Dear Teal Lake,

I couldn’t tell just how much you had changed. All I have are some brief memories of standing in your waters and boating with my father over your glassy surface during annual vacations from sixty years ago. That was before anyone knew just how sick he was. Lung cancer claimed my dad shortly after I turned eight-years-old. I had no clue what the ramifications of losing my father would be. Looking back, I see them all too clearly now.

He would have been the magnetic north I needed for my life’s compass to work properly. Without my father, I was all over the map. No guidance. Questionable choices. Poor decisions. General unhappiness. Culminating in hitting rock bottom. With the support of friends, I started over. My wife took a chance on me as a reclamation project. I’ve done my best to validate her decision.

My mother never took me back for a Teal Lake vacation. She was even more lost than I was without my father. My mom was either unwilling to make the six-hour drive back to you or afraid of the memories awaiting her. Perhaps both.

But I never forgot about you and longed to return to your shores, maybe to glimpse ghosts from my past. Over the decades apart, your popularity waxed and then waned. Today, your resort business is just a shell of what it once was. They filled in the pool with dirt rather than water. Nature has reclaimed the golf course. The barn with the mounted skull of the 24-inch Northern Pike that I caught as a boy collapsed long ago. But you were still there, awaiting my return. My wife and youngest child indulged my flight of fancy and agreed to a vacation in one of the few rental cabins left on Teal Lake.

No ghosts and few memories greeted me as we explored the property along your shore. The best option seemed to be to make some fresh memories, and so we did. The property exuded tranquility. Sunsets were glorious. Your water inviting to slide into or glide across by boat.

There was one special moment after an hour swim out to Raspberry and Bird Islands and back that I’ll never forget. Exhaustion and exhilaration consumed me as I laid back in your waters and floated. I stared at the clouds overhead as they seemed to come closer. Were they were coming down to envelop me, or was I was rising toward them? I sensed definite movement, and a rendezvous with the clouds seemed very real and imminent.

It’s funny how your senses can deceive you. I decided against being swallowed by the clouds and perhaps being magically transported to a parallel universe, an alternate timeline, heaven, or a rural pig farm — my idea of hell. After I blinked and looked away, I found myself still on my back in your water with those mischievous clouds far up in the sky. I felt content to be right where I was with chapters, or at least pages, still to write in my book of life. With new memories of Teal Lake to complement the old, faded ones.

Fondly,

My Vanished Leningrad,

Venice of the north, land of the midnight sun, white night parties, and echoes of a grand dynasty tragically romanticized by Tolstoy that I was first introduced to, you are gone.

When we first met, I was swept up by your beautiful decay, formerly grand palaces, a few sparkling gems kept pristine for the slow trickle of tourists that began pouring in from the west before your latest incarnation.

Communism was on its death bed when I arrived as a tourist, staying with locals, not given the highly curated experience of the finest, presenting a falsely painted face to the west. I saw the wrinkles when passing by the lines for potatoes, the dark circles under your eyes when there was no butter or benzine in the city, and smelled your pungent body odor while crammed into a metro car when the hot water was turned off during the Summer. I fell for you, warts and all.

That Summer of 1990, six months before you would once again be reinvented, you embraced me and made me feel beautiful. Leaving the world of Los Angeles’ unrealistic beautify standards, I was now the exotic other that caught men’s eyes. I was ochi chernye, the dark eyed, dark hair beauty that men opened doors for, raked over with covetous eyes that were enthralled by the tall, strange American woman who was just twenty-one and eager to bite the fruit of worldly knowledge only travel could impart.

You seduced me with your grand architecture, enchanting me with art that I had only ever seen in books. Like a modern girl transported to a time long past, eyes wide with wonder, I traipsed through galleries lined with Rubens and Rembrandts at The Hermitage, treading the same intricately laid parquet floors that once felt the kiss of women’s courtly silk gowns, trimmed with lace, courtesans’ necks adorned with obscenely magnificent jewels.

Sitting with strangers in restaurants who would, in lyrically cadenced broken English, ask me about my supposedly exciting life growing up in Los Angeles, I was equally entranced to learn about their own lives growing up in a culture as foreign to me as if I had been transported to a different reality.

A life lived in innocent security in suburban America, I was thrown into a world where if you wanted to hide valuables, you closed the curtains and turned off the lights before stashing the American cash you brought into the country to avoid curiously prying eyes. The family friend who you traveled to the Soviet Union with would later take hundred-dollar bills to the black market to trade for the rate of thirteen to one when the official rate was a mere six dollars to one ruble. One did not speak too loudly for neighbor snitched on neighbor, reporting snippets of overheard conversations through paper thin walls to the KGB and local police, the GAI. Even cars, a luxury in Communist Russia, side-view windows were pulled off and brought indoors to avoid being pilfered and sold on the pervasive black market, the true economic engine that ran the city beneath the facade of centrally run government control, control that was crumbling during those last few months.

I was temporarily living a life worthy of a spy thriller, traveling beyond your authorized area my visa was approved for, hoping I would not get caught. A guileless American tourist testing the edges, giving the freedom loving middle finger to your Orwellian rules. I held no romantic notions about espionage, but for the briefest of moments, I was able to live the safe version of the spy fantasy.

Walking your streets, I observed locals staring at me with curiosity and suspicion, my face reflecting my western European roots, a stranger’s face in a strange land. Towering cottonwood trees producing a dusting of white, coating the streets with small drifts of fluff coated seeds, lazily wafting down like a gentle fall of snow in Summer, lit golden by the sun.

My circadian rhythm was upended and in disarray without the dark of night to guide my body, full of boundless energy as long as the sun shone. You made me dance my mad dance, like the red ballet shoes, driven to the point of exhaustion, unable to stop with your ceaseless and never-ending tune of sun and activity.

I hear you go by St. Petersburg these days. Oligarchs in Rolls-Royces and their spoiled children in Ferraris, who never knew privation, now prowl your streets. The city you once were still lies beneath. I saw you in your hungrier days, earnestly wooing me, and that is how I’ll always remember you, when you opened my eyes and became my first foreign love.

From America with Love,

Elise

Dear Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge,

I’ve got to hand it to you. You did everything possible to convince us to succumb to the cold. You gave us the darkest of nights. You raked us with your wicked winds and froze us with your biting cold. You got us lost. You tempted us with hope, then ripped it away. More than once, you made us think our baby was dead.
Through it all, we survived. All of us. True, the missus and I succumbed to permanent damage from our icy walk. We suffered the loss of our toes and still feel pain in our extremities when the mercury drops. But we are alive.
Though the cold is what ravaged our bodies, still reminding us thirty-two years later with every painful step we take, it was the isolation that has given me nightmares. Thoughts of your extreme remoteness and barren high desert emptiness keep me up some nights. Trapped in the depths of your vastness with no hope for aid terrifies me still.
As I have already said, all three of us survived. You failed. We faced starvation. We stood against your blasting snow and sub-zero temperatures. We shrugged off your threat of howling coyotes. Hidden in your furthest corners against all these obstacles, we triumphed.
It was touch and go for a while, but with our will to endure and our drive to keep our infant son alive, we did not go quietly. We fought every inch of our long march to thwart your plans for our destruction.
Maybe it was a test of our will. A test to see if we could, despite the most difficult predicament, keep our baby alive. Did we find you so we could prove our worth? I’ve thought about this often over the years. Was it a challenge set forth by some unseen force to probe the limits of human endurance? The spiritual side of me, seeking beauty in all things, tells me this scenario is possible.
My more pragmatic side, however, always wins this debate. It was an initial mistake on our part not to inform anyone exactly where we were headed. After that, we faced decision after decision, any one of which, if chosen poorly, would have ended in our demise. We made the correct call time and again until we found our way out of your labyrinth of death. That we are still here is a testament to an undying will to save our baby.
We beat you. Yes, we still bear the scars to remind us, but we beat you. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of those nine days. Decades have gone by, and the baby is now a man with children of his own. Not only did we beat you, we thrived despite your efforts to end us.
Our suffering has become an inspiration to others. People say things like, “I could never have done what you did. I’d be dead for sure.” My response is always the same. I tell them that I would have said the same thing if it had never happened to me. You can never know what you’re capable of until you are tested, like we were. When the life of your innocent child is in your hands, you will stop at nothing to save them.
Your efforts to kill us have only fostered a stronger will to survive and confidence in our ability to do so. It has also given hope to those with whom we share this story. In a way, your methods of culling the human population have only increased and fortified it.
So, while I hate you for trying to kill me, my wife, and our son, I thank you for making me the person I am today. I am strong. I am resilient. I appreciate the little things. I have faced death and won. I live a good life and can say, with confidence, much of it is because of how you changed me.

Sincerely,
Jim

Dear Hospital,

It’s crazy how five days could end up feeling like three weeks. I guess the days kind of blur together when they’re all pretty similar and you’re spending the majority of them wallowing in loneliness and self-pity.
After the EMT escorted me to one of your rooms, she left me alone with my thoughts and a criminally prepared meaty dish. The sunshine blasting through the window made me both glad not to be enduring the Georgia summer heat, but envious of everyone who had the freedom to do so.

Over several months in early 2020, I noticed several unusual changes in my body that no one had answers to—at least, not for a while. One night, on a road trip home from a family reunion in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I was worried my already not-perfect vision was worsening. The traffic lights looked unusually blurry, and the words on the road signs looked as if they were fused together. I assumed it was time to return to the optometrist and maybe get a stronger glasses prescription. It wasn’t that simple.
Before my family and I left Pittsburgh, I spent more time than I was used to napping whenever possible, and my movements started resembling those of a baby deer. I remember being terrified that going down the stairs of the Airbnb would be the death of me. The constant fatigue certainly didn’t help either. Maybe I should eat more? Maybe I should eat better? Maybe the summer heat was sucking up all my energy? No, it was more than that.

After partaking in several doctor’s appointments, it was decided I should stay with you for several days so they could figure out what was really wrong. Aside from the obvious symptoms, what was wrong was having a bed that alerted nurses whenever I got up. What was wrong was having my regular whimsical wardrobe replaced with unflattering hospital gowns. What was wrong was being too wobbly, so I couldn’t shower without a nurse nearby to catch me if I fell. What was wrong was only eating fruit and drinking water, ginger ale, and orange juice, because nothing else I was given was edible. What was wrong was not being able to fall asleep at night because I was alone and scared. What was wrong was not feeling like myself because I wasn’t wearing my signature long braids. If I knew I was being hospitalized, I would’ve braided my hair to my liking way before.
Every day came with a new surprise during my stay with you. Certain events were pretty consistent, like the nurse check-ins, temperature and blood pressure checks, and the blood draws. But one day, a woman entered my room with a pamphlet on Christianity and briefly spoke to me about God. On another day, two doctors came into my room and took cerebrospinal fluid from my lower back. Then, I was wheeled out of my room to get put in a much colder room while my brain was examined.
After every encounter with a medical stranger, I was always brought back to my room to sleep, read, scroll through Pinterest, or talk to my friends or family on the phone.
But no matter who I spoke to on the phone during those five days with you, they all felt far away. While I was getting poked for blood, they were engaging in family dinners. While my hunger was diminishing due to the smell of the food your staff prepared, which was killing my appetite, they were eating takeout. While I was being supervised while taking a shower, they were going to the pool.

While my stay with you might’ve been necessary to give me a proper diagnosis of multiple sclerosis, being with you definitely messed with my brain. I was stunned to find out I was only with you for five days when it felt like three weeks. It took me some time to get used to eating decent food again, waking up every day in my own bedroom, and being able to get out of bed without setting off an alarm. It also took a while for my clothes to feel like they were mine again after not being able to wear any of them until my final day with you.

And yet, as I sat by the window in my mother’s car on the way home from my time with you, wearing my red dress and matching knit hat, I felt the edges of myself start to settle again. The time with you had taken five days, but the time left behind a strange echo—like I’d stepped out of time and back into a life that needed reassembling.

Sincerely,
Amanda Glover

Snow on the ground
Chill breeze in the air
Footprints in the mud
Birds flying gracefully in the sky
I sit on the bench overlooking the lake
The bench that sits alone
Surrounded by metal barriers
Near the clear waters
Looking into the distance
I calmly relax the body
The body that
Walked around the lake
The body that
Cautiously walked on icy paths
The body that
Inhaled the fresh crisp air
The body that
Needed the rest
Rest from feeling
Rest from carrying the weight
Of the world
Rest from thinking
I sit on the bench that
Wrapped its arms
Around my body
The bench that
Accepted every part of me
Every part of my story
Every part of my healing
The bench that
Let me know
I was safe
Safe from the world
Safe from the hurt
Safe from all
That was holding me down
Snow on the ground
Chill breeze in the air
Footprints in the mud
Birds flying gracefully in the sky
I sit on the bench
And cry
Cry for the little girl
Who needed love
Who needed assurance
Who needed guidance
Cry for the woman who
Is finally free
Free from the pain
Free from the enemy
I get up from the bench
And walk away lighter
Than when I sat
I walk away
With my head held higher
I walk away
With love
With dignity
With respect
With purpose
The bench that sits alone
Will forever feel like home.
– Lynx Lake. Prescott, Arizona.
The bench that changed my life. Put my healing journey in perspective.

Style Score 100%

I went to the same high school that Junie B. Jones went to

But even though we lived where the same roots grew

It was not the same story

I’m a part of the only graduating class that held graduation in the street in front of the school and not on the football field

The only class where our Senior Trip in the spring almost got cancelled because of snow

The 20th Anniversary of Red & White Night

I lived in the town next door
A 5 min drive but a 30 min walk away
Just outside the radius where the bus could pick me up

I walked to high school all four years
All four years I took dance instead of gym
All four years I had the same best friend
And all four years my father was in prison

He actually got out right before graduation and I told him not to come
That year was not just the biggest year of my life but my whole family
My single mother
my sister and my brother
I’m turning 18,
sister turning 16,
brother turning 13

It was a big year
So much was happening and I shed so many tears
Not the point of this poem
But I would like to set the scene here

I look back and my high school is the place I hold most dear

This school is in a small town with big town energy

A Homecoming Parade that shut down every street in every direction

I would wait all year to taste chili while watching art be formed out of ice downtown

Every Thanksgiving even after I graduated you’d see all the alumni at the football game

It was my escape just a town over but I still didn’t understand why so many people stayed

I felt stuck and caged but I was young

I would walk those streets hoping for the day I would never see them again

I cherish now what I hated then

Knowing now that this town and that high school changed my life

This is where my relationship with learning became stronger

My love for History and Literature grew

Becoming my double majors later in college

For the first time I would share short stories and poems with my English teachers outside of class hours

And as of 2024 I became a published poet

This is where my history teacher let me lead a class about the duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr

Later becoming the first school I substitute taught at

This is where I spent time putting books back on shelves in the library

Where I played 3 sports and auditioned for a musical

I got a call back but wasn’t there when they called my name

Only because I was on a bus going to a football game

Cheerleading my senior year led me to join the dance team in college

This town and that high school is where I gained so much knowledge

No not the right words, not enough

To this town and that high school I pay homage

I have so much appreciation for people who may not remember my name

Teachers and other students all the same

There isn’t enough thank yous to suffice

To this town and that high school that changed my life

Dear 32 acres of pine tree forest and boulder mountains,

My family and I call you, “The Property.” But that name does you no justice. It sounds so simple, so barren and lifeless, so ordinary and unique. The opposite of everything you are.

My family loved spinning the tale of how our family ended up at The Property. Just outside of Cotopaxi, Colorado, my great grandparents built their house 9,000 feet high in the rocky mountains in an isolated community called Indian Springs. I listened, amazed and uncertain, as the story continued with the twist that both of them had seen this spot in a dream and set out to find it, succeeding only after a couple of years. Their dream led them across the Arkansas river, up a windy dirt road surrounded by impossibly high pine trees, and through moss-kissed boulders clustered haphazardly throughout the forest, as if the gods had shaken them in a cup and rolled them across the earth like dice.

They built their house without help, just each other and a few lengthy stretches of optimal weather. They also installed a solar panel, dug a well, constructed a greenhouse, and in only 5 year’s time they were not only living comfortably in a cozy, two story masterpiece in the spot they had dreamed of, but they were self-sufficient.

My grandma also added that in her dream, my older sister Kyla and I would find treasure somewhere in the mountains on The Property. My daydreams filled with Cherokee artifacts and chests of rubies and turquoise.

When they shooed us off, we didn’t mind. We had games to play. I soon forgot that story, but it always lingered in the back of my mind.

Life on The Property was magical. We ran barefoot across all 32 acres. We knew every climbable tree, every cave that was bear-less, every pathway across the jagged disfigured rocks. Chasing each other from sunup to sun-down, we blended into nature like two baby fawns.

We created and played a game called “Niamalis.” In Niamalis, a group of orphans were forced to flee their miserable life at an orphanage because of a series of earthquakes, and upon climbing a nearby rock formation, they accidentally fell into an invisible portal leading to the magical world of Niamalis. Each orphan had unique magical gifts, from the ability to shoot fire from their palms to the ability to shapeshift into and communicate with birds. It was a wild story, and we played it every single day.

But the summers would always come and go much too fast.

During the school year, we lived in an uncomfortably small trailer with our mom, stepfather, and other little sister, Aspen. My parents never left their room, as they were hiding a drug habit I was too young to understand, and so my mom micromanaged us from behind the door, from sunup to sun-down.

By the time I was 6, Kyla who was then 8, and I were responsible for getting ourselves up and ready for school, making our own meals, doing our own laundry, cleaning the house and the dishes, and watching our younger sister, Aspen, who was only 3.

I battled a lot of frustration during that time. Wanting to have nice clothes for school but no laundry soap to wash them, wanting to take a bath but feeling scared of the thin brown layer of something that coated the bath tub wall and floor, wanting to make my stomach stop feeling so hungry but not having the food to soothe it, trying to make friends but struggling with bullies and indifferent teachers, wanting clean dishes but not having the dish soap to clean them, were a few of the major frustrations I faced daily.

I thought that if I could somehow complete these impossible tasks our mother burdened us with the responsibility of figuring out ourselves, that she would be proud of us, and want to spend time with us. Any time at all. But even during the times the house was stocked with laundry detergent or dish soap, my mother was never satisfied with the work we completed, and she remained in her room, untouchable and out of reach.

Things got worse when one of my mom’s friends shaved all of my hair off after I had tried to cut a section of it myself. It was not only unnecessary, but it had a devastating effect on my self esteem and my social life.

I started getting into fights at school because I couldn’t tolerate being bullied. My peers knew I was a girl with a shaved head, but they were relentless, insisting I was a boy who had become a transgender. It seemed like the teachers and staff were not aware that I was a girl, gently trying to persuade me to quit saying I was. I would just stare at the ground, furious tears welling in my eyes. I was sure they could have looked at my file and seen an “F” in the gender category, but if they did, they didn’t show it.

(Since I am part Native American, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch for Cheyenne to be a male name.)

Whenever my mom would come to the school, it felt like a twisted sitcom, where the subject bounced around but never was directly said. I kept hoping that someone would confirm that I wasn’t a boy but a girl, and that the students shouldn’t be harassing me about my gender. Unfortunately, at the time I didn’t have the words to express that need and it always slipped through my fingers.

At school, I was an outcast in a war zone. At home, I was a “quit buggin’ and finish cleaning!”

I felt very alone, and powerless to make change.

But then summer would come, and my sister and I were free, running barefoot through the dry tundra grass, hair billowing in the wind like sails, cheeks flushed, smiles finding our faces once more. The Property was like a whole other world. It didn’t matter that we were orphans, or that our home was a disaster, because we had fallen into Niamalis, and if we trained and practiced our skills, we were undefeatable.

As life moved on, each twirl of the Earth’s rotation around the sun brought more and more chaos. When I was 13, they sentenced my stepfather, to whom I had grown very close, to 48 years in prison. I was homeless and on the streets one Christmas when I was 15, and part of me wonders if the rage I felt could have been the fuel that kept me alive in the bitter Colorado cold. When I was 21, I had my daughter, and my favorite Aunt Teri passed away, just barely missing the chance for them to meet. We lost my great grandfather and this year, when I am now 29 years old, we lost my great grandmother.

I hope one day I will get to find the treasure that she predicted we would find in her dream. I hope I can bring those excited smiles back onto my sister’s face, and I hope I will hold on to the faith that miracles can happen.

Dear 32 acres of pine tree forest and boulder mountains,

You have given me strength, and motivation, and peace. Some may never see you as more than random trees and rocks, but I see you like an old friend, whom I love dearly.

One could even speculate that the treasure had already been discovered. During those sunny summer afternoons, among small barefoot prints pressed into the dirt, wild flower crowns and giggles that echoed for miles, we had found an escape from our pain and sorrow.

My family still lives there to this day, and I’m sure my family always will. Because we know that it’s not just the beauty and the memories that make it so enjoyable.

Dear Property, you are also proof that Heaven exists.

But Im In no rush to get to Heaven.

I’ve got a piece of it right here.

90%

I’m sorry I couldn’t do it anymore. I danced the dance, jumped as high as I could, and played the part. In the end, I could tell that nothing I did was good enough for any of you, and your looming eyes constantly judged me. I could feel the walls closing in with invisible pressure. For a while, I thought that the pressure and constant suffocation were just parts of life. You’ll never guess, it’s not. I escaped it — the clamor, the fake smiles, and the disdain. No one cared for me, no one treated me as an individual; I was a cog in a wheel. I was just another person to be sucked into the machine.

Now I’ve found my tribe, I found those who would let me be who I was meant to be. I moved hundreds of miles away, and it was just far enough to feel things that every human is made to feel. I finally feel hope. Nature, humanity, and a compassion that everyone deserves to feel, these things lift my spirit. This is the place, this is the Grand Canyon.

Yes, I live and work at the Grand Canyon. I stare at a hole in the ground for eight hours a day with a simple job and great benefits. I have a tiny community, but its more than you could ever be. I have real responsibility to this community, and it treats me well. When I was ill, it gave me strength, and when I was afraid, it gave me safety. Yes, the tourists are a bit dumb, but they are funny, and if you give them ice cream, they are nice.

Genuineness was not your forte. However, here it abounds. I never felt so much freedom from people in their own cliques and prejudices. I love it here, but to be honest, I wouldn’t have been as grateful if it weren’t for you. Yes, here it is isolating, and there is little to no excitement or class, but the people here care for each other. When I’m on the edge of the cliff, about to fall into the canyon, people here pull me away and pick me up instead of waiting for me to do it. People see each other’s struggles, and most care. I care.

I am part of a larger whole. A paint stroke in a masterpiece. I am so grateful it was to something that is so beautiful, and frankly I am glad it’s not you. Though my isolation may lose me to the world, I found myself. I found my people. I found my home.

To betray me, the life we created, the family we made for a few nights of fun and attention is absolutely ridiculous. I hope you hurt as much as me. I had to leave everything behind and give up everything I put in because of you. I had to put my pride to the side so many times and in exchange all I’ve received is a dictionary book of lies. Don’t ever think I knew my worth by what I allowed. I just loved you and figured I could pull you out of the hole you dug in your head but instead our relationship was already dead. Have you ever tried to make things right even though you’re not the one who messed things up? Right when our lives were getting at its best, you stopped being the man I loved with no regrets. You made me feel safe and one day I didn’t. You made me feel like it was us against the world but now it’s just me and my children. You made me feel like no matter how much life thrown us pieces, that we were going to find a way to finish our puzzle. What went wrong? I still don’t know. I’m still shocked. I still can’t let go. I can’t let go of what you did and how you did it but at least I’m still going. One thing you’ve never had to do is to remind me how to be a mom but here I go reminding you of what a parent is capable is doing. Does that make sense to you? You went from playing “peek-a-boo” to never seeing you’re crew. Was it worth it? Are you happy now? I never thought being a single mother wild be so hard. It’s tough, it’s tiring, it’s very ghetto and I don’t recommend it. When daddy is wrong or not there, mommy has to answer all of the questions. So now I’m lying to them to make them feel good. You’re actually not sh.t and deserves your ass whooped. Growth is real and that’s the only reason why I haven’t did you the way you did us. Have fun while you can because karma is real and you deserve everything coming your way so I hope you’re ready to make lemonade.

Down… far away from the sight,
an enchanted forest escapes.
Do not ponder on the unite,
each comes in a multitude of shapes.
They take your hand
to show you the world.
Only to take away your land,
but you’ll be stuck in their magic, which is swirled.
Not your cup of tea?
You know you’re paying for their game.
DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT YOU SEE!
Unless you do… such a shame.
How can you move forward,
if you never listen to your word?

A place that truly had a meaningful impact on me and changed my life. I call it the Bowel Chapel. It was inside of a hospital where I worked. I entered it many time on my breaks, to relax and say a little prayer. Little did I know that someday, that it would leave a stain on my heart.

Before I began my horrific head-on collision with breast cancer, I was one of those nosey patients who didn’t want to wait until my MD gave me the results. I wanted to know now, not later. They are my results, why should I wait. No one will ever understand, until they go through it. The worst part of having cancer is waiting on those first results. The life that you knew, is ovcr. You’re in limbo. You can’t plan, you can no longer laugh and have fun, because you’re not sure how long it will.

One day at work I said to myself, it time. It’s time to find out for sure. I went to my computer to begin my search. I was on a mission. I was aware of the time limit it would take to obtain the results. Once I located them, I immediately wished that I hadn’t. Yet here I am, “I really have cancer”, now what? I totally froze. It was like a dream and I was going to wake up any minute now. This can’t be real. I began screaming inside, why God, why? Why would you do this to me? I depended on you. Through all the prayers that I had obliged you with previous these results. How could you let this happen?

I got up from my chair in a daze and began walking away from my desk, not knowing where I was going. I could hear voices around me, but yet I didn’t. I just knew I didn’t want to be around anyone . I needed to go somewhere to be angry, to hurt, cry and cuss God out loud and I wanted to do it alone. I landed on the first floor, not even remembering taking the elevator down. I kept walking with my head downward, not wanting to have eye contact with anyone. Didn’t want to have to fake a smile nor a greeting, nor did I want to receive one, because it wouldn’t be genuine. Why would it? God has not been genuine. He has totally let me down.

I got even angrier when I spoke of God. Were you not listening during my prayers? Are you truly there? Am I not your child? All of these years, I thought that you were the one thing I could depend on. That’s what I thought. Yes, I had my own personal relationship with God. Now, I’m not sure if he’s even real. How could he? I’m in a stage of hopelessness! As I was walking, I stopped for a moment to seek a bathroom or to find a way to exit the building so that I could go and cry out loud, shed all the tears I could in a hide-away place. I needed to let out the hurt.

As I began to seek an exit, I noticed that I had landed in front of the Bowels Chapel. Why, who knows? I definitely wasn’t going in there. I no longer believe in such. As I began to walk away, something made me turn back towards the chapel and I entered. I was glad to see that no one else was within. I didn’t want to cry in front of anyone nor did I want their pity.

I walked all the way to the front of the chapel and sat in one of the front pews. I sat and began to cry and pray out loud, and I continue downgrading God. Making sure I let him know how I felt. How disappointed I was in him. Suddenly as I’m crying I felt a strong presence, a strange feeling, one like no other. It was as if someone was sitting next to me. I was guided to kneel to my knees, I didn’t know why, but I did it. I began to cry and pray some more, but this time the crying was much harder, but different. It was if I was crying of joy, releasing all my tears. I suddenly heard those spoken words “You will be OK, trust and believe and everything will be OK”.

It was like someone was physically near me speaking, but there wasn’t. I got up from my knees, tears dried up and I began to realize what had just happened. My faith returned. From that day forward, I didn’t have another negative feeling concerning my journey through cancer. Yes, once in a while, I owld get sad, it’s normal, but I kept hearing those words. I carried them with me throughout my journey and I knew one thing for sure, I was going to be OK. My cancer journey didn’t start with my results, it truly began in that precious place, the Bowels Chapel. I was never alone!

Dear Bedroom,

You’re just a room, really. Four walls, a bed, a closet full of clothes. But to me, you are sacred ground. A place where heaven reached into earth and pulled me back from the edge. You don’t look like a sanctuary, but that’s exactly what you became.

I remember the way the light hit the walls that day. It was October 12, 2018. The air felt heavy, like even the atmosphere understood the battle raging inside me. I had reached the end—of my strength, my hope, my desire to keep trying. I had decided it was over.

No one knew what I was planning. I wore the mask well. I smiled when I had to. I said, “I’m fine” more times than I could count. But deep inside, I was unraveling. And that night, I truly believed the world would be better without me in it.

I sat on the edge of my bed, drowning in silence. The weight of my pain pressed against my chest like a thousand bricks. I didn’t want to cry anymore. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted peace—or what I thought peace would be. But just as I was about to let go, something stopped me.

A stillness came over the room. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It wasn’t a voice from the clouds. It was a whisper—gentle, but undeniable.

“Stay.”

One word. One breath of God that broke through the noise in my mind.

And then, again, a little louder:

“I still have plans for you.”

I froze. My heart stilled for a moment. I had spent so long convinced I was forgotten by God—convinced He had nothing more to say to me. But in that moment, in the very place where I was ready to end it all, He showed up. Not with judgment. Not with anger. Just presence. Just love.

You, my bedroom, became an altar. A quiet, sacred space where the God of the universe reached into my mess and whispered life back into my bones. I didn’t get off that bed healed or whole—but I got off that bed still breathing. Still here. Still willing to try.

Since that night, you’ve seen it all. Tear-stained pillows. Journals filled with raw prayers and half-scribbled Bible verses. Worship songs played softly in the dark when I couldn’t sleep. You’ve held the weight of countless moments—relapses and recoveries, hope and heartbreak, growth and grief. And through it all, God kept meeting me here.

I’ve come to realize that sometimes the most holy places aren’t cathedrals or sanctuaries—they’re bedrooms. They’re quiet spaces where pain meets presence, where despair collides with grace. Places like you.

I’m still here. I’m still walking. Still healing. Still believing in the God who told me to stay.

Thank you for being the place where everything could’ve ended…
but instead, everything began again.

With all my heart,
Anoukha
(A life held together by grace)

Dear Unsealed,
Dear Surgeons and my Primary Doctor,
April 2022 marked a turning point in my life. My battle with COVID in January 2021 wasn’t just a fleeting illness—it lingered, wreaking havoc on my body long after the virus itself had passed.
One night, in unbearable pain, my roommate dropped me off at the ER at Riverside Community Hospital. The pain in my abdomen and throughout my body was excruciating, yet they left me suffering in the lobby. Struggling to breathe, I finally convinced them to let me lie down.
When a nurse finally took me back, I underwent countless invasive X-rays, each one adding to my discomfort. The results were alarming. My stomach was dangerously close to my heart, and my gallbladder was so infected that it had become gangrenous, leaking green bile into my abdomen. The doctor told me, in no uncertain terms, that without surgery, I would not survive.
The weekend passed in a blur as I lay in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs, receiving hydration and antibiotics. Early Monday morning, they wheeled into a surgery that was a procedure that lasted for hours. When I awoke in my shared hospital room, a kind (and very handsome) nurse gently turned me, and through my pain, I joked, “You can turn me anytime.” The dude was alright!
Recovery was brutal. The pain was beyond anything I had ever experienced, a 25 on a scale of 1 to 10. I spent over a week in the hospital, and when the surgeon recommended rehab, I initially resisted. But once I realized how difficult even the smallest movements had become, I knew I needed help.
Before this, I had never undergone major surgery, save for two cesareans in the ‘80s and a broken finger surgery back in 1964. This experience changed my life completely. COVID was not just an illness, it was a cruel bacterial infection that ravaged my body.
When I finally returned home, I had new challenges. My body was weak, and the pain was relentless. I relied on a walker to move around, and even minor tasks, like preparing my liquid diet, felt monumental.
Before COVID, I walked eight miles a week. Now, walking to the mailbox and back feels like an achievement. The transformation was something I never could have prepared for. My diet had to change entirely. Gluten and lactose were my new norm, and worst of all, I had to say goodbye to red meat. No more In-N-Out burgers. It took two years of trial and error to figure out what I could eat without getting sick. Every grocery trip was a painstaking process, reading labels to avoid hours of misery.
Everything about my life from 2021 to now is unrecognizable. We, as human beings, are not invincible. Life is not just lollipops and ice cream. We are not gods. My lifestyle flipped 180 degrees because of circumstances I never saw coming.
In 2023, at the urging of my therapist, I returned to writing. It was a way to reclaim my mind, even when my body felt foreign to me. Adjusting to my new limitations was hard and accepting financial instability was even harder, but I push forward, even when the odds seem stacked against me.
I miss my long walks, my metro rides across Southern California. Losing them hurts my pride, my dignity, my sense of self. But life does not promise us roses without thorns, nor roads without pebbles.
And despite it all, I carry on.

ProWritingAid 100 percent

My dear Baton Rouge,

Baton Rouge, Louisiana my home, the place that raised me, and known as BR. I can classify you as a rare and unique place. It wasn’t easy by a long shot embracing the culture, struggles, and demographics that came with you. Despite my five-year absence, you still hold a grip on my heart. Visiting isn’t quite the same, but I can’t be without my family, the food, and raw culture that is you.

From introducing me to my first kiss, fight, girlfriend, job, and having my first car. I learned a lot about life that equipped me with a different outlook and way of thinking. During intense moments, I recall hating you and failing to grasp the overall situation. You taught me how to resist temptations of others and enticement of events. Going southern university homecoming every year were it always ended in tragedy. Going to the club every night and it being shutdown early because of foolishness. Attending may night at McKinley high or block parties on plank road. Introduced me to music from Boosie, Webbie, Kevin Gates, Fredo Bang, Tec, Lil Handy, and Youngboy. As I look back in a weird way, you prepared me for my adult journey without me knowing. Starting my military career, intimidation set in, but I relied on my Baton Rouge background. Growing up, having many fights and situations made me fearless. Losing an endless amount of family members and friends to death made me heartless. Amidst my lessons and tragedies, I pieced things together without resentment toward you. Crossing your city lines always puts me in a vulnerable but pride state. I acknowledge your huge contribution to my being a father, husband, and role model. I thank you for every situation that groomed me into the person I am today.

Sincerely,

Reese

94%

Like the old saying goes, “home is where the heart is”, its so very true.

But for me, its much deeper than that. Home is where ever your heart leads you to be, yes, but its more so about where you endured and overcame the most, to be to where you need to be or currently are. For me, its my city. The westside of Chicago, Ill to be exact.
Yeah I know, chicago has a very bad rep of being known for its violence, shootings, gangs and anything negitive (much like other places around the world as well), but to me, being born and raised here, I’ve always seen and appreciated my city for so much more.
For me, Chicago raised me. Taught me to be tough, survival, made me to be strong, strong minded at very aware of the people all around you. How to be dependant on no one but yourself, and to be okay with being alone because of the evil and cruel people out there. Its like I had to be hard, to not be soft because people would see it as a weakness. Bascially tought me how to have a edge to me, for me to understand how strong, book smart as well as street smart, I had to be in this cruel world.
Now, dont get me wrong. As hard as the city made me, by seeing all the violence and things around me, it made me as confident and aware that I could and would one day make it out. You see, what the media dont show is that yes chicago has alot of violence, but it also has alot of love, beautiful places and exciting advantures to embark on as well. There are so many amazing places that you can go like the lakefront, the beaches, and my favorite, the convervtory central park flower house, that you can go that brings you such peace, to appreciate the city for its beauty that you wouldnt know excisted if you did not visit these places for yourself. These places brougth out a diffent side to me that I didnt know was there. Aside that was very calm, loving, grateful, giving and just apprecitive for living in the moment. Never saw myslf as a nature girl but I am now. Love being one with nature, its peaceful. Brings out a softer version of me, one is more grounded and okay with letting go and letting things just ….flow. Chicago has always have been and always will be: My City…. my home.

I would like do an honorable mention to another place that I hold dear to my heart; good old Minniapolas, Minesota. Not only was my husband from there, but also it was where our first home was together. After getting married, my husband and I left chicago with only the cloths on our backs and all of the money that we had in our wallets at the time and decided to start over in a new city, a place that he was familiar with in his youngest and happiest years lol. Minesota also taught me alot. Taught me the will of surviual without material things and how to soully depend on The Most High above; because we were homless for a while and both started our spiritual journies that lead us to greater understandings of our selves as well as the world. Much like chicago had done for me, minesota also taught me strengths that I never knew I had. Taught me to push myself, after both my husband and I were able to become Superviors at our jobs shortly after working our jobs(a first for us both)also taught me to never be afraid of being different and to actually allow myself to be set free of material things that never has and never will matter anyway. As long as I had God, my husband, and myself, that to me was home. No matter where in the world I would end up, I learned that home really is where your heart is. Is your heart pure? Is it full of love, hate, uncertainty? Is your heart set on material things or set on eternal things above? For me, home was where I was, or am at the moment, but also where my greatest life lessons came from. For me, the best things in life were not taught to me from school, or even my parents…….was taught to me by The Most High first……then my self and my husband….. and of course my city. Great Chicago…….. And Minesota. Both places will always hold special places in my heart, and they both will forever be called, “my home”.