Thursday, October 16, 2025
Its My Way
Monday, October 13, 2025
TBR
Regretting You
The Unfairness Between Two Lives
I am angry.
Angry at how the world seems to hand out chances unevenly. My father lived most of a full life, deep in his addiction, hurting everyone in his path. He abandoned his children, broke hearts, destroyed trust — and yet, somehow, he kept living. He got to grow old. He got five marriages. Five children he walked away from. And still, the world kept giving him more time.
But Brandon didn’t get that time. He barely reached forty. He didn’t overcome his addiction either, but his addiction wasn’t born out of cruelty — it was born out of pain. It was inherited, in part, from people like my father. It came from wounds that weren’t entirely his fault. And still, life took him.
I can’t stop thinking about the contrast: the man who wasted every chance lived, while the one who still had something good left to give — to his kids, to me — was taken. My future with him was stolen. His children lost their father. And I’m left trying to make sense of how the universe could allow that imbalance.
I’m angry at my father’s survival. Angry at genetics. Angry at addiction. Angry at how unfair it is that Brandon carried pain that wasn’t his to carry. I hate that he had to fight a battle that ran through generations — and still lost it.
I don’t want to understand it yet. I just want to scream at the unfairness of it all. Because it isn’t fair.
Because I loved him.
Because he deserved more than what he got.
Tuesday, September 16, 2025
Fake It Till You Make It
Fake It Till You Make It
Do they say fake it till you make it because eventually you start to believe in your own confidence?
Do they say it because the pretending becomes a kind of truth—or maybe just a distraction?
Is it about keeping yourself so occupied that you forget how sad you are? Forget how much you miss them?
I go about my day—working, adulting, doing all the things I’m supposed to do. To strangers, I probably look unaffected. I smile, I move, I function. But beneath the surface, the sadness is still there, tucked deep in my heart. Maybe this is what faking it looks like—going through the motions until, someday, the ache feels less sharp.
Is that what they mean? That one day I’ll realize the pain isn’t as heavy, the sadness not as constant? That I’ll be so busy living that the missing won’t consume me?
Maybe then I’ll realize the ache has eased. Maybe that’s when I’ll know I’ve “made it.”
But right now—77 days in—the ache is strong. The pain is fierce. I miss him with every breath. Outwardly, I may look fine, but inside there are aches, whispers, and a noticeable missing piece.
So yes, I’m faking it. And some days, I don’t even care if I ever make it—I just want the ache to ease.
Monday, September 15, 2025
Literary Cat Brainstorm 😴🐾
Hey go get a moody cat and name it Poe (my socks have Edgar Allen Poe on them).
Get another Hemingway cat and name it Hemingway.
Get a dramatic cat and name it Shakespeare
Get an anti social cat and name it Emily.
Get a strange cat and name it Modestti
Get a black cat and name it Rowling
Get a gay cat and name it J.K.

that one made me giggle snort.Get an orange magnificent cat and name it Lewis.
I cant come up with anything for Tolkien he would have to be a one off.
Same for Hinton and F Scott Fitzgerald.
Get a curious cat and name it Carroll
Would a tuxedo cat be Suess?
A talkative cat name it Tolstoy

Get a fighter and name it Collins
Get a masochist and name it James.
I think trauma gave me ADHD or insomnia ADHD lol
Friday, September 5, 2025
Finding home
Day 64 — Finding Home
I was talking with someone about my grief journey and she asked, “Is there anyone who feels like home to you?”
Without thinking, I said, “Brandon was my home.”
Most of the time my soul felt safe there. Not always, but I knew with him my soul could be its truest form.
As I sat with that, it hit me: that’s why I feel so lost — because I’m homeless.
Right then Avril Lavigne’s “Nobody’s Home” started playing in my head.
I’ve never really felt at home in a place. At Helene’s house, she would tell people I wasn’t her real daughter, just someone she raised. By eighteen, I was pushed away.
With my mother, her mindset was that if I rejected her, I was no longer her problem.
I never quite fit in with a friend group growing up, or even now. I’ve always felt weird, quirky — and I’ve failed at every attempt to look like everyone else. (Of course you fail at being something you’re not.)
I used to give Brandon a list of reasons I was unlovable, and somehow he loved most of them.
Now that he’s gone, I keep bumping into that question again: Where is home?
I’m beginning to wonder if “home” isn’t always a person or a place. Maybe it can also be moments, rituals, or parts of myself that feel like truth.
Home might be the quiet of early morning before anyone wakes up.
Home might be a dog leaning against my leg.
Home might be the way my own handwriting looks in a journal, or the way a favorite song fills a room.
Maybe home is any space where my soul is allowed to be fully itself, even if it’s just me holding that space for me.
It feels strange to imagine, but I’m trying to believe that I can begin to build little homes inside and around me — safe pockets where my spirit can rest. They’ll never replace Brandon, but they can hold me while I keep walking forward.
All along, I had to believe that home resides within myself and it is up to me to find places for my soul to rest unmasked.
Wednesday, September 3, 2025
Hold Me
Hold Me
I’ve got you.
I’ll take you to a place where you are safe.
Hold on to me—
I will carry you to where love and laughter live,
where there is no more fighting, no more tears.
Come with me.
We’ll be safe in our bubble,
safe together.
You are the love of my life,
the greatest loss of my life.
I will love you all my days.
I will never hurt you again.
Stay with me.
I still need you.
Don’t leave me.
I still want you.
I will love you right.
You woke before the sunrise,
hid yourself away behind the bathroom door.
You said you were fine—
but I saw the evidence with my own eyes.
I chose to believe the lie.
You told me you wouldn’t die.
I wanted to believe you.
Days passed.
You grew so tired.
I prayed for the silence to end,
but when it broke, it wasn’t your voice—
a call,
a sound that froze my bones.
Shock held me in place
when it should have been your arms.
Hold me.
I still need you.
Can you hear me cry out to you?
Please—don’t let go.
There you lay on the ground.
I reach for your hand,
longing to pull you into me,
to let my love make this right.
Endless miles blur beneath my tires
as I drive away,
carrying a nightmare I can’t escape.
I am strong, but I need you.
Come back, I still want you.
I cry out—don’t leave me.
I will love you for the rest of my life.
Saturday, August 9, 2025
Self love
Friday, August 8, 2025
Long Live
Wednesday, July 30, 2025
July 30, 2025
July 30, 2025
"Stop thinking about the easy way outThere's no need to go and blow the candle out
Because you're not done
You're far too young
And the best is yet to come"
Brandon wasn't done.... He was far too young! He is younger than me and he has a 10 year old little boy and his children need a parent.
I am angry, I don't want to do this.
No Impact statement tonight because for once I need someone to impact ME!
Tuesday, July 29, 2025
Mood and Grief Tracker
July 29, 2025
Monday, July 28, 2025
Mood and Grief Tracker
Sunday, July 27, 2025
Grief and mood tracker
Kintsugi
I Am Kintsugi
There’s a Japanese art form called Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired using lacquer mixed with powdered gold. Instead of hiding the cracks, the artist highlights them. The break isn’t something to be ashamed of—it becomes part of the object’s story, making it more valuable than before.
My therapist recently told me, “You’re like Kintsugi pottery.”
I took the illustration she gave me and sat with it. The more I thought about it, the more I understood. I have been shattered—by grief, by loss, by things I never asked for but had to carry anyway. When someone I love died, I cracked in ways I didn’t know were possible. My routines broke. My beliefs broke. My sense of time, of fairness, of safety—splintered. I thought I would never be whole again.
But I’m starting to learn something: healing doesn’t mean going back to who I was. It means honoring who I am now—because of what I’ve lived through.
Even though the cracks are visible, a lot like scars on our skin, the gold inlaid is a sign of healing.
The gold that fills my cracks isn’t glittery or obvious.
Sometimes it’s quiet strength—the ability to get out of bed on days I don’t want to.
Sometimes it’s vulnerability—the way I can now speak openly about my pain.
Sometimes it’s connection—how I can sit with others in their grief because I truly understand it.
I didn’t choose the breaking.
But I am choosing the gold, for now.
And every time I show up for myself—every time I write, cry, or reflect instead of going numb—I’m painting those cracks with something resilient and real.
So no, I’m not “good as new.”
I’m better.
I’m different.
My scars are beautiful.
I am Kintsugi.
🌀 Reader Reflection
If you’re reading this and feel like you’re in pieces—know this: you don’t have to put yourself back together the same way. You can be changed and still be whole. Your cracks don’t make you less; they can become the most honest, human, and beautiful parts of you.
How have your broken places been filled with gold?
I’d love to hear what healing has looked like for you.
Here are a few questions to reflect on:
- What are the “cracks” in your life that you’ve learned to live with—or even grow from?
- If you were made of Kintsugi, what would your gold be?
What strength or lesson has filled your broken places? - Has your pain shaped you into someone more compassionate or wise? How?
- What part of your story do you now see as beautiful, even if it hurt at the time?
- What does healing look like for you today—not perfect, but real?
Friday, July 25, 2025
July 25: Mood and Grief Tracker 😴🙁
July25, 2025
Thursday, July 24, 2025
What now
🌤️ Day 23– What Now? Prompt: Imagine a version of your life where grief walks beside you, but doesn’t hold the pen. What does healing (not forgetting) look like for you? What might your next chapter hold? I wasn’t sure what this prompt meant at first. But maybe it’s asking: if grief isn’t in charge—if it doesn’t control the narrative—what does life begin to look like again? I guess if I have control over my grief what does that look like? I would think what grief would hold if it walked beside me instead of being in control. It would be memories of the people and animals I’m grieving. Even memories I’ve forgotten, perhaps comforting thoughts, their presence, their spirit force? To know they always walk beside me and support me or can serve as my “shoulder angels” or have a guardian angel? If I was in control of my grief, I can control the who and what and have their presence and not a complete loss. I imagine grief walking beside me like a quiet companion. Not steering me, not speaking over me, but simply there. If it’s not holding the pen, then maybe I get to tell the story. I get to decide what their memory brings to my life—not just pain, but also presence. In this version of my life, grief would carry the memories I’m not ready to let go of, even the ones I’ve forgotten. It would gently remind me of the love, the laughter, the faces I miss. The people and animals I’ve lost—they’d still walk with me. Not as absences, but as shoulder angels. As guardians. As pieces of me. If I were in control of my grief, maybe I could shift the story from loss to presence. Maybe it wouldn’t always feel like a wound, but like a deep well I draw from when I need strength or clarity. Maybe grief becomes less about suffering and more about remembering with tenderness. Healing, for me, doesn’t look like moving on. It looks like moving forward—with them. Letting their love still guide me. Letting their memory be part of my decisions, my dreams, my voice. Grief doesn’t disappear. It just takes its proper seat—not behind the wheel, but by my side. My impact on the world. 1.) Dr Denise Hamlin Glover 2.) I sent an email to city council about the investment opportunities in buying an entertainment complex that recently shut down. I got three positive replies and was commended for thinking of our community and outside the box. 💪
Wednesday, December 21, 2022
What if life was a Choose your own adventure?
What if life was a choose your own adventure novel? For example you choose one scenario (or are given one scenario) and it doesn't work out so you get to start over with the other scenario? What if hindsight wasn't just 20/20? What if you could look back and relive something again and see if it turned out better? There would be some sacrafices such as learning experiences that could be given or taken away. That also means happy moments or moments that broke you could be given or taken at any moment?
Friday, October 29, 2021
Nothings of a Wallflower
My inner dialogue may be the death of me. I live by a saying. I was born an original. I was born to stand out not fit in. I tell my kids this and they’d rather fit in. God didn’t design them to and they don’t. (Shrugs) Yes, my daughter dyes her hair like lights in Time Square and just wants to fit in. Doesn’t just want to fit in she wants to blend in. I’m not in high school anymore. I find that I don’t have time or patience for nonsense and drama. I have tied to put myself out there… I thought I connected with those popular kids/adults. I even married a wallflower. I still get rejected. As an army wife, they could be very cliquish. Especially with my husband’s job or the jobs related to his job. Well, that’s the only experience I have with military life and one military post. The military wives were actually welcoming for the most part. I met great people. I just didn’t fit in the mold. Then we moved to Madison. Fate had lent me a connection. All the pieces were there, neighbors, children almost exactly the same age down to the month. Then I was hurt and betrayed. At the same time, I was also hurt by my then-best Army Wife friend. I had so wanted a female friend that liked to do the same things as me… shopping, spa days, getting our nails done. Whatever… after that betrayal I stopped. This very extroverted person closed herself off and became an introverted homebody. I focused on the gifts God gave me that I can depend on. My best friend Jennifer I met in 2003 and Michelle whom I met in 2011? They set the standard for friends for me. If you can’t give me what they give me then I don’t have time for you. Not meaning that harsh I still make time for acquaintances I just don’t invest my energy into being something I’m not. I think doing that would be a disservice to both people. I’ve struggled way too much in my life with not belonging. Even my parents didn’t want me. Trying to fit in at school and at church was nearly impossible since I had my disabilities and physical issues. I often asked myself what was wrong with me? Wasn’t I enough? Was I not something they wanted? Many times, I am the friend people confide in, I am the person they complain to. I sit there listen and give my life tips and inside wonder why they don’t see me right under their nose. I am always the person who isn’t noticed. That isn’t considered. I am the last kid picked at P.E.to be on the team. I am the kid the teacher forced you to do a team project with. Why am I invisible? Inadequate. Odd. Not Good Enough. Alone. Disposable. I don’t strive to be a wallflower I am imperfectly and wonderfully made. I want to be noticed. I think even subconsciously I have looked for negative attention because I felt invisible. When all I wanted was you to notice me.
Sunday, October 24, 2021
consequences and truths





