Next time I stop to smell the flowers,
I will be sure to also tell them that I, too, bloom this time of year.
Though, it wasn’t always like this, you see.
I had to first learn that watering others before I water myself only causes me to wither.
And for years, I did not bloom because I only focused on “fixing” myself.
But would you dare look at a rose and tell it it’s not good enough?
That it needs to hurry?
Bloom faster?
Be better?
A flower has the luxury of being itself and blooming when it’s ready,
And one day, it dawned on me that I deserve that luxury, too.
I didn’t yet know that if a flower doesn’t bloom, you change its environment — not it.
And so, after many years and multiple moves, changed homes, changed climates,
changed jobs, changed relationships, changed air, water, and energy…I am in bloom.
And this is all to say that I am blooming because I finally feel safe enough to grow roots
and be myself,
And I know now that it was not my own doing but God’s pruning that made the
difference.
I am rooted, grounded, and growing each day,
And I know better now than to let just anyone pick me or enjoy my beauty.

Romance has finally blossomed.

I have spent my life admiring from afar and yearning. Watching people fall in and out of love, wondering when it would be my time to meet my person.

She was there the whole time. I just had to say something.

For a while, I felt hopeless, like I was trapped in a state of singularity. With failed attempts at relationships, the constant questioning of sexuality, and fear of heartbreak, experiencing love seemed like an impossible reality. A reality I had fantasized, something so glamorous it was unattainable.

Yet, she happened, and it made a lifetime of a wait worth it.

After months spent longing, dreaming, and wishing that she would reciprocate my feelings, when it happened, it felt impossible to digest. Overwhelming feelings of affection and disbelief seemed to wash over me. I could not comprehend how such a beautiful being would see me through the lens of attraction.

With shy glances at each other, gentle touches, and exchanged laughs, I have never known feelings like this before. When I think my heart has swelled to capacity, she makes it grow impossibly bigger.

We talk until the clock passes midnight, savoring each moment that we have with each other. I am grateful for the universe for allowing our paths to cross. The chances of us meeting were slim, and the chances of us reigniting were slimmer.

The little things swoon me. Reaching out to hold my hand. Gently kissing on my shoulders. Her small hands running through my hair. Every moment I’m with her feels like bliss. What I am saying is strong, but it is true. I feel so strongly about her.

Words cannot describe what it’s like being around her. All the time in the world would still not be enough for me to be with her. I have never craved someone’s presence so strongly. I want to crawl into her skin.

I used to fear accepting love, because I was so afraid of loss. But, her love I cannot decline. I give in to her and give into my infatuations. Because I cannot stop myself from falling for her.

It baffles me how often people fall in love. How can so many people experience feelings this strong? This feeling is so unique, so unlike anything that has happened to me before. Feelings so hypnotic, consuming, and wonderful. I want to ride the adrenaline forever.

The seed of romance has been buried, and finally watered. From the dirt grows a rose. A product of my affection for her.

Style Score: 77

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.

April 16, 2025 

Stephanie Dotson 

Spring Blooms 

Good evening to all reading this letter!  I like this challenge because it involves my favorite season, spring. 

It’s a little weird but I started a new journey in my life, due to my health. In October I retired from my school job.  It was difficult because for the first time in my life, I had truly found a purpose.  My grandma heart was filled every single day! It was an honor, and a dream come true.  The problem was how my health kept affecting my job and the anxiety of failure made things worse.  I had a great deal of support, but the symptoms would not be ignored. 

Fastforward to March 2025 and sitting on the front porch enjoying nature. You could hear the squirrels barking at each other because someone dared to invade its territory. The hummingbirds returning from their winter season in search of nectar.  They are quite thirsty and hungry. They are so very beautiful and one of my new jobs is making sure my feeders are clean and topped off. Each day passed and I just felt a stronger and ever growing need to go outside. Watching everything blooming and growing gave me such a sense of peace. 

I decided that I needed to grow something! A few years back we planted a garden.  It was so much fun but also infuriating.  We have a squirrel, I will call Tom, who made it a mission to steal our veggies. His family lives in a hollow cedar tree in our front yard. Our big boy green and red tomatoes in the garden were a sight for sore eyes. I looked each day to see their progress and dreamed of dashing a little salt on it and taking a big juicy bite! Poof, they started disappearing.  My husband caught Tom one day stealing our very last green tomato.  He said Tom had difficulty managing to handle the big tomato and maintain his footing at the top of the privacy fence.  The last my husband saw Tom; he and the tomato had fallen over the fence.  I think his eyes were bigger than his stomach. It’s so funny because this year we had a fence installed in our front yard.  Tom will occasionally start walking the fence and drop to his belly using his hands and feet to slide him along the top of the fence. That Tom squirrel is an action hero! 

We decided we were not taking any chances this year.  I used some hydroponic kits and currently have lovely herbs delighting my nose and senses inside my house.  The only concern now is keeping my cat summer from trying to eat the herbs. Spring to me is a time for growth.  I will grow, no matter what difficulties might arise, failure is not an option.  If there is a spirit in my heart and breath in my body, I will bloom this spring. 

Prowritingaid score is 68.

Like the birds crooning and warbling

My life’s in synchronicity

Rasing my vibration and sparkling

Opportunities arise viscerally

Realizations become crystal clear

Sharing love aglow

You persevere by facing fear

Love will always flow

Dear Survivors,
Silence can be a slow death. At least it was for me. As a young girl, I was told to keep our secret because he was the only one that loved me and who would care for me. I knew that what was happening to me when I was alone with him was not normal. Even at four and five years old, I was very aware that his actions toward me were not in line with what he preached about when he gave his sermons in front of our church each Sunday morning.
But psychological grooming can be even more cutting than the sexual abuse itself. The Reverand, otherwise known by me as Grandpa, convinced me that silence was the only path. And that God understood and forgave our secret.
My silence of what was happening first protected my grandfather when I was a child, and then as I got older it also protected me from the utter shame and disgust of what had been done to me.
Eventually my silence killed my trust, my voice, my motivation, my peace, and my ability to receive and give love. At times I thought that the silence was quite literally choking me out- that it would finally take me over completely and rob me of my last breath. I was a wilted flower, suffocated by my own silence.
I seemed to have it together on the outside but inside I was dying and no one knew it.
I spent my entire childhood and majority of adulthood being a people pleasing over achiever. I needed to control things because everything that I had ever known seemed so out of control.
I often felt like I was two people living in one body- the ugly and broken little girl with the dark secrets versus the overachieving perfect girl who would never let anyone down.
I was brave enough to confront him before he died. He dismissed my memories as I predicted he would, but it still felt righteous to confront him and see him squirm in his deluded victory over my spirit. It was still our little secret, but at least I had confronted him.
Even many years after his physical death I still continued to spend my life living in shame and hiding my truth from most people except closest friends.
In particular, I was afraid to tell my family- namely his wife, my step-grandmother. I carried the weight of this awful secret, thinking I could somehow protect her from finding out what a monster she had been married to for so long. I felt like if I told her, I would break her, and she would never speak to me again.
I promised myself that I would live in FULL AUTHENTICITY this year though and be done with trying to protect and please people. So on January 1, 2025, after fourty years of silence, I took the leep and I finally shared with her what had happened to me as a child.
I was so scared for fear of her being angry, hurt, or not believing me. And she reacted with all of the above.
But the most healing and beautiful thing happened in me being truly authentic and I breaking my lifetime of silence. I realized as I was speaking my truth to her, that her reaction and feelings did not actually matter to me any longer when I was truly being authentic to myself.
This was about ME. Somehow the words poured out like a field of truth.
And so began my first steps on the path of authenticity and healing out loud.
This was about setting free the little girl in me that had been buried for so long. I couldn’t save that little girl then- I let her petals wilt and nearly die-but now I was a phoenix and I would no longer be silenced.
So I used my truth as a torch to light a controlled burn to my forest of secrets- the truth could no longer hide in the shadow of silence because I burned the entire forest of lies and secrets to the ground with my fire of authenticity.
In this process, I planted seeds of truth to grow a garden of safety and authenticity built to bloom forever more- my garden of truth that I now share with you.
It’s frightening to be authentic and expose yourself but what we master and share in ourselves, we water to grow in others.
One little seed can start an entire garden of blooms, and this letter is another seed that I am planting.
Tell your truth.
And bloom on.

Authentically,
The Fiery Girl Who Finally Found Her Voice

Style Score- 98%

Life can be a bitch
But the reality of the storm
Can lead to growth
I trust that I am still learning
As my life is becoming
A wonderful garden
Fine tuning myself
Every step of the way
I am blossoming
Into the person I ultimately knew I could be
Living in my purpose:
Writing
Making all my words count
Sharing stories about my life,
Who am I,
Who I used to be,
All that I’ve been through
Allowing people to see me for me
Being vulnerable
And transparent
Making connections with others
Sharing one common goal:
Expressing ourselves through Poetry
I just love that for me
For us
I’m so glad to be a part of a community
That allows me to speak
Hearing my cries,
Hearing my laughs,
Seeing my tears,
Embracing me with hugs
And giving me cheers
As my words are heard near and far
I wish that they continue to
Motivate and inspire
‘Cause I’m truly living my dreams out loud!

What’s blossoming in my life is this bravery and confidence to feel to love. To not be afraid of how deeply I feel, how deeply I crave things, how deeply I desire things.
What’s blossoming is this new version of myself that is just becoming what I’m meant to be.
Becoming more real, more authentic, more in depth.
What’s blossoming is this confidence to just fully immerse myself in life. To immerse myself in my passions, to immerse myself in my fears, to immerse myself in everything.
To not let fear stop me.
I preach it all the time, “don’t let fear stop you don’t let fear get in the way” and yet, I sit here every single day and I do that same thing. I let fear stop me. I let fear, I let fear get in the way.

So what’s blossoming in my life right now is the confidence to say fuck that.
To just fucking feel.
To be who I am no matter how scary it is, no matter how fucking terrifying it is, no matter what goes wrong, no matter who doesn’t reciprocate, and just doing that because that’s what life is about. Life is about Experiencing. It’s about feeling, it’s about crying and fucking yelling and screaming and laughing and laying on the floor because you don’t even know what the fuck is going on, but you still keep going because it’s worth it. It’s worth living.
What’s blossoming in my life is this ability to feel that child like wonder and joy. It’s blossoming within me again and it feels really fucking good. And I’m so excited to see where this journey takes me and how far I can go and everything that comes my way, and the people that I impact, and the people that I can inspire, and the changes that I make for myself and those around me and those that are across the world. The impact that I make with my voice and my words and my confidence. The impact that I make from fully immersing myself in this bravery, in this experience of life, because it’s up to me to do that. I’m the only one who can live my life. I’m the only one who can share my gifts. So that’s what’s blossoming in my life.
The child like wonder to feel, enjoy, and experience everything, literally fucking everything, to its core to its deepest darkest depths because it’s so beautiful and I’m grateful for that.

Hello World,

Let me tell you a love story.

Love has this beautiful way of filling you up. When you are in love, there is energy, there is hope, there is joy and there is courage.

So, if she had offered me the whole world for a chance to love her again, I’d pick love.

The first few days of April, it felt like everything in Los Angeles was blossoming. But what blossomed for me was longing. I was counting the days until I’d see hernext. I knew she was traveling until April 5th, but what did that mean for us? When would we meet? Where would I see her? Would she be tired after her trip?

I had no answers.

These questions swirled through my mind the whole week, but on the 5th, these questions took a fever pitch. 

I bumped into her secretary that morning, and almost bared the ache in my heart. But would he understand this love? I am just one of the many stars in her orbit. How could he know that she was my center, my breath, my reason for being?

And so I stewed.

I knew I wouldn’t see her at breakfast that morning, because it seemed too early for her to get in. But still, my eyes scanned the crowd.

I was unsure I’d see her at lunch, because she would surely want to get some rest. And still, my heart hoped.

I stayed back after lunch to volunteer at the kitchen. I figured if I’d just stay put, then I’d definitely see her before the event at 7pm.

The hours ticked by, and the game of hide and seek continued.

All I needed was one glimpse of her smile. All I wanted was to soak up the radiance that her laughter brought to the room. But with each passing hour, the realization that maybe today wasn’t the day I’d see her started to sink in.

Perhaps, tomorrow. 

My heart, mind, ears, and eyes were starting to get tired. So even as I waited, I slipped into meditation.

And that’s when I heard her name. Bena. I’d repeated her name so many times today, that perhaps this was just an echo of that longing.

Bena.

I heard it again. My heart began to dance. My feet stirred even before my eyes could open, carrying me to the source of that sound. But I didn’t have to move an inch. Because all of a sudden, two strong, warm, bony hands cupped my shoulders, and I felt a soft kiss planted on my head. 

I didn’t want that moment to end. And so I stayed rooted. Eyes closed, skin tingling, love oozing from every pore.

All I wanted was to catch a glimpse of her. But she poured love as if she’d heard the anguish of my heart. I would wait for her another 100 years if it meant one more perfect moment like this.

I finally opened my eyes, and there she was. A towering perfection in white, with the most adoring smile, surrounded by a crowd. I was once more a star in her orbit.  

Forever yours,

Style Score: 57

To the lost, confused, defeated, and hopeless,
Let me be the reminder that if you tend to your garden- you too will blossom.
My garden went through a drought. Rotten roots and dead petals plagued my mind with fears and uncertainty.
It was a garden that I didn’t want to look at. A garden I was not proud of.
I wasn’t willing to get my hands dirty- ashamed of the dry deserted soil that would sting and crumble underneath my bare feet.
I caught myself falling into the ground and when I looked around there was nothing but darkness.
Body heavy, exhausted, and surrendering, I allowed my tears to pour.
Droplets of sparkling blue light melted into the surface and from the ground arose a beautiful, healthy, strong root – I made that.
Astonished by the scene, I began to cry more; following the root I began to rise again.
I walked through my garden, tears flowing creating a river that fed the dry bed I was once ashamed to look at.
The root climbed so high, creating thorns for me to climb – providing me with an aerial view of my entire, beautiful, garden.
Some spots are still dark, some roots are still rotten, but now I see green.
I see a pink hibiscus, I see a yellow daisy, I see a garden diverse and full of life.
A garden I am not intimidated to take care of – a garden that is evolving and growing.
And like this root I will rise and fall again.
For I will return to the soil, but the seed is already planted so that I may blossom again. And again.

Style Score: 64%

Dear World

From: Me

Subject: Blossoming When Lost in the Woods

I wish for peace and love to blossom inside myself. I strive to be like a doe in a field of flowers. The flora surrounding her does not envelop her, but stresses her already ethereal essence. The buds of the flowers are as eager to bloom as her doe eyes are to explore the depths of the forest in the distance. She isn’t scared of trees blotting out the sun and she holds the skill of navigating the darkness. The wind, carrying guiding messages, whispers to her on her path to the forest. She feels close to the birds, as she can jump high and appear light as a feather. Although, she never wishes to be a bird because jumping is her talent, and that is more than enough. The doe is carefree and wild, but the meadow inevitably ends, she gets lost in the woods, and life brings her to a crossroads and a blindingly bright light. 

I often feel like a doe in the headlights, paralyzed by the dawn of the unknown future. I can’t help worrying that the vehicle of my future will run me over. With this worry, instead of realizing the reasonable action to take is to cross the road, I stand frozen in fear at the possibility of danger.

I’m like a disoriented and shaken doe, trying to clear her mind and find her way back to the meadow. I try to listen to my keen senses, but to the point where I can’t even drink water at a pond without lifting my head to check my surroundings at every crack, patter, chirp, squeak, or rustle in the forest. A danger may be lurking in the trees and I don’t want to be caught off my guard. How I wish I could fly above these tall barriers.

I walk through the woods as the trees loom over me. I wish for the safety of my meadow and I wish I could know the right turns, but maybe I was always meant to get lost. Sometimes, the capacity of wishing gets to be a heavy weight to carry. I wish for the ability to never experience bewilderment, to go back in time and know my way.

My legs are sore from the endless walk to the way out of the woods. My belief that there will be an end dwindles, but I’m renewing my commitment to myself and I vow to not let wavering hopes get in my head and lead me to give up. I will keep trying to remind myself that trying and believing is enough. I might not literally have my flower field, but I always have it with me. I know that my dedication to showing myself love and to let love in is blossoming in my flower field, even when all seems to be drowned out by strong winds with presently indecipherable messages, even when petals blow away and end on “he loves me not”, and even when every noise in the woods sounds like some force coming to get me. Still, I keep going, keep picking myself up.

Nearing the point of total exhaustion, but keeping my head up as I continue to believe I will reach the end, I finally see a sliver of a soft, golden atmosphere on the horizon, lighting up little specks of color and a comforting blanket of bright green. I let this confirmation of the cycle of lost and found sink in as I reach the meadow and just start strolling slowly. I see the patch of budding red roses growing from the shine of a new romance. I’m struck by their already rich color, but if the color were to wrap me in its vibrance, I wouldn’t object. If the color does dim, even with my objection, other roses, maybe of an even richer red, will grow in the future. I see the daisies and daffodils: blank white pages waiting for me to write in them and my abundance of bright yellow ideas. Tulips have grown in my garden for as long as I remember and provide a familiar and comforting aroma. I don’t know the wildflowers by name, but maybe one day I will. I see the sprouting hydrangeas that are firmly rooted to the ground as long as they are watered and the sun shines down upon them. They seem to look brighter after I gaze upon them with a smile. I jump for joy, feeling ready to re-enter the forest after renewing my connection with what will always be there for me. I walk on, firmly believing in my inscribed ability to bloom once again. 

(Style Score 83%)

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!

Blossoming

In the hush of early morning, nature breathes.
A hush not of stillness, but becoming –
Naples Zen Garden grows with the dew-touched peace,
Each frangipani tree whispering soft hallelujahs
As their blooms uncurl, pale pink and sun-kissed,
Like Prayers answered slowly, but fully.

The soil speaks, and I have learned to listen.
Bright yellow zucchini blossoms beam upward
As if they know joy is their birthright.
Dainty white strawberry flowers nod with promise,
While the fruit remains green-
Patience dressed in velvet potential.

Purple lavender spikes reach upward
Like tiny incense sticks,
An offering to the God who met me
In the dark nights, and didn’t let go.
Even the tomatoes and peppers
Still wear the green of promise, not yet ripe but fully alive.

The crucifix tree is bearing fruit now – first time ever.
It took root in a year of global pandemic,
Grew into the shape of a cross
After the Vatican wrote to me,
Pope Francis, himself, praying
For my own father by name: Joseph Michael Finnegan

Thanking me for my book:
“What Does Your Garden Grow.”
That was then. This is Easter.
And now the cross gives life,
Now it bears fruit. A resurrection,
Not just of the tree, but of me.

The century plant has bloomed.
After all these years, decades maybe-
A silent witness to all I’ve endured.
Now rising with an 8 foot spike,
Like a giant asparagus spear,
Laughing in the wind.

It blossoms once in a lifetime,
Just like this moment of ours.

For years, it stood still,
Gathering strength unseen-
Just like I did
Carrying the memories and ache,
Tending to the broken
Awaiting my own spring.

And now I see:
The fruit on the crucifix tree,
The towering century plant,
The work at Urban Meditation blooming.
The roots I watered in faith
Are yielding blossoms.

The Princess of Freedom has awakened.
Her voice is rising like morning birdsong
On a new YouTube wind.
She sings of healing,
Of Truth without shame,
Of wellness and community.

One woman rebuilt
Her skin, her spirit, her scholarship funds
With Grace pressed from grief
And Joy born from Justice.
Everything blossoms in time,
and now it is mine.

Mine is not a flashy harvest
But a holy one.
The kind born in silence,
Nurtured through prayer,
Grown under the stars,
When no one was watching.

So I tend it still:
Each petal, each leaf, each story,
Because I know what blossoms
In the garden
Is never separate from what blossoms
In the soul.

And I will keep blossoming,
As long as I am free.

Dear World,
Love is blossoming within me. Despite the pain I’ve experienced in my lifetime, I am continually reminded that all that really matters is love. I’m continually reminded that we are all made of love and it truly makes the world go round, despite appearances.
Love began to truly blossom when I started fertilizing my inner garden and tilling the ground to grow love for myself. I realized that when I had stored and saved tokens of love from people through the years; I was doing so to prove to myself that I was loved. It really hit home; that I needed to work on self-love when hearing the phrase ‘I love you’ from a social media influencer hit me hard. I realized that I was starved for love and I needed to stop looking for it from the external world. Instead, I had to look within. It started with notes to myself, telling myself that I loved me. That sounds corny, but it impacted me profoundly to see those words every day, and to know that they were authentic.
Developing that self-love helped me establish and hold my boundaries. I knew I had grown when I found myself drawing lines in the sand where before I would have accommodated others at my own expense.
This may sound counterintuitive, but loving myself more also helped me to hold myself accountable in better ways. I’ve always been tough on myself–I don’t mean that I have negative self-talk, but I’ve always put pressure on myself to perform. It has helped me to be successful, but I’ve come to realize that the success has always been at a cost to myself. The stress I place myself under to perform has taken its toll on my body in different ways over the years; some subtle and some not so subtle. Loving myself has helped me to ask myself hard questions about my priorities and to hold myself accountable to ensure my actions are aligned with my priorities. Sometimes that means prioritizing rest and self-care and realizing when I’m pushing myself too hard. I’m learning to value times of non-productivity; I know now that they are the key to my creativity. Loving myself has meant learning to listen to my body more and trying to honor it and its needs instead of forcing it to push through things when it’s tired.
Loving myself has helped me to realize all the innate qualities that I possess that have helped me to be successful. I still have all those qualities and I don’t need to place pressure on myself to be successful. I don’t need to put pressure on myself because those traits will always be there. In learning to appreciate my strength, courage, determination, tenacity, creativity, I’ve realized that I need to honor those and other qualities about myself and that has meant prioritizing myself and committing to my relationship with myself before others. Of course, I slip up from time to time and resort to old patterns and habits, but I know I can always begin again and recommit to myself.
I often look back in time to compare where I was one year ago. This too, has helped me to love myself. I’m not someone who can easily see where I want to be five years from now; but when I look back, I can appreciate how much I’ve grown as a person. As long as I’m still learning and growing, I know the future is bright and I remain hopeful.
In learning to love myself, I have learned that I have developed a greater capacity to love others. It seems as if there is a never-ending supply of it and so I’m not afraid to give it freely by being kind to others in small ways every day. I don’t commit acts of kindness with an agenda or plan. But I’m always glad I do because I’ve found that on days when I need it most, that love comes back to me. On days where my heart hurts or is tired, those refractions of love help my heart to stay open. Those days also feed my hope. It really can be a never-ending cycle—if we let it. It’s not always easy, but it is always worth it.

Pro-Writing Aid Score: 76

Dear World,

From winter’s hush come buds anew—
life reborn and soft growth too.
Through shadowed days I walked alone,
grief and sorrow clinging bone to bone.

I lost my cat—too soon, too fast,
a gentle soul I thought would last.
Her warm paws and soothing purrs
helped me bear life’s daily blurs.
A confidant at night, a friend by day,
the furry light to keep my fears at bay.
She saw my quiet flaws with care,
but only reached to meet me there.

But World, through death, comes life.
How, you ask? A question rife with strife.

Left with a hole, yet something grew—
a seed of hope, a pulse brand new.
Within me now, a heartbeat forms,
growing strong through shifting storms.
Little fingers, tiny toes—
a child who somehow already knows
that I will love them through all things,
through restless nights and joyful springs.

Grief and joy beneath one sun,
fueled by love, and songs unsung.
Still healing, still growing,
still blossoming, still flowing.
The universe gives what we need to know—
a gift of light when shadows grow.

A body that aches, a heart that wakes—
to hold the weight and all it takes.
These maternal veins carried tender love
for a kitty I once called my baby dove.
Happy memories rest within my chest,
where new life stirs and builds its nest.

Through buds and spuds and blossoming souls,
the world begins to make me whole.
So I open my heart for a new bloom to rise,
following its petals toward open skies.

Still blossoming,
Whitney

P.S.
To my baby dove—
I will see you again,
in this lifetime or the next.

To the one I’ve yet to meet—
I can’t wait to hold you.
You are already teaching me
how to love through sorrow.
You are my winter’s hope.

ProWritingAid Style Score = 80%

When you think of spring, does the word blossom come to mind? We eagerly await the tulips blooming, the monarch butterflies emerging from their cocoon, and a warm breeze after our winter slumber. Mother Nature enforces change, regardless of our desires. Do we not have the same rhythms in our internal world? Our cells are constantly renewing, our hormones are varying, and we’re all familiar with getting older. All of this happens without our choice. However, we can decide whether we embrace this change or resist it with all our might.
Life has brought me a plethora of experiences with change lately. But if I really think about it, so much has remained the same. I live on an island where the weather doesn’t vary too much with what we consider the seasons. It leaves me to focus more intently on the internal changes. Much of my recent growth comes from both leaving things behind and carrying others with me. My newest companions are awareness and appreciation. Their encouragement is the reason for leaving judgments and expectations behind. Just as a bee encourages a flower to reproduce by spreading its pollen, my companions are encouraging me to blossom by sharing my story.
My life has blossomed lately because I’m finally exploring my interests and passions. When I’m creating, it brings me back to myself. I’ve spent much of my life taking information in and appreciating others’ creations. With this new chapter, I can embody the creative being that I am and find the vulnerability within to share that with the world. When I’m sharing my creations, whether it’s crochet, writing, or digital art, I find my life blossoming. Embracing a fear of judgment and removing expectations offers the courage needed to take a leap of faith. Now I blossom from self-appreciation without waiting for it from someone else. I’m learning to appreciate whatever I create and have learned to love the creative process since dropping judgments and expectations.

Style Score: 100%

For nine months I was unemployed,
Long enough to make a baby,
But no human grew inside me.
Rather I was pregnant with possibilities.
The possibility of full-time teaching.
The possibility of a new career path.
The possibility of becoming a paid writer.
But also the possibility of life-long dead-end jobs
Or accepting I was too ill to work at all.

My first – and last? – teaching position
Wore me down to the bones of my soul.
I had spent sleepless nights planning spectacular lessons
That turned into chaos in the classroom.
Staff who welcomed me with gusto
Soon turned their backs
As I flailed to manage student behaviors.
Nine-year-olds cursed my existence –
“Stupid dumbass bitch!”
“Fucking racist cunt!”
And the unforgettable, “Crooked eyeliner wearing, emo wannabe, cracker bitch!”
So I gave, gave, gave more of my heart
Until those same kids showed me love.
Hugs in the hallway,
Pictures, cards, and candy started flowing in.
They got me through.

But it wasn’t enough to garner the grace
Of admin, who,
At the end of the year,
Told me I wasn’t up to snuff,
That they didn’t want me another year.

Doubt grew inside me
As the passed stress formed into trauma.
Time lingered on,
My hands shaking at the thought
Of ever teaching again.
Those who can’t do, teach, they say.
But how about those who can’t teach either?
Giving up – really giving up –
Crossed my mind.
But I didn’t.
I had help to pull myself back up.
I worked my weakened muscles.
I dove into the inner recesses of my mind,
Dug up the dirt and revitalized forgotten parts.

After three long seasons,
Just as the ice was melting,
I re-entered the classroom.
First as an occasional sub,
But then as something more.
A teacher up and quit and I was the most equipped
To take her place.
Afraid, but brave, I stepped up to the plate.
Tender-toed and wary still,
I didn’t quite trust at first my abilities.
I needed the encouraging words
Of my new cohort.
And they delivered.
“The students love you!”
“What a great lesson!”
“Good job thinking on your feet!”
I found again my confidence
And trusted my instincts.
I remembered why I love teaching.
There were still the challenging behaviors
And occasional curses from angry children,
But it wasn’t breaking me down.

This time I wasn’t holding back either.
I had the best school subject,
A ton of ideas,
And enough passion to infect the most apathetic teenager
With enthusiasm.
I got permission to take students to the garden –
Our garden! –
The one my husband and I started for the community,
But until then, was mostly unappreciated.
Every week, each class learned firsthand
The wonders of growing your own food.
Prima donnas in high heels saved worms.
The outcasts found fame in the ever-impressive broad fork.
The boys who refused to work in class
Shoveled the hardest.
It didn’t take long before my students
Begged for garden days.

I continued the education on classroom days too.
They learned the meaning of organic,
The difference between selective breeding and genetic engineering,
And the adaptations of wild plants.
I collected all sorts of materials for projects and experiments.
There was no money in the school budget,
But the community donated everything
From tape dispensers to gardening gloves.

I wasn’t just blossoming as a teacher,
But was also finding my own important niche
In my hometown –
Where I had only lived for five years
And was usually known as my husband’s wife.

My nerves still stir at times,
Like an actor approaching the stage.
Stress is no stranger either.
But for the first time,
I’ve found belonging.
Like the marigold seeds
Kids unfurled from dead pods,
I have landed upon rich soil
And am only now beginning to bloom.

(ProWriting Style Score: 100%)

Once upon a time, I was a single woman. Then I met the man of my dreams. We had one or two big fights and even broke up for a few years. We reconciled in the year 2013 and got married. The day that I got married is the day that I became a step-mother. The first 2 years of our marriage went well. We really started struggling in 2016. We got hit with the “Perfect Storm”. My husband became unemployed, I started drowning in credit bills and it started becoming almost impossible to keep food in the house. I made too much money to get food stamps, but not enough to keep from running out of food in between paychecks. I grew tired of putting myself in debt just to buy groceries in between pay checks. I started doing some research because there had to be a better way to live. I discovered the wonderful world of gigs, couponing and rebates. I learned how to earn Walmart gift cards from mystery shopping at Walmart. I have learned that I could get paid in gift cards to take surveys about products that I buy at Walmart. I have learned that I could then combine those gift cards with coupons. When I combine coupons with a gift card, I pay next to nothing. I can get vital foods and supplies for next to nothing. I could get cereal and toilet paper for almost free doing this. Then I would use a rebate app to take a picture of the receipt. I would generate more gift cards and even cash from buying things that are on rebate. I would repeat this process repeatedly until my family had everything that they needed. We never ran out of toilet paper or milk again. I blossomed into an extreme “couponer” and now I teach other mothers how to do the same. God gives us all that we need to survive. We just have to figure out how to use what he gives us.

80%

Dear Unsealers,

There was a time when every reflection felt like an inner confrontation. The mirror didn’t just show my face—it amplified my flaws. Every scar, the extra weight on my body, every part of me I didn’t love, stood out louder than anything else. I’d mentally pick myself apart, measuring my worth by standards that were never mine to begin with. I avoided the mirror. Ironically, without noticing what I was saying to myself.

I didn’t see beauty—I saw my imperfections. But life has a way of forcing you to see something different.

It took a tragedy to strip away the noise. To silence the bashing I had rehearsed for years. You see, about 8 years ago, I had a massive heart attack. In facing death, I found life, stronger faith, and clarity. My views of everything, including myself, changed. I learned that it’s not about how the world sees me, but about seeing myself as I am.

That was the beginning. The beginning of seeing beyond the surface. The beginning of grace.

Today, I am blossoming in self-love.

It is not the kind you put on for a show, not the kind rooted in perfection or performance, but the kind that holds you on the hard days. The kind that whispers, You are enough, when everything else tells you, you’re not.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I still see the flaws, the evidence of survival—but instead of turning away or avoiding my reflection, I honor and thank them as I see the woman who has walked through fire and come out with a light in her eyes.

I no longer seek approval—I give it to myself.
I no longer shame the girl I used to be—I embrace her.
And I no longer try to edit my reflection to match the world’s standards—I’ve created my own.

Loving myself didn’t come easily. It took work, tears, forgiveness, patience, and unlearning years of self-criticism.

This love I have for myself is quiet but fierce. It shows up in how I speak to myself, care for my heart, mind, and body, and refuse to shrink to fit into spaces I’ve outgrown.

So, Unsealers, if you see a glow on me, it’s not makeup, filters, or anything else. It’s healing, truth, and a reflection of a woman who finally, fully, loves and embraces herself.

And if you’re still standing at the mirror, struggling to see your worth—I get it. Someday, your inner voice will learn a gentler tone. And you’ll see yourself not just as you were, but as you are becoming. You’ll realize that you’re God’s masterpiece.

I am becoming enough by embracing my beauty on the inside and out.

Style Score 100%

With love and light,

Hi friends,
It’s been a while.
I know I kind of disappeared for a bit. When you reached out, I kept saying I was going through something and just needed time—and that I’d reach out when I was ready.
I think I’m ready now.
For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no knot in my stomach.
Not yesterday. Not today.
Just… peace.
These past few months were heavy. My body and mind were reacting in ways I hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever. And because it had been so long since I felt that kind of darkness, I didn’t know how to handle it. I panicked. All I wanted was to fix it—fast. So I doubled down. Medication. Therapy. Exercise. Diet. I threw everything at the knot in my stomach, desperate to make it go away.
And sometimes, it worked—for a moment. I’d be on the row machine and everything would feel okay. But the second I stopped, that knot would come back. Tight. Loud. Unrelenting. I didn’t know what else to do, and everyone kept saying, Keep going, it gets better. And there was some truth in that. Therapy helped. Medication took the edge off. Exercise gave me a few breaths of relief. But it still wasn’t clear. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t enough.
So I turned to something more.
I went back to my spiritual roots—brujería. Not the aesthetic kind, but the kind that lives in bloodlines and whispers, in dreams and signs I’d been ignoring for too long. The kind that connects me to something deeper than logic. The moment I started listening again, everything changed. My mind quieted. The knot loosened. I started to feel like myself again.
With that clarity, I could finally see what I hadn’t wanted to admit: Someone had been treating me with disrespect. They were making decisions that affected me without my input—despite our agreements to work together. And I kept adjusting. Silently. I was so used to swallowing my discomfort that I didn’t even recognize it as a boundary being crossed.
But I’m not doing that anymore.
I’m not stewing or second-guessing myself. I’m calling it what it is. I’m standing up for myself. Whether I’m finally being respected or simply being left alone, I’ve reclaimed my peace—and I won’t give it up again.
I’ve also been writing. A book. It came out of all of this—the mess, the reflection, the healing. It’s raw and still forming, and I’m giving it space to breathe. But even in this unfinished stage, it’s teaching me things. Watching it grow is like watching myself grow, too.
I turned 40 recently. And something about this season of life has pushed me to want more. More meaning. More creativity. More courage. I’ve always been scared—scared of failure, scared of being seen. But now? Forget that. I have stories. I have truth. Whether it’s this book, or something else entirely, I’m ready to share it.
And I’m doing it for me.
And for my daughter.
That’s another layer of this blooming: figuring out how to love and guide her without losing myself in the process. It’s not easy, and it’s not linear. But I’m showing up—honestly, fully, and with as much compassion as I can hold. I’ve made mistakes, but I’m learning. And I’m proud of that.
So yes, my life is blossoming. Not in a picture-perfect, social-media-ready kind of way. More like a wild bloom in the desert—tough, slow, sacred, and real. Rooted in survival. Rooted in spirit. Rooted in brujería. Rooted in me.
Thank you for waiting on me.
I’m still here. And I’m coming back.

Style Score 89%