I did a thing recently — I published a poetry collection.
I did the writing and editing.
I researched a program to typeset it.
I learned how to create a cover.
I went through the process of self-publishing.
I’m currently in the process of marketing.
None of these things are part of my day job. Everything I learned throughout this process was new and terrifying and something (most of the time) I convinced myself I couldn’t do.
If there is one thing most of us are really good at doing, it’s telling ourselves we can’t do something.
The one thing…
Whether or not you personally suffer from a mental illness, likely someone you know does.
After all, according to NAMI, [National Alliance of Mental Illness]
“1 in 5 adults in the U.S. experience mental illness each year.”
The same goes for our friends across the pond.
The NHS states, [National Health Service in England]
“1 in 4 adults experiences at least one diagnosable mental health problem in any given year…Mental health problems represent the largest single cause of disability in the UK.”
And that was before the world-wide-event-of-which-we-do-not-speak.
Conversations around mental health can still be stigmatized, so the more often…
Trigger Warning: this article contains descriptions of eating disorders and associated behavior that may not be suitable for all readers. Fearless community, please read with care.
For two decades, I believed because I wasn’t emaciated, and never had been, that I never really had an eating disorder.
Eating issues? Certainly. A weird set of rules and punishments associated with what I did or didn’t eat? Doesn’t everyone do that? The inability to eat in front of other people because I was so ashamed thinking was I too fat to be eating?
Well… I suppose that should have been a red…
I am a woman who has struggled to accept her body since being a preteen and is subsequently recovering from an eating disorder.
Since becoming a mother, I’ve worried about how my relationship with my body could impact my daughters. My biggest fear is the day one of my daughters tells me she doesn’t like her body.
That day came so much sooner than expected.
We were sitting down to dinner, like any other Tuesday, and nonchalantly the words rolled off my daughter’s tongue.
Mom, I hate my legs.
She didn’t pose it as a question. There was no hesitation…
If there is one thing that’s predictable about a world in chaos, it’s that there will always be people, ready and willing, to take advantage of the vulnerable.
Over the past year, people have lost jobs, their homes, an entire way of life at alarming rates. We, the people of humanity, are in an unpredictable and incredibly vulnerable state.
Any opportunities to make quick cash or give us a sense of security we jump all over, even when it may be illogical under other circumstances. Unfortunately, it isn’t a surprise that romance scams reached a record high in 2020.
What’s the age-old phrase? Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me? When it comes to Ms. Rachel Hollis and her shenanigans, I don’t even know where to start.
When I first discovered Hollis’s brand, I was all there for the message:
You can come from humble beginnings with no connections, and you can live your dream. When you live into your purpose, you can serve others.
She’s done, or at least she should be.
Someone asked me the other day, why do you write under so many fake names. Initially, I was irritated. First off, there is a difference between intentionally selling a false narrative and using a pen name to protect yourself.
With that being said, this person hasn’t been with me from the beginning. They aren’t part of my community.
When I started writing here in January of 2020, I didn’t know anyone, and I had no expectations. I wrote aimlessly. I wrote things I thought people might be interested in [please excuse everything from January through March].
There was no purpose…
I wish I’d never deleted
all the words you left me with.
They were all I had to hold
now that you’re gone.
I write about you as if I’ll never
see you again, but I do, every time
I close my eyes. You only come
to me in dreams, which are less
like dreams, and more like
nightmares — painful reminders
you are so far out of reach.
It’s not often that I fall asleep
these days, too afraid you’ll be
there, sitting in my mind’s eye.
Watching me writhe in visceral
pain, the pressure in my chest
continuing to build…