Dear Reader,

Today, July 1, 2026, there’s a boulder sitting on my heart. But I ran across this post I wrote a couple of years ago to remind myself of who tf I am.

Things will get better. Freedom is calling my name.

Who TF Are You Now?

October, 2024

I am a whole human, a black woman, mother of three sons, two who are autistic young adults navigating life in this crazy world that seems hell-bent on making life more dangerous than it already is for people with brown skin. I am a wife of 30 years, holding a marriage together with string, paper clips, and maybe a little glue.*

*The glue is deteriorating today. 7/1/26

I am a writer in the midst of the excruciatingly long memoir process. It's difficult to wrap my ADHD brain around pulling all these stories together. Which ones do I include? What do I leave out? I have so many of them written, hanging out everywhere except inside of a book. *

However difficult writing a memoir is, it's also therapeutic. Writing is another layer of therapy, helping me look into all of my cracks and crevices to figure myself out.

*As of today, I’m working on a poetry, chapbook. The memoir is still in progress, but has not been published. 7/1/26

I am here on Substack because I enjoy connecting with writers and readers. I write about life, mothering, healing, self-care, mental health, and the state of the world as I see it.

Raising three sons has been a huge part of my journey and, quite frankly, the heaviest lift. So much so, that who I am as an individual, who I was before I became a mother, disappeared. That girl was damn near erased from memory. I became unrecognizable, a non-priority in my own life.

*Parenting autism doesn’t end when they turn eighteen or move out. My most challenging son is now 30 years-old. He’s finally figuring things out more each day. However, today, I will be attending a goal-setting meeting with the California Regional Center. Because advocacy seems to never end.

In 2020, I began the quest of rediscovery and healing. My husband could see me slowly changing. He didn't like it. Of course, neither did my kids nor my mother, because the change meant I have boundaries, and the answer to everything wasn't "yes." There was no more going along to get along. My body physically would no longer allow me to accept the status quo.

Him -“I miss the woman who I married.”

Me- “That b*sh been gone a long time ago.”

I should have added, ya’ll killed her.

Well, my loves, I am in metamorphosis!

One of the many weird things I do is change the words in my bio for this publication, like every other week, because as I walk down the road of self-reflection and discovery, who I am is constantly evolving.

Writing a memoir makes you look at your entire life to figure out how you arrived where you are.

What decisions did I make to turn into the person who disappeared inside of marriage and motherhood? And who tf am I now!?

I am figuring that out more each day.

I’m all about forward movement.

I could have stayed stuck in the choices I made to give myself away while raising my children, but at a certain point, I realized no one was coming to save me. I had to save myself.

Now that I'm awake, my intention is to live fully, with purpose, not fear. I want to do things even when I'm anxious or scared because, chances are, whatever it is, it won't kill me. I mean, if these kids haven't killed me yet, I can probably live through anything.

I don't want to keep my world small. I can not continue letting life happen to me. That's not who I am. That's what I became when I fell asleep at the wheel.

I'm awake now! I want to drive myself everywhere I want to go, or at least be able to pay for an Uber when I’m too old and can't see how to drive at night.

By the way, I have no problem being a solo passenger. Anyone who can't add positive energy to my experience, can stay home.

Part of my therapy work has involved examining choices I made when my priority was everyone else.

That's what we're not gonna do no more!

What “Hard Things” in your life deserve celebration this week?

Nothing is too small to celebrate.

I will cheer you on, and hopefully this growing community will do the same.

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Maybe I wanted to give her an optimistic view before her leave of absence.

Maybe, this was true in the moment.

Everything is not what I want it to be. I still have to schedule my life around obligation and duty, but I have a lot to be grateful for.

If we are being honest with ourselves, does being grateful mean that we’re happy?

Is the gratitude practice a way of bargaining with ourselves that we should be happy?

Is the gratitude practice leading us down the road of self-abandonment?

While in truth, we are grateful, AND we are also lonely, empty and depleted, like a walking, talking zombie trying to make it through the days and meet our responsibilities and expectations.

The day of my appointment with my therapist, I came down the stairs in the morning to an empty, quiet, house. The sun was streaming through the windows in the kitchen and living room. One of my orchids was blooming again. The house was clean, the coffee was made (thank you husband). The mortgage was paid. (As the great philosopher Chris Rock says, “Thanks for knocking out that rent Dad!”

I was overcome by gratitude in that moment. It made me feel warm inside.

No smile.

No tingle.

But warm.

I poured myself a cup of coffee made in my special way, with vanilla cream, a dollop of Cool Whip, and a little swirl of caramel on top.

I love, love, love, that first sip when the whip cream hits my lips just before the perfect, piping hot sip.

There’s no one at home to question, You use Cool Whip in your coffee? Yep! Sure do!

Diabetes runs in my family on my father’s side. Every time I make this cup of coffee in my special way, my inner critic says, “Girl, you gonna be in big trouble when you get that diagnosis.”

And then I do it again the next day.

It’s a simple pleasure! I bargain with myself.

I have so little that makes me smile. I deserve this!

Things that make me tingle inside:

• Crawling into bed every night is my absolute favorite. (Absolutely, number 1 on the list!)

• Crawling in bed followed by reading, Solitaire, sleeping, quiet, or maybe a Pat Metheny playlist

• A glass of Dao or Whispering Angel rose’

• Coffee, in my quiet house

• Writing in my writing room

• Celebrating small victories for my kids, while being simultaneously thrilled they’re adults, and I’m no longer responsible for them.

• Salted caramel ice cream

• Going to my neighborhood restaurant, sitting at the bar, alone, being served dinner and a cocktail, or a glass of Rose’ where all of the bartenders know my name, exactly how I like my drink, and give me the best service.

  (Being served, after years of service, cooking, shopping, preparing meals for my family is a simple pleasure! I’m so over the whole, what’s-for-dinner thing!)

Of course, there are other things that make me smile. This list is the small, easily-accessible things that bring light to my everyday doldrums.

Hmm… I notice that on that list there is a lot of “alone”ness. I love aloneness because it’s peaceful. There are hardly any arguments!

After so many years of explosions, in our house, arguments, fights, refereeing, and keeping the lid on everybody else’s nervous system, while all of it was imploding inside my body.

(If you’re new here, I had two autistic, loud, unhappy, teens in my house, along with my mother who lived with us for 10 years!)

Yeah. Alone is good.

I have come to love aloneness, sometimes, I crave it. But that’s not who I truly am.

I am a social being. In high school and through my twenties, I was known as most social!

I love to be around people with whom I connect deeply, sharing laughter, and stimulating conversation.

I love to be in nature, near a body of water —a stream, lake, ocean, or a sea, mountains, and trees so tall, I can do nothing but wonder how long they’ve lived, and be in awe. You can’t be unhappy around trees. Impossible!

I love dining out with my husband, friends, and family, traveling, having game-night with our friends Annette and Bill, smoking a blunt and laughing our asses off on occasion.

There isn’t enough of the things that take my breath away in my everyday life The connections with people I love, who make me feel seen, heard, and loved. The experiences that will live in my heart always, moments of laughing so hard I can’t catch my breath, those are very few and far between.

So while I’m grateful for things in my life, I am not full.

The meal is bland.

It takes up space but doesn’t make my tastebuds dance.

I am not whole.

And I’m not quite sure of the path to get there.

How’s your gratitude practice going? Is it a bargain?

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Thank you for being here, for seeing me, for reading my words. My goal is to make you feel less alone in the world. To get you to think about your life, and what makes you tingle. I hope that my essays are a smile in your day.

If these words touched you heart and made you think, please support my work. Pick up your journal and ask yourself some of the important questions.

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I don’t even think I mourned him the day he died. I was somewhat prepared for it. In the years leading up to his death, I thought he would die, the way that he lived, doing things his way.

I was sad when it happened, for the way it happened. He was alone in his apartment. My brother, Kevin found him that fateful morning. That was the worst of it —my brother walking in and finding our dad on the floor.

Prior to that day, there had been plenty of close calls. From my house in Texas, I once sent the local police to his apartment to do a well-check when none of us could get ahold of him for more than 24 hours. He was pissed that I sent the police. “Why did you send the cops to my house? I told them, I didn’t steal nothin’!” This was an indirect admission of guilt from his days growing up poor in Arkansas.

My siblings all gathered there at his place in Long Beach, on that January morning. I wasn’t there. I was here in Texas. I hate that. I hate that I couldn’t be there to support them through those difficult moments.

When I say that I was prepared for it, I mean, I knew chances were that would be the way he would go. Alone, in his apartment. He chose not to be within the care of others. He wanted to do things his way, on his own, until the end.

I once told him, “Calling 911 is not a health plan, Dad.” Constantly having one of your neighbors call EMS every other week is not a plan.

What the hell do I know? He blew me off.

My first born and my dad are a lot alike in that way. You can’t tell him nothin’! He doesn’t listen to advice to do things in a way that would be less painful —safer, save him some trouble, or have a better outcome. Nope! He would rather have the trouble on his own terms.

In those last years, Dad would be admitted to the hospital, but wouldn’t stay until he was formally released by the doctor. He decided when he was ready to go. Then just to keep everyone guessing, he would sometime, go to the hospital and refuse to leave, until they gave him whatever it is that he wanted.

One year, after one of his falls, and an extensive hospital stay, he was released to a V.A. rehabilitation facility. When he’d had enough of that, he escaped. “I don’t want to hear these motherf*#@kas moaning in pain all night! I want to go home!”

A few days later, he got dressed, waited by the front doors wearing his gown, underneath his coat, and slippers on his feet. When ambulance showed up to bring someone in, he slipped on out. He wheeled the wheelchair down the road and caught the train back to his apartment.

We sent the police looking for him. They found him at home later. Chillin.

Dad grew up in a small town in Mississippi, and lived as a young man in St. Louis, Missouri. He worked his way up from being a dishwasher to becoming the first black, Maitre D in a major hotel in St. Louis.

Before he ever set foot in California, his friends called him “Hollywood.” He was larger than life with a charming personality, and he was always dressed with the exquisite style and flare of a movie star.

He passed in January, of 2016. His memorial service was a party at a Jazz Club with friends, family, food, and funny stories of the way he touched our lives. There were no tears that day, but there were cocktails!

Eventually, grief would catch up with me. In quiet moments alone at home. When my plane lands in Long Beach, knowing that I won’t be seeing him on my visit.

I had a serious cry at the first live jazz concert I attended months after his death with my husband. He and my husband, Alan bonded over music. For the longest time, Alan would fly to L.A. every Father’s Day weekend to go the Playboy Jazz Festival with my dad. He had the nerve to act like it was an inconvenience the year I joined him. It was their thing.

Um…I was going to the Playboy and every other jazz festival with my dad before I met you!

Dad introduced me to jazz and the joy of live music, early in my childhood. Singing Nat King Cole around the house. Listening to Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, Nancy Wilson, Frank Sinatra, and Ella Fitzgerald. I am grateful for his great taste in music.

Grief comes at me in waves, but it’s accompanied by fond memories and laughter. So much laughter.

I don’t mourn his life on Father’s Day. I celebrate the way he lived.

Thinking of you today, Dad.

Listening to Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack, with a smile on my face and love in my heart.

Celebrating you. Happy Father’s Day.

Ward “Hollywood” Wesley

April 22nd, 1929-January 16, 2016

Thank you for being here and for reading my words! I appreciate you.

Your tips on “Buy me a Coffee” and paid subscriptions help me fundraise for my upcoming self-published chapbook. It also will help fund a personal writing retreat, away from home to write without interruption and obligations at home.

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When I write about marriage, I try to be honest about the good, the hard af, and the unvarnished truth about the emotional labor of raising a family. I tell any single person who will listen, “If you want romance, keep the boyfriend. Boyfriends are better! Don’t marry him.” Paying bills and raising kids is the most unsexy thing you can do to a relationship.

Years ago, I asked my husband, “Why can’t you just be my boyfriend? You could have your own place. I’ll have mine. You can come over and visit, and we can travel together.” At the time, he was a really good boyfriend. It’s the stress of day to day life that makes it hard.

He said, he would be my boyfriend when the kids are grown. The kids are 27, 30, and 38. I’m still waiting.

I may have to order a boyfriend, or perhaps a girlfriend, on “Bumble.” I’ve never been on Bumble, but I hear things.

People who have been married before, know the reality of marriage. Yet many especially older generations, continue to perpetuate the guilt-trip that every one should get married. It can be a form of shaming when you say things like, “When are you going to finally settle down.”

As a married woman who bought the conditioning, hook, line, and sinker, when I recognize the guilt-trip and shame placed on the younger generation to hurry up and settle down, I question the logic.

Why? What’s the hurry? How well did marriage work out for you? Twice?

This morning I woke up to a family group text. One of my aunts was sending out a “date night” picture of her son and his girlfriend.

One of the elders in our family replied, “I was hoping this was an engagement announcement.”

My eyes roll so hard! I almost started typing a flippant reply. I’m known for that.

My aunt responds, “I don’t know when, but they are shopping for rings.”

Elder relative replies, “I’m so glad he is finally settling down.”

Elder relative is, guess who? My mother.

My first thought, this is exactly how she got me in this mess! (Not that my marriage is a mess —today. Today it’s good. Well…good is a relative term.)

I’m trying to live in gratitude for the many things my husband does well. Like, he makes the coffee in the morning. Instead focusing on the things he doesn’t do. Like spray for weeds in the yard.

My Mom…

When I was in my twenties, in love with love, and my boyfriend at the time, my mother conditioned me with her religious ideology about marriage. She made it seem like, marriage is the pinnacle of happiness. It’s the only way to settle down and have a happy life. She also pushed me to go into a Business degree instead of becoming an English teacher. Here we are years, later. I’m back to my first love…writing.

American society, Disney movies, romantic comedies, hell, even love songs, also played a part in my romantic views of love and marriage.

Marriage is what I thought needed to be validated. I wanted the happily ever after, bible-based fantasy that I didn’t have growing up with my parents, who were divorced by the time I was seven.

The conditioning is bullshit. When we look at the divorce rate, it’s obviously not happily ever after for most people.

Of course, in my twenties I never questioned the patriarchal systems that are so pervasive in society. I don’t even think I knew the word patriarchy!

I was raised as a Jehovah’s witness. (My first experience in trauma.)

On one of our weekend trips to Palm Springs, I told my girlfriends,“When I get married, my husband will be the head of the household.” They looked at me like I had three eyes. I had no awareness of my third eye, at the time.

“What!? That’s what the bible teaches,” I doubled down. They schooled me on the ridiculousness of it all. Especially since I’m so bossy.

Marriage and Romance:

Our marriage had plenty of romance in-between the battles of raising three sons, two, who were diagnosed with autism. We got away for dates, stay-cation weekends, vacations to Jamaica, France, and Italy, without children. Most of this wasn’t until they were older, and I could do some finagling and juggling to get a relative to help.

My husband traveled for business, while I was often home alone with our children. Occasionally, I would join him on a trip. We would sneak away for lunch during the middle of the week when the boys were in school. These escapes were the saving grace for our marriage. There were many beautiful moments. I’ve got the pictures to prove it!

Marriage also full of trade-offs, negotiations, decisions on finances, how to raise and discipline children, and lots of conflict resolution. When you have different communication styles, you were both raised by single mothers, and never had an example of day to day marriage, you end up hard knuckling it.

I’m pretty sure the number of arguments…I mean, “loud, enthusiastic, conversations,” far outweigh the percentage of romance, dates, and vacations. But who’s counting?

A Milenial Marriage:

One of my nieces is getting married soon. I am elated for her, not only because she found a wonderful partner, but because she has lived her life to the fullest. Their relationship seamlessly assimilates into the life she created for herself. She followed her dreams. Went to film school.

Now, marriage will be a part of her life. They love to travel together. I can’t count all of the countries they’ve traveled all over the world, Japan, Indonesia, New Zealand, Peru, Nepal, Iceland, just to name a few. Not to mention the times she’s traveled and worked in Africa and dozens of locations. The two of them are different and yet, they have so much in common. They seem to compliment each other well.

If you can’t tell, she is one of my heroes!

Erin is in her mid thirties. She’s making a mature, healthy, decision. I admire her for that. I live vicariously through watching her live her life, travel, and do work that lights the fire in her soul.

Over the years, I highly encouraged (damn near hit her over the head) with, “Please don’t get married and have children while you’re building your life the way you want it to look.”

Look at your old auntie, and know that having children will slow down your options. If it doesn’t kill them all together.

I am living some of my options and dreams now. But I’m in my 60’s! I’m still not completely living for myself. I’m living to take care of my mother. I still help my autistic, adult sons. I have to steal away time for myself, instead of being my own first priority.

I don’t know my niece and her husband to be, will have children or not. All I know is that they are happy now. I love her choice to do marriage their way. Hell, there may not even be a wedding for me to get dressed up and go to. They would rather travel and make their home beautiful, than have a big wedding.

I celebrate whatever they choose.

Currently I’m Reading:

I’m reading two books right now. I wish there was more time in the day to just sit and read for hours. I also wish, I wasn’t so tired that I can only focus for about an hour at time. Perhaps if I quit social media, my attention span and time for reading would be expanded. Pray for me.

I am reading “The Company We Keep” by . I got to go see her in Houston last week for one of her author events.

I’m also reading my friend, fellow autism blogger/mama, author ’s book titled “Marriage, I Love You (for now)”.

Notice the trend here (for now/marriage is’ good today*). This is how you know this book is an honest depiction. I will be having an author talk with Carrie soon.

Alex’s book is primarily about friendship, deepening our connections, examining whether we are getting the kind of care and love we deserve. Are we being seen and deeply known by our friends? She touches on honest communication. Are we focusing on friendships that are not reciprocal?

I’m reading between the lines, seeing how easily what she has written can be applied to marriage, and dating relationships.

’s book is an honest memoir about what it’s like to be married for 26 years, raising 5 children, when one of them is diagnosed with autism. She addresses the not so pretty reality of the reality of “raising unexpected children in a reluctant world.” Like us, Carrie and Joe beat the odds of special needs marriages that end in divorce (80%). They made it! And their kids are thriving.

Both books have me thinking a lot about marriage. We celebrated our 32nd Wedding Anniversary (June 4th). 32 years of love. 32 years of battles and fights I mean, reasonable conversations. It’s hard AF to keep a balance. It requires true intention and dedication to family. Not everyone has that ability, willingness, or sacrifice.

In conclusion, I encourage friends who are single to enjoy your freedom! Settle down, if you must, but please, make a mature, well thought-out decision. Don’t allow society to make you feel as if something is wrong if you don’t get married.

Celebrate your life! Whatever it looks like.

*Full disclosure: The links above for the books are affiliate links, which means I might earn a couple of pennies if you use them.

If I haven’t bored you enough with this post. Here’s the link to an essay I wrote about our 30th Wedding Anniversary, two years ago.

I hope you enjoy…

Your tips on “Buy me a Coffee” and paid subscriptions help me fundraise for my upcoming self-published chapbook. It also will help fund a personal writing retreat, away from home to write without interruption and obligations at home.

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It is my hope that everyone has the experience of a good therapist to process life with. Finally finding one for myself is one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself.

Dear Therapist,

What you have done for me is above and beyond anything I hoped for

You helped me realize healing is possible

and at the same time, I am not broken.

You were the lens that enabled me see myself —clearly

You didn’t teach me

you guided me

to be my own teacher

I came to you in shambles

–a shadow of my former self

unsure of who I was outside of the roles that I play

I was a sketch of the person I wanted to become

together, we filled in blank spaces motherhood,

marriage, and caregiving drained from me

You shared paint through your insight

so I could color in the details

What do I want?

You helped me remember

I am not just here to give

I deserve to receive

to be seen fully and heard

I deserve to be poured into

just as I pour out to those I love

You reminded me

—to first pour into myself

You gave me a permission-slip

—to take myself on me-dates

which turned into me-cations

time to focus on what makes me feel good

without distraction from the needs of others

You see me for exactly who I am

I am not too much

Anyone who makes me feel that

is not in alignment with my level of depth

Everyone is not designed to hold a heart like mine

That doesn’t make them wrong

Maybe, they’re just not right for me

I was a bird with broken wings

You helped me find my strength

When I was stronger

I was able to say

—goodbye for now

It’s time for me to dig deeper into myself

not by talking and analyzing

but by looking deeply within,

determining where I want to go next

You brought me through to where

I could walk alone in confidence

through my healing journey

using the tools of discovery and curiosity we used together

I started to fly

even through fear and anxiety

On the pages of my journals, essays, and writing my memoir

I looked in depth at what made me who I am

What decisions and turning points propelled me forward?

What battles did I fight that pushed me backward?

Where do I need to let go

—to make room for me

—to find who I am

Who do I want to become?

What do I want my life to look like?

What’s important to me now?

What makes me breathe deeply and exhale?

I have the tools etched in my memory

I have the questions to continue to ask myself

as I move through my becoming

Letting go has never been easy for me

The people I love

—the ones who have touched and changed my life

live my heart always

even when they no longer walk beside me

Maybe you’re not supposed to love your therapist

I do

I will always carry you with me

Recently:

I’ve been in the process of saying goodbye to my therapist of 11 years. Not because I want to, but because she is taking a leave of absence.

We have taken breaks over the years, during the times where I pushed myself to walk alone, and open myself up to make changes instead of talking about them.

I was so proud of myself -to say goodbye for now. I was stronger.

Years later, I came back to her in more of a maintenance capacity, when life started lifing, and I found myself spiraling. I learned that healing isn’t permanent or linear.

I’m at a crossroads now, where some of my deepest connections are tenuous. So, it’s an odd time to have to say goodbye.

However, I know now that I am up for the challenge. I will find another therapist, with a new perspective, or maybe I will make room for the kind of friendship and community that I want more of in my life.

Sometimes, letting go means making room.

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The men in my nuclear family seem to thrive on argument and debate in loud, animated, voices. I feel, with a side order of aggression.

We all like to be right. Only, I can be right in a soft, demure, voice.

I grew up in a mostly quiet house, except for the occasional scream from my mother, or the sound of a 1950’s, heavy, green, hand blown, glass ashtray hitting the wall, after my mother discovered my father was a man who had no idea how to be faithful. She actually discovered it years earlier, but kept hoping he would figure it out. He never did.

Despite my father’s misbehavior, he almost never raised his voice. Instead, he would push my mother’s buttons to get her to raise hers. I don’t remember ever seeing him visibly angry. He was a pretty cool dude. Chill -for the most part.

As I got older, I remember him cussing a lot when he was trying to make a point or add some spice to a story. He was a master embellisher. I was often appalled by his choice of words, some of them quite vulgar —but he never yelled them! Instead, he went for the shock value. He was actually a hilarious character. Although, my mother didn’t think so.

I would speak to my father on the phone at least once a week, once I got married and we moved from Los Angeles, to Texas. I know, right? What was I thinking?

“Dad, why is the music so loud in your apartment? I can hear it all the way in Texas! Are you trying to piss off your neighbors?”

He was living in Long Beach, at the time, a stone’s throw to the Pacific, in a senior apartment building.

“These old mother fu@kas who live here can’t here.”

He never cussed at me in anger. That is, until I was an adult. He was in his 80’s. Even then, it wasn’t a direct cussing me out, it was more like, “You motha fu*%as could be giving your daddy at least a hundred dollars a piece, every month.” I guess we were his retirement plan. Me and my siblings, could never do enough for him as he aged. He had this sense of “the world, and especially his children, owed him something.” Kind of like my son thinks now. Apple…meet, tree. Except it passed by me.

Nevertheless, my dad is gone now, and I remember him fondly. He left behind his penchant for the word motherfu@%as. He gifted it to me —in his will.

I only use it selectively —a lot more inside my head than out of my mouth. I’m not a confrontational person, unless you fu*k with me. Then, what comes out of my mouth ain’t cute.

Growing up, my brother Kevin, who is three and a half years older than me, hardly talked at all, at least to me or my mother. She raised us in a 3-bedroom, section 8 apartment, as a single mother. Kevin was always talking on his private phone line to his girlfriend, when he was at home. When he did talk to me, he teased me relentlessly, but never explosively. Occasionally, he pushed me to the edge. I remember once chasing him with a steak knife. I ended up cutting my hand, and not him.

My mother was a screamer. She was the kind of mother who literally screamed over spilt milk. I tried my best to never to spill milk. I didn’t want to hear her scream. It made me nervous. So, I was a pleaser for the most part, until I became a teenager. Then, all bets were off. I snuck around to do my misbehaving, and I was pretty good at not getting busted.

At the age of 61, post raising challenging boys, two of them with autism and explosive anger. There were often raised voices in this house. Screams. Oh! And plenty of cussing, once they became teenagers and learned all of the words from their friends at school. My husband and I didn’t cuss around them —until they were teenagers. I guess that was my karma.

Anyway, my nervous system is now fried. Picture that egg, in the commercial, “This is your brain on crack.” Does anybody remember that?

I don’t want to, nor do I have the energy to participate in petty arguments. I like to keep my energy clean, peaceful, and positive. But if you push me, I will go there. There are only two people on this earth who can push me to my edge. I married one of them, and gave birth to the other.

When someone upsets me, I overthink it. I analyze it, and try to understand it, much longer and harder than I would like to. I try to identify the root cause of the behavior.

In my autism parent training over the years, I learned that behavior is communication. I’m always trying to figure out why in the hell people behave the way they do?

Earlier this week, my first-born came at me with explosive anger, all the way from California. This was via text. I was working, so I wouldn’t answer my phone. He is 30 years-old, autistic, and can have big reactions, especially with me. I have always been his safe person.

I was angry —hurt, but not devastated. Sadly, I’m used to this response from him. I’ve had 30 years to try to understand his behavior. Sometimes, I think I’ve figured out the motivation —the root cause is behind it. I’ve concluded that a lot of times, it makes no fu*king sense. AND no matter how much I want to figure him out, that may never happen.

So after this ugly text, I gave him the information he needed to help him make a sound decision. Then, I set a boundary. I blocked his number on my phone, so he couldn’t text or call me. Therefore, my nervous system would no longer feel under attack, at least for the rest of the day.

And yet, even though I was angry with him, I still worried about him all day. Not enough to call him, but still…concerned. I hate that about me. I can’t control what my heart does. I can absolutely loathe his behavior. I’m a work in progress, creating and enforcing boundaries, both for myself and my family. Love and loathing can co-exist.

I knew his response was not about me. Still it was unacceptable. I knew his behavior was about him not feeling well. (His eyes were sensitive, red, and burning.) His reaction was more about the anxiety of being at a new job after not working for a long time, and not quite knowing what to do to feel better, without walking out of his job.

(Thank God, he didn’t leave, I found out later, when I had his father call him.)

The irony? I was more angry, hurt and devastated by my husband’s tone of voice two days before. He was being his argumentative self. Getting animated, using dramatic facial expressions and body language, that to me, conveyed disgust, and frustration first thing in the morning. It was much ado about nothing. It started as a benign conversation. I mean, I was still laying in bed. My body and mind was not ready for that. I had to get up and leave the room. Even then, I could feel my heart rate going up.

My body and mind felt a lack of safety. It’s almost like a state of being because it happens so often, and has for years. I was the diffuser in our house. I was the referee. Trying to keep a lid on the emotional reactions from becoming full-on meltdowns. My amygdala stays on alert, leading to chronic stress, among other things. Sometimes, I feel like my fatigue is permanent. My body tells the truth of the story.

I was still processing the anger living inside my body, from my husband’s behavior, when my son disrespected me the following day.

I have felt more anger in the last ten years, than I have in my entire life. I think it’s because I’m fully awake now. When my kids were younger, I was in survival mode —fighting for their survival and mine. You can’t have little explosive black boys running through a white world. I tried to control all of it, which is of course, impossible.

Now, I’m paying attention to what my needs are, what is acceptable, what is not, and where to draw a boundary.

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As a highly sensitive woman, I’ve been feeling some kind of way lately. (And by lately, I mean the last ten years.)

I’m 61-years-young, a writer, and empath. I spend a lot of time inside my head thinking about my life choices. The music gets too loud after a while.

Here are some of the questions I’ve been asking myself, and I’m not going to lie, some of these questions are inspired by one of my spiritual mentors, . This week I did her 7 Day Challenge on Insight Timer.

Alex’s new book, The Company We Keep *(not an affiliate link) comes out next week. I have pre-ordered it of course! I am so looking forward to it. Damn that woman makes me think! Even more!

You may find these to be good journaling prompts for your own healing:

• How did I get here? (And who are these people?)

• Where does my soul want to be?

• What do I want to feel more of —less of?

• What can I do to make my life look the way I want it to?

• With whom do I want to spend more time?

• Who and what is no longer aligned with the life I want?

• What calms me, and what sets my nervous system on fire?

• What am I afraid to say out loud?

• What do I fear to be true right now?

• What compassion can I offer myself?

I’ve been writing myself to death, and beating myself up because of feelings of inadequacy around not having published my book yet. I know, I have at least three books in me and so much wisdom to share. In the right timing, they will enter the world.

Sometimes, I allow my failures to speak louder than my successes. I raised three whole humans who were NOT easy! Two of them are thriving. One of them is struggling. There are plenty of moments when I allow my son’s struggles life and choices, to overpower everything else I’ve done.

And then there’s my marriage…

We are in a liminal space, and have been for quite some time. It’s a cloud hanging over me where I want there to be sun. It’s complicated. There are so many factors that can affect a relationship. At the same time, if there’s anything I’ve learned in 32 years of marriage, it takes effort from two people. And, we will not always be in sync.

I do have to ask myself, when is it time to call the ball? What is the healthiest choice for us? Ugh! Just writing that out loud, makes my stomach quiver.

My husband invited me to go up to Dallas for our grandson’s t-ball games on Saturday. I wanted to see my grandson, of course. I knew there would be at least one dinner out with my son and his family. I enjoy their company so much. Watching my eldest son mature into his marriage, fatherhood and his career makes me feel like I have done something good with my life. In fact, damn good! Great! Fantastic!

Did I tell y’all my eldest just got his Master’s degree and has some new, big career plans? (which I am not at liberty to talk about.)

I know I told y’all my youngest son just received his Associates Degree, this week and is going to finish his Bachelor’s degree this fall! You can read about it here:

If I went to Dallas with my husband, I could also go see my best friend from childhood for lunch, dinner or at least a cocktail. I always feel so spiritually fed by my time with her.

And yet, the vibe has been strained between me and my husband lately. He’s going through some things. At times, it feels like I’m married to a man who is a ghost of his former self. I didn’t feel like going was the best choice for me.

More than the need to have a weekend with the family in Dallas, I needed some time and space to just be with me, within the safety of my own energy.

As a highly sensitive woman, I feel other people’s energy deeply. Even if what they’re going through is’ not directly about me, it feels like it is. Can you feel me on that?

Raising my highly emotional, autistic sons has worn through my last nerve. It’s dangling by a thread. I have to save myself and do what’s best for me. Otherwise, they will be burying me first!

Yesterday, I read an article by about highly sensitive women.

I felt so seen, witnessed, understood, and less alone. In my opinion, that is the best goal a writer can have. I wanted to ask her, “Can you PLEASE start a support group for black highly sensitive women? I need to be with my people!”

Analog Notes by April 🌿

If You’re a Sensitive Woman, This Is Why Money Feels Harder Than It Should: Part I

Meet Maya…

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2 months ago · 7 likes · 4 comments · Dr. April

Time Alone:

In my time alone over the weekend, I watched the rest of the season 4 of “Bridgerton” until 2:30 a.m. on Friday night. OMG! It was so hot! I thought I was over romance. Apparently, I am not! I was breathless, crying, and emotional. It was also the romance of the queen and her friend, Lady Danbury. The love between the two of them was palpable!

Having stayed up so late, I slept until 10 a.m. on Saturday. I enjoyed a slow morning, and then, I took myself on an artist date. Here’s a little reel with the highlights:

I’ve been forgetting to do that.

What is wrong with me?

Have I forgotten what good company I am?

I dillydallied around town.

There was no one around to rush me or look at me crazy, because I was meandering without purpose or schedule.

There were absolutely no disagreements.

I ended the day at one of my favorite restaurants.

(Somebody forgot to take me there for my birthday, so I took myself. It was cheaper! Just an appetizer and a glass of wine.)

The bartender brought me a complimentary miniature dessert and topped off my wine to finish off the evening!

It was perfect!

If you’ve been forgetting to take yourself out on dates, let this be your reminder.

Thank you so much for being here and reading my words. I hope that you feel seen, heard, and less alone in the world.

In Dr. April’s post yesterday, she talked about how highly sensitive women, like me, typically take on careers in the caring field, which doesn’t reward our work properly.

I have been a full-time mother, caregiver to my mother, wife (supporting my husband’s career), a blogger, support group creator, a speaker, and a writer. Money was never a deciding factor in my choices. At least I know now, I understand the reasons I have selected less than lucrative careers! Nevertheless, I don’t highly recommend my route! Now that I’m facing retirement, I’m seriously giving myself the side-eye.

I hope to self-publish my first book within the next few months.

Meanwhile, if you would like to support and fuel my work, you can do so here:

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He has commented to me more than once that some of his peers he went to high school with, are now getting ready to get their graduate degrees, while he is just finishing his Associate’s degree.

As his mother, I am proud of his tenacity! He will not be the average graduate. He graduates with incredible, real-world, life and career experience. Some of the peers he speaks of, haven’t overcome the hurdles he has jumped over. Most of them have yet to work to help their communities in the ways he has. In a sense, there is no one in this race besides him.

Here in America, we have been socialized to believe that life is indeed a race to the finish line. This capitalistic conditioning begins as early as our babies start development.

Do they meet the standardized developmental markers for sitting up, turning over, walking, and talking? Even their weight and height is measured in percentiles. Are they above or below average? Who made up these averages in the first place and who did they use as their case studies?

When he was in elementary school here in Texas, there were standardized tests that they were pressured to pass with the consequence of not moving on to the next grade if they didn’t. Intellect can be measured in more ways than a high-pressured, timed, test.

Raising two autistic sons taught me that everyone evolves and develops individually, at their own rate, in due time. Eventually, you get to your destination. It doesn’t matter when you arrive. Your route may not look the same as everyone else’s. It doesn’t make your arrival less valid.

I have always tried to keep the focus on my son’s individual gifts, talents, and interests. I kept my expectations for them high, never deciding that they were not capable of whatever they wanted to achieve. I hoped that they would rise to the challenges, one gentle push at a time.

Of course, you can learn to drive! You got your permit? Great. You don’t have to rush to get your license.

It took a while. He decided to take the course more than once, but when the time was right, he scheduled his test with a driving school and passed it. He started drivers ed at age 16. He decided on his own, to get his license at 21.

I had to learn to tune out the noise of the world, and be patient with their development, their grades and even their social skills. I tried to convince them to do the same —focus on your own lane, not the person next to you. I learned in yoga, “stay on your own mat, with your unique body.” In my case, my left side is a little longer than my right.

Autism is not one thing. It’s many different things that show up in their own timing for each individual. There is no one-size fits all. There is no late arrival. When your mind is unique, so is your path. You will arrive to be where you are supposed to be, all in due time.

Like many of us, when Cole started in community college, he had no idea why he was even there. He didn’t have a particular goal in mind. He loved learning and by design in high school, he challenged himself to take the most rigorous classes. His senior year was a struggle due to the anxiety of the major life changes that would follow. Not to mention, he was highly in tuned to the political environment of the time. He lost friends over discussing politics at the lunch table. He was outraged by some of the insensitivity towards marginal populations.

He’s always been passionate about politics. He and his best friend would be in the pool in 3rd grade debating presidential candidates.

“Stop talking about Obama and Bush! Go swim!” I yelled from my pool chair.

He struggled and floundered in the first and second year of community college, although he continued to try to challenge himself. He never took the easy classes, like his mama would have done. His second year culminated in academic probation because of his anxiety.

He decided to take a break from school altogether and begin working his first job in the kitchen of a local restaurant.

I hired a private job coach to help him get through job applications and interviews. There were a lot of “nos” before he finally reached a yes. Then, on his own one day, he decided let the job coach go, with the condition he could call her if anything came up.

His confidence grew. He learned to advocate for himself, even asking for a raise after his first year. He worked exceptionally hard as a dishwasher and prep-cook, pouring in one-hundred fifty percent effort and commitment into it –working late to make sure he finished his assignments, going in early, and being on-call when his co-workers didn’t show up for their shifts.

I was amazed when he had 6 am shifts, and would set his alarm to get up on his own on time every day. Especially because making it to classes each day, and on time, was painful for both of us. The job allowed him to see some small successes, independence, and to save money to purchase his first car.

During the pandemic, quarantine, when the world shut down, so did his job. The isolation and breakdown of more friendships pushed him to his limits. 2020 and 2021 he says were “the most traumatic times of his life.” He ended up advocating for himself with his doctor. He fired a couple of them to for not listening to him, the patient. He felt like he knew himself better than some “doctor he just met.” This experience led to his commitment to his mental health via various therapeutic modalities.

The trauma of it all, also led to his commitment to mental health advocacy.

While he recovered his mental health, he applied on his own, to obtain Social Security Disability in order to provide for himself, to continue to go back to school, and continue his mental health recovery. He decided to take the courses to become a Certified Mental Health Peer Specialist.

In 2022, Cole had an essay published by the Hogg Foundation of Mental Health, Aren’t I a Human.

He was the first prize winner for the New Voices Showcase where he shared his lived experiences. His bravery and vulnerability encouraged me to follow in his writing footsteps with the Hogg Foundation of the University of Texas. We are both now members of their Contributors Circle of mental health writers.

In 2023, Cole started working in the mental health field and was back in school with a purpose of getting a Social Work degree. In December 2024, he received an invitation to the National Honor Society. Since his MHPS certification and internship, he has worked as a Peer Advocate with a local county mental health authority, working with the homeless mentally ill population.

He was elected to be an Executive Board Member of his local C.W.A. union. and has taken several business trips as a union representative. He has testified in favor of budget expansions and laws with our state legislature. He even traveled to Washington D.C. to meet with members of the United States Congress.

As his parents, we supported Cole through this journey. Sometimes, he was not in school at all. Other times, he went part-time, while he worked, and became involved in political advocacy.

I could go on with all that he has been through to make it to finishing his Associates Degree. The hands-on work that he has done alongside his education, we believe has made him into a well-rounded young man with real-world, work, labor union leadership, and political advocacy experience. It makes him well-rounded for the career that lies ahead.

My prayer was for him to turn autism and mental health challenges into motivation to serve others, while also finding purpose. His hard work and determination helped him make it to the finish line in his own race.

This fall, he will continue his Bachelors of Social Work at Texas State University.

Join me in congratulating him on this momentous occasion!!!

If you would like to send him a token of encouragement and support for his graduation, you can send it directly to him at:

Cole's Venmo

Cole's cash app

If you’re more comfortable sending a gift through me, if you don’t use Venmo or Cash App (I don’t) I assure you that I will make sure he receives it to help him with upcoming expenses, like putting this high-ass gas in his car!

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On a freezing, cold, yet sunny, January morning, here in central Texas, the sun was so bright, it burned my eyes. It was the first and only freeze storm we had in 2026. It’s like the world stops when there’s ice on the ground here. Everything closes down. You can’t drive on icy roads. They have no equipment to de-ice them. We stay in, light the fireplace and pray that our stupid governor doesn’t screw up access to our power grid.

When my husband opened the bedroom curtains that morning, the sun streamed through the window and basically punched me in the eye. I’ve never been punched in the eye, but I imagine this is how it would feel. Disorienting. Throbbing.

Instinctively, I covered my eyes with my hands and wondered…what the f*#%?

If you don’t know by now, I am a California girl. (yes I use the word girl, liberally)

I grew up on the beaches up and down the coast of the Pacific in L.A.

I’ve been lost in Texas, for thirty years. I’m not actually lost, it just feels like it. Like, I can’t seem to find my way out of this joint. .

The Texas sun is a special kind of intense, piercing, belligerent, like an assault.

The summers are brutal with heat, so hot, it feels like it’s invading your personal space. You want to cuss it out when you have to be in it for more than ten minutes. I don’t like to go outside until the sun goes down.

I grieve the loss of the ability to enjoy the sun for months at a time. It’s traumatic. I get summer sadness/depression every summer. I can’t imagine that I will ever not hate summers as long as I live here.

Let’s not even talk about the current political climate in Texas. Black people are seriously side-eyeing our government.

Living in Texas has changed me in all the ways I never expected, and none of them for the better. It’s turned me into a person who has come to appreciate clouds, rain, winter, and spring, much more than summer. That is, unless I’m traveling…to California, or anywhere, but here.

When I say, lost in Texas, I mean I haven’t felt like my true self since the day I arrived here. September 17th, 1996, the day before my first born son turned one.

We had his first birthday combined with our “going away” party before we left L. A., with a backyard full of lifelong friends, all of my siblings, nieces, nephews, and my parents.

Don’t ask me what the f*ck I was thinking. Clearly. I wasn’t. My thinking has been clouded by motherhood since the day my son was born. September 18th, 1995, just about a year after I married my husband, in June, of 1994 . I simultaneously became a bonus mom to my husband’s then, 7-year-old son, Adrian.

Are you with me? Are you counting? I found myself a married mother of two, living in a new city, within two years. Talk about whiplash. It was culture shock!

So here we are 30 years later. I still miss California every, single, day. Missing California has become an obsession for me. I can’t shake it. Sometimes, I’m angry about it. Angry with who? Myself, of course. I know it’s a major waste of energy to be mad at myself, but here I am. Two things can be true.

I can’t just pick myself up and move.

I have ties here.

We have a home that has no mortgage. I have a husband who has no intentions on returning to California, so if I go, I will be on my own, which sounds good in theory, but…there are a lot of buts.

I have no idea how I would feasibly break back into the housing market there.

Even rent there is astronomical.

It’s complicated. Just pray for me.

My mother moved here to live with us in 2010. Here –as in the same house with us for ten, very, long, years. Five years ago, I finally moved her into a senior apartment around the corner and I am her caregiver. Another gig, that doesn’t pay my worth. But it’s such an honor. (Insert eye-roll here).

Mom is now 86 years-young, with limited mobility, and even less flexibility for change. It was like pulling teeth to get her to move. Now, it’s like twisting her arm to get her to come back around the corner to my house for dinner, much less to move her 1500 miles away, and back to California.

But I digress, because of course, I do:

Back to the sun and my eyes on that January morning.

I hopped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. (Hopped and ran are obviously gross exaggerations.) In the bathroom I was further assaulted by the sunlight streaming through the oversized window over my bathtub. The window has film over it to obscure the view into our bathroom, but the blinds are always lifted.

Cupping my eyes with my hands, I squinted to look in the mirror. I was shocked. The white of my right eye was bright red, and I couldn’t quite open it all the way. I’ve had pink eye before, but this wasn’t pink. It was bloody red and there was no discharge coming out.

I hadn’t been out of the house in a couple of days because of the freezing weather that started the day before. We were locked down in the house. I had not been around anyone except my husband and my son and they were fine. No one was sick.

All I could think was, why is this happening now?

This was a Sunday morning. The ground was frozen. None of us could safely walk around the corner to Walgreens to get any kind of eye drops. I started googling to see what I could do.

I looked up home remedies for pink eye. Alternate warm compress with a cool compress, green tea bags. It helped momentarily, but the pain didn’t go away. The pain was becoming more intense. I didn’t think I could make it through the day without some kind of intervention.

What should I do? Call the paramedics? It’s not like I can drive to an emergency room.

Call the paramedics and say what, “My eye hurts! I think I might have a severe case of pink eye, with some kind of light sensitivity. Can you come right away?

They would probably laugh their asses off.

Finally, I read that I could take ibuprofen to help with the pain and inflammation. It did give me some relief. Still, I was walking around the house with my sunglasses on.

How is a writer girl (there’s that word again) supposed to function without proper eyesight!? Reading and writing is my life. Especially on a day when I’m stuck in the house.

I put my sunglasses on and attempted to do a little writing. I couldn’t “focus.” Ha ha! Pun intended. Even with prescription sunglasses on -there was too much eye strain and glare from the screen.

I tried to watch t.v. Even that hurt, and I couldn’t really see.

The next day, I ended up calling my optometrist to see if he could prescribe drops or tell me what to do about this pain. As soon as the ice melted on the road and sidewalks, my son walked around the corner to Walgreens to pick them up.

A few days later, it was better. But I still found the light sensitivity to be disturbing, so I went into the optometrist’s office for an exam.

He didn’t seem alarmed. In fact, he was a little passive in his response. He did a brief exam and tested my eye-pressures. He told me it’s probably just conjunctivitis (pink eye). Give the drops a few more days to work.

Days later, it transferred to the left eye! This time he gave me a steroid drop called prednisone. The drops did help until I ran out of them. Of course, I ran out on a Saturday. I had to track the doctor down through his emergency service.

Rinse and repeat. Back and forth to the optometrists, to get these non-answers. This cycle went on and off for weeks before I asked him about seeing an ophthalmologist.

Thank God the ophthalmologist is a woman! She took me seriously. She examined me thoroughly, looking deeply into my eyes, with all the bells and whistle machine’s and gadgets. She called me a “suspect.“ Why never in my life have I been called a suspect! She suspected that I had closed angle glaucoma. My eyes were not draining fluid properly, leading to this inflammation and pain.

She throughly explained my options and we scheduled a procedure called an LPI. Laser Peripheral Iridotomy, which would open the angle in the back of my eyes, so that the fluid could drain properly.

I was so happy to have an answer. The procedure had to be scheduled, and we could only do one eye at a time.

I am still in the process of healing. I know for sure, my distance vision has gotten worse over these months. We will address that at my follow-up appointment.

All of this time without one-hundred percent vision has made me appreciate my eyes more than ever, especially as a writer and a girl who loves sunlight!

Yes! I admit, I even love the oppressive sunlight here in Texas during the winter and the spring.

My writing desk sits right in front of a floor to ceiling window to my front yard. For weeks, it was hard to sit here. And this is my favorite place in the house!

My dear readers and writers,

Remember to say a special prayer of thanks for your eyes, and the sun.

Where would you be without them?

Commentary:

One of the things I notice about my writing when I’m editing, is how I go off on these ADHD tangents. It’s a good thing I don’t have editing police. I’m free! Maybe that’s why this gig doesn’t pay much. Ha ha!

Next Up:

Adventures with skin inflammation, hyperpigmentation, melasma and the sun turning my face blacker than usual. Getting old is super fun!

Just kill me now.

Thank you for being here and reading my words. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you. Well, I probably would. I’ve been writing for free for years.

I love to read your comments:

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I did an audio recording for you:

I worry about me

I’ve been feeling lonely

and yet

I break into a holy dance

of gratitude and peace

when I’m alone

I crave the company

of authentic women

but I’ve lost that open trust

that used to be

deeply ingrained in me

people can be disappointing

or so I’m learning

Never thought I would say it but...

I’ve had enough male energy

to last me

the rest of my life

my divine feminine and empathy

makes the heavy masculine

too much for me

if your masculine

don’t have no feminine mixed in

and you’re a fan

of the patriarchy

pass right on by me

That girl I used to be

my husband once asked me

where is she?

So sorry

if that’s who you’re looking for

that bitch been gone a long time ago

I don’t know who this woman is

she left with me

one minute, I think I know her

the next, she’s a stranger

She has no time for bullshit

empty conversations about nothing

that matters

there are so many real things to talk about

like how we’re going to make the world better

how we are going to build together

in community

how do we leave this earth intact

for our children and grandchildren

I crave deep vulnerability

exchanges with active listening

genuine curiosity

about who we are

what we love so much

we can hardly breathe without it

we can ask each other

what are you doing for you these days?

how can I support you?

what do you need?

what is it that you must do

in order to breathe

deeply and exhale

otherwise, you might die?

I crave relationships

with black and brown women

who want to be held

who will hold me

without judgment

or looking for something in return

other than gratitude and love

women who give love generously

without an agenda

women who love because they can’t help it

because it’s who they are

they can’t be any other way

These women are artists, writers,

thinkers, problem solvers,

they are warriors, mothers, aunties and sisters

I can trust them with my sacred heart

and know they will hold it tenderly

In other words…

I’m looking for me

While We’re on the Subject:

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Thank you for being here. I write to make you feel less alone in the world.

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do you know what it’s like 
to carry an extra two-hundred pounds
on your back 
in your heart 
on your mind

your heart is big
triple the size of most 
yet, the weight is breaking you 
from the inside out
it's an invisible load you carry
what makes it even heavier?
no one's in it with you  
 
you smile, joke, laugh at yourself 
laugh to keep yourself from going completely crazy 
you write beautiful words 
to help others feel less alone
you're an engaging, funny, friend 
you hold space for those you love 

you're careful 
not to share all that you carry with friends
you don't want to overwhelm them
maybe, you're afraid you'll lose them 
and you will
you will lose the one's who are not in alignment  
you're the thoughtful friend 
who doesn't want to bring people down 
to the sunken place
where you live 
save it for your therapist or your journal

you love big –all in 
there has to be 
others who love like this
where are your people 
the ones who pour into you
the way you pour into others
the way you deserve to be seen and held 

you're a faithful, loyal wife 
a deeply feeling empath 
be careful –don't need too much
he doesn't have the emotional capacity 
to give what you need 
besides, he is not your everything 
perhaps you're weighing that against 
the fact that you gave him yourself completely  
you lost yourself to love him 
to be the painstaking mother
your children needed you to be
you were all-in on day one

it's time to find your new self  
fill your own cup 
climb yourself out of the sunken place 
you can do it 
you can do anything, everything
you have done everything 
for everyone
you love
be all-in for yourself   
 
you are the sister who brings the light 
the glue that holds the siblings together
the one who listens and doesn't judge
you're a caregiver who gives freely, lovingly
only, you have been needed
and depleted for far too long 
  
you raised three boys to men 
spreading yourself thin
like butter across three pieces of bread 
the first piece sucked up your butter like a sponge
leaving little for anyone else 
including you 

motherhood seems to be the gift 
you sometimes want to return 
it's like being terminally pregnant 
your empathic heart carries their emotions
the umbilical cord that never detached 
you use energy to hold boundaries with your unhappiest child 
your head knows what your body can no longer carry 
you are his safe person 
even when you want to be his dangerous one  

"he just needs to figure it out"
the world says
if only...
Does he have the capacity?
someday you're going to die
adults are supposed to do carry themselves
sometimes you say that to him 
hoping to shock him into action 

he doesn’t demonstrate natural ability to learn from mistakes 
the executive function to bring his delusional plans into fruition 
It's his life 
you try to convince yourself 
even that takes energy

so you watch him on the hamster wheel of life 
far enough away, 
he can't reach out and smother you 
cover you with his needs 
he lives in a dangerous, treacherous, world 
wearing brown skin 
a red flag –a scarlet letter 
he's oblivious to the peril he walks through 
the world hates the skin he was born with 

his worth -devalued by disability 
what an odd place he is on the spectrum 
articulate, intelligent and yet…
its different ability 
so much ability, if only 
his executive function would cooperate
he utilized the resources he's been handed 
on a silver platter, you can't help him carry  

and then, there's the weight of the world 
you compartmentalize and synthesize 
until it becomes a part of you
mothers torn apart from their babies
homes destroyed in the dark of night 
the hungry, the tired 
the evil forces of patriarchy 
they carry two-hundred pounds
and more 
your heart feels all of it  

How heavy is your load, really?
mothers across the world carry the weight of bombs 
sick and hungry children
men who abuse them
while you have a safe place to lay your head 
lonely, but safe  

Thank you so much for being here, reading my words, and supporting my work. I’ve been searching for a place to share these emotions. I seem to do my best communicating in writing. So thank you for indulging me.

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Friends come and then they go
Should we be sad 
when they're no longer a presence in our lives? 
Perhaps…

Maybe we should be happy they passed through 
we once connected as humans
our paths crossed  
we shared indelible moments in time 
we loved, laughed out loud, and shared secrets 
we were an experience together 

my dear friend
I went looking for you 
only to find you're no longer here
I loved you once upon a time
you are forever etched in my heart and mind 
I think of you, shed a tear
next I wear a painted smile
remembering how you shined  
you were a light 
I relive the laughter we once shared  
mischief we got into together 

How many people do we get to share 
a visceral, belly, laugh, so deep, and hard,
it turns into tears ? 
Decades later I vividly remember  
the mischievous smile on your milky, white, face

still chewing, and laughing through blue eyed tears 
tossing your burrito across my desk
like a frisbee 
so I could hide it from our boss
"No eating in the office! Girls" 

nothing to see here
just a couple of girls misbehavin' 
they call me "white bread" 
back in Michigan you said
I guess that makes me chocolate cake
from here in L.A. 

We lived another lifetime since then 
raised husbands
only fatally harmed one of them
in all fairness, he deserved it
well...we fantasized about it, anyway
we mothered, loved, and nurtured tiny humans
in cribs together  
watering, fertilizing,  giving them sun
until they blossomed 
leaving only the fragrance of you behind 

Last weekend, I went down a rabbit hole, looking for an old-friend and roommate from over 30 years ago. We lost touch after my move to Texas, having two sons diagnosed with autism. I lost touch with myself too.

This note below explains what I found when I went looking for her.

This poem is the result of the emotions I felt afterward.

Thank you for being here and for reading my words. I appreciate you.

In my life lately, jobs that don’t pay keep choosing me.

• Emotional labor -mother to two autistic, adult sons. The phone doesn’t stop ringing.

• Caregiver for my mother. Running two households a hundred tiny decisions per week.

• Writer, because I want to be rich, and this is the path that will get me there slowest.

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I worry about me 
I've been feeling lonely 
and yet
I break into a holy dance 
of gratitude and peace 
when I'm alone

I am craving the company 
of authentic women
but I've lost that open trust 
that used to be 
deeply ingrained in me
people can be disappointing 
or so I'm learning 

Never thought I would say it but...
I've had enough male energy 
to last me 
the rest of my life
my divine feminine and empathy 
makes the heavy masculine
too much for me
if your masculine 
don't have no feminine mixed in
and you're a fan 
of the patriarchy 
pass right on by me 

That girl I used to be
my husband once asked me
where is she? 
So sorry, if that's who you're looking for
that bitch been gone
a long time ago
I don't know 
who this woman is she left with me
one minute, I think I know her
the next, she's a stranger

She has no time for bullshit 
empty conversations about nothing 
that matters
there are so many real things to talk about
like how we're going to make the world better
how do we build together 
in community  
how do we leave 
this earth intact
for our children and grandchildren 

I am craving deep vulnerability 
exchanges with active listening 
genuine curiosity 
about who we are
what we love so much 
we can hardly breathe without it 
we can ask each other 
what are you doing for you these days?
how can I support you?
what do you need?
what is it that you must do 
in order to breathe 
deeply and exhale
otherwise, you  might die?

I am craving relationships 
with black and brown women 
who want to be held 
who will hold me
without judgment 
or looking for something in return 
other than gratitude and love
women who give love generously 
without an agenda 
women who love because they can't help it 
because it's who they are
they can't be any other way

These women are artists, writers, 
thinkers, problem solvers, 
they are warriors, mothers, aunties and sisters 
I can trust them with my sacred heart 
and know they will hold it tenderly 

In other words…
I'm looking for me

Thank you so much for reading, “I Write Hard Things” I appreciate you taking the time to read my words.

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• I will begin hosting paid subscriber chats where we can go deep, scream, laugh, and hold space for each other. Private chats mean that the space is safer. Not just anyone can read our exchanges. I’m craving community right now!

• I will also be posting some of the poems and essays from my book projects for paid subscribers exclusively. I don’t want the work to be over-exposed before I publish it elsewhere.

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I’m feeling way out there. Discombobulated. Untethered. Flying in the wind. Unable to focus. Half doing everything. Disconnected –floating alone. Sometimes, I feel invisible. The world is f*#%ed up. I’ve spent my life caregiving and pouring in to my family, to the point of being drained. I’m longing for connection, but I can’t find it, because I’m only half-way looking outside of my front door. I feel scattered. That deer-in-the-headlights kind of freeze. I know I need to move, but it’s like, I don’t know where to go. The ADHD is ADHDing. If I were to grade myself, I would give me an “incomplete” on almost everything. I have a desk full of half-done things. A ton of envelopes unopened. Things that need my attention, but I don’t have much attention to give. In my drafts, I have a couple of things that will be so freakin’ awesome for this publication, once I finish them. One of them is a letter to you, my readers, about starting a real, authentic, support community because I need connection. The way things are going in the world, I know I’m not alone. I know other empaths are feeling all of the things deeply, just like I am. I don’t want just any connection. I can’t do surface level bullshit. I am craving deep connection with people who see me, and who want to be seen and witnessed. Doesn’t everyone want to be witnessed? Apparently, not everyone because I’m surrounded by others, but not deeply connected. No. Not everyone is capable of deep connection. That would mean thinking about feelings, and truth. If you go there, then you might find your whole truth –all of our skeletons and insecurities. All of the trash you need to take out, cleaning and organizing your life. I go deep within. Who wants to admit they feel invisible half of the time? I don’t want to admit that. Besides, who am I going to admit it to? And who cares?

If I go looking for a deep connection, anxiety makes me afraid of what I’ll find. Maybe it will be the best thing ever. Maybe people will start wanting things from me that I can’t give. Maybe I will end up feeling disappointed because humans can be disappointing. I have a distrust of so many things and people because nothing feels real right now. The world feels untrustworthy. People say they want change, because things are so freakin’ ugly here in the U.S. and sadly the ugliness is reaching to the far corners of the rest of the world because we have become a bully nation, who doesn’t give a fuck about women, and children or humanity. Empaths feel it when human rights are violated. When innocent people are violently harmed, killed at random, or freedoms are taken away. Everyone says they want change, but they don’t want it enough to hire the black lady to make the changes. We know how to clean shit up! We have the fight in us that the rest of the world doesn’t even deserve. It felt so goddamn insulting when Jasmine Crockett did not win the primary here in Texas. It’s a flashback to the 2024 election and now look at where we find ourselves. She didn’t lose the primary election because she wasn’t the better woman for the job. It’s because white people know other white people will not act within the best interests of everyone, because their brethren are afraid to put black women in leadership. There are those who wanted to vote for her, but were afraid that she’s too outspoken, doesn’t show enough deference to the white patriarchy. She does not acquiesce to power. How dare she! The majority want someone who looks and sounds like them. That makes them more comfortable. Black women offer hope, and yet they continue to hire the less qualified white guy, because he’s more palatable. People are more racist than I ever wanted to believe, especially here in Texas. God help me! Why do I still live here? Because I can’t just put my mother in a suitcase and tell her we’re getting the fuck outta here. Nothing is simple. Everything is connected and when you think constantly, and feel deeply, you can’t just turn it off. Women like me think, want to fix things, and find solutions. When there are patriarchal forces in positions of power, it feels like we are fighting an uphill battle, like all.the.time. on.every.front. Which is why I’m mentally exhausted. Dare I say, I’m back to feeling burnout while I’m writing a book about healing from burnout? Healing is not a destination, they say. It’s a journey. Well, I’m ready for a vacation from all of it.

These books I’m working on feel massive, monumental, and I’m more than half-way there. I have so much good writing done, I just need to hone it in, and have a responsible adult help keep me focused. It would also be nice if I didn’t have to continually crawl through the muck of depression and aloneness. It would be nice if I had some degree of personal life satisfaction to rest with. And what am I trying to prove anyway? I have author friends who are mothers, and are successful and still, this world is still exhausting for them. It’s the capitalistic society we live in that makes me want to prove that I can do something that pays in dollars. I can do more than just mothering, caregiving, and wifing. Speaking of wifing, there is this cavern, a fissure, a crater, of space between me and my husband. He is so “not in tune” with me nor I with him, we can’t read each other without a magnifying glass. I want more than he has the capacity to give, and at the same time, I also want less. Like to live alone and not feel his energy or fight with him about anything, because I have no fight left within me. I want peace and love, man! Don’t we all want some peace and love in our day to day lives, especially when the world is crap? I have been fighting for decades for my sons, with their father, and against the rest of the world that wasn’t created for autistic, black, boys. I want to be at peace, and yet, I am watching everything unravel. It’s like standing on the shore, screaming because you see something in the distance that’s coming. But you’re yelling into a void. No one else can see what you see, so they’re looking at you like, what are you screaming about. Everything is cool. Live in the moment. Stop worrying about what may be coming tomorrow. At the same time I long for the touch of the man who stands next to me. I long for his touch and when he hugs me my body melts into him and it feels so good. Does this mean that I love him, or do I love who he used to be? It feels like slowly watching a dream wither and die a slow death, when you know that some water and sun could make it grow into something beautiful. I don’t know. Life is complicated.

On top of everything, the person I have called best friend for twenty-something years has kind of disappeared for the past six-months. I know she’s going through things, but this isn’t the first time that she’s gone MIA. Is this a normal thing for “best friends?” I don’t know. I don’t have experience with a lot of best friends who are in my day to day life. I haven’t had time to develop a village of local friendships. Maybe, I don’t even know what adult, day to day friendships look like. Most friends I’ve made since living in Texas have turned out to fall away for some reason or another. I guess that’s just the way it is. I just never imagined this would be where I am at this big age, having always been such a social, deep connection, kind of person. I have childhood friends, and lifelong friends. We have ebbs and flows in our relationships over time, while we raised our children, had marriages and careers or whatever. My longest friendship has been over fifty years. And I am so thrilled whenever we can see each other. We grew up in L.A. together, and now we both live in Texas, but in different cities. I will see her in a couple of weeks. I look forward to that.

But my “best friend” comes and goes, and I guess that’s life. I think I need to make room for something else and stop waiting for it to come and go. I would like to connect with someone who wants to be the kind of connection that I am, and that I need. Does that even exist? I’m not sure. I hate needing people. People are disappointing. I want people in my life, who see and value me the way I do them, who are willing to pour into me, like I’ve poured into those who I love. But most people are not like me. Everybody has their own shit to deal with and friendship is not everyone’s priority. Although I think girlfriends should be a priority. The world would be such a better place with spiritually connected women friends.

And then there’s my handsome son who has become a stranger. I can’t believe this is my life, and a son who I love so much is so far away in more ways than one. I grieve the relationship I want to have with him. I can’t hug him and send him on his way whenever I want. And yet, this is what we both need right now, so that he can become who he needs to be, and I can do the same.

This liminal space is so damn uncomfortable. The space where so many things are not working, and you know change is imminent, you’re not sure what the other side will look like. A part of me knows, I will eventually get to the other side and feel so much better, and then there’s the anxious side that thinks, maybe not. Maybe the world will go completely to shit because we’re already halfway there.

One thing I know for sure…

I’m happy to have over 3200 of you readers, and over 6000 followers who read my words and some of my most intimate thoughts. This is a safe place for me. I hope it is for you too.

Maybe, a part of my discombobulation is I haven’t written something new here in a couple of weeks. I’ve been working more on long-term projects, which is like crawling along at a snails pace, wondering if I will ever reach a destination. The last time I wrote here about…

I got this sweet comment from a reader. It made me feel lighter, and seen more than I had in quite some time.

Thank you for being here and as from Minnesota says, “Thanks for giving a shit.”

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I had never felt so betrayed in my life, with the exception of the 2016 presidential election. 2024 was worse, because as a black woman I knew what we were in for. The outcome felt like a gigantic middle finger to marginalized communities.

So far, things are even worse than I predicted.

Here we are in 2026, with a senate race here in Texas, where Jasmine Crockett is up against James Talarico in the democratic primary. I watched the debate between them a few weeks ago. I like both candidates. Their goals, objectives and policies are very close to the same. Neither of them are perfect, but I LOVE Jasmine Crockett. She is the bad-ass, well-qualified, fighter that we need to go up against this current regime.

However, from what I’m reading online, I’m concerned that white Texan’s will choose the safe white guy, even though he isn’t half the fighter that we need in this moment. White people are afraid of themselves as a community. They don’t trust that these Texan’s would EVER choose a black woman for such a position of power. Just like it would take an act of God, to get rid of Greg Abott and elect Gina Hinojosa, State Representative, as our new governor.

It’s hard to believe that I care this much about Texas politics. I have a grudge against Texas, because it’s not California, my home. However, I realize how interconnected we all are, despite the place we live in the world. In our current climate, the more we can get people in power who will fight for marginalized communities and the greater good, the better off we will all be. Even if I move back to California, as soon as I can afford it.

So here we go again: Average white guy vs. above average black woman. Or in the case of Abott, less than average white guy who has proven he doesn’t give a f*@% about marginalized Texan’s vs. a Hispanic woman who will champion immigrants who are currently under attack!

Have we learned nothing?

Always listen to the black lady or the the brown one!

With love,

Karen, 1 of the 92%

Here’s the essay from October 13, 2024:

The day I heard that Joe Biden pulled out of the race and endorsed Kamala Harris, my first reaction was not one of celebration. It was more like, Holy shit! They are going to rip her apart. There is no limit to the depths of disgusting lows her opponent will go to disparage her.

I know how the world treats black women. They’re still mad about Barack Obama being elected, as our first black president…twice! Michelle is loved, but the haters still hate on her because she’s black, beautiful, and brilliant!

I shared my initial thoughts with my therapist, who happens to be a white woman, whom I adore.

Her response? “Kamala can handle everything they bring.”

Damn right, she can! But she shouldn’t have to.

That’s what black women do; we handle things with strength, grit, and grace.

You did see the one and only Presidential debate where Kamala handed him his ass, right? She handed him his ass, so he could kick himself in it. His strings were so easy to pull, he whooped his own ass.

The expressions on her face.

I have had the look many times in my life: This m*#ha f*@%a …

Pull his strings, and he will say something stupid every time.

Not a day goes by where I don’t shake my head in wonder…

• Why? Why is this even a contest?

• How is it possible that he can be the nominee after all of the things he’s done?

• This feels like the longest nightmare I’ve ever had.

• Kamala Harris has more intellect and integrity on the tip of her pinky finger than he has in his entire body and yet…here we are.

  ---

It’s too heavy

For an empath like me, the layers of negativity, infinite, unnecessary lies, racism, misogyny, hate, apathy, the imperviousness of world leaders, death, war, starvation, and the loss of a safe place to call home for so many innocent people around the world. It’s too much for an empath.

It’s like being doused with gasoline until our hearts and minds are on fire.

Day after day, it feels like a match being lit that burns just enough of my nervous system, so that I don’t die, not quite, but I’m definitely injured.

Watching what’s happening to our neighbors, entire communities being washed away. Seeing people lose everything due to the violent hurricanes.

We can’t look away as if this isn’t happening to us all. Everything is happening to us collectively.

Global warming can come knocking on our door at any given moment.

What makes it so much worse? Watching people lie at the expense of those who are already suffering.

Kamala spent all her FEMA money, billions of dollars, on housing for illegal migrants, many of whom should not be in our country.” He added in an election-related conspiracy theory, saying, “They stole the FEMA money, just like they stole it from a bank, so they could give it to their illegal immigrants that they want to have vote for them this season.”1

The division and hatred being sewn into the fabric of this country is unfathomable.

Who are these people who support and exalt this orange, white supremacist energy?

It certainly doesn’t make my America great.

We are all connected. We share this earth with neighbors who don’t keep up their end of the collective bargain to take care of our planet and each other. We can only hope there are more of us who love, despite our differences.

We can hope that love will win.

A Side Note:

Dear white women,

I’m no expert, but that white dude who is running for president, I don’t think he cares about you. He’s like the husband who leaves you for a much younger, dumbed-down, version of yourself. He’s the guy who thinks he’s entitled to control you.

(*Boy! These words stood the test of time!)

We've all met that guy—the one who has no ability or capacity to care for anyone other than himself. The guy who wasn't loved and nurtured by his mother, and now he doesn't know how to love. Maybe his mother tried to love him, but he wasn’t capable of receiving it.

Well, that guy is running for President to avoid the truth of his fate, which is jail. But he is white. He has always gotten away with cheating and lying. He is willing to destroy the rest of the world to save his own ass.

He has no morals or values. He doesn't want to solve this country's problems. He wants to highlight them throughout our days, and use them to pit us against each other.

At least, that's the vibe I'm getting.

I’m not going to lie, I want him to be slapped around like in the movie “Moonstruck.” “Snap out of it!” hopefully for the crimes against humanity that he’s committed, but at a minimum for the anguish he’s caused us with his hate.

I pray that women will come out in droves to vote for our rights, and the rights of our daughters, sisters, and nieces.

Fatigue that feels like death…

I am grieving a time when the world didn’t feel so ominous, like there’s a dark cloud hanging over us —obscuring the sun that wants to shine on us.

At the end of the day, my body finally gives way to the incremental assaults it has received throughout the day.

It feels like, the days of unadulterated hope and optimism are far off in the distance, we can barely see them anymore.

And truthfully, for black people in America, the days were never absent of oppression, hate, and discrimination. The difference is, I felt like if I was a good person, if I worked hard, cared for others, and stayed in prayer, I would somehow be okay.

Being the mother of young, black, men who walk through the world and still have their whole lives ahead of them, the extra weight comes from concern about their safety and their future. I carry this weight literally, around my tummy. It’s never been the same since pregnancy. (ha!)

The world is heavy, and I’m tired of carrying it. I keep hoping somehow, the load will get lighter. I’m not sure that it will.

Nevertheless, I’m out here working through the fatigue. What choice do I have? Said, every black, woman, ever.

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You see, that’s the thing about motherhood.

It’s the most unconditional love you will ever experience.

It’s a sick love affair. I can’t shake it. Sometimes I wish I could turn it off —put it to sleep for a while.

As mothers, there’s almost nothing we won’t do for our children, the battles we are willing to fight, the protection we instinctively provide, without wanting or requiring anything in return.

It is love, pure, unequivocal. And quite frankly, sometimes being a mom pisses me off.

I don’t always want to love this deeply. It’s exhausting.

They say, motherhood is the most difficult, but also most rewarding job in the world…blah, blah, blah.

I think that’s a romanticized version what motherhood truly is.

If we knew how much work and heartache that comes with it, how many of us would willing sign up, with our eyes wide open to what we’re getting ourselves into? And most of us do it more than once!

I applaud young women of this generation, who are smart enough to think long and hard, to evaluate the limitations of what they are willing, or capable of giving, before they decide to get married and have children.

Motherhood truly is a “till death to us part” commitment. You can get divorced, and most people do, but far fewer of us walk away willingly from our children.

So what had happened was…

In an email last weekend, my son was angry about one of my boundaries, because…of course he was. He let me have it with sharp, piercing, cutting, stinging, words that left me bleeding.

I realize it was a transference of his pain and frustration. He has a lot of pain, and he’s been sharing it with me since he was in adolescence.

This isn’t the first time this has happened, but it’s the first time in a long time, because the last time he did this, the boundary I put between was a barrier he couldn’t climb over or through, easily. That doesn’t mean he didn’t try every possible angle, each time draining just a little more of my energy.

He had the nerve to act like he was appalled! Like, how could I do this to him? He tried to guilt trip me… “If you loved me you would…

Boy! GTFOH!

I know what I’ve given in terms of my love. If you can’t see it, it’s because you don’t want to.

This time, his cutting words were sent via email. One of the reasons I make him use email as communication, is because it makes him have to stop, think, —to be intentional with his words. They can’t just fall out of his mouth in rapid fire like a machine gun.

When I first read the email, it reminded me of a line from one of my favorite movies “Love and Basketball,” where Alfre Woodard’s character said, “Oh No! Are they cussing their Mama’s in Spain?”

He disrespected me, and I’m sitting over here crying, worrying about him, and grieving!? (sarcasm font) Make it make sense!

I can’t talk about this with anyone close to me. No one around me gets it, or how it makes me feel. It’s almost like it’s come to be expected from him. He’s done this to every person in our family at least once. Nobody’s shocked anymore. As his mother, I get the worst of it.

There’s a degree of shame that comes with being treated this way by the son I have poured so much love into.

I’m tired. I’m weary. I just want peace.

Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Does anyone else get tired of listening to your own sad song? I’m sick of this storyline. I don’t want to hear the words coming out of my mouth again. And yet, I can’t stop the song from playing in my head in quiet moments, when I can’t distract myself.

It’s a loop of rumination, overthinking, imagining every possible outcome. How can I make this better? The what-ifs, and repetitive thoughts get louder when they’re amplified by shame, and emotional isolation, leaving my nervous system wrecked.

If any other person on earth said some of the things my son has said to me, they would be a persona non-grata in my life.

I wrote a poem about it. It will be a part of my upcoming collection. It’s titled, “If You Were My Boyfriend.”

I understand the explosive outbursts stem from the inability to regulate his emotions and overwhelm. I think of it as an overlap between rage caused by trauma, mental illness, and an autistic meltdown. Autism within itself, can mean a lifetime of trauma and societal isolation and rejection.

Understanding where it comes from doesn’t change the end result. My nervous system is on fire.

I created this meme during my son’s teen years:

I grieve the for the relationship I would like to have with him. It may never come to be.

Motherhood, love, and grief doesn’t have to make sense. It’s not linear or logical. I can shift my emotions between sadness, anger, and even moments of peace. Grief isn’t rational. You can’t just tell yourself to get over it.

The impact of words can create deep wounds, especially to someone who is an empath and emotionally sensitive.

Autism, mental health, and adult life responsibilities have a stronghold on him. Stress, pressure and disability may explain the reasons behind his behavior. It doesn’t however, excuse the behavior or make it any less painful.

His words hurt. I get pissed off and sad, but it doesn’t preclude my love for him. However, disrespect and emotionally harmful behavior does require strong boundaries and intentional self-care.

I’m a sixty-year-old black woman, living in this shitty political climate. I’ve lived with years of chronic stress. I literally have to protect my heart, —my blood pressure, and mental health.

I read this post, this morning. She really hit all of the thoughts, feelings and emotions I’ve been feeling about what’s going on in the world right now and how it affects us as black women. My relationship with my son is another layer of stress on top of the daily deluge of world news.

A Black Girl’s Resting Place by Black Girl Narrative

Why Everything Feels Personal Right Now

Lately, everything lands closer to the skin…

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5 months ago · 40 likes · 4 comments · Black Girl Narrative

The Antidote/Self-Care as Stress Reduction

I am extremely grateful to arrive at the point in life where I can take care of myself better, because I’m not in the thick of everyday parenting.

• To reduce stress, I practice having regular, slow, mornings. I meditate, pray, practice yoga, listen to soothing music, walk, dance, and have regular rest days, in hopes to prevent major damage to my hurting heart.

• I set boundaries and adjust them as needed. I no longer talk to my son every day. In fact, I haven’t spoken to him since I received the email.

Sometimes I feel like I could use a live-in therapist to help me process these emotions. Because in my head, I know this is what has to be done —distance, and boundaries. And yet…still, I ache.

Most days when I wake up, he’s the first thing I think about.

I wonder how he slept last night. Was he warm and comfortable? Does he have enough money or food?

He’s the last prayer I say before I close my eyes. I ask for God’s guidance and protection.

And then, I surrender.

At least for the night.

Thank you so much for being here, reading my words, and supporting my work. I’ve been searching for a place to share these emotions. I seem to do my best communicating in writing. So thank you for indulging me.

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This is a safe place and a judgement free zone. Respect and honor is required to be a part of this community. Thank you! ~Karen

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Black folk have cried these tears

for too many years

This broken trust is not new for us

Nevertheless,

it’s disgusting to see

how far they’ll go

to preserve white supremacy

If you were superior

you wouldn’t fight like cowards

who are inferior

A woman, a mother alone

A man standing on his own

a legal observer —a protector

of a woman under attack

his execution carried out by toy soldiers

phony, pretender —hacks

We believe what we see with our eyes

God-given intellect won’t believe your lies

No, this isn’t new to us

harm inflicted by power, it’s insidious

has been since we built this place

while y’all are playing in our face

Can’t count the many tears I’ve cried

black men and women unalived

right before our very eyes

yet, some refuse to see clearly

For this injustice to end

it will take all of us

True power lies in “we”

Thank you for being here and reading my words. Wishing us love and liberty.

• What are you feeling today?

• How are you holding this communal grief?

• Let me know in the comments

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I went to bed thinking of you

closed my eyes and said a prayer

woke up to a chill in the air

wondered how you slept last night

in the darkness beneath God’s moonlight

You must be feeling many emotions

anger, fear, disbelief, sadness,

visceral love as deep as the ocean

love thy neighbor

a preconceived notion

Please know that miles away

there’s a woman feeling your pain

she can’t turn away

can’t turn it off

not today

Desperately,

in our shared humanity

we want the pain to stop

This injustice can no longer be

The irony

that it’s our money

that pays for this travesty

of injustice is not lost on me

We’ve never met

but we have a lot in common

You voted thinking

of your family

and your neighbors living

this American life

wanting to be happy,

healthy and free

in this country

supposedly

“the land of the free”

our anthem

our theme song

we’re asked to sing along

“home of the brave”

The brave are filled with rage

You dear neighbor are the epitome of brave

We stand with you

but we are afraid

hoping we never have to find out

if we are as brave as you are

My skin the color of coffee

without the cream,

some hate me

still, I dream

They want to erase me

the truth of our history

I have always known

there were strikes against me

coming out of the gate

ignorance and fear

is celebrated here

in fact it’s mandated here

for the masses

by leaders who think with their asses

and govern by their greed

Our eyes and hearts see

all of the ugly

they want us to disbelieve

what we see with our own eyes

forces that be try to hide

behind their lies

We’re filled with grief

So far, we’re still free

May God protect us all

Thank you for being here and reading my words.

I appreciate your thoughts and comments

more than you know

You dear readers,

make my heart flow

Love, Karen

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