You’re so social they say. But little do they know my skin crawls and I feel like I’m going to ball every time I’m in front of you all. The panic and manic start to settle in , where do I even begin. I worry if I’m worthy or if they’ll all look at me and scurry. It all starts to get blurry and my mind starts to scatter like if everything I’ve accomplished never even mattered. My heart beats fast, and I can’t look past my old self I thought I laid on the shelf. But here she is, with all her might ready to fight. I’ve learned to fight back, despite the pain I feel of my old self, that was never healed which I’ve kept so concealed. She keeps me from going out and makes me miss out. Some say it’s all in my mind but I can’t seem to unbind, we’re the same person even if she was a different version. Some times I win and some times I lose, either way, my old self always seems to loom.

Style score 100%

I. The Hair

He—or rather, a younger edition of me—first appears as I’m getting ready.
“Whoa, dude! Are those… leg hairs I see? And you have a goatee?! We’re not just a late bloomer—we’re a freakin’ legend!”

He circles me like I’m a monument. “Back in gym class the guys used to…”

“Yeah. I remember. I still feel that sting.”

He’s unsure what to do with that, but I see the pride in his eyes. He thinks the hair means I’ve arrived.

He doesn’t yet know—I don’t measure myself in follicles and inches anymore.

II. The Bod

After my workout, he’s itching to ask more questions.
“And we’re getting in shape now? No more ‘husky’ or ‘bigboned’?” He stares like I’ve won something he thought was out of reach.

I kneel to meet his eyes. “We’re strong now,” I say, “but not because of that.”

“No more t-shirts in the pool?”

“No. We don’t hide anymore—
Not in water.
Not in mirrors.
Not in other people’s expectations.
We are free. And it had nothing to do with the numbers on a scale.”

I see the confusion as his surface-level concerns try to reckon with the depth in front of him.

III. The Prayer

He returns to find me kneeling at my bedside.

“Really? Still wasting time on that useless chore?” He backs away, suspicious. “I thought we ditched the whole bearded-genie-in-the-sky thing.”

I nod. “We did.”

He blinks. So, I tell him about the well—

How prayer became water.

How warm-ups replaced those wish lists.

How a performance turned to a partnership.

How desperate searching gave way to deliberate appreciation.

How counterfeit catchphrases transformed to true communion.

He’s quiet, but I notice—he’s stepped closer.

IV. The Stage

When the curtain rises, he gasps.

There I am—center stage, guitar in hand, jamming with my students dressed like rockstars.

He howls with laughter as I channel Jack Black in School of Rock: The Musical.
His voice reaches me over the crowd: “You’re not shy anymore?!”
He’s laughing so hard, he’s crying.

I nod, a knowing smile on my lips and a glistening tear in my eye.
My voice cuts through the cheers of the crowd, “I stopped hiding the best parts of us. I stopped fixating on what others think.”

V. The Fall

Then, the crowd fades. It’s just me and him beneath a moonless sky.

His voice wavers, and then he asks the question haunting all the others.
“What about the collapse? The ground that vanished beneath us?”

We tremble, remembering.

“We died that day. Then, a miracle—

We started living again.”

“Are you saying it gets better?” His voice flickers like a flame.

“Not better.
Deeper.
The pain became our teacher. We found God—
not a being of rules and shame,
but of poetry and presence.
Not a being at all
But rather Being itself.
Nothing more
or less
than
Love.”

VI. The Mirror

This last confession shakes him. He stares like I might be a dream, a lie, a hallucination.

I meet his gaze with love.

He whispers a single shaky syllable, “How?”

“Books brought us home.
Writing built the walls, the fireplace, the hearth.
With the right teacher, we gathered our shattered pieces—the shimmering shards—and made a miraculous mosaic.”

His eyes brim with tears. I press on.

“And you know what’s even better? We offer that same love to others who are
broken in those places.
That’s the holy ground, kid.
That’s where it all turned around.”

VII. The Embrace

Tears stream down his face— words no longer necessary.

We reach out for each other—and another marvel transpires.

We’re no longer alone…. Gathering together is-

The toddler with peanut butter-stained cheeks and a galactic grin.

The inquisitive boy, as eager to ask questions as he is to have them answered.

The wild middle schooler, drifting in and out of trouble, desperate for acceptance.

The tortured teen, fists clenched around a guarded heart, keeping his distance.

The floating 20-something, gobbling up theories, aching to fix the world.

The disciple of a love unnamed but radiant.

The gray-haired man, face wrinkled from years of smiles, twinkling eyes, and eyebrows raised.

And at the center, it’s me— as I am now— a companion of Christ whose heart rests, whose arms open wide.

We wrap around each other like tree roots.

We laugh, we weep, we whisper gratitude—for life, for love, even, if not especially,
for the lows that led us home.

And then, we raise a glass:

To the road.

To the ruin.

And most of all,
To the return.

I got a 90% on my style score with this one 🎉

Dear Unsealed,
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
This is beginning of what I would tell my younger self.
I see you, Vicki.
You were shy at a young age, yet bold enough to run out in the front yard shirtless at three years old. Your mom was incredibly angry. You told her you didn’t have any titties yet. This seems that my personality carried me through life. At one moment, I am an empath introvert. Then the next moment you are writing protest songs and standing up for humanity with a pen and computer.
I see you, Vicki.
You were always drawing, writing, and playing music from a very immature age. You are still an empath. How has that worked out? You attracted narcissistic little boys. You went to college beginning in the 70s. You studied everything I could study. You began writing professionally again in 2023. I now see red flags in relationships. I have learned to love myself. You learned to set boundaries.
I see you, Vicki.
You were always a dreamer, hanging out with your imaginary friend, Teddy Bear, singing, and at times, you very depressed. Now, you know how to deal with your feelings by using critical thinking skills and the core values therapy your therapist sent you. I will tell my younger self, “Don’t be so boy crazy! Think expansively, go for the gusto in journalism and education, don’t let the narcissistic nuts get you down, and stay creative.”
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
I say to my younger self those core values my grandma taught me were my guide throughout my life. However, I didn’t always follow the advice given to me by my grandma Carrie Soleta.
I see you, Vicki.
You had so much faith as in the story about the grain of a mustard seed and that phrase your grandma taught you held you together throughout your life. The story about the “faith of a mustard seed” is found in the Bible, in Matthew 17:20. In this verse, Jesus tells His disciples that even faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains, emphasizing the incredible potential of even the tiniest amount of genuine faith. The mustard seed, known for being one of the smallest seeds, symbolizes how something so insignificant can grow into something powerful and transformative.
You were naïve, funny, and bold. You loved writing, art, music, and reading at an incredibly youthful age. You would sit for hours playing your piano and singing those blues from long ago. Leadbelly and Bessie smith were among your favorites. You grew up in a home full of music. You were taught to like all forms of music at a different age.
I see you, Vicki, in your music class in middle school at 14 years old. President John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963, while riding in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. It was a pivotal moment in U.S. history, leaving a lasting impact on the nation. That must have been such an emotional and unforgettable moment, Vicki. To go from the joy and rhythm of singing to the gravity of that announcement was a stark contrast that deepened the impact. Your immediate reaction was to burst out in tears spoke volumes about how much JFK meant to you and your family. His charisma and vision touched many, and it sounds like his loss felt deeply personal to you.
It’s extraordinary how those memories stay with you, etched in time. Vicki, I see you!
Another pivotal moment was your broken right ring finger. Your mom dropped you off at middle school one morning. She warned you not to go visit your boyfriend because if you did, she would find out. You stepped out of the car. As your mom drove off you waved, pretending to walk into the school. When she had turned the corner and was out of sight you turned around, walked down the steps of the school and hurried over to your boyfriend’s house. You hugged him and you guys laughed so hard about you sneaking off to his house. You looked at your watch. Oh no, you will be late for class. So, you ran to school, not aware of your surroundings, causing you to run into an open pickup door. You caught yourself with your right hand, only to discover you broke your right ring finger when you crashed into the door. You walked the half block to school crying your eyes out. When you got to the school to see the school nurse she called your mom. Your mom picked you up shortly after the call. You stepped into her car, “Mom, so sorry. Please don’t be mad. I hurt so much.” She replied, “I told you I would find out if you went to your boyfriends house.” You replied, “Mom, you didn’t have to wish it to hurt so much!”
You broke the same right ring finger at least four more times. You were 14 and clumsy.
I see you, Vicki.
That one day you disobeyed your mom was a year of one broken finger. You had major surgery on your squashed and very broken finger. The surgeons told you they wanted to use you as a guinea pig for a new operation. You had almost completely repaired your finger. They told you they had to cut a nerve to your brain from your right ring finger. They had no idea about the end results. So, for one year I learned to write with my left hand as my right ring finger was repaired and a cast applied so I wouldn’t break it again and protect it while it healed. You called it your right-hand boot.
You now know the result of your nerve severance of your right ring finger is more than likely the reason you hold your computer mouse upside down. There were no computers in 1964.
You drove your teachers nuts in graphic arts classes, but you managed to get them off your back by telling them to back off. You asked them if they had an issue with your work, so, they let you be.
You were way too boy crazy. You hired your neighbor to iron clothes on the day it was your turn to do your chores. Sue, your neighbor loved to iron and told you she needed money to buy a toy, you hired her for the next week. You got away with that for two months. I would sit on your parents’ bed reading musician magazines and playing music. I was supervising Sue. I shared my stipend with her. We were caught. I was grounded.
I tell you that it was very entrepreneurial. Of course, women were not considered in those terms in 1964. Women were 2nd class citizens in 1964.
One incredibly sad moment was in 1966. You were in high school. You dressed in bell bottoms and crop tops. You straightened your curly hair to look like Cher. You wore Indian moccasins to a party one night. Everyone welcomed you. You were given a beer, but you didn’t drink but you sipped it. The three football boys sitting on the sofa looked at the other two football boys in the room, and then they grabbed you yelling at you calling you an Indian squaw whore. They grabbed you, dragging you into the bedroom. They raped you one by one as they forced you to not move holding you down. You weighed 100 pounds at 16. The following Monday, you were stared at, called names. You were bullied throughout high school with Indian squaw whore. In the late 1960s women were 2nd class citizens. It was always the girl’s fault if they were raped. Men were told it was okay. That followed you throughout your life. You could not tell anyone. Now, I tell you at 16, men can be useless and mean, and their tools are nothing but their pee tools.
Your dad sent you to study nursing school in 1968. You graduated from an LVN program in 1969.
Another pivotal moment was beginning college in the 1970s. You could not wait to study everything. Pandoras box was opened, and you were Tinkerbell exploring all the merchandise. You studied Business and union management. Then you studied Journalism.
You flunked marketing because your thesis in business was about name brand clothing labels and how they were the best to buy. Your thesis was about shopping at thrift stores and buying name brand clothes that were name brand clothes but were half the price of Neiman Marcus. It was an exceedingly long thesis with descriptive adjectives, verbs, and nouns that sent your marketing professor into a rage. He gave me a grade of F minus. You switched to a journalism major. There was no Fox faux news back then.
You studied computers and makeup artistry in the 1980s. the 1980s were a trying time for you, you worked at the LA Times and for some reason you turned down the date with the rich guy and went on a date with a guy you had nothing in common with except sex. You were gullible and had way too many hormones. One night at the beach in the dude’s van and you thought you were in love. Despite the differences of cultures as you were from North Hollywood, and he was from South Central Los Angeles. You had two gorgeous babies that weighed ten pounds each. One was born in 1983. The other was born in 1987. You divorced the narcissistic South Central LA dude in 1989. It was a horrible divorce. He never forgave you and still holds grudges against you as he is a narcissist, liar, cheat, and now MAGA. So, how did we get together? He was a gun-loving fool, you were a flower child and political activist, and humanitarian. This has affected you even in old age, as he has tried to turn your grandchildren and sons against you as you stand today. The main lesson you learned from this unique relationship was that you did not go to work at the LA Times to get married or have babies. You love your two now grown men very much, but unfortunately the gun loving MAGA dad has more influence than your empath, creative personality. As he called you, weak and too caring. My oldest son told me I never did anything in my life because I don’t have money. He will ignore me until I make money with my art, writing, and music. His dad and his brother will find something else wrong with me when I make more money. So, you turned it over to God, because it’s too painful to execute your crying all day every day. Breath in, breathe out as the thorns on the stem of the rose hurt and bleed to the point, I had to search for the band aid to patch it up.
You married again, but this time a Yaqui and Chumash Native American dude. You divorced him because of domestic violence in April 2000. You now remember he went off his rocker and became extremely mentally ill as it was hereditary in his family.
You then became involved with an Italian dude named Barberini. He was much older than you. You followed him to Texas leaving your computer job which you would have retired with a good salary and benefits. You guys broke up. Then the Texas cowboy, a University of Texas political degreed narcissist whose boots were even orange. Then you guys broke up in 2016. The morning, he told you he saw demons upon waking up, and you saw angels, was the final day you ever saw him. Your friend picked you up and you spent the week with her before you left to go back to California.
You moved back to LA and kissed the ground when you stepped off Amtrak at Union Station.
Flying monkeys were everywhere as your ex-orange boots nutty mentally ill dude called all your friends.
You shed oceans of tears.
“The term “flying monkeys” in the context of a narcissistic breakup refers to individuals who, knowingly or unknowingly, aid the narcissist in their manipulative tactics. The phrase originates from The Wizard of Oz, where the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys conducted her bidding. Similarly, in relationships, these “flying monkeys” might spread rumors, gaslight, or otherwise support the narcissist’s narrative.
Narcissists often recruit flying monkeys by playing the victim, using charm, or exploiting relationships. These individuals may genuinely believe they are helping or may be manipulated into taking the narcissist’s side. Their actions can amplify the emotional distress of the person targeted by the narcissist.
Understanding this dynamic can be crucial for healing and setting boundaries after a breakup.” ‘As per http://www.veywellmind.com’
This has happened to you with your family, your lovers, your marriages, and some of your fake friends.
You now have had a therapist since 2019.
I am now at 75, creating art, music, and writing again.
I will tell you about my younger self who did not know who you were as a human being for almost your whole life. You loved your teddy bear as your imaginary friend as a child. You have had dreams since birth that have come true. Your grandma Carrie visited you for ten years after she died. You covered up your feelings and scars by dancing on tables and sometimes drinking too much. You no longer drink nor dance on tables. You are learning you are a creative introvert with spurts of extrovert activities and then being a recluse as you are now okay with who you are. You are learning your boy craziness was absurd. Boys are just human beings and have severely damaged egos about whose tool is bigger than the next guy, it’s almost a comedy of errors except now our president is a narcissistic fool and the short tooled damaged ego dudes oversee America.
I have complex PTSD from too many narcissistic relationships and had a meltdown after the election. I spoke with the therapist two times a week for three weeks.
Women are 2nd class citizens again. Bigotry is rampant. My DNA is mixed with three African tribes, Irish, Kerry County, Ireland, London, Indios Mexico, Native American Choctaw, Mediterranean Italian and Spanish, Coptic Egyptian, Red Sea, Asian, and last, but not least, a human being.
You have learned you are a humanitarian, dreamer psychic, empath creative introvert, and to love yourself despite ugly men that have tried to make you into another person by belittling you and sending flying monkeys to your friends.
The final pivot in your life was getting old, excepting your white hair, and not chasing after men. Keep creating with all your music, writing, and art. You have health issues that include kidney disease, parathyroid disease, diverticulitis, and three old spinal fractures. Your diet is lactose free and gluten free except you can eat pan dulce and mozzarella cheese. Mozzarella cheese is from Italy and pan dulce from Spain/Mexico.
I would like to tell you other stories, but you have lived a long time. That’s for a future story.
Breathe in, breathe out. Life is a rose. Sometimes one gets pricked on the finger by the thorns as you pick up the rose to smell the scent. You learned to put a band-aid on your cut and learned to take the band aid off and laugh.
Style Score85%
Style Guide Compliance92%
I EDITED THIS FOUR TIMES. I EDITED IT TWICE IN MICROSOFT WORD AND TWICE IN PRO WRITING AID. WHY DID I DO THIS BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT I DO. I THEN HAVE TO SAY TO MYSELF, “WHOA, VICKI, YOU GOT IT, CHILL!”

Loss’s burden sometimes makes winter feel endless, spring’s warmth a forgotten memory.

But then I see my children—tiny buds reaching, even when the chill lingers—and I know life awakens.

They are the blossoms I nurture when my heart feels too brittle to bloom. Each giggle and soft embrace are a gentle reminder that beauty grows in unexpected places.

Within me, I carry the strength and love my mother once infused into my very being. Even in the depths of grief, a muted power whispers of growth, perseverance, and the passing on of the light I hold within.

You see, I may not be the radiant flower unfolding in full splendor, but I am the nourishing soil, the steady rain, the gentle earth, in which her legacy takes root.

My boys—they are her masterpieces; each one a fragile bloom stretching toward the sun, transforming my sorrow into the delicate fragrance of hope.

When shadows shroud my reflection, they turn, resilient and tender, toward the light that still warms our days. In every hushed moment, when a soft smile or shared secret fills the silence, I see her—a presence forever etched in the way they laugh, love, and live.

This is where my flowers grow.

Not in the bold fireworks of triumph, but in the tender, persistent unfolding of a love passed down from one generation to the next.

Through them, I discover that even in the long winter of loss, a gentle spring blooms—one that reminds me, no matter how weathered I may feel, there is always beauty nurtured by love.

What is blooming in my Life?

As I sit down to write this, so many things run through my head. But the simplest and yet deepest answer is me.
I am blooming. My true self is finally peeking through. Before trauma, I was me. Me before the abuse. Me before I realized I wasn’t loved by the people I loved. I before the hurt. Me before the pain. Me before depression. Me before anxiety. It’s like my soul has gone home. I am secure in ways I never thought possible. The impostor syndrome is not as bad. I have more control over the things that I can control. I have locked in with my purpose. And I am coming out of the cocoon I have been hiding in for so long. Yes, I still have troubles, but the peace that is in my soul with the ebb and flow of life’s river is something I simply can’t fully explain. I am filled with gratitude, and I honor the Most High to the fullest because I realize now. That every death I experienced to get to this point, every pain, every ache, every heartbreak, was so worth it.
I look forward to the joys and pains of life because I am so much stronger than ever. Each experience allows me to go deeper within myself so I can then minister to people and help them heal. I don’t have to hide who I am or feel intimidated, and I am open to receiving the goodness of life.
I was so broken last year, and I suffered in silence.
I retreated into my old mindset for my final death. So, I guess I am blossoming into the person I was always afraid to be. But now I am not afraid. And I know that I am sacred and I understand how to honor all that I am without shrinking myself. So here is a poem I wrote that is the best way I can describe what is growing in my life…

Is she a phoenix?
Is she a flower?
Or is she a butterfly?
Or maybe she’s a bird?

Maybe she’s rain.
I know for sure
She reincarnates
Time and time again.
She evolves.

Maybe she is a volcano
Active, ready to erupt.
Destruction and rebirth
As her lava flows
Pruning and purifying
The Earth.

Maybe she’s
just a force of nature
Powerful but delicate
As a flower

She sprouts, grows
and blooms…
Maybe she is exactly
Who she knew she was
All along…

I love you. I hope your life is blossoming in ways. As unimaginable as I am!

Dear Unsealers,

I wasn’t initially planning to participate in this prompt because I haven’t felt that my life has blossomed in any significant way.

You see, I’m twenty-eight, and I don’t drive, work, or have children. I often face judgment for that, but I remind myself that my path is just different from most people’s. Recently, I started reflecting on my life outside the conventional goals I haven’t achieved, and I realized that I have blossomed immensely over the past year alone. Approximately five years ago, I withdrew from life. I stopped going out, dressing the way I liked, and doing the things I enjoyed. I felt like nothing more than a shell of a person—a complete stranger to me. Anxiety had taken hold of me, and at one point, I was okay with that. But then I wasn’t okay anymore.

A year ago, I felt a renewed desire to live, which terrified me. By that time, I couldn’t even sit on my porch without having a major panic attack. Whenever I heard a car or saw someone walking by, I would run back inside. My embarrassment and confusion were overwhelming. How could a girl who once independently explored a foreign country be so afraid of sitting on her porch? When I was avoiding going out, I would still make it to the doctor’s office. I thought to myself, “If I can be out for an hour at the doctor’s, I can be out for an hour doing whatever activity I need to do.” That realization became a turning point for me.

I also started therapy, where my therapist introduced me to various exercises to help manage my panic, many of which I still use today. At first, I could only visit familiar places like stores and my parents’ house. I was improving and getting out more, which felt great, but I eventually hit another plateau. Although I was comfortable in my routine, I still panicked at the thought of going somewhere new or further than I was used to.

In September 2024, my favorite artist, Bob Dylan, was performing less than two hours away on my birthday weekend. I had never wanted to do anything so badly. Given my recent improvements, I thought I could go, but I panicked instead and didn’t push myself. I regretted not going and beat myself up about it. I resolved to keep working on my progress and take baby steps, hoping that if he performed again, I would be ready.

By February 2025, I was getting out more and had even traveled an hour away without experiencing a major panic attack. I was attending all family events and feeling so much better that I could take my first-weekend vacation in over a decade with my sister! I had an absolute blast until bedtime, when the panic set in. I cried, felt sick, and wanted to find a way home. My husband was ready to drive two hours to pick me up, but I worked through it. Eventually, I fell asleep and could enjoy the last day of my trip. Although I was upset that I couldn’t fully handle a night away yet, I reflected on how far I had come since my starting point and realized it was okay to experience setbacks. With the support of my family, I got through it.

I am still blossoming, but I’ve made incredible progress this past year. I’m enjoying the little things that used to make me happy, learning new hobbies, going on small adventures, and dressing for myself again. When I look in the mirror, I no longer see a stranger or a shell of a person. The best news? I’m finally going to see my favorite artist, Bob Dylan, perform this September! I admit I’m anxious, but I know I can do this, and it will be an experience I’ll never forget.

I’m twenty-eight years old; I thought I was supposed to have everything in my life figured out, but I don’t. I am still growing, and there’s nothing wrong with going at my pace.

Style score 90

It’s springtime, but I’ve yet to bloom.
Changes are happening, but I feel out of tune.

I’m full of passion and determination,
There’s a world of possibilities, but I’ve yet to find my station.

I’m doing my part, but my life doesn’t reflect it.
Life’s not fair, but it’s not an exception.

I’m immovable, trapped, and I feel hopeless.
I’m trying my best to shake this doubt and find my purpose.

I was so lost at one point, but I’m slowly finding myself.
I can’t do this alone, so I’m asking for your help.

I don’t know what I’m doing; I feel like screaming!
Am I awake, or am I dreaming?

I’ve grown and changed, so I’m not the same.
Not knowing what’s next is all a part of change.

I feel like I’m blooming, and other times I feel stuck.
I think I’m just having a case of bad luck.

No matter what comes my way, I’ll come out stronger.
I can’t bear this pain much longer.

I feel like a flower that’s yearning to bloom.
I’ll wait patiently to see who I blossom into.

(Style Score: 100)

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%

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

My style score is an 82%.

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

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

We were devastated.

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

You survived. You may still thrive.

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

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

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

All signs point to Pink Lady apples in the future.

Godspeed.

ProWritingAid Style Score: 76