Eleven months later, I find myself tucked into everyday life here, eating Pad Kra Pao, with the mountains, the city, and the sea in view from my home. On some days, I find it hard to catch my breath behind the tears because my heart is overwhelmed, still, by the Thai people and culture. It is the simplicity of life here that plays out each moment and keeps me wondering…what was I doing before this?

Much of my life last year was lived in a panic. Everything felt like an undoing of the years I had lived. My heart was broken, my thoughts were disorderly, I was searching for a place to call home, and I was trying to digest the truth that had reached backward through my life, unsettling everything I thought I knew. I worked very hard, as many of us do, to appear collected and gathered…Oh no, I’m fine.

I wasn’t. Here, between the towering skyscrapers and golden temples, it is the people that have healed me most. From an outsider’s perspective, parts of Thailand can appear disorganized and sometimes frightening at first glance. I’ve come to see so much more. Among the crowded food stalls, dilapidated wooden buildings, Soi dogs, and piles of flip-flops that line any door entrance, I keep finding a quiet care woven into everyday life that makes me feel held.

Praying hands, bowed heads, a language drenched in honey—all of it has been healing for me. It isn’t performative. It’s easy, much like breathing…it just is. I don’t hear honking horns or see raised middle fingers. In shops and at food stalls, I’m greeted with the same warmth I see people offer one another. As a Black American, I feel welcomed here. I haven’t felt the familiar question of whether I belong.

At a restaurant, I watched servers whisk children off to an area with a few toys, playing with them so their parents could enjoy a meal. Those same employees take leftovers to the businesses next door instead of throwing food away. This is the norm. I think, too, of the lady who prepares bowls of food for the soi dogs, ensuring they eat well as they navigate the roadways, leash-free. And bartering is a way of life and isn’t frowned upon or labeled ‘cheap’.

The care and shared responsibility built into everyday life here still astonish me. It definitely makes me wonder why all countries can’t operate this way…feeding neighbors, caring collectively for children because the tiredness and need can be seen on the faces of the parents, moving slowly through the day with assurance that there will be enough time for whatever needs to be done, making stillness a priority…I could go on.

When I realized that this was it…this was home…I let myself settle into that thought. For a while. Then I did what I always do. I started building a schedule from a list I’d written.

Almost immediately, I thought to myself, “If you don’t start using your time wisely, there won’t be any.”

It’d be taken away. By who, I’m not sure. But I was certain that this wouldn’t last if I didn’t ‘do it right’.

I’ve had to learn that time isn’t time here.

Hell, even the calendar is 543 years ahead of the one I grew up with!

Initially, I thought I would control my unfolding.

Step 1. Nest in my new home

Step 2. Drink an abundance of fresh fruit smoothies + water

Step 3. Make my 10k steps daily by walking these Thai streets

Step 4. Attend every event I was invited to {answered prayer for community}

Step 5. Join a yoga class

Step 6. Take Thai cooking classes

Step 7. and on…and on…

I couldn’t see that I was turning this, too, into something I had to get right.

Eventually, I came to a screeching halt…STOP!

One day, I looked in the mirror, tears rolling down my face and my heart racing, and realized…

“I don’t have to.”

I have been so overwhelmed at this land’s capacity to hold me just as I am…air flowing in and around me while all of my broken pieces, as sharp as they may be, gently make themselves known. I don’t feel forced to hold all of my hurt at once here. I can take things slowly. I am aware of how often my nervous system feels scattered around me, floating in fragments as I work to gather the pieces and bring myself back to center. As I continue working through what these past few years have left in me, there will be days when the pain is too much, and I have to lay it down. Time doesn’t carry the same demands here. I don’t need to rush. What is for me is for me. It’s there…waiting…and I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.

I am learning to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Here, even the shoes are left at the door.

I have found community here. I have found sisterhood, laughter, and love.

I am safe. I am well, and I am cared for.

I am also broken in the abyss of me.

I still cry in private and obsess about my weight.

I’m writing my fingers down to the bone.

I am trying to grow my memoir up, out, and onto the page.

I am still a recovering perfectionist, which keeps me from regularly sharing my work publicly. I’ve written about this before…I’m hopeful.

I am.

I am all of this.

And more.

What I have learned is that Thailand, its people, and its culture make space for me to show up with all of my messy, shattered, sticky, all-consuming, sensitive, and loving parts and just be.

I am still a Phoenix Rising…

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He was a wheelchair-bound, sometimes Santa-looking man with a mixed-matched accent that never quite gave away where he was from. But his spirit—open, warm, unguarded—always made you feel like you’d known him longer than you had. He spent most days out front, toiling at the soil, digging up the stubborn rocks the builders left behind…determined to give that patch of earth a fighting chance.

Every time I stepped outside, I’d see him there: one leg, endless grit, and a level of patience that felt almost holy. While the rest of us surrendered our lawns to the HOA’s every-few-weeks drive-by mow, Roger cared. He cared in a way that made you respect him even if you didn’t fully understand the personal pride stitched into every inch of his yard.

He expected more from that grass. And he wanted more for it too.
There was hope in the way he planted.
Expectation in the way he worked the soil.
And faith—quiet and stubborn—in the way he returned to it every single day.

Sometimes, if you lingered long enough, he’d start a conversation—nothing deep, nothing dramatic—but somehow always meaningful. His voice carried genuine intentionality, like he was choosing connection on purpose. A nod, a wave, a smile that reached all the way to his eyes…Roger made being a neighbor feel like community again.

Once, at the grocery store, he rolled around the corner, our eyes met, and he broke into the biggest grin.
“Hey neighbor!”
And suddenly we were back in front of our houses, chatting about the weather, the price of groceries, and of course, that grass he was forever trying to coax into a soft, green blessing.

I didn’t know Roger’s full life story. I don’t know the contours of the grief his family is holding right now. But I do know this: love shows up in the small, consistent ways we tend to the world around us. And Roger tended. He tended the earth, he tended moments, he tended people in the simplest, most grounded ways.

Roger, I’ll miss the waves.
The quick driveway conversations.
The sense of gentle presence that followed you everywhere you rolled.

Something tells me you’re taking care of a garden wherever you are—one without rocks, without struggle, where the grass doesn’t have to fight to grow.

And I hope you know: the neighborhood won’t be the same without you.

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It was clear to me.

Do not take one more step towards this man.

My whole body tightened with uncertainty. My feet froze. My breath thinned. And without a single word of explanation, I turned on my heel to retrace my steps back toward the start of the trail. Every instinct in me was sounding the alarm.

Just then, the woman I’d seen earlier in the parking lot—the one who had been half-chewing a power bar while adjusting her pack—came striding down the path, her hiking sticks swinging with a cheerful rhythm that didn’t match the fear in my chest.

Woman 1: “Hello.”

“Did you see the bear?”

Woman 1: “Uumm, what bear?”

“There’s a bear out there near the water’s edge.”

Woman 1: “No.”

I paused, watching her closely—not just her reaction to the bear, but how she interacted with him. I took in everything: her posture, her ease, the fact that she was heading in the opposite direction, back toward the parking lot.

She looked at me again, this time more intently.

Woman 1: “Are you okay?”

“I remember you from the parking lot. You were eating your power bar.”

Woman 1: “Yes. I actually forgot my water bottle, so I was going to go back and try this hike again tomorrow. Are you just starting?”

“I am, but I think it’s best if I go back.”

She looked at me in that way women do—the kind of look that bypasses the surface and goes straight into your center. She studied my pupils as if she were reading lifelines etched across my irises, memorizing them. She saw my fear immediately, inhaled it the way one takes in the weight of a friend’s sigh, as if she was willing to carry a piece of it with me.

Woman 1: “You can’t come here and not go to the other side. It’s a treat!”

“I have extra water!”

I fished through my backpack like a kid thrilled their friend made it before the movie started—handing her two water bottles—silently daring him to notice the energy forming between us....

OUR FEMININE POWER WAS IGNITING!

Woman 1: “Come with me and we’ll go see it together.”

And then, out of absolutely nowhere, another woman appeared—walking sticks clicking like hooves on gravel, moving with the confidence of a racehorse headed straight for the finish line.

“Hey.”

“Have you seen the bear?”

Woman 2: “Not today, but I did a few days ago when my friends and I were camping overnight. He’s not bothering anybody.”

“Well, this here is Lolo, and this is…”

He paused to wait for Woman 1 to share her name.

Woman 2, utterly unfazed by the bear, by “Michael,” or by us, slammed her sandal-clad foot onto a rock and shot down the trail like she was chasing Olympic gold.

Then she stopped.

Abruptly.

Had she felt the energy that we were working to conjure?

Had she quickly glanced in my eyes and seen the fear reflecting back to her?

She turned back, eyes bouncing between “Michael,” who now looked utterly rattled…shuffling in a way that made it obvious his entire plan had been burned to ash…and the two of us women.

Woman 2: “You ladies come with me.”

Not a question.

A statement.

A declaration delivered with such certainty that it felt like the Universe itself was speaking through her…not a suggestion, but a demand.

Woman 1: “We were going to the water and…”

Their voices faded in my ears. Something inside me was loosening…unraveling from the grip of fear that had wrapped so tightly around my ribs moments before. As I untethered from it, tears welled up unexpectedly, my heart releasing something old and heavy. I wiped them away quickly, but not quickly enough…they saw me, I’d later learn. They saw the shift. They saw the breath leave and return differently.

And just like that, the three of us…an unlikely trio of strangers brought together by instinct, timing, and whatever cosmic choreography governs women’s intuition—headed down the trail together, leaving “Michael” standing behind us in stunned silence, fully aware the power of willed women had outmatched him.

⊹ Off the Page: Watch Woman 2 lead + teach us, while watching for the bear!

As we walked, I told them my name wasn’t Lolo. Explained what had happened before they arrived. Both women nodded with the kind of immediate understanding only women seem to have.

“Your gut knows,” they said. “Always trust it.”

We continued walking, climbing, laughing, swapping stories about our travels and tiny spiritual philosophies, while they pointed out the significance of the trail. They each carried their own boldness, their own brand of wisdom, spilling easily into the air between us as our laughter ricocheted off the canyon walls.

LESSON:

What had moments earlier pushed me to the edge of unraveling was now shifting…like time folding back into itself for a redo. Suddenly, it wasn’t just me anymore. There were three of us and one of him. Strength in numbers, my parents always said when we were kids.

But this…this was something entirely different.

These women…complete strangers, pulled from entirely different walks of life…had converged around me with a shared, unspoken intention.

It was as if the Universe had appointed us: The Tribe of the Day.

I needed them, even before I could admit it.
And somehow, without a single word exchanged at first glance, they knew.
They sensed it.
They moved toward me instinctively, like women do when another woman’s spirit wavers but refuses to fall.

That day taught me that protection comes in many forms.
That when fear begins to spiral, I can slow my breath, listen inward, and trust the voice that rises in my gut.
And when even that isn’t enough, the Universe sends women…strong, intuitive, beautifully aligned women…to gather around me, steady me, and guide me through.

Somewhere along that trail, somewhere between laughter echoing off canyon walls and steps taken in shared courage, fear finally loosened its grip and let me go.

Dear Fear, I’m not where I want to be, but I ain’t where I used to be!

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The activity itself isn’t new to me, but I woke with an ancestral whisper in my spirit that morning…it’s time…move in trust…go…you can do this…

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to or have the desire, but having never gone alone, I was afraid of the ‘what ifs’:

• What if I lost signal? {commonly occurs}

• What if I encountered a wild animal?

• What if I fell and needed medical attention?

All of this ran quickly through my mind, but I kept going.

Heading out in the early morning, I had hopes of getting started on a trail before the sun made its way too high in the sky. However, after three failed attempts to enter some top-rated solo hiking trails because they were still on seasonal schedules, it was suggested to me by a very kind lady who could tell I was determined to find somewhere to land, that I visit WhiteWater Preserve, which I hadn’t heard of, but I kept going.

⊹ Off the Page: Click to watch me hype myself up on the drive to the trail—full rambling included.

After a longer-than-expected drive, I parked, quickly noticing a lady stuffing a power bar in her mouth as she fumbled around with her walking sticks. Heading into the Ranger’s Station to grab a map {I had already lost reception on my cell}, I’d hoped she’d still be there on my way out, so I could hike alone, but in her shadow, persay.

I felt determined to do this. The nerves were already humming beneath my skin…showing up on the drive in, nudging me from the passenger seat, reminding me of every reason I should turn around.

But still, I wanted this… for me…I kept going.

For the past few years, I’ve been slowly gathering the courage to face the fears that have lived in my body for far too long. It began in 2022, standing at the edge of an Alaskan forest. I didn’t go far that day—just a few cautious steps under the trees. But those steps mattered. Each one was a quiet rebellion against the memories I carried. Each one loosened something inside me that had been clenched for years.

That moment taught me that healing doesn’t always arrive as a breakthrough; sometimes it arrives as a single step forward…then another…until suddenly you realize you’re walking toward the very life you once felt too afraid to claim.

Today’s hike felt like the next chapter of that promise I made to myself. A promise to keep moving, even with trembling hands. A promise to choose curiosity over fear, presence over panic, and little acts of bravery that slowly rewrite the story living inside my body.

Watch With Intention:

Here’s the part I can’t fully put into words.
The wind, the crunch of gravel under my boots, the way I kept talking to myself just to stay grounded.
These clips are the closest you can get to being right there with me.

A few hundred yards in, I noticed two guys chatting, and I started speaking louder, piercing my eyes at my phone screen in hopes they would think I was talking with someone on video…my PTSD was starting to kick into overdrive, but I kept going. After just a few minutes, one of the men appeared alone, following not too far behind me. As I recorded, I worked to ensure he stayed in my camera’s lens…again, my PTSD had already processed an entire scenario of the news segment that would read…

MISSING VISITOR: WHITEWATER PRESERVE - a first-time solo hiker has gone missing - 5’3”, 140 lbs, brown hair, brown eyes - please contact us, blah, blah, blah…

Within seconds, {+ if you have PTSD, you know this feeling}, I had clocked what I would do to escape his grasp, how I would fight back, and what it would look like if he got the best of me and accomplished his intended goal. Trauma is real, and processing it is no different.

I was scared as hell, but I kept going.

After working up a sweat and deciding holding my water bottle would be easier than continuously digging it out of my backpack, I stopped to gather myself and hydrate. Still afraid, but digging deep to catch my breath - pulling from my healed parts for strength and courage, he waved at me and yelled out. I couldn’t make out his words, but it was clear he was attempting to communicate with me…the only person out there.

I snatched my backpack up and threw it over my shoulder, securing it across my chestplate…you know, just in case I had to take this man out! My inner bad ass was working her way to the surface.

“There’s a bear right there.”

Sidenote: The Ranger had told me to watch out for rattlesnakes and mountain lions, and ever so casually threw in, “Oh! And there’s been a bear hanging around in the area that hikers have seen regularly, so be cautious, but you probably won’t see it,” he said with a slight grin. “Don’t turn your back and run from it. Throw a rock and scream at it like you would a dog.”

“Where?”

“Just past that heap of rocks. He’ll be staying near the waters edge probably, so I just wanted to let you know because I saw you going that way.”

“Thank you!”

He was much closer…nearer to me…

“Do you hike often?”

“I do”

“I’m a tour guide for local hikers and have been here more times than I can count. Are you alone today?”

I paused, PTSD front and center!

“What’s your name?”

“Lola”

{I don’t know where this name came from, but my military self determined this was the time to let all of my badassness shine through to show him that I wasn’t who he thought I was, and this wasn’t going to turn out how he had hoped.}

“Michael. Nice to meet you.”

“Well, I’m heading up that way and will join you so you don’t have to be out here alone.”

“Oh no. I’m fine.”

{said with assurance and an air of ‘you don’t want to mess with me, Sir.’

“Are you on vacation or do you live around here?”

“I’m in the military and am just taking a day to explore.”

“Oh.”

{seeming a bit deflated}

And this is where a shift started happening:

As much as I felt assured that I was where I was supposed to be, I was still afraid. I was afraid of this man’s presence. I was afraid of possibly seeing the bear. I was afraid of the same looping thoughts that had trailed me from the moment I stepped onto the path. My fear of being alone in the wilderness wrapped itself around me like a too-warm blanket, suffocating me with a sudden weight of sadness, and my people-pleasing self surfaced.

{I know. How in the hell is now the time for your people-pleasing to surface?!}

“You go ahead, and I’ll follow behind you.”

“No thanks. I’ll follow your lead.”

{Yep! My people-pleasing self talked me into hiking with this man!}

“They say the bear normally gets the person in the back of the line. Are you sure?”

“I’ve got something for that bear, I promise you.”

{Now, I’m shakily overcompensating because he thinks I’m active duty and is unsure of what weapons I had on me. Little did he know that my nervous system was a wreck, and I was actually coming undone, but from the outside, I was a bad ass black woman who isn’t here to play games and is probably packing heat that I know how to use!…in my superwoman voice!

STOP WALKING AND GO BACK!

It was clear to me.

Do not take one more step towards this man.

To be continued…

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We all feel it, even if we don’t say it aloud. But…

Earlier today, I parked just to grab a few essentials.
The sun hung low…half-golden, half-goodbye.
The rush-hour hum was beginning to slow.
As I crossed the parking lot, something caught my eye:
a single white sheet of paper against the brick wall.

From afar, it looked insignificant.

Just another notice…one of those papers the wind forgets to carry away.

But as I drew closer,
I saw the Scotch tape,
each strip trying its best to keep the message still…

“Hopefully someone who needs this will see it,” I imagine the kind human saying.

And in that small, taped-down moment,
something in me exhaled for the first time in days…not loudly, but like dust after sunlight passes through a room.

It was a stillness that didn’t ask for attention, only acknowledgment.

A quiet reminder that even in chaos,
someone, somewhere,
is still leaving notes of meaning behind.

Maybe that’s all we can do…
leave messages for one another in unexpected places.
Little proofs that kindness hasn’t left the room,
that hope still tapes itself to the walls of ordinary days.

So I wonder…

What small note will you leave behind
for someone who might be losing faith
in the world, or in themselves?

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“The ancestral home of the Paniktum Clan {People of Daylight} of the Agua Caliente Band of Cahuilla Indians, Andreas Canyon is considered the world's second largest native California Fan Palm Oasis.” - the sign read at the start of the trail.

After an energized breakfast of chicken sausage and eggs at Elmer’s, {I would have preferred the German Pancake, a.k.a. Dutch Baby}, I set out for my first hike in the Coachella Valley. This wasn’t my first visit to Palm Springs, where temps can, and do, reach the triple digits, but it was a little later in the day than planned. However, the weather was nice and I was ready to get my shoes dirty.

I didn’t have any real expectations, but I was excited to see the palms I’d been told about - growing wild in their natural habitat and allowed to grow freely. I needed the welcoming embrace of nature on my skin and looked forward to taking a moment somewhere along the way to stop and share my thanks for all that Mother Earth continues to do for us, despite our behavior towards her.

The scenery was gorgeous! The mountains, which remind me of planet Mars, I walked up and touched, taking in the fact that they have occupied this space for such a long time. The only native palms to California cascaded out and over, covering me like a mother protecting her child from the sun. They were stunning and reminded me of full-bodied women clothed in frocks and ready for the party, even if there isn’t one! They were breathtaking! The water from the creeks provided a quick swim opportunity for those willing to enter, or for those like me, to splash some on their arms and legs!

After a long and enjoyable hike, I stopped at the visitors center in hopes of finding a restroom. Nothing like a good couple of “ups + downs” over rocky terrain to fill your tank!

As I waited in line to speak to one of the attendees, the customer ahead of me turned around, stood in my path, and with a dazzling smile said,

“Hey Sis! Your energy is fire!”

I stopped in my tracks for a couple of reasons.

#1} She looked like Lizzo! Like, for real, for real! In a flash scenario, I thought to myself, if it is: should I tell her I know all the words to all her songs, should I ask for a pic, should I play it chill, and just say thanks and smile as if I’m respecting her private time more than my desire to scream all of the above and fan-girl out! After processing in 2 seconds flat, I realized it wasn’t. However, it was someone much greater {much love to Lizzo, though}.

And, #2} I was drenched head-to-toe in sweat, doing a tiny dance, knees knocking, in hopes of getting to a restroom sooner than later, and was shocked by her immediate reaction to me.

“Wow…thank you!”

“I see you, Queen!”

“Thank you so much”, with my hand on my heart.

And for the next 30 minutes or so, she shared how she saw a light in and around me that felt safe to her. She explained that this was her third consecutive week of coming to Andreas Canyon for meditation in a particular spot, as she was trying to work through something and seeking guidance. I responded with a few ‘suitable for a stranger’ thoughts on her intentions, and as I attempted to wrap it up, she asked me if she could share something else.

Universal Alignment:

“I have fibroids {while pulling out her phone to show me a YouTube video of a doctor removing them from a black woman’s body} and I’m trying to figure out if I should have the surgery or not. I want kids.”

She went on to say how she didn’t know anyone who had them and was gathering all of the information she could about them.

I listened without speaking until she had poured her heart out in trust, and with tears in her eyes, she stopped talking and stared at me.

“Thank you for trusting me with something so intimate. I recognize that this was not your plan as you prepared to come here this morning. However, I had fibroids. It is, unfortunately, very common in women of color. I have also had two fibroid surgeries, and when they grew back for a third time, causing extreme discomfort and abdominal swelling, I chose to have a partial hysterectomy.”

I went on to explain the season of my life and how I knew I did not want any more children, as I already had my daughter.

She stood wide-eyed and what appeared to be in shock, explaining that she knew the Universe had sent me to her for trust and guidance…{I reaffirmed that I am NOT a doctor and this is my story, not hers}. After a few tears, hugs, and a quick clasp and interlocking grip of our hands - my reminding her that she is not alone on this journey - and much unexpected appreciation, we exchanged information and she set off on her trail.

Expansion: The Gift of Being Available

What struck me most about this encounter wasn’t just the uncanny timing, but the lesson about being available when called. We all carry stories, but sometimes we forget that our lived experiences can be lanterns for someone else’s path. I hadn’t woken up that morning thinking, “I will counsel someone about reproductive health at the base of a canyon.” But that’s the mystery of alignment…it shows up unannounced, in hiking shoes, sweaty, needing to pee, and still able to be a vessel.

I am not a counselor, a therapist, or a medical professional. But I am a woman who has lived, who has endured, who has healed. And sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes what people need most is not expertise but witness — someone who has walked through the fire and can say, “I made it out, and so can you.”

We underestimate how radical listening can be. To pause, give someone the grace of your undivided attention, and meet them with compassion is a kind of medicine all its own. The Universe doesn’t always need us to solve; it needs us to see. And in that moment, I saw her — not just her fibroids, not just her fear, but the fullness of her desire for motherhood, her strength in searching, her courage in sharing her story with a stranger.

I walked away humbled, reminded that sometimes being a vessel means showing up with an open heart. It means making space for another woman’s tears, while also reminding her that joy, options, and hope still belong to her. It means naming your own scars without shame, because they can serve as roadmaps for someone else who is lost.

My gift that day wasn’t my words or even my story. My gift was my willingness to be still, listen, and trust that the Universe knew what it was doing when it aligned two Black women, one walking towards and one walking from a desert trail with palms overhead like silent witnesses.

Lesson:

When we think we are in a place for one reason, oftentimes, there is something much greater that has led us there. Our experiences are meant to be shared so that others can know they are not navigating this thing called life alone. This is why WRITERS WRITE! And also, why smiling at a stranger can be precisely what they {+ you} need on any given day!

***And the restrooms were packed, so I had to wait another 30 minutes before finding one! Ha!

I’d love to hear from you:

1. Have you ever found yourself in a place for one reason, only to discover the Universe had a greater plan waiting for you there?

2. How do you know when it’s your turn to speak — and when it’s your turn to simply hold space?

3. What story from your own life do you feel might one day serve as a lantern for someone else?

Share your thoughts in the comments below.

In my 30s, I wore time like armor.
Working almost 80 hours a week…no complaints, just motion.
College books in one hand, babygirl in the other,
building futures while helping with s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g words.

Not a single one, but alone.
Mothered my way through statistics + essays.
Showed up at work like it paid me in peace.
No one saw the quiet breaking…
Just the strong Black woman doing what needed to be done.

I ironed uniforms in the dark,
attended class after twelve-hour work days,
did homework from 11p to 2a…
While my daughter dreamed, I stayed awake building {h}ours.

There was no room to crumble…
Just showers to cry in.
No soft landings, just silent prayers,
+ the whisper of “keep going…keep going…”

Praying.

Working.

Toiling.

Building.

Schooling.

Seeing me, she’ll believe in her power

But now…oh, but now…
In my 50s, I sip mornings slowly.
I laugh without rushing.
I rest because I can…because I must.

My daughter is grown + glowing,
proof that seeds bloom even in drought.
She thanks me with her words—repeatedly—ensuring that I hear her
as she knocks on 30’s door.

I no longer glorify the grind.

I glorify the grace.

The stretch marks.

The stories.

The scars of battles fought + won.

Inside + out.

The sacredness of surviving.

I don’t need to hustle to prove I’m worthy.
I did that already
with vision, will
+ a few hands that held me when it counted.

So here I am…

Because when I sit down to write, I am never just playing with pretty sentences. Writers know this. We are archeologists and foragers of our own lives…digging, brushing, sifting through the layers of memory and emotion until we stumble upon the fragile bones of our past. Old wounds, old stories, and the shadows have a way of rising to the surface, uninvited yet insistent…demanding to be freed.

And while I am never surprised when these emotions begin to rise, it is in my writing that I bring into awareness the heaviness of life…the unconscious parts of ourselves, so that we do not hide from, but bring into the light and integrate them, reclaiming the energy it has taken to keep them suppressed. Our qualities, desires, wounds, and memories that we deny because they evoke feelings of shame, unworthiness, or social unacceptability keep us distant from living our whole lives. Even untapped talents and dreams buried under conditioning can be brought to the surface and integrated when we write authentically.

It is exhausting work. Sometimes it feels like carrying a suitcase packed with grief, shame, questions, and all the “what-ifs” we’ve tucked away for years. But writing doesn’t politely leave those things in the attic…nope…it drags them into the daylight and dares us to give them a voice.

But here’s the lesson I’ve had to learn:

We can’t live only in the excavation…digging endlessly into trauma without remembering to also ‘BLOOM IN JOY’ as this too will hollow us out.

Healing doesn't only exist in the heavy…it can come from watering a dark, empty place + having faith that growth will happen.

There is medicine in laughter…the kind that tilts your head forward, coffee nearly spilling as your body is caught off guard by delight. There is freedom in writing about lighter things: the ridiculous, the child-like remember when’s, the absurd, and hilariously funny moments that don’t require a deep dive, only a smile that can hit like a gut punch! Sometimes healing is about reclaiming the stolen child within, letting them giggle without explanation, and giving them permission to be playful, messy, and free. Let your inner kid play!

To live fully as a writer is to hold space for both: 

The excavation of your raw story + the exhale

The shadow work that digs deep + the sunshine that grows into a joyful paragraph

So, I will continue to excavate and unearth the stories buried beneath silence, using them as the narrative for my craft. I will also continue my inner journey so that there are more healed than healing parts of me. But, most importantly, I will throw my head forward, while laughing into my coffee, and let joy sneak its way into my soul and onto my pages. This, too, is a form of healing. This, too, is the work.

One chuckle, one sip, + one word at a time.

Where does laughter sneak into your healing? How do you give yourself permission to bloom in joy even as you’re doing the deep work?

Here’s to blooming in both the shadows + the light…

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Not because it makes the pain disappear,
but because it gives the pain somewhere to go.

Not just ink on a page,
but putting chaos into clarity.

Writing is medicinal.

It slows the thoughts when they're racing,
and gives linearism to what feels out of control.

Sometimes, it's not about the words themselves…
it's about the release.

Writing is medicinal.

The quiet act of showing up for myself, one sentence at a time.

This isn't just a form of expression.

This is survival.

This is navigating without a map.

So I keep writing,
over + over…

Writing is medicinal.

Writing is medicinal.

Writing is medicinal.

Writing is medicinal.

Writing is medicinal.

Not because it fixes what’s broken,
but because it touches what hurts.

I write to process.

I write to feel.

I write to make sense of what I sometimes can't say aloud.

Writing is medicinal.

These lines aren't just thoughts,
they’re exhalations.

The kind you take
when you’re finally able to breathe again.

So I keep writing…
over + over + over...
until the ache takes shape on the page.

Writing is medicinal.

I don’t write to be perfect.

I write to be honest.

I write to be healed.

I write to live.

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So buckle up and let’s rewind to the wild, wonderful world of the ’70s + ’80s — where toys had personalities, candy cost a penny, we all smelled like outside, we thought people in their 30s were old, and childhood felt like forever!

Groomed for housewifery…at age six?

Looking back at the ’70s, it’s wild to think we were practically groomed by age six to become housewives! Hilarious now…or maybe not…but it’s true. Our childhoods mirrored the lives our moms were living. We had mini kitchenettes stocked with toy sausages and eggs, Easy-Bake Ovens that magically cooked cakes with a light bulb, plastic iron sets and ironing boards, and baby dolls that cried, wet themselves, and demanded diaper changes. Playing “house” wasn’t just play…it was preparation.

And let’s not forget the candy cigarettes, puffing out the tiniest cloud of powder from the red tip, because that’s what you do when you’re a worn-out, overworked six-year-old Momma! Obviously, pretending to raise three plastic babies in an afternoon was exhausting!

Then came Underoos—those superhero underwear sets that made you feel powerful under your pjs. My Wonder Woman set was my jam! Slipping into those brightly colored ‘fits’ felt like transforming into a secret identity. They were the original Victoria’s Secret…uummmm…that’s something to consider with a side-eye.

Toys that sparked our imaginations…

Some of the simplest toys brought the most joy.

Mr. Potato Head was our introduction to mix-n-match creativity — where ears ended up in place of noses, and goofy grins were totally acceptable. And the unforgettable View-Master! Another fav of mine! It transported us through miniature slide reels to lands that often felt out of reach…from Disney scenes to travel photos of places we couldn’t imagine being real…that may have been the start of my travel bug! No internet, no screens — just a little plastic clicker and a whole lot of imagination.

In our summer-sweat-filled outside playtime, we spun ourselves dizzy on the Sit-n-Spin, wore out our shoes pedaling the Big Wheel, and zoomed down the city sidewalks on the low-riding Green Machine! We staged backyard wars with G.I. Joes and Star Wars action figures in the gravel driveway and used the fallen walnuts from the tree as bombs!

We were creatives!

Fast-Forward to the ’80s: A Golden Era of Toys + Imagination

Now that was a time to be a kid…and a teen!

The ’80s turned everything up a notch — brighter colors, bigger hair, bolder prints, and better toys!

And, I won’t even get into the MUSIC of the ’80s here, as that deserves its own and set-apart attention!!!

At school, we traded scratch-n-sniff stickers like currency — bubblegum-scented if you were lucky and collected fruit-shaped erasers that we never actually used, but instead stored in a sandwich baggie or a zippered pencil holder, if you were fancy.

Toys like the Rubik's Cube kept us twisting-n-turning for hours on end. However, my sister and I counted ourselves lucky with our Strawberry Shortcake-decorated bedroom. At the same time, Rainbow Brite, Cabbage Patch Kids, and the hilariously gross Garbage Pail Kids filled our toy chests and decorated our lunchboxes.

We ruled the universe with He-Man and She-Ra, performing heroic battles in front of Castle Grayskull, zoomed around with Knight Rider’s KITT…although I always found myself keeping it wiped off like it shouldn’t be dirty, and solved crimes with the A-Team van. But Transformers…they were always the chosen ones! And if your friend had any one of these toys, their house instantly became the neighborhood HQ!

Our only rule? Be home before the streetlights came on…IYKYK!

Until then, we were kings and queens of our block — free to roam, build clubhouses in run-down shacks, and dream big with our friends by our side.

When childhood was sweet…literally

Some of the sweetest memories of childhood weren't always found in the toy box. They were in the candy aisle...

Having a mother who worked at the local convenience store led to almost daily, three-block walks to see how much candy I could get…always way too much, upon reflection.

Then there were the Big + Little Dipper trucks, rolling through our neighborhoods like sweet sirens. They sold pickles the size of your arm, spicy, flaming red sausages, and candy that could knock your socks off! Think Lemonheads, Now & Laters, Pop Rocks, Big League Chew, Jolly Ranchers, and candy necklaces, strung on elastic, which we proudly wore around our sweat-filled necks and snacked on all day! We were nasty, y’all…

And the best part? Penny candy! Yes, actual candy that cost a penny. With just a quarter, you could feel like a high roller walking out with a tiny brown paper bag bursting with goodies.

Simple Pleasures…lifelong memories

However, some of my favorite moments came from the quiet, creative corners of childhood.

I could spend hours with paper dolls, carefully punching out outfits and giving each character their own backstory, which I would often write out in my spiral notebooks. And I looovvvved to color…always within the lines though, which speaks volumes about the perfectionism I struggled with as an adult. Then there was the glorious Atari—my first taste of digital joy. Whether it was Pac-Man, Frogger, or Donkey Kong, every game…a glimpse into the future…felt magical!

Let’s Go Back…even just for a moment

Sometimes, revisiting these memories isn't just fun…it’s grounding.

It reminds us of who we were, where we came from, and what joy looked like before life got complicated.

A world where your biggest responsibility was keeping your Cabbage Patch Kid fed and beating your sibling at Frogger.

Even if just for a moment...we remember.

So what about you — what toys, snacks, or memories take you back?
Drop them in the comments. Let’s swap stories, laugh a little, and remember what it felt like when life was just a big wheel ride and a scratch-n-sniff sticker away from perfect.

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They were born that way.

I was 6 + they were 60.

“That girl’s an old soul,” the elders would say.

I just knew they were referring to my hands.

“Quick!”

I’d bury them deep in my pockets,

hiding,

always hiding.

On playgrounds, “don’t let them see…”

I’d whisper to myself,

afraid of the meanness that would later come.

First dates…

First touches…

First _______…

The fear pressed so tight, it made no room for second chances.

“Here! I like to hold hands this way”, I’d exclaim,

curling my hand into a ball form +

forcing it into the palm of another,

masking what I could not change.

Time has only kept its promise…

they are as they started,

old.

Endless wrinkles, crevices, + constellations

carved into cocoa skin.

They have

pushed

pulled

pressed

forged

ached

fought against

+ for.

They have

protected

scratched

burned

cared

carried

+ created.

They have

rubbed

caressed

wiped

bled

clapped

cooked

broken

+ still brush my lips gently when thought carries me away.

And now, I love them for it.

Like most things in midlife,

gratitude becomes clearer.

It was never about how they looked,

but the power they hold.

The world is in my hands.

They have cradled both life + death.

I like to think they carry my ancestors in their lines,

known + unknown,

a roadmap guiding me through time

…to + fro…

every gesture connects me.

My story is in my hands,

+ they reveal it each time I sit down to write.

The old soul they once whispered about,

I see her alive in every line.

X, Grateful.

QUESTIONS FOR YOU:

Thank you for reading this! Seriously!

1} If a friend might enjoy this, would you consider sharing it? Just click the button below.

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2} Or, perhaps, would you consider recommending ‘Journaling with…’ on your page to help more people discover my writings? I promise to continue fulfilling my end of the deal by submitting regularly, + though they may not be perfect, you + whomever you recommend will see my effort + hopefully feel like your time has been well spent here!

I am eagerly growing + developing as a writer, so your help would mean the world to me.

I worked to command.

I watched the world from beneath.

Observed the good,

the bad,

the indifferent.

No judgments, just observations.

Seeing.

Witnessing.

Core held tight, breath steady.

Strong.

A little splash here, a ripple there,
but nothing I couldn’t swipe away.

Nothing I couldn’t outswim.

I was good at course correcting.

Even when the waves became giants,

threatening to swallow everything,

I steadied myself.

The water held me close with purpose.

I believed I was the current,
not just inside it.

We were one.

The ebb + flow…

Until I wasn’t.

Until fatigue crept in
like an unknown disease,
quiet + sudden.

My legs grew tired.

Feet kicked less.

Breath thinned.

Arms grew heavy,
then useless.

Every splash felt like a slap,
startling + unrelenting…

taking my breath away at each touch.

I was drowning.

Not all at once,
but slowly, tragically…
in the very place
where I once danced + drifted
with such grace + certainty.

“I thought I had mastered these waters. How long have I been here
pretending to glide when I was barely afloat?”

The water, once a friend…family,
now pushed against me
with indifference.

The strength I held
had abandoned me without a goodbye.

Only when I let go…
truly stopped fighting,
and sank,
did I see it:

“You don’t have to stay here.”

I realized I could rise,
not through force,
but through surrender.

“Go into the shallow + breathe.”

QUESTIONS FOR YOU:

Thank you for reading this! Seriously!

1} If a friend might enjoy this, would you consider sharing it? Just click the button below.

Share

2} Or, perhaps, would you consider recommending ‘Journaling with…’ on your page to help more people discover my writings? I promise to continue fulfilling my end of the deal by submitting regularly, + though they may not be perfect, you + whomever you recommend will see my effort + hopefully feel like your time has been well spent here!

I am eagerly growing + developing as a writer, so your help would mean the world to me.

Is that okay?

Will you still sit here with me?

I didn’t want to clean myself {or my words} up before putting them here.

Summer is wrapping up, and while I look forward to the falling off and shedding that the season change will bring, I am also reflecting on the essence of time.

Time gone by…

Time here + now…

Time to come…ever the dreamer

There has been a significant shift in my life over the past year. Like a cup at the ocean’s edge, I am full. Sudden burst of what feels good and refreshing at first, then quickly becoming overwhelming and suffocating, giving chase to catching my breath, and realizing that I am drowning only after starting to sink into and beneath the sand.

It hasn’t been all bad.

No.

Don’t get me wrong, but this is where I journal, so…

Today, my mind is full of the loss of time.

Time I gave away.

Time that was taken from me.

I’m sad about both.

I am seeking quiet.

I am seeking to be present in this moment, here + now.

I am sitting here with you in hopes that pouring out this overflow will allow me to breathe healthily and intake the necessary air…to pass…time.

Today, I need this pause.

This is where my silence begins.

Won’t you sit with me + listen?

{click the link below}

John Coltrane & Duke Ellington - In a Sentimental Mood

Be still, Benivia.

Rest in knowing that you are well + enough.

Your light is exuberant.

Peace is real + joy will come.

Love lives inside of you.

Grace fills your heart

+ compassion follows.

This is what you need today.

Quiet.

Still.

In this moment of feeling sentimental + emotional, I am turning up the volume on John + Duke…allowing them to exist over-and-over as I sit with myself…allowing myself to feel it all… whisking me off into the depths of my soul, eyes closed and heart open for whatever may be ahead.

“You are exuberant.”

“You are healthy.”

“You are enough.”

Be still and know this today…

I’m saying this for myself and you, the reader.

XO,

Benivia Lee

I tried to write it as one, you know. I tried to present this in a way that was less painful, keeping the reality of my life in the shadows.

It didn’t work. So, here’s a true story.

Though the sun had begun its slow descent, I was still trying to settle down. It had been an exhausting day of tackling my to-do list, which seemed to multiply rather than shrink, an endless scroll of tasks that had consumed my time, energy, and patience. I had moved through the day on autopilot, checking boxes and pushing through the pain, longing for a moment of stillness…silence. All I craved now was a hot shower to wash off the day and the uninterrupted escape of sleep.

My mouth throbbed with relentless pain—sharp, pulsing aches radiating from the fresh stitches that now peeked through my upper gum line every time I dared to speak. …{read more about this in my previous Substack below}

Read the full story..

Initially, all I could hear was your whisper.

Then, what sounded like you just talking to yourself…a familiar sound to me because I do the same…within seconds, became your voice rising, taking over the space and filling the air. Your thoughts became words that spewed into all of the crevices, pushing their way through to the far corners, front to back, and side to side…the house was full of you.

A trauma response set in.

I remember so distinctly how this blanket of noise would consume my body as a kid and cause me to become paralyzed…what happened? what can I do? I hate this…make it stop…sshhhhhh…

Though I’ve had therapy and learned that this behavior of yours has nothing to do with me personally, the weight of your discontentment is something I am still learning to shake. All of my life, having your tantrums brushed off with words like, that’s just her being her, or understanding that whatever your behavior made me feel was not as important as your being allowed to express it, reminds me that I am minimized when it comes to you.

I froze.

I wanted to ask you what was wrong. I wanted so much to talk to you with hopes of calming you down…like always, but again, I couldn’t speak.

My mouth was stitched closed.

Your words marched from your lips in a sharp, deliberate cadence…

In rhythm: one. word. spoken. = one. movement. made.

This, too, felt familiar.

You were unloading the dishwasher, but not like someone doing a chore…more like someone slowly coming undone. Plates clattered and cups were slammed into cabinets. You tossed silverware into drawers—punctuation marks of rage. Each clang and crash was in sync with your shouting, your voice rising to a fever pitch until the veins in your neck swelled.

I should have known then.

I should have recognized the build-up…the way rage disguises itself as routine.

I should have seen what was coming next.

You’d got to a place in your sentence, which I still could not fully make out…

And, BAM!!!

Who would have ever thought that a Pyrex measuring cup held within itself thousands of tiny slivers of glass just waiting to be released from one another!

S-H-A-T-T-E-R-E-D P-I-E-C-E-S

flew without boundaries as far as air could take them.

Throughout the kitchen.

Across the floor..

Down the hallway…

Into the next room….

Under potted plants…..

And couches……

On carpets…….

They multiplied like glitter in a strip club.

I stood there in shock!

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The intention with which you slammed it down on the granite had taken over your deductive reasoning of what would come after…

or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe you knew exactly what would follow.

As you whipped around to look towards the door, our eyes locked. In that split second, you realized I had seen it. You knew that I knew.

You knew that I witnessed the deliberate process of you guiding the glass into its final moments of being whole.

I blinked quickly, as if being shaken awake, and rushed over to take action.

Saliva traced the corner of my mouth as I struggled to summon a voice loud enough to break through the moment. My lips pressed tight, pulsing with each word, I muffled…

“Put your hands in the air!”

“Don’t touch anything!”

“STOP!”

“STOP moving!”

“Please stop.”

I grew tired quickly.

“I’ll get it…you can’t…please just stop moving and let me do it…please…I can’t keep talking…please stop…for me…please…,” my voice faded into a whisper as you kept yelling about how it was an accident and you can’t believe it happened.

All I could think of was that you were on blood thinners, and the thought of you getting cut was more horrific than this. I stripped you down, threw away your clothes and shoes, and put you in the shower.

After getting you settled and seated, the real work began.

If you’ve ever had to clean up shattered glass {or glitter}, you know it’s a slow, relentless process of careful sweeping, wiping, and gloved hands meticulously searching every surface to catch the last tiny speck.

For the next four hours, I did this. Wiping, sweeping, over-and-over-and-over, even while people stopped by for a previously planned visit…them offering to help clean up, but my knowing you didn’t want them to, because you know that I’ll do it like you want it done…not a sliver left behind.

I didn’t have the response or fight in me.

My words were gone.

As you sat there, being gently rubbed on the back, cloaked in sympathy, you offered your version of the story, which painted you as innocent…just someone caught in an unfortunate mishap.

“I tried to put it in the cabinet and missed the shelf.”

You cast a quick glance at me, confident I would not challenge you. Confident, I would not speak. And with that silence, your narrative deepened, steeped in a self-pitying “poor me” tone that drew comforting hands and nods of understanding your way.

They thought it was my mouth causing this reaction…that I was just overwhelmed.

But this wasn’t my mouth.

This is my grief spilling out…through tears I trained to hold back.

These tears were telling the story of the years I spent hiding the damage, swallowing the truth, smoothing over sharp edges to make everyone else comfortable.

An unfortunate truth,

Benivia Lee

For the past 3 months, I’ve had physical therapy and occupational therapy 3 times a week…EACH! My body has bent, moved, contorted, and given from places I didn’t know still existed!

Being physically flexible has never been a problem from what I could tell about myself…well, not until I called on my body parts to show up in ways I expected them to as they did two years ago. I didn’t realize, like the Tin Man who required oil to move, that my shoulders had extreme limits on what they would give to reach my arms across my body, or that my hip rotation would stop suddenly, like a right foot to the brakes of a car! I found myself chatting with these parts…shoulders, lower back, hips, knees, and so on…as if they were not a part of me. As if they didn’t recognize my disappointment in their failure to show up…you owe me! Now, get moving!

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I could only laugh, because boy, oh, boy, if they could talk back, I’d imagine it’d be something like: “Who do you think dropped the ball here?” “You know what atrophy is, and yet YOU failed US!” “You led us here, ma’am!”…

Again, I laughed.

I have made leaps and bounds forward with these physical limits, but I also realize that s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g is more than a physical need.

I recently listened to ‘We’re Going to Need More Wine’ by Gabby Union - I know, I know…I’m late to that party, but better late than never! And I call her Gabby because there is no way in the world that anyone who has ever read or listened to this book doesn’t think of themself as someone in her friend group!

Anyway, now I’m listening to ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho {I have an amazing story about this book from my travels abroad that I’m excited to share in a future Substack} and ‘Let Them’ by Mel Robbins. Both are growing me in new areas and helping me continue building purposeful boundaries where there were none. They’re feeding my curiosity, requiring me to be more honest about the season I’m in, the dreams I have, and daring me to believe that I deserve them.

However, this is when…

I realized that I often ghost myself.

When life hurls curveballs into the paths I thought were clear, when interruptions blaze like wildfires, and the needs of others swirl around me like a sudden snowstorm, I come to a screeching halt.

I let go of me.

I stopped watering the seeds of my own heart and soul, pouring everything into others without a second thought—because I want to please, to be liked, to be seen as good, and so on. I didn’t realize that abandoning myself would leave a trail of regret, quiet resentment, and deep sadness leading to depression. I didn’t know that neglecting my care would leave me feeling hollow, unanchored, and quietly aching in the shadows of my own life.

I know this ties to my people-pleasing tendencies, which I’m much more aware of and actively working through. When life offers me an opportunity to pause, check my pulse, learn more, and deepen my sense of wholeness and well-being, I choose to lean in.

This is one of those moments.

We rarely discuss MENTAL STRETCHING — pushing our thoughts beyond what’s comfortable, challenging old narratives about ourselves and our lives, and holding space for new perspectives.

What mental stretching means to me is:

• willingness to grow emotionally + intellectually + spiritually

• asking hard questions + accepting hard truths

• unlearning patterns that no longer serve us

• being available for others while not abandoning our own needs

• open-mindedness to conversations that expand our worldview

Like physical stretching, consistency is key. Otherwise, areas tighten, and atrophy sets in. We get stuck in loops of thought and reaction that limit our joy, relationships, sense of purpose, and our overall life experience.

The same way we honor the body with movement, we must honor the mind with growth.

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It’s not either/or…it's both/and.

It is a sacred + necessary balance.

XO,

Benivia Lee

they have been waiting + watching over me

knowing this day would come

whispers in the wind remind me…you’re never alone

{O}pened by the light of love + growing in the shadows

there is something sacred happening inside of me

blooming in forgotten places, dimmed by tragedy

{P}urposefully created

my breath is intention

my steps create echoes of a dream becoming flesh

my existence is my purpose

{E}levated by love

rooted in grace

rising in truth

growing deeper + wider by the day

higher + limitless by night

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no

i mean really

no quick glance

you seem to hate it here

you make me

do you

oh, no

you don’t

i can’t tell

what do you see

lack

judgement

life

i’m sick of your shit

sorry

i care

sometimes

we hurt us

which parts disgust you

mattering so much

imagine enough

for them

never…ending

imagine enough

for you

freedom

struggling to love me so

it’s exhausting

trying to f-i-x

your b-r-o-k-e-n-n-e-s-s

one

step forward

two

three

four steps

back

STOP!

counting

STOP!

giving me away

STOP!

feelings of uselessness

honestly

i need you to get on with it

ENOUGH NOW!

or at least until next time…

© Benivia Lee

I wrote this in under two minutes—not to display talent, but to capture a raw moment of vulnerability, my thoughts as they unfolded. So many of us wrestle with negative self-talk, speaking to ourselves in ways we’d never dream of addressing a friend or even a stranger.

This year, I’m committed to diving deeper into my “why”—getting to the root, digging, scraping, and pruning away what doesn’t serve me. My goal is to emerge on the other side, fully embracing and loving myself from a place of wholeness.

Along the way, I’ll continue writing, sharing the highs and lows of the journey. And when I stumble, that’s okay. It’s all part of being human.

Plant PEACE + LOVE in others.

Off we went on a summer’s day, my five-year-old daughter pedaling as quickly as her tiny feet could muster on her hot pink and yellow training-wheeled bike! Zoom! Zoom! She had fallen in love with it the week prior when we made a quick run to the store for some apples! That’s the way it worked with her…being an only child…and because I had a habit of buying her everything she wanted as a way to show my love {I later learned how unhealthy this was for us both…much later}. Running alongside her, I limped back and forth speedily while my newly placed femur hardware adhered to my bone and the screws found their forever home inside my flesh. This was my attempt to perfect and speed up my recovery after being hit by a drunk driver not long before…learning how to walk again had been mastered, so this was my next step.

We had traveled this path before, but only with others, never just she and I…alone.

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The serene, picturesque curve of the path led into a dense, wooded preserve that stretched on for miles. It wound alongside a lively creek, its flowing waters echoing softly through the trees. The sun's rays rested lightly on the canopy overhead, reflecting on the ground below with shifting patterns of light and shadow, which my daughter playfully tried to avoid. Most days, the trail would be alive with joggers, cyclists, and brisk walkers, all moving in harmony with nature. But on this particular day, human presence was scarce, but not uncomfortably so.

As we continued deeper into the woods, giggling, playing tag, and racing one another—her winning every time, of course—I noticed two figures in the depths of darkness—way back…or so I thought. Doing a double-take and seeing nothing, I didn’t give it much mind….my eyes…and possibly paranoia…were playing tricks on me.

We kept going—forward—and though I had given a double-take, I wasn’t sure I had seen what I saw…we continued.

L-a-u-g-h-i-n-g!

Swirling!

D-a-n-c-i-n-g!

Singing!

Going in c-i-r-c-l-e-s!

Imitating!

This day’s ‘Teaching Moment’ was: Joy!

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Then. They appeared.

The same two figures—men…there they were…closer to the tree-lined edge, but still back far enough to be missed if my sub-conscience had not been working overtime on my behalf.

Slowly halting, still talking to her with a crooked smile so as not to draw attention, I instantly grew terrified…barely breathing…my body overwhelmed with numbness, sweat escaping my pores, upper lip quivering, and nausea thrusting into my throat, I was torn…move…don’t move…

These questions were processed simultaneously and at the speed of light. My movements were intentional, but course—hurried, but stiffened. I held my smile, and with tears in my eyes, I moved with all the might I could muster.

I was petrified, my body tripping over itself in search of direction.

Speaking softly and with a cracked voice, I grasped her handlebar and turned her back towards the street. The joyous words spilling from my mouth did not align with my thoughts…come on, baby…Mommy has to get you out of here…they’re going to hurt us…this is bad…I can’t let them near us…near you…come on, baby…faster…move faster…

Suddenly. Out of nowhere.

A man and woman appeared on their bikes. At the sight of them, I froze, standing still and staring as to make eye contact, hoping that they could see me…really see me. Tears streamed down my hardened face. I whispered and mouthed…help us…help us, please help…please, please, please…begging softly.

With a quick glance into the trees, he saw them! Immediately, the man jumped from his bike as the woman came to a halt, her feet slamming into the pavement. Before I could tell my daughter to get off, he lifted her from her bike, into the air, and down to her feet, grabbing it with one hand and hoisting it over his shoulder while dragging his own bike with the other. His movements were immediate and swift! With an intuitive stare and fully aware of what was happening, the woman whispered to me…go!…as she looked in the direction of the road. She saw my fear…she felt it…she took it on as her own, and without another word being said, my feet began to move. I was in shock. My mind couldn’t wrap around the fact that they had appeared so suddenly. I began weeping uncontrollably as I grabbed my daughter’s hand and started to run…limping still but with a fight in my bones…her feet floating, barely touching the ground, and flying at my side, attached only by our palms.

The woman rode behind us as the caboose to his engine.

Their truck was parked at the entrance edge. Without hesitation and simultaneously, the man hurled both bikes into the bed, slamming them without care or regard. Before I could process what was happening, the doors were flung open, and we were all packed inside as he urgently asked me for directions to our home. Somehow, I must have given them—because moments later, we were at the front door. But the shock had consumed me entirely, leaving the world muted and distant. I don’t remember speaking a single word. My body had shut down, frozen, as if life itself had paused.

We made it home safely that day because strangers appeared around the curve of a wooded path at the precise time and moment when lives needed saving.

LESSONS IN REFLECTION:

• Teaching moments can shift unexpectedly—be ready for the turn

• Our eyes often reveal truths we’re hesitant to accept—trust what you see

• A Mother’s instinct remains steadfast + trustworthy

• My trauma responses have evolved over time—I’ve had practice

• Strangers have the power to bring both danger + salvation—either can transform your life

• Though my healing journey has been slow, I fear not

*Treat yourself + put headphones on before watching this video!

‘Trust + Light’, 2024, by Benivia Lee {Music: Chick Corea + Gary Burton}

**TRAUMA CLOSING: To conclude this reflection, I am purposefully embracing an afternoon walk accompanied by my favorite playlist. Upon my return, I plan to write a letter of gratitude, focusing on the blessings of the present moment, ensuring I leave this reflection behind as I move through the rest of my day.

Until next time…happy writing.

When did letting go of something feel great?

As I settled into the question, I struggled to avoid my first thoughts…

• Could this be viewed as selfish?

• Is it wrong?

• Will I be judged?

• If we are called to openly share these on this call, will I be embarrassed or feel ashamed?

• I don’t know these people…

Right or wrong, embracing the reality that letting go of thoughts, ideas, unhealthy patterns, and sometimes people is the way forward…creating space for newness to bloom.

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Momma WARNING:

Back to the question…when did letting go of something feel great…when I released myself from the role of Mother—of Momma—to my adult daughter.

Not in terms of titles or nurturing love, but in the sense of ownership…

I never thought past her belonging to me.

Shaped by my own life and upbringing, my deep heart ties to her—though priceless and beautiful in her eyes—were, in truth, unhealthy for us both.

I was young when I married and birthed her. Fresh into my Naval career and trying to draw from the depths of an almost empty well of maternal knowledge, we navigated the complexities of life—learning, growing, and figuring it out side-by-side. We grew up together.

But I forgot…or didn’t consider…that she’d go…growing away from me.

I was tormented by my inability to read, write, or learn my way into keeping her for me and me alone.

I equipped her with independence…gave her a well-crafted + fully-stocked toolbelt!

But as Mothers…Mommas…and being consistent with what had always been - I didn’t think about…myself. We never do.

I didn’t think about being the 1…alone…just me…without her.

My Answer:

Letting go of this heavy, unspoken w-e-i-g-h-t was liberating for us both.

It wasn’t fair to either of us to impose such expectations on the boundless possibilities of the human spirit.

We are meant

to be born,

to exist,

to grow,

to learn,

be curious,

to thrive…

as individuals—crossing paths with others along the journey, whether for a brief moment or a lifetime.

I had never considered what "letting go" might feel like or how it could transform my life. I didn’t realize that the same cloak I had lovingly tethered to her, with all the care I could muster, weighed so heavily on my own shoulders—stifling my potential and suffocating my humanity, not just as a mother, but as a whole person…a woman…a creative…a Phoenix!

“My baby will always be my baby, but I feel lighter knowing she belongs to no one but herself.” - Momma

Until next time…happy writing!

This wasn’t just a moment. It was my body demanding more—fighting for itself…for the life I had been denying. Every tear shed in exhaustion, every laugh that broke through the cracks, every ounce of vulnerability and raw truth had been building to this moment.

My PHOENIX emerged not out of whimsy, but from necessity. It was my soul's declaration that I deserved better—that I needed to stop surviving + start living for what was good, healthy, and right for me.

The fire came from deep within, surging through my bones and burning away every remnant of self-neglect + compromise. It burst through my skin, shattering the chains of what no longer served me. With each fiery beat of its wings, my PHOENIX ascended, carrying me higher into the life I was always meant to embrace.

Now, I am here, soaring above what tried to hold me down. Each day, I deliberately choose to focus on what nourishes me—on balance and on the dreams I’d once pushed aside.

RISE PHOENIX…Fully alive, unshakably free, and finally thriving!