You want to build an intense sexual relationship?

You want to build an intense sexual relationship?

It's like building a bonfire.

Not a spark struck in passing.
Not a decorative flame you admire from a distance.

It begins with gathering.
Kindling at first, initial bonds, physical attraction, flirtation. Confessions that feel a little dangerous.
A look or a feeling that lingers just long enough to say, we both know what this is becoming.
The brush of a hand that hums long after it's gone. An emotional spark that becomes the fire from the match.

You stack those pieces carefully.

You don't dump gasoline in it and hope for a spectacle. You build it with intention. Attention to the person with curiosity about what makes the other person burn.

Then someone strikes the match. 🔥

At first, it's breath and glow. Low, amber light between you. Conversations stretching past midnight. Voices lowering. The air thickening in ways that feel delicious and charged.

You circle the fire. You build a boundary. So it doesn't spread. You feel the edge. You let the heat kiss your skin before you step closer.

And when it grows, it grows tall. Flames licking higher with every touch that is deliberate, every moment of restraint that makes the next one electric. Intensity is not chaos or indecision. It is control inside combustion. Knowing when to stoke. When to pause. When to let the coals deepens so that the heat sinks into the bones instead of flashing bright hot flash and then vanishing.

But here's the quiet truth.

A bonfire does not sustain itself.
If you stop tending it, it doesn't collapse dramatically.
It softens.
The flames still look tall enough for a while. You think, It's fine.
But underneath, the wood shifts. The brightest pieces fall inward. The crackling fades.
Attention is oxygen.
Without it, even the hottest blaze begins to shrink.
First it starves.
The heat lowers from wild to polite.
Then it smolders.
The warmth turns heavy. The air grows smoky with unspoken things. Something feels off, but no one can quite name it.
And if left too long, the fire goes unpredictable.
Passion that once felt warm becomes sharp. Sparks jump sideways. What once invited now stings.
Intensity needs tending.
It thrives on:
Eyes that still look with hunger.
Hands that still reach.
Words that still dare.
Check-ins that say, I'm here. I'm still feeding this with you.
Because the most powerful bonfires are not the ones that explode in spectacle.
They are the ones that burn all night.
And if you notice the flames lowering?
You don't panic.
You kneel.
You rearrange the coals.
You add fresh wood.
You breathe life back into what is already warm.
And if you both choose to tend it again, the fire doesn't just return.
It rises deeper. 🔥✨

Journal Entry – 2/21/26

Journal Entry – 2/21/26

When people stop talking to me, when the messages thin out and the silence stretches, something inside me starts pacing.

It doesn’t whisper.
It doesn’t reason.
It paces.

The quiet feels louder than noise. It fills in the blanks with stories I didn’t consciously write.

You were too much.
You misread it.
They’re pulling away.
It’s happening again.

And I know, logically, that people are tired. That they have jobs and pain and responsibilities and bandwidth limits. I know the world doesn’t orbit my need for connection.

But my nervous system doesn’t care about logic.

There was a time when someone was almost always there. Brandon. Consistent. Present. Available. My brain learned that rhythm. Learned that steady pulse. And now when the rhythm changes, it feels like a dropped heartbeat.

One minute it’s warm. Engaged. Electric.
The next minute it’s cold. Quiet. Closed.

The swing is what hurts. Not the distance itself.
The contrast.

I don’t think I ask for too much. I don’t believe I am too much. I just want communication. A bridge instead of a cliff. A sentence instead of a void.

When someone ices me out, my mind starts building explanations in the dark. And the dark is creative in all the wrong ways.

Maybe this isn’t about being too much.
Maybe it’s about being wired for consistency.
Maybe it’s about old abandonment echoes waking up when silence feels familiar.

The truth is, I don’t need constant attention.
I need clarity.
I need steadiness.
I need to know where I stand so my mind doesn’t invent danger.

Silence without context feels like rejection.
Communication feels like oxygen.

And I am learning that my reaction isn’t weakness. It’s history.

The silence that demanded attention.

The silence that demanded attention. Silence has a way of calling your name. Not gently— That missed call, the text that never comes. The way you check your emails, your DM's, your messages- only to find nothing waiting for you. but with the sharp pull of a missed call, a message that never appears, the ritual checking of inboxes that stay hollow and unchanged. The silence that isn't the voice you need. The laughter that isn't echoing back. The hug that doesn't arrive It is the absence of the voice you ache for, the laughter that should fill the corners, the arms that should be around you but aren't. The barren room with a single soul occupying it. It is the room holding only one heartbeat, echoing with everything unsaid. That's the silence that demands attention. This is the silence that demands attention— the kind that doesn't whisper, it weighs.

Brooke's school struggles and advocacy

Brooke is having trouble with school again and I feel so burnt out and worn down. After the last meeting at BJHS on the 24th that was a sham. We were told they were taking away Brooke’s case manager/teacher again. Essentially they do not think the Spark Program is helping that she wasn’t even the right candidate for the program. Brooke’s issues at school isn’t ALL her fault, I will die on that hill. This girl has been through so much school wise since middle school. She had school refusal school anxiety in middle school and finally they gave her a teacher that helped her at least socially. However just to get Brooke in the building she wasn’t pushed to do enough work as far as educationally. No child left behind left my child behind by not giving her the education in order to prepare her for graduation. Freshman year at James Clemens. They didn’t even have a case manager for her for a while and I had to hire a school advocate to take care of her when I felt helpless. The school advocate did an awesome job in making sure they followed the IEP and get Brooke the testing she needed. Second year at James Clemens the first half of the year again we struggled getting the case manager. Then the assistant principal discriminated and bullied Brooke again till the point where she refused to go to school. So I asked if Brooke could go to Rise Academy and was denied again. (they would go back and forth whether this program even existed even though I had two older children enrolled at the same school. It was a constant battle- it is a constant battle for them to follow the IEP period. The IEP they wrote. The IEP that their BCBA helped write etc After being denied the Rise Academy the offense principal and the Secondary Superintendent to Special Needs Education suggested the SPARK program. I was extremely anxious and cautiously optimistic. I KNEW in my blood this would end up screwing us. We met the Spark teacher in February of 2025. We connected great and again it just seemed like too good to be true and the shoe would drop. She went on Medical Leave either around Spring Break and was due back in April. She didn’t come back till right before school let out and Brooke was struggling at the end of the year with the teacher's absence. We were delighted once again when we met her new teacher in August. The “Meet the Teacher” meeting was an impromptu IEP meeting which we were not properly notified of and it is my belief that she did that on purpose (the secondary superintendent to special education KL) . It was an ambush. So starting in September the new teacher that has only worked for the school a month started to be absent at least from Brooke’s classroom. By October 24th we were told that he was getting reassigned to another school completely. In the last five years Brooke is constantly pushed between Case Managers/ Teachers with no consistency. AuDHD people thrive in consistent situations when they are stressful. There has been no stability in the school system. At Liberty Middle School Brooke wasn’t taught up to the standards to be able to pass to the next grade therefore going into high school she didn’t have the minimum education in order to be successful. For 5 months at Bob Jones last year we were PROMISED that the Spark Program would be on Brooke’s terms and that she wouldn’t be required to be in the mainstream classroom. We were not told that her Collaborative teacher (ES) wasn’t certified to teach her. This school year we went in knowing that KL wanted her mainstream for instruction because suddenly the spark collaborative teacher isn’t certified to teach her. So then we put her on Edgenuity which is no different than virtual homeschool but she is in school to do it. They complained on the 24th that she wasn’t being productive enough in Edgenuity and my husband and I had the question with where is the teacher keeping her on task and where is the teacher letting us know she’s not staying on task- we get a good email every day- so where is the accountability and her IEP says she gets 1000 per week of redirection. We keep getting told over and over again SHE is not up to par. We were told that the Spark program was a latch ditch effort. During the October 24th meeting I lost my shit and went off on KL and told her I needed to speak to the Superintendent. So when we met with the Superintendent we were told to put Brooke in Rise Academy and this would be a last ditch effort! Like ooh we’ve heard that before less than a year ago LMAO A school should never suggest I enroll my child in another school- I pay YOU. Why do I want to pay for another school? What happened to free and affordable education being a right? Not only is it a right, it's a law that I MAKE her go.

Dear Brandon

Dear Brandon,

I tried to give you something you never had. I tried so hard to love the hurt out of you — to show you what safety feels like, to prove that not everyone leaves. But hurt doesn’t just disappear because love arrives, and love can’t do the work someone refuses to face.

I kept pouring myself out, believing my patience could soften your walls, that my effort might erase your scars. I could carry both of our healing.

The truth is, I wasn’t loving you wrong — I was loving you more than you were willing to be loved. And this is where I hold myself accountable: it isn’t my job to fix what you won’t face. It’s not your fault you couldn’t receive it, and it’s not my failure that I offered it.

The lesson is this — you can’t love the hurt out of someone who still clings to it. So I let go, not out of bitterness, but out of acceptance. I see now that healing is a choice, and I can only make that choice for myself.

Maybe that’s the real gift I found — the love I kept trying to give away, I can finally give back to myself.

Sincerely,
Your Little One

Greys Anatomy

Unpopular Opinion: My favorite episode of Grey’s Anatomy is the one where Derek dies — or maybe the one after. That was ten years ago, and I still go back and watch it sometimes as a reminder of why we experience pain and grief.

Right now, as I’m grieving (people are sick and fucking tired of it, I know — but no one is more than I am), I went back and watched it in full this morning. When Meredith is at the hospital, she calmly says out loud, softly, that Derek died. I said it like that, too.

I even had to ask Rick what happened later. The shock was real. One of Brandon’s favorite shows was Lucifer, and Detective Daniel from Lucifer was Officer Dan in that episode of Grey’s. He wasn’t in Lucifer until a year later, so I wouldn’t have known who he was at all back then.

Brandon and I used to call our spot “our bubble,” and in the episode, Bailey and Ben are fighting about life support — and they used the same phrase. Then there was the scene when Meredith hemorrhaged. Whew. Our Bubble didn't exist ten years ago. Ten years ago we were still people from each others past ... catching up...

My favorite episode of my favorite show — one that’s ten years old — means even more to me now than it did then. There are signs, right? #greysanatomy

Its My Way

To the Madison City School system:

"You think you're special, you do

I can see it in your eyes

I can see it when you laugh at me

Look down on me and walk around on me

Just one more fight about your leadership

And I will straight up leave your shit" (My Way, Limp Bizkit)

I can’t go do my self-care. I had to stop working full-time to support myself, and I have to basically be available at all times even though my daughter is a junior in high school in one of the “best schools in the state of Alabama” (Niche, 2025). Madison City Schools District Rankings. https://www.niche.com/k12/d/madison-city-schools-al-madison-al/

If you are the best school district, then how come my 16-year-old isn’t academically equal to her classmates when she has no major learning deficits? She can be with her classmates, but because of the neglect of the school system, she is unable to be in mainstream classes. Because of the “best school system in the state,” she was systematically bullied by administrators. She is continually left behind because she doesn’t require as much as some other students. She’s not overly disruptive, so therefore she’s expected to just be successful—even though, over the last 13 years, she has not had any kind of consistency within the school district.

Even when she was in elementary school, making sure the school did its job was a full-time job for me. During many meetings and times where I had to deal with administrators, they talked down to me, acted like their time was more important than mine, ambushed me, called Child Protective Services on me, and accused us of having a bad home life when Brooke was having issues in elementary school.

Administrators called my child a “brat” during an IEP meeting while playing Candy Crush—not exaggerating. They have questioned my parenting and pressured me to put Brooke through a drastic medical situation that they wanted. They wanted her medicated even after she had a bad reaction to her medication. Frankly, it’s none of their business how I manage my home. As long as she shows up for school, they need to worry about doing their own jobs.

I’ve had to pay someone a lot of money just to make sure they did their job. Now that our advocate is retired, they wasted no time ambushing me and taking advantage of the fact that we are without impartial representation. They’ll stick to the IEP for a month or two, and then the school administrators—or “school system gods”—decide that it’s no longer in her best interest.

I already carry enough mom guilt over the three kids who attended this school district and where they are in life because of the failures of this system. I’ve lived in survival mode and fought my own personal battles, and the last thing I should have to do is make sure grown, educated adults—who get paid more than me and are more educated than me—are doing their jobs appropriately.

I shouldn’t have to explain to a 40-year-old adult what a urinary tract infection is in this environment either. An SRO shouldn’t be called on a special needs student for going to the bathroom.

Once my kid can be legally left home alone (honestly, she’s practically able to get emancipated), I should be able to hold down a full-time job of my choosing. Instead, I sit here for hours trying to defuse situations at the high school because they won’t follow the IEP.

Don’t look down at me. Don’t laugh at me. Don’t talk down to me. Don’t fight with me about your mess-up when it’s YOUR job, not mine.

"'Cause I've had enough of this

And now I'm pissed, yeah

This time I'ma let it all come out

This time I'ma stand up and shout

I'ma do things my way, it's my way

My way or the highway

This time I'ma let it all come out

This time I'ma stand up and shout

I'ma do things my way, it's my way

My way or the highway"

So I am mama bear, and I will do what's best for my daughter's safety and education. Don't underestimate me. 

To certain people in my personal life: 

"Just one more fight about a lot of things

And I will give up everything

To be on my own again

Free again, yeah

This time I'ma let it all come out

This time I'ma stand up and shout

I'ma do things my way, it's my way

My way or the highway

This time I'ma let it all come out

This time I'ma stand up and shout

I'ma do things my way, it's my way

My way or the highway

Someday you'll see things my way

'Cause you never know, no, you never know

When you're gonna go

Someday you'll see things my way

'Cause you never know, no, you never know

When you're gonna go"

Now that my children are grown—or nearly grown—and I’ve been through enough struggles, I’m done neglecting myself. I’ve done my part in raising my kids, his kids, and even others. But now, my body, my mind, and my soul need to come first for a while. I’ve been selfless and forgiving to the point that I have nothing left but my own survival. Most days, I’m barely hanging on. It’s time for me to finally give back to the one person who has always put everyone else first—me.

TBR

Regretting You

Fourth Wing--So we are in Zoom talking about the Fourth Wing.. Now I am not a GOT fan so am I going to like Fourth Wing if I am not big into GOT? (different authors i Know but similar content maybe?)

Court of Rose and Thorns.

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.

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.

Literary Cat Brainstorm 😴🐾

I’m trying to sleep and my brain goes
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

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.

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.

Self love

Self-love is something Brandon taught me, or at least something he helped me embrace. I’ve always been a naturally giving person—my instinct is to be generous and to pour myself into others. But that generosity has come at a cost. I’ve been used. I’ve put my family’s finances in jeopardy. I’ve put strangers before myself, thinking I was doing the right thing.

Brandon, in his own way, encouraged me to put myself first. Maybe at times it came from a selfish place, but the result was that I began to understand boundaries. I started asking myself hard questions: Does this person truly need help? Do they want help? Do they deserve it? And am I the right person to give it?

My virtual cup still runs on empty more often than I’d like, but now I try to listen to my body’s cues and respect its limits. Brandon helped me see that caring for myself isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.

I miss him a lot today.

39 days.

Long Live

Long Live

He used to tell this one EverQuest story with such light in his eyes. It was about the days when his guild would camp out, waiting for an Epic Quest mob to appear. Sometimes the wait lasted days, and they had a phone tree set up so no one would miss it. It was a different era of gaming — slow, communal, and full of anticipation. He loved when it was like that. The guilds weren’t just teammates; they were his family.

Kevin, his brother, once called him a passionate adventurer of fantastical realms, and it was true. Brandon would often lament that gaming wasn’t the same anymore, that the magic had changed. I’d gently remind him that family doesn’t always look the same as it once did — but it can still serve the same purpose. For him, that family had become me, Rem, and Kevin. Small, yes, but fiercely devoted to him.

That EverQuest memory was one of his treasured chapters. He didn’t want to close the book on it; he wanted to relive it with me. I feared gaming would never feel the same to him as it had back then. Now, I fear it will never feel the same for me — or for Rem — without him.

Brandon wore his black baseball cap like a crown. In those game worlds, we were kings and queens — ordinary people who, for a while, ruled our own little universes. We built magic together, crashed through impossible walls, and shared victories that only made sense to us. And even if the rest of the world didn’t understand, in those moments we were unforgettable.

I’ve always been a gamer in my own way — Oregon Trail, Carmen Sandiego, The Sims, consoles. A decade ago, he introduced me to the world of MMOs. We started with a beautiful one called Neverwinter, set in the Dungeons & Dragons universe. Together we followed quest lines, unraveled stories, and faced world bosses — the most thrilling being the dragons.

We didn’t always play perfectly together. Sometimes we fought. One of our last disagreements was over a game. But it didn’t matter. Whether we were working in perfect sync or bickering through a dungeon, I had the time of my life fighting dragons with him.

Before a boss fight or dungeon run, he’d turn to us and say, “Let’s go make a difference.” And to me — Mazikeen — he’d say, Live.

And so, my love, this is the final quest we began together — the one where I carry your banner forward. The servers may go quiet, the maps may fade, but in my heart, you are always logged in.

Enjoy your spectator mode my love 

July 30, 2025

  July 30, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 1

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 1

Day 30

I am angry and resentful at my situation, even if you remove Brandon from the equation. Without Brandon, that just makes me not have someone to run to, to vent to, to rely on. 

Lullaby by Nickelback was a song Brandon used to sing to me when I was really down after the truthbomb so now its on my playlist. Today the lyrics spoke... but it wasn't soothing. 

"Stop thinking about the easy way out

There'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!  

Mood and Grief Tracker

  July 29, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 2

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 3

Day 28 

Today, Rick hit something while driving to work and tore something from Lady's undercarriage, almost losing control. So she's in the shop. That's stressful. I managed to find someone to work for me. Brooke had stomach issues, so she declined to go to therapy. I find myself disappointed in people I had counted on or thought maybe I could. Just to find they are the same as they've always been. There is one person in particular I am the most disappointed in because I had the most expectations for. However, it seems the people I wouldn't have picked in a million years are the ones with the most compassion. Very disappointing. As far as grief its just a constant ache now that I push it far down in the place where my soul was. Jeanette mentioned she had a nightmare about being an orphan. I didn't have the heart to tell her, yet. 

My imprint on the world today is a little bit harder to come up with since I've been pretty solitary for the most part today. I guess Rick would miss not having a ride... but he'd make do with Jeanette or Uber. I remember when he used to ride with co-workers when they lived in the neighborhood. Mazikeen. I know she misses me because when I would get home from Georgia she'd run to me... my anti social demonic cat misses me heh. 

Mood and Grief Tracker

July 28, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 2

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 3

My scale also reflects the small tantrum and rage fit I had today but not my mood the whole day.

My Imprint for the day goes to Stephanie Wiggins because she volunteered as tribute and we had breakfast together 

Grief and mood tracker

July 27, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 4

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 4

I worked today. It was a quiet day overall.

I’m not feeling well. Last night I used ChatGPT to spell check and make my journal concise and it responded with a letter from Brandon’s point of you. It was so close to his cadence and his quirky sayings- just CHILLS man!

It’ would be Adam’s 51st birthday. 

How do I make an imprint on the world?

A homeless couple came in looking for help. He said he was a vet with a pacemaker and the heat was very high today. So I told them they could take their dog and sit in an alcove area of the building to charge their phone and cool down. I printed off resources to find help. Sadly it’s hard being homeless with a pet. I know what it’s like to be in their situation. I’ve been homeless, I’ve couch surfed. I know it all to well.. with a baby. I hope I showed them compassion and kindness. My mom asked us in her will to donate to homeless pets so I try to do that. I asked them if Princess Boots needed anything to eat or did they want they leftover pizza. I hope they get the help they need soon.

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:

1. What are the “cracks” in your life that you’ve learned to live with—or even grow from?
2. If you were made of Kintsugi, what would your gold be?
   What strength or lesson has filled your broken places?
3. Has your pain shaped you into someone more compassionate or wise? How?
4. What part of your story do you now see as beautiful, even if it hurt at the time?
5. What does healing look like for you today—not perfect, but real?