossible to achieve. I wanted to quit and just except defeat however the Elohim of me wouldn’t allow it. Now that I arrived I can sit with you and explain what it took to get this to this point.
After my last fall from the near top, I just laid there numb defeated and hopeless. I didn’t go back; I didn’t even get up. As I laid there, little by little my mind began to clear up, my vision became clear, my hearing had syphered through the noise and my taste for victory had came back.
See, I decided to fully focus on what was blocking my path; and like clockwork, my ADHD activated and triggered something fierce. I began to get an annoying itch around my ankles making it hard to concentrate. As I looked down, I noticed the safety shackles I was wearing were no longer safe or comfortable. They weren’t long enough for this journey; I had outgrown them. Safety and comfort had to go. The keys were somewhere in one of my packs. With a sigh of irritation and the very last of my hope, I poured out all my bags to look for the key to unbind myself. As I sat there looking at all the stuff I had neatly packed away for safe keeping, I realized most of it was junk.
I sat there at the foundation of you, with all my junk spilled out like a busted suitcase. For the first time, I took a real hard look at the baggage I had been carrying and realized not only was there a lot of junk, but 98% of it wasn’t even mine. I took one more scan of the mess in front of me, breathed in a deep breath and knew it was time.
It was time to sort out the mess of a life I had been collecting all these years. It was time to separate the old from the new, the junk from the treasures, the past from the present. I found wads of shame, stacks of crumbled guilt, sticky and gluey low value and esteem from the words stuck to me from others and even myself. I took a step back, found a clearance in the mess and sat down. I began to cry, I began to pray, I began to battle within. After some time, I decided that I just couldn’t. I wiped my eyes and as I stood up to walk away, I seen something catch the reflection of the light. I kept my eyes fixed on where the shimmer and glimmer were coming from and for the first time the pile began to get brighter.
As I got closer, I seen beauty, I seen self-worth, I seen purpose, I seen my desires, I seen resilience, I seen my voice, I seen change, I seen perseverance, I seen victories. I stood there so confused because where did all this come from. I rushed over to the pile and realized this was the foundation of my being. I could only see a little beneath the rest of the rubble so I quicky yet carefully began to sift through the junk again. The more I removed the clearer the foundation became. As I kept piling up what was salvageable and new, the pile kept growing and growing and growing. I was so confused, how did I never see this? When did it get here? Why is there so much but the load was so light? None of it made sense. However, I figured the answers would come as I continued the sifting. Eventually I only had two piles. One of junk and one of purpose and life. The baggage was sifted through, yet I still didn’t come across the keys to the shackles.
Until I picked up the save pile. Underneath the keep pile was the key. Something so small held so much power and change. I placed the keep pile back into one of the bags and went back for the key. Once I unshackled myself, I picked up my one bag of goodness, my last bit of hope and journeyed back up your side. And now here we are freedom. I am with you, and you are with me. Now I can breathe and see from your view, from here I can see why it was all worth it.

Dear House on Polk Street,

You were never just walls and windows, were you? You were grief painted into corners, memories echoing off floorboards, silence so loud it pierced through every breath I tried to take.
You were at my parents’ home first. Their voices lived in your walls. Their touch was in the creak of every stair, in the smell of the closets, in the way the sun came through the windows just like it used to when I was little. When they left, both of them, you became something else.
A cage.
You held me, yes, but you also trapped me. I walked room to room trying to find pieces of them, trying to remember the warmth, the laughter, the safe parts. But every time I tried to land in a memory, it slipped away and left me with something darker: the fights, the illnesses, the final days, the quiet that came after death moved in and refused to leave.
I slept in different rooms because I couldn’t bear to stay in just one. I was chasing ghosts and running from them at the same time. I’d lie in my childhood bed and ache. I’d move to the couch and stare at the ceiling until the sun came up. I tried to relive something, anything good, but all I could feel was the weight of everything I lost.
Then one day, I started therapy. In you.
It wasn’t planned. Virtual sessions were the only way I could get help without having to leave the place I feared and clung to all at once. I’d sit in front of a screen, sometimes barely able to speak. Sometimes sobbing. Sometimes numb. But the more I spoke the more I let go, the more something shifted in you. And in me.
You started to become the one place I could be real.
I screamed inside of you. I cried so hard my chest would ache for hours. I whispered things I had never said out loud: regrets, secrets, shame, grief. You never once turned away from me. You held me through every single unraveling.
And in that unraveling, something strange happened.
You started to change.
Not just emotionally but physically too. One day I looked at you and realized you didn’t feel like theirs anymore. You didn’t feel haunted. You felt ready. Ready to become something new.
So, I got to work. Slowly. Carefully. With shaky hands and hope I didn’t fully believe in yet. I painted your walls. Tore down others. Rearranged. Rebuilt. Not just your layout but my own life. I made you mine.
Each change was more than aesthetic. It was a ritual, a reclamation. I wasn’t just making you beautiful, I was healing. Every coat of paint, every new fixture, every corner I cleaned or reimagined was part of grieving and growing and finally living.
You saw me go from surviving to something close to thriving.
You saw me cry, not just from pain but from joy. On days I never thought I’d see. You became my sanctuary, not because you were quiet, but because you were honest. You let me be messy, raw, broken. You held space for me to break down and rebuild.
Now, I walk through your halls, and I don’t feel that same grief dragging behind me. I feel warmth. Light. Presence. I don’t avoid the rooms anymore. I sit in them. I drink coffee where my mother once folded clothes. I write where my father once watched TV. They’re still here in the way my peace echoes now where sorrow once lived.
You are no longer just the house I inherited.
You are no longer just the place my parents left behind.
You are mine.
You’re where I became someone new. Where I stitched together pieces of myself that I thought I’d lost forever. Where I found the strength to keep going. Where I learned that healing isn’t a destination, it’s a homecoming.
My homecoming.
And sometimes, I still cry. But not because I’m lost or broken. I cry because I feel it all so deeply now the beauty, the resilience, the love I never thought I’d feel again.
You are my soft place to land. My reminder that pain doesn’t last forever, not if we face it, not if we do the work, not if we let ourselves transform in the spaces we once feared.
Thank you for not giving up on me.
Thank you for becoming mine.

Your late owner’s daughter,
Melissa

Dear Big White House,

With your creepy hideouts and shadowed stairwells, I never thought I’d speak to you again. Your memory has been a silent echo, a place I locked away because the truth felt too dark to touch.

I always hated being the last one upstairs. Turning the light off at the bottom terrified me. A part of me felt constantly watched. I felt afraid while living there, especially at night. It sucked to be alone and afraid many nights, which is why I’ve always had trouble sleeping. I’m living proof I’ve never had a secure attachment. I learned to disassociate early. So many bad things happened, but that was just my normal. Disassociating allowed me to speak freely with the thoughts in my head, even in the craziest moments. It was a lifeline.

It was easy to fake a smile, pretending everything was okay, but I questioned it. I’d tell others what they wanted to hear to avoid the worst. Yet, it was never enough to keep me safe. I’ve felt on the run my entire life, not realizing I was running from myself. The past haunts me, but I don’t mind. Some things I shut away for a reason; things got pretty dark.

I’ve learned I can speak openly about anything. Yet some emotions I’ve not yet felt, and I struggle to cope. I’m still learning how to feel things authentically. There’s no right or wrong way to feel, so I go hard for my inner child. She was just a kid, carrying the brunt of so much hurt. This is me letting you know it’s okay for you to tell your story; I’ve got your back. Just use your words, and I’ll use my emotions to guide you through. I can’t go back, but I can show up and be a better example. I couldn’t protect you then, but no one could stop me now!

It’s okay to question your caregivers. It’s okay to use your voice and speak up. Even when scared, you can still be brave. Your story is yours. I’ve got your back, no matter what! I know how it feels to be alone, so we’ll get through this together.

So anyway, back to the story. People came over, and all the teens went upstairs. Teenagers can be very curious. The truth or dare game took a questionable turn. I wasn’t the oldest, but I was the most observant. It started with simple things like prank calls, texts, and crushes. Nothing was exactly happening, but I felt like I invited myself into something unexpected. How did we go from harmless fun to discarding clothes and asking obscene questions? I was curious, yet uncomfortable, specifically about how it would affect us mentally.

No one’s ever spoken about it again. Am I finally facing a core moment of my adolescence? No, I didn’t engage, but I was afraid of what would happen if I left. Other teens I cared about were in that room, so I stuck around despite my discomfort. Is it okay to experience uncomfortable moments with people, yet still feel oddly safe?

This memory has come and gone throughout the years, so I felt it was time to put my experience into words. Yes, I avoided harm; I felt I lost my right to choose. An apology or simple acknowledgment would have been enough, but everyone just went about their lives. I’m closer than ever with a few; others are always excited to see me. I’m not sure how to process that. It’s cool we’re older, but what does this ultimately mean?

You were a place of shadows, Big White House, a crucible of fear and uncomfortable truths. But you also taught me to be observant, to listen more than talk, and to reserve my energy. My voice, once silenced by your shadows, has broken down barriers. It’s more powerful than I ever thought, and I feel freer now.

My resilience stems from my determination to give my inner child everything she lacked, but love and kindness weren’t among them. She has the biggest heart and still loves unconditionally despite all the hurt. Spoken like a survivor who thrives no matter what comes my way. I can handle it; I am wired for this! Life can be confusing, but it’s up to you to keep pushing forward. No one else will do the work. You got this! My story is indeed mine to tell, and it’s a story of choosing bravery, speaking up, and never abandoning the child I once was. And for that, I thank you for the lessons you inadvertently taught me.

The Place of the Goddess

I entered the space of my heart with the Goddess
and wept.

“This place,” I said,
“has changed me more than anything else.”

“Yes,” She said,
“this is My place—the place of love. ”

The Goddess quietly stood next to me.
She held my hand
and showed me the Heart of the Universe.

Then She said . . .

“This is the only place any real change matters.
This is the only place real change occurs.
This is the only place that will repair the world.”

I asked Her: “Why does it feel so empty?”

“Because very few people truly seek
to let go of their fear of life,
and change into the love which created them.”

Eric Sander Kingston

I parked my SUV on the second floor, walked down the ramp, and crossed the busy road. I couldn’t take a chance with the street parking and the meters; I had some unpaid violations. The long walk always gave me an opportunity to gather my thoughts before I stumbled through the revolving doors to check in as a visitor. I wondered when that title would no longer apply. I’d been there at the hospital every day that week. The same hospital my daughter was born in. The same hospital where my late father waited in the delivery room, playing African drum rhythms on his cellular phone, and pacing the floor in anticipation of his new granddaughter. It was a unique atmosphere now, it transformed, it was currently my tabernacle of fear.
My mother was admitted weeks ago. This ongoing battle with Myeloma added an additional layer of hospital stays, blood transfusions, and checkups to what was once a normal routine. This time, there was no simple discharge. This time, we were using unfamiliar words like “discontinue”, “comfort,” and “hospice.”
So, every day, I faithfully frequented the chapel. The chapel was always dimly lit with hanging bulbs that looked like 9 illuminated tear drops encased in glass. There were swirls that resembled hills on the brown wallpaper. In this space of interfaith, there was Janamaz for Muslim Salah. There were rosaries, prayer request notebooks, New Testament Bibles and Mala beads. A little something for everyone. The space welcomed all spiritual influences. I often wondered how many people just take a chance and pray to all of them in desperation. How many of us are just folded over in faith and fear simultaneously in a place where they say the two cannot coexist? When the daily multivitamins, “apple a day”, standing in the sun for Vitamin D, 30 minutes of movement, 8 hours of sleep, and 8 glasses of water didn’t work or didn’t happen: what then? Who would come to the aid of the loved ones sending text messages, lighting candles, sprinkling holy water, and mounting cards with get well wishes at her bedside? What ambulance could teleport my anxiety out of this place where I was supposed to be summoning optimism? I crouched on my knees, my calves, ankles, and feet positioned to the left and right of my rear. I put my face between my knees, unconcerned about the carpet germs. Could this be a place of miracles? Could the sobs of the heavyset, middle-aged man next to me to be some ukuthwasa manifesting healing or signaling the Savior? Or would this just forever be the place that would covet a part of my heart and cremate it to an insoluble stench like the ashes of the cigarettes the “visitors” chain-smoked?

Dear School Street,

When I had to move from my first solo apartment just 9 months after moving in, I was frustrated. I just moved 1200 miles away from my family to start a new life on my own. I was settling into a new state, job, and chapter, just for it to be ripped out from under me unexpectedly.

Unbeknownst to me, you were about to change my life.

Shortly after moving in, I met this friendly, older gentleman who invited me into his home while I contemplated if he was secretly a murderer about to take me as his next victim. I trusted my gut when it led me to believe he was just an old-school, stand-up guy.

Luckily, my gut was right.

We’d grow close over the next few months. He’d meet my boyfriend, then steal him away for grocery store trips. We’d watch cross-country train videos on tv while he told me stories of his days on the road as a celebrity bus driver.

We became family in every sense of the word.

I’ll never forget the first time my neighbor needed me to take him to the hospital.

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the last time.

After over a year of multiple ER visits, my neighbor’s oldest daughter made the decision to move in and help take care of him. It was bittersweet being able to put a face to the woman I had spoken to on the phone so many times.

It only took a few months for us to grow as close as I did with her father. He’d always told us we were sisters, but now we embodied that relationship and then some.

We were one big happy family, the five of us. My neighbor, his daughter, her husband, myself, and my boyfriend turned fiancé. You’d never know we’d only met a few years ago. We spent so many days, holidays, celebrations, and life milestones together.

Then, a couple months before my fiancé and I were set to get married, things took a turn.

Watching TV in my bed one morning, I received a call from my neighbor’s daughter. I answered it cheerily only to find her distraught on the other end. All I heard was “I think my son might be dead”. I was out the door on my way.

Her son, days after his 35th birthday, called her that morning expressing his discomfort and struggle to breathe. While on that call, he would collapse and soon take his last breath.

I was the first to arrive at his apartment, where I found his mother outside breaking down, still unsure of what was going on. It’d be hours before we received confirmation that he was gone.

A week later, I awoke around 5am one morning to banging on my door. I opened it to find my neighbor’s daughter franticly telling me her father had collapsed. This wasn’t new in this home of ours, but when I crossed the threshold into his apartment, I felt in my heart this time was different.

I rounded the corner to her husband doing CPR on her dad. Once he saw me, he directed me to take over. Within minutes of opening my eyes, I found myself on the kitchen floor doing CPR as he lay there without a pulse. Paramedics arrived and brought him to the hospital with my fiancé and me behind them. When we arrived, they informed us he passed.

You have brought me so many memories, good and bad. Situations I never imagined I would find myself in. Events that will remain engrained in my heart forever.

You also gave me an entire family. A second father, another sister, aunts and cousins that I never would’ve had without you. We were able to make it through these tough times, because we were together.

YOU brought us together.

I will forever believe that all this happened for a reason. I was meant to move into your apartment so I could meet my neighbor, so we could become family, so I could later help his daughter through the losses of not only her oldest son but also her father. So that I could be her guardian angel here on earth.

Now that my husband and I have purchased our own home, we are leaving you behind. While I’m excited to see what the future holds for us, my heart breaks to see you go. To say goodbye. To accept that you will no longer be my home.

School Street Apartment – you have changed my life in ways I couldn’t have imagined. You’ve been here through it all. Held our sorrows, celebrated our joys, caressed our laughs, and embraced the highs and lows of life within your walls.

For that, I am eternally grateful.

Dead Childhood home,
As a child spending all those weekends with my grandmother in your living room, eating junk food, watching movies she rented from “Jamie’s” are some of my most cherished memories. You witnessed that woman spoil me rotten! Let’s not forget all the Christmas mornings that you witnessed my family have! The living room was your heart, looking back on it. As a child, I saw you as a kingdom, I saw you as a glorious mansion, you, childhood home, were my safe haven, and for as happy as I was, for some reason, I felt like you were happy, too. I used to think there was so much love in that house that eventually, you would explode.
You knew that wasn’t the case, was it? Because behind all the family get togethers, behind all the weekends I spent with my grandparents before and after my family moved in, behind all the holidays and Christmas mornings, there were closed doors. There were secrets. Weren’t there? You were always clean cut for the most part, from the outside looking in, everything, everyone, our family that lived within you, appeared normal. It was when no one was around that the evil you helped mask, showed itself. I did learn to love within your walls, but I also learned to hate within your walls, also. You were such a wonderful front.
You hid physical and mental abuse, alcoholism, drug addiction, affairs, and childhood trauma that still haunts me to this day. You were one of the masks. One of the biggest masks and you disguised the reality of the situation well, didn’t you? Do you remember when my uncle would go on dope binges? He wouldn’t sleep for six to ten days at a time. He would go into the attic late at night, thinking someone was up there. I would panic; my heart would start to beat so fast because I knew there was an entrance to the attic in the closet in our bedroom. I would put my earphones on and listen to Metallica until I passed out. I didn’t know if I would make it to see the next morning. I know it wasn’t your fault. I don’t hate you. I wanted to leave you on so many occasions but couldn’t because I was too young and didn’t know how to survive on my own.
I went from being a happy kid to a teenager that had to protect my family and myself from the same uncle before I even graduated from high school. You saw it. You could do nothing about it. Were you ever a happy home? You witnessed me growing up, you witnessed me leaving, though at the time, to be honest, I didn’t know that I wouldn’t see you again for years. In September of 2024, I came to visit you one last time. I figured it was time so say goodbye. Up until that point, it had been over a decade since I saw you. At one time, you were vibrant. When I returned, you were empty. Abandoned. All the life you had, physically and metaphorically, was gone, and you were alone and empty. You went from being my happy home, to my broken home, and finally, to just a husk. A building. As I stood inside of you for the final time, I was able to imagine happier times and like seeing a glimpse of a ghost or mirage, they all washed away, and you and I were there for the last time, together, alone. I said my peace and cried. Inside of you, love died, “if only walls could speak.”
I love and hate you,
Cody.

Dear Nashville,

I will never forget going to see you 3 times. I saw 4 rock concerts in your vicinity that I’ll always cherish. A cover band specializing in rock music performed at a honkytonk one night and blew my mind. For a long time, I tried to run away from rock and roll music. But thanks to you and that cover band, my love for it is stronger than ever. I also have more taste in country music than I ever did prior to visiting you. Thanks Nashville. I owe you a lot. See you this September for a 4th time.

Your friend

Michael Delianides

Dear Houston,
I never met you, just knew your name. But from the age of 17, I knew you were where my life would be forever changed. I was always looking for a place to call home. Although I had a family that showed me genuine care, St. Louis was never the place I was destined to be. I lived a life always searching, not feeling like I belonged.
When college approached, I thought about coming to meet you sooner. But I decided to go with what felt a little safer and took my educational adventures to Huntsville, AL. Good thing I’m not a girl who likes the traditional things in life. If I were, my journey to self would have ended there with getting caught up in the simplicities of life, getting married, building a family, the end. Although now, being single at 38, that doesn’t sound too bad.
I left Huntsville in 2009 but only returned to the cold arms of the Lou. Reality hit. The fantasy of graduating college and having the job of your dreams that aligns with your degree (the one you start paying for six months after graduation, every month until this day, with many forbearances and low-income repayment plans) began to fade. The dream of living in your destined city dims into buried hope for eight years.
Eight years of becoming a shell of myself. Living just to survive. Making only enough money to pay $398 in rent and a $202 car note, yet barely having enough money to enjoy life. Of course, you force yourself into a relationship because that’s what adults do, right? But what I found out is that I never grew up. I wasn’t an adult. Love was something I didn’t understand.
So, that relationship hurt. Not solely because of the other person but because I didn’t know who I was, what I deserved, how to love anyone, or how to receive it. Again, I was lost, thinking I would find myself in a person. And when that didn’t happen, I filled myself with food and toxic behaviors. Numbness soon followed, and though I longed so deeply to escape, the courage to leave and meet you slowly but surely dissipated altogether.
My desires were replaced with others’ desires. Can you believe I almost missed my opportunity to meet you? I nearly betrayed you and the deep heart nudging to be with you to live in LA. “I wouldn’t be alone,” was my reasoning. But thank God I got there and quickly learned I had no one at all. My heart would never be in that city.
I finally reached my breaking point in April 2017. There was nothing left to lose. So, I ran. No walking. No looking back. I ran to you. And Houston, you welcomed me with open arms. I finally felt free and knew I was where I was supposed to be.
Even though it wasn’t a true plan in place, you looked out for me. Your culture and diversity brought about a new experience I had never witnessed in my entire life of segregation (yes, it still exists). There was always something to do, somewhere to explore. I thank you for that. I never felt tired of the immense social activities. I had no time to be bored.
Houston, you were the best escape. The best city to live in for a girl like me. I looked for you my entire life, and I have found you.
For six and a half years, every week was filled with a party here, drinking there, and being engulfed in a sea of men. It was fun, exciting, intriguing. Then suddenly, there it was a slight tug on my heart. Could it be? The feelings I ran from for 36 years coming back to flood me?
So, I tried to turn my direction a little. But I couldn’t let go of what you gave me. I couldn’t betray the life I’d become accustomed to. I owed you. You got me out of the depths of emptiness and the boringness of life. Clearly, I just needed to explore you more to find the spark I once felt. But I battled.
Houston, you no longer felt like my warm, cozy home. You felt more and more like an isolated island.
Then, one doctor’s visit changed everything. Restrictions were given. All I had now was the purity of water, self-discipline, and thoughts I had run from for many, many days. I was lonely since my life could no longer be filled with the foods from restaurants I loved or the drinks that transported me to another world. Access had been denied.
What I found is that you couldn’t save me. Being here and indulging wasn’t going to save me from me.
But being with you, Houston has saved me. Had I never come to you, I would not have known true independence from my family. I wouldn’t have learned what it means to truly grow up. Not because of the increasing number every 365 days on a calendar but because of hard, tough experiences that shape you, change your perspective, and that you must face alone.
You gave me room to build confidence and be myself. There was no one way I needed to be. Meeting different people from all walks of life showed me that I didn’t need to fit in a box to be me, to be who I was created to be.
Most importantly, had it not been for you, Houston, my renewed, firm foundation would not have been set. Who knew that the random thought at 17, “I will live in Houston,” was a guide from the Lord? Because you are where I would truly meet Him.
The Lord knew you would be my place. The place He would show up and snatch me into His arms. I would turn from the ways of the dark principalities of this world. I would forgive myself for the self-harm caused during my escapism. He knew it would be you who would provide the space to walk in purpose, to recognize generational traumas and bondage, and to break them.
He used you to get to me, to show me my patterns, my habits, and my comfortability. He allowed me to live freely within you, learning your ways and accepting your openness. Ultimately, I found that going fully my way with you meant I was living in bondage and sin.
Houston, I thank you. Being here has granted me access to the freedom, love, and divine purpose I’ve searched for my entire life.
As we continue this journey, I know the Lord will be in the midst. And I will say that Houston has been and will continue to be the place of firsts: my first home, first puppy, first and only husband, first child, and the list goes on.
Houston, the love I have for you is deep. Thank you for holding space for me.

Yours Truly,
LuLu

Hello there, place that changed me.
Except you are me, aren’t you?
You hold all my memories and experiences.
You comfort me and scare me.

Truly, I can’t be without you.
Thank you.

In 26 years, you’ve endured.
Still there.
Still here.
Don’t you see, yet?
You’re the place that changed me.

Change is weird, isn’t it?
Constant.
Loved.
Hated.

But change… change is good.
You changed me. You did.
Do you know how?

I could’ve been dead.
I’m not.
I could be behind.
I’m not.
I could be poor, but I’m rich with learning and love.
You, the place that changed me, I adore.
You’re silly, and crazy, and always constantly with me.
You’re wise, and funny, and a place that continues to change me.

You’ve been an enigma, sometimes foreign.
But you’re a place still changing me.
I’d like to think I know you,
and just maybe I do.

You began as a place on my bucket list, a destination I wasn’t sure I’d ever see.

Then work, a new job, carried me over the Atlantic to the place of my ancestors.

Dublin and its surrounding towns welcomed me with open arms, pints of Guinness, golf on a links course, and a night filled with live Irish music, eating shepherds pie, and dancing.

I discovered good people and that I could drive on the opposite side of the road. My American brain made the change after some tense rides on roads too narrow for two cars at once and roundabouts with too many lanes.

More visits followed, each one as good as the last.

Memories were made with my soon to be wife, my daughter turning drinking age, and my dear friend of many years.

We stilled our car on an Irish country road and witnessed for ourselves the legend of coasting backward up a hill, defying gravity.

We climbed from the base of a mountain, The Long Woman’s Grave, to the top and let the wind hold us up from falling forward.

Ireland, you are my home away from home.
Never change from loving American eighties and country music. Never change your menu. May your people never lose their good, Irish soul.

Save me a Guinness until next time we meet.

(ProWritingAid Style Score: 100%)