Dear The Unsealed,

I had some drab nonsense of a poem thing written up for this, because you asked us in what way we are blossoming, or what is blossoming in our lives. Don’t get me wrong, I kind of liked some of the words I was using and the “true” meaning behind them. But, in order to answer your question with authenticity, I’d have to actually answer it in writing, which is the best way I speak, the loudest I think. In most other areas of my life, I’m quiet. So, I can’t answer your question with pretty poetic words, or beat around the bushes that I usually beat around. Not without losing parts of me, the parts of me that make that answer unique and closer to being understood, or at least conveyed in a well-meaning way.

What is blossoming? Well, in every way I am. It’s I who is blossoming. In May, all my life, everything I’ve done, I’ve prepped for this Month. This one Month, that… could change everything, hopefully for the better. Hopefully, in the way the smaller version of me wanted. This is for her now.

Of course, I don’t want to sound like I’m on a high horse, or like I’m pretentious and snobbish, and cruel. If I do sound like I’m on a high horse, there is a good chance I’ll knock myself down. I don’t want to be the smartest in the room, I want to learn from the smartest in the room. I don’t want the light shown on me. I’m okay in the dark. It may be cold, but I’ve been there a lot. I guess you could say we’ve become friends, the dark and I. However, having spent time there, a lot of time there, I know how necessary and vital the light is. I’d like to reserve the light for others who need the warmth, and maybe aren’t as comfortable with the dark. I’ve always said, “Don’t be like me”. Maybe not out loud to a crowd, but at least to myself. *Don’t be like me.*

I’m writing my first book. It is actually happening. Not the empty promise I made to my teachers in high school. Or myself when I was younger and found out Paolini was 15 and thought I’d be 15 knowing DAMNED well that wasn’t going to happen. I knew one day it would come. I knew I’d write a book and plan many others right after that. I don’t know how, but I knew, and it is a belief, a foundation, an unwavering truth, that is finally happening. 20 years in the making, and I see what so many before me have seen. The fun part? There is still more to see. There will never not be more to see, especially if you believe in infinity in any aspect.

The story I’m writing is truth-turned-fiction. It’s my story, and others were included. Getting back into reading after losing it, it’s true what they say – you don’t use it, you lose it. I realized so many small players play a part in our everyday lives. It’s never just one person, or two or three, sometimes, it’s ten. So many characters, they can last seconds in your story, shape our paths. Sometimes when you’re used to doing things alone, you forget that. But none of us ever did anything entirely alone, none of us. We may be on our own paths, we may be “alone,” but everything, even some original ideas, and yes, I do believe we can have some original ideas still, is part of the human condition, involves other people. Do you know how many people it took to get us here today, right now?

I’m blossoming. I’ve been learning from other people how to water myself. I’ve been learning the hard way, through observation and experimentation. Life has always been an experiment in experience for me. Life is also very hard. That’s why I still fight with my brain and my thoughts, but it’s different from before. I still want to leave, so badly do I want to just disappear, cease to exist, but also, I want to see things, see people just as much. See the turn of the century, which would only be 102 for me, and living that long could be possible. See people. We have the internet now, and travel is changing, and even though money is still very stupid, and useful, and stupid, conversations for another day, all things are easier and harder. I can see people thrive now. Even after hard times, and that’s nice, that is so damn nice. What’s keeping me here? People. No one special. No one in particular, just people.

I’m doing the things I never thought I’d do.

I’m seeing results in ways I didn’t think possible.

I’m probably thriving.

Because here is the thing, anything is better than 85% of my life so far, before these moments.

I may be barely surviving in other ways, but in some of the big ones… I’m alive.

I hope by watering myself, others learn to water themselves too.

This isn’t a perfect science.

I’m still going to have to learn, change, endure, and grow,

and sometimes I may even wilt.

But it will be worth it.

I feel the light, the warmth, over here in my cozy nook in this dark place.

From ashes, I built a way to see the light. So, yeah, I do come out of this place from time to time.

But it’s okay. Take the light, humans of Earth, take the light, keep going, and carve your path.

Just keep going.

 Hey World

Under a layer of soft earth, a little sprout reaches for the warmth of the sun and the brush of a soft breeze. This little sprout is here, alive and growing in this time and place. It is a miracle. A small child is born, a body filled with potential, a life filled with promise. A miracle.

I was born a long, long time ago. My body grew as bodies do, following a timeline of normal progression. My childhood was a mix of experiences, each laying the foundation of knowledge and beliefs. As a child, I saw the world from a child’s perspective. I regarded everything around me with curiosity. Each experience, each touch, taught me something. I learned all lessons well, each making me who I am today. 

My life has had times of growth and rest, ebbing and flowing with the seasons and the cycles of the universe. There were glorious smells of the places, the foods and the things that are anchored forever in my brain, making connections to memories and feelings. There were colors that created a feast for the eyes and sounds that played a soundtrack for my life. 

People have come and gone in my life, each for a purpose. Each person leaving indelible marks on my soul. Places and careers have come and gone. With each new beginning, the thought, “how did I get here? I didn’t see this coming” crossed my mind. My vision and understanding increased in scope and gained depth with each change. Pets and animals have been constant companions and protectors every step of the way. They have offered unconditional love, clear communication, and boundless opportunities for impromptu adventures. 

A perfect storm has twisted, scattered, (never lost) and bonded each experience into the exceptional blossom that is me and my life. With mindfulness, I planned a trip to sort my feelings, to understand experiences, to give myself grace, and the peace only understanding can provide. My trip included quiet and explosive times alone. Possibly sharing too much information with trusted friends and family. On the way to where I am I wrote, I took pictures and painted. Looking around my home and my brain, it is an explosion of colors and feelings. Life, just like art, is a process. You can’t hurry it along. There were moments of travel—brief trips, long hikes and times floating between trees in my hammock, swinging softly, listening to the whisper of the wind and the songs of the birds. With my dogs, of course.

A blossom is a thing of great work, of casting off the old and accepting the new. Of honoring the past, living in the present and holding space for walking bravely into the future, as it becomes my now. I fill my life with authenticity, intentionality, and responsibility. I have claimed ownership of my body and thoughts, and in doing that I have realized safety I have never known in my life. My life is blossoming with a sense of self worth that I have never had, and the fleeting thought that I don’t need to be perfect to be loved. I have forgiven generational trauma. I turned it into fertile ground for growing. Along the way, came the realization that judging past events by the knowing of today is not good practice.

Life is blooming everywhere around me, lifting me up, showing me the panorama of beauty that exists. This time it’s the whole vista, not just one leaf at a time. 

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

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

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

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

Style score 82%

Dear Old Me,

Wow. If only you could see where you’re going. Where you are now is nothing compared to where you will be. You would never believe how much you—and your life—will change.

Things seem scary right now. You’ve lost more than you ever could have bargained for: your job, your spouse, your sense of self-worth. You have no idea who you are, what you want, or where you are going. You feel as though you have hit rock bottom and are crawling around in the dark, looking for something to grasp onto.

You reached the point where the only way was up. Fumbling in the darkness, you grasped onto hope, to the light up ahead. You looked toward faith and not your fears. No matter the hardships weighing like an anchor on your chest, you knew that there was more to your story.

I’m grateful you didn’t give up on yourself. I’m grateful you kept your faith despite feeling torn down. I’m grateful you chose the path of taking care of yourself and understanding the pain that hurt you, but has not defined you.

You are not your mistakes or your past hurts. You are worthy of love. You are worthy of second chances. You are worthy of great things.

You didn’t understand and perhaps never will, why you had to go through what you did. We often ask why, but the question to be asking is, “Where?”

Where am I being asked to go?

Where do I need to change?

Where do I need to trust?

Where do I have to let go?

Where do I need to set boundaries?

Where is my intuition leading me?

Where is my faith calling me?

There are many “where” questions you will ask yourself in this healing process, and in doing so, you will discover you have more strength than you ever knew.

The old you will be a distant memory, and pretty soon you will realize a new version of yourself that you will be proud of. And that is worth celebrating every single day.

Love,

New Me

Style Score: 82%

Dear me,

Spring has brought about a wonderful change — you are a newlywed!

The wedding at the waterfall was stunning, with the magnificent cascading falls pouring down behind you, illuminating the radiance of all the good things happening in your life. The rain came right before the ceremony, just like some of the hard times you have recently been through with navigating loss of family and major changes in your life. But just as the rain cleared, and the sun came out at just the right time, so did the opportunity for joy in your life.

You’ve met an incredible man who loves and supports you, who makes you laugh every single day. He has been a true partner, lifting you up and being there for you in every way you’ve needed.

Despite the challenges of navigating a new blended family, you have the opportunity to grow, to become a stronger version of yourself for your girls. You’ve found a church community that uplifts you and your girls are thriving in and out of school.

Your life is blossoming because you are surrounded by love and support, which gives you the courage and strength every day. With this love as your anchor and faith as your guide, there is much to be thankful for.

Keep shining!

Love,
Me

Style score: 74%

Dear Unsealers,
I never imagined, even in my wildest dreams, that I would one day write these words—but today, I can say with confidence and gratitude: My life is blossoming. Not because it is perfect, but because, against all odds, I have found strength, purpose, and even beauty in what once felt like an endless storm.
My name is Lova, and I am a single mother raising a neurodivergent child—one whose very existence seemed to challenge everything and everyone around him. For years, he cried and screamed to express anxiety, frustration, or insecurity, and flinched at the flutter of a fly. His intense tantrums led to rejection from neighbors, expulsion from schools, and eventually, eviction from five homes. Strangers judged us, and many misunderstood him. He carried four lifelong diagnoses—autism, ADHD, behavioral disorder, and speech delay—and each day felt like a battle for understanding and acceptance.
When I arrived in Canada in 2015, I had nothing but dreams in my suitcase and faith in my heart. I had followed the promise of love, leaving behind my life in Paris to begin a new chapter with a man I had met seven years earlier—and married two weeks after landing. In the years that followed, I went back to school, earned two degrees, gave birth to my beautiful son, and began writing.
Then, when my son was diagnosed at four, everything shifted. I became more than a mother—I became his therapist, his advocate, his safe haven, his teacher, and his life coach. I had to leave my job, as his teachers and the school board said he couldn’t make it through a full school day due to a limited attention span. His hours were reduced, and I had to be home by 1:00 p.m. to welcome him. I had just started a PhD, but I had to pause it. I lost my jobs and my income—but I refused to lose my child.
Some days were so tough that we slept in hotels. I was reported to social workers. We were judged, dismissed, and sometimes verbally abused at grocery stores or in the park. Yet, through the trials, I saw glimpses of light. I cried—sometimes myself to sleep. I prayed. I hoped. I worked. I poured all my love into him. I became a full-time mom and a full-time dreamer, and I wrote through the exhaustion, the chaos, and the heartbreak.
Without any government assistance, I built a business from the ground up. I became a writing coach, transforming my pain into purpose and guiding hundreds of women in writing and publishing their own stories—even as I continued to write mine.
To date, I’ve published seven books, and three more are on the way—including a comic series that raises awareness around autism, child abuse prevention, and cultural diversity.
But my greatest story is not in a book.
It’s in my home.
It’s in the 14-year-old boy who now walks alone to the park—confidently and joyfully. It’s in the boy who now eats vegetables, rice, meat, chicken—and even chicken bones—after years of surviving on fries and fruit. It’s in the boy who now speaks in full sentences and teaches me new words in English. It’s in the boy who spent years on medication—and is now completely off it. It’s in the boy who was once considered “too much” for school—who now attends full days and brings home achievement certificates with pride.
In less than a year and a half, he has earned nine academic awards. His teachers adore him. His pediatrician has declared three of his four diagnoses “no longer relevant.”
And me? I am still standing. Still writing. Still thriving.
I am not just surviving. I am blossoming—because he blossomed first.
They said he would never be calm. He is.
They said he would never be independent. He is becoming.
They even said I might have to put him in a home by 13 because of his disturbing tantrums. At 13—exactly—he was medication-free.
They said I couldn’t raise him alone, but here we are.
They said I might never work again—and here I am, coaching women to own their stories and find purpose in them.
He is my miracle. My masterpiece.
People tend to call me super mom; however, the truth is, he’s the real superhero.
The world tried to label him. To limit him. To silence him. But I chose to believe in him. And slowly, the world is beginning to see what I saw all along.
I picked up my pen to encourage everyone out there who is going through some kind of ordeal.
To every mother walking through storms: hold on.
To every dreamer in the dark: don’t stop.
To every soul tired of fighting: don’t give up.
Your blossoming is coming.
I know—because mine is here.

Houseguests
I believe I detected a thumping knock,
Or did I hear the doorbell ring?
A meek voice followed,
Quivering in fear, pleading to be heard.
Reluctantly, I rose from my spot
To open the door and let the visitor inside.
“Oh, I am so happy,”
The quiet voice cried, showing gratitude.
The next day was peaceful—
No surprises or guests to attend.
My roommate and I made an acquaintance;
He was influential and called himself Fear.
Beside him, my heart pounded.
This couldn’t be a long-term relationship—
Of that, I was certain.
The next morning, as I waited
For that familiar thumping knock,
I realized that, in my time with Fear,
I had left the gates open
And undone all the secure locks.
With a grin on her face before me
Stood that electric, beautiful vision.
Her power was all-consuming and magnetic;
She called herself Miss Confusion.
Immersed in her presence, my heart fluttered,
A million thoughts rushed through my head,
Then stopped with a mouth stutter.
I needed her to take a back seat
While I gathered my thoughts.
Finally, she realized she wasn’t welcome.
As I watched her leave, I felt relief—
Though she had left , she left a lasting mark.
With her, she took my clarity and self-belief.
My soul had been stifled;
Now it was time to let it breathe and just be.
My mind felt cramped, with no room for company.
It was time to think and search for the real me.
With no map in hand, I started on my path,
Braving new roads unsure of where they led.
For it had been a struggle—
All those years I spent
Living my life in my head.

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