The C-word

Nearly every single person you know has been touched by cancer. 

Honestly. 

Everyone knows someone who has fought it. 

Knows someone who has beaten it. 

Knows someone who hasn't. 

Let's keep it real for a second. 

The C-word is a bitch. 

There's a reason that eff cancer is a hashtag. 

It's awful. Devastating. Crushing. 

Curable for some. Fatal for others. 

It was announced yesterday that President Biden has prostate cancer. 

It's aggressive. 

It's scary. 

But they're hopeful. And that matters. 

As expected, social media is FULL of people who are sharing their stories. 

Whether their own. That of their loved one(s). Of someone they knew but never met. Of someone they may have met once. 

Of someone who touched the lives of their loved ones. The friend of a friend.

Their friend's mother. Aunt. Sister. Brother. Father. Child. 

Their own mother. Aunt. Sister. Brother. Father. Child. 

You see what I'm saying, right? 

So. If you, like me, are finding all this talk about the C-word to be a lot? 

Protect your peace. 

Scroll by. Put the phone down. 

Don't get me wrong, share if you want to. 

I did initially. And I posted how thankful I was that my feed included so many positive thoughts, prayers, comments about the President. 

And then today, I realized it was so so very much. 

Never mind the stupidity that you'll see out there. Whew. The eyeroll emoji belongs everywhere. 

But the stories where people share how quickly they lost loved ones. How unexpectedly. How diagnoses are reported out of the blue. 

You don't have to read them all. 

It's not disrespectful to monitor your intake. 

To protect your peace. 

It's okay. 

Scroll by. Put the phone down. 

Take care of you. 

Just like Joe and Jill and their family and loved ones will do for themselves. 

It's okay. You're allowed. 

xo

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Survival.

The world is on fire. 

California was. Literally. So much lost. So much to do to heal and recover. 

Hostages are being released and paraded through crowds chanting for their death. Cameras in their faces. Fear in their eyes. 

A baby celebrates his second birthday in captivity. If he is even still alive. Are any of the rest of them? #untiltheyallcomehome

A plane crashed into a military helicopter in DC. Heartbreaking. Horrifying. People hold their breath, hoping but doubting there will be survivors. 

DC is on fire in all the ways at this point, as the orange man paints the people and communities he fears with broad strokes. 

Executive orders. 

To distract us. Confuse us. Paralyze us in fear.

Western North Carolina still suffers. 

Let's dismantle FEMA, he says. 

His followers cheer. 

Women's rights. Demolished. By the white men who speak of what they do not know. 

Transgender individuals looked at with confusion. These are people. People who are loved. 

Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. 

Blamed for what? 

Hearts break. 

And still. We stand as tall as we can. 

Hold and lift one another up. 

Raise our voices. 

Yes. We feel it. 

The fear. The exhaustion. The overwhelm. 

But we will not stop screaming. 

We will not fall into the trap of distraction. 

We will see and hear all. 

We will fight and survive. 

* Take care of yourselves, friends. Protect your peace, as only you can. Do not look away, but do not always look. I'm here if you need me. 💗

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Stay.

* Content warning: mental health; suicide; grief; loss.

It's the holidays. It's the most wonderful time of the year. 

And it's also the most difficult time of the year. For so so many people. 

So I want to take a moment to speak about the *check on your strong friends* posts, AND the *please talk to me if you need someone to talk to* posts.

Mental illness knows no truths. People die by suicide because mental illness takes control and teaches us to believe the things in our head we cannot seem to question. We can't seem to fight hard enough against.

People do not die by suicide because they don't have loved ones checking on them.

They often DO. 

But they just don't have the capacity to feel that is enough. They don't have the energy to keep fighting. They don't believe they deserve to. 

I know these types of posts are shared with love. I've shared similar ones myself. This time, though, I remind you. Remind every single one of you. 

Please stay. 

Stay.

Even if you can't talk to someone in this very moment. Even if you're scared. If you don't know how to let someone help you. Try. See yourself as others see you. 

Stay. 

If you are in need of support, please call the national suicide and crisis lifeline at 9-8-8. 

Stay.

Or text HOME to 741741 for someone to talk to without having to actually speak with your voice. 

Stay.

Please let someone see you, hear you, help you. 

Please. 

Stay. 

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Eleven Years.

Eleven years. 

How is that even possible?

Eleven years.

The math doesn't work. 

It only makes me angry.

Sad.

Hurt. 

Heartbroken. 

Eleven years. 

Without you. 

Momma is with you now. 

You are whole again. 

Complete.

I'm still angry. 

Sad.

Hurt. 

Heartbroken.

Eleven years. 

Can feel like forever. 

And then forever times two.

When she's gone, as well. 

It's not supposed to be this way. 

I'm supposed to have you both. 

Here. 

With me. 

To lean on and into. 

To laugh with. 

To hold me when I cry. 

Eleven years. 

Feels like a lifetime.

Without someone who was so very much of your world. 

I miss you, Daddy. 

Love you always. 

And forever.

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It's Still Your Birthday

Happy birthday, Momma.

You're not here, but it's still your birthday.

I don't quite understand how we got here.

To this day. 

Without you. 

My heart hurts. 

I look at the calendar. 

I don't believe it.

Six months. 

You've been gone that long. 

And it doesn't feel real. 

And yet. 

It is. 

But. 

It's still your birthday.

So I celebrate you today. 

I'm not sure how I'll do that just yet. 

I just know you deserve it. 

The cake, balloons, fruit baskets.

Surprise presents that make you smile. 

It's still your birthday, Momma.

Even though you're not here to celebrate. 

I'll forever honor you on this day. 

I'll forever sing to you. 

And I'll forever miss you. 

With love, from me and my broken heart. 

Your *Million Dollar Baby*.

I love you. 

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