Everyone has a story worth telling. Even if you think yours is boring, messy, or not original – it is yours, and that makes it powerful.
The world’s drowning in noise, but human honesty still cuts through like feedback at a punk show – AI can’t create real emotion or lived experience, try as it might.
Nothing Is New — But You Are
Literally everything that can be said & done, has been. Nothing’s truly “original” anymore. And that’s ok!
What is unique is your lens — your collection of scars, triumphs, and weird little details. Nobody has ever experienced all the details put together that make up your story, which is a beautiful thing.
And every time you share one of your many truths, someone else out in the world feels a little less alone.
The Healing Power of Sharing
On my second day working the floor as a patient care assistant in an ER, I came across a patient who had ALS & his wife. He was nearing the end, and my job for the moment was to hold his hand & try to keep him calm while he was intubated. It was heartbreaking, knowing a little bit about what he’d been though, & was about to go through, and the same for his wife, because of my own experiences in a caregiver’s role with the disease.
His wife was devastated; she knew what was coming in the days ahead. So, I sat beside her and talked – I introduced myself, mentioned a little bit about my family history with ALS & the caregiver role I’d found myself in, and offered a friendly soul to help her with whatever she needed while in my department (”a warm blanket? Coffee? A hug? I’m not far; I’ve got you!”)
I was asked to help escort him to the ICU when he was deemed stable enough for transport. At the entrance, I was told I could go back to the ER & his wife was told to stay at the door until he was successfully transferred. Overwhelming grief consumed her, and understandably so. So I held her while she cried, gave her a compassionate little pep talk based on what I’d gone through, and stayed until she was invited in with her husband.
Point is, telling your stories can heal you and someone else. That day I saw that stories aren’t just meant to be told — they’re meant to be handed off like torches, sharing some light in moments of darkness.
Finding Your People
The ones who don’t get it will judge — they always have, always will. But honesty attracts the right people, the ones who’ve been waiting for someone like you to speak up.
“Your people” aren’t found through perfection — they’re found through realness. And the more you share your stories, the more your people will find you.
Boundaries and Bravery
All that said, here’s a quick note on discernment — not everything needs to be public, and oversharing can sometimes hurt more than help. It’s always best practice to keep your private information away from the internet altogether as much as possible, and you should never say anything that would hurt yourself or anyone else in any way. Of course, there are exceptions to these “rules”. Thus, discernment.
But don’t let the simple fear of judgment silence you. Everything you say could go either way — and that’s okay.
Bravery isn’t about ignoring fear; it’s about telling the truth anyway. If someone doesn’t like it & decides to troll? – FUCK ‘EM! They’re not you, and oftentimes those who lash out do so out of fear or the inability to understand. And that’s fine – you do you.
The Punk Rock of Humanity & Humility
In a world that’s increasingly artificial (AI, social media perfection, etc.), your realness is your rebellion.
Every time you tell your story honestly, you’re flipping off the illusion of perfection. (And all perfection is illusion!)
Celebrate your chaos, your cringe, your truth by sharing it with the world — it’s what makes you irreplaceable.
Write it, paint it, sing it, whisper it into the void. Someone out there needs to hear it — maybe even you.
If this spoke to you, share it with someone who’s been holding their story back – The world needs more real voices!
And if you want more unapologetic inspiration like this, hit “like,” subscribe, and keep telling your truth.
Some stories don’t ask permission — they just show up, unpack their bags, and move into your head. This one’s been living rent-free in mine for months, and I finally gave in and started writing.
So I started writing a novella a couple months ago. I’ve mentioned it here briefly, but my current lack of motivation to work on blog posts is making me think it might be worth sharing chapters of this very alive story from time to time, and I thought I’d prepare you all for that! 😆
It’s not fully planned out, and it’s still very much in progress. It’s very raw & personal. It’s about the friend I’ve mentioned that I’ve been missing a lot lately. (Well, the first part of it is about him, & things that actually happened.) – I just appreciate giving a little more life to our relationship, and honoring what we had. Cuz it was pretty epic.
So I hope you’ll enjoy the ride as I work on it occasionally. (Don’t worry, my “regular” content will still be the primary focus on my blog. – This is just a “side quest”, if you will.)
The Spark That Wouldn’t STFU
About a year ago now, someone said something that reminded me of an old friend, and all kinds of memories came flooding back about him. Relentlessly, because I was starting to feel some burnout from a situation I’d been dealing with for a couple years prior.
He was always a source of love, comfort, & valuable perspective, even when he was dealing with his own struggles. He was someone I respected, admired, & adored immensely. His resilience & strength fed into my own and helped shape the woman I grew to be, even while he wasn’t around.
We never dated; our love was always platonic (though we probably would’ve jumped on each other if given the opportunity!!) I never felt that I was capable of loving him the way he needed & deserved, and I think he felt the same way. I always felt that friendship was definitely better than nothing, and I still would have his back forever if he’d let me.
He ghosted me after a misunderstanding that he apparently didn’t want to work out. Which was the worst heartbreak of my life, if I’m being completely honest.
With all those memories flooding back, along came the same unresolved grief I’d experienced over ten years ago but with a more mature perspective.
So I decided to try to turn it into something as beautifully chaotic as it is. Maybe it’ll help me find more peace with the situation, maybe not. But it deserves it’s tiny place in literary history, cuz it was a hell of a ride!
A Glimpse at the Story
Fair warning – the characters are ACCIDENTALLY named Jack & Sally. I say accidentally because he’s a fan of Nightmare Before Christmas, and that’s not at all what the names are in reference to lol! When trying to think of names, I decided the girl’s name would be Sally because that was my “pen name” online back then (because of the Foxboro Hot Tubs’ song by that name). Jack struck me as an “edgy guy name”. And then I realized what I had done…and decided not to care!
Ultimately, the story will follow Jack & Sally from when they met, and throughout decades. Obviously, a fair amount of the beginning is based on real memories, while the latter parts will drift into fiction based on experiences with other people in my life, including a little tragedy (which I wouldn’t wish on anyone, especially “Jack”). For the most part though, it’s somewhere between a fun, lighthearted love story, and a reckoning.
Coffee, Chaos, and Chapter Two (And a Half)
So far, writing it has been a treat! I’ve really enjoyed reminiscing about how sweet & fun that relationship was. It’s really been filling my heart with the same love I felt back then.
I’m only about 2½ chapters in at this point. A couple spots were tough to figure out how to put together, but I think I managed. Everything that’s in there is in there for a reason.
I’m learning just how emotionally stoic I tend to be. And how passionate he tended to be. Which could balance us at times, and throw us extremely off balance at other times.
I’ve also realized just how much we genuinely loved each other. Which makes the heartache suck even more now than it did back then.
When do I find time to write? Mostly in the mornings, after I finish my essential focus work, and only if I don’t have a blog post to work on. In other words, rarely. But once I get started, I never wanna stop – I wish I could work on it all day every day! ❤️
The Heart Behind the Words
This story isn’t just a recall of events, but more of an extension of my life philosophy & heart. Lots of emotional territory will get explored, from love to loss, to healing & rebellion & a sense of identity (even when that gets shaken).
I’ll be sharing bits and pieces here as I go — maybe some full chapters, maybe just thoughts from the process. So if you like watching a story come alive in real time, stick around. This one’s going to be interesting.
What would you like to see — more “behind the scenes” posts or the chapters themselves?
And tell me this: what kind of stories haunt your mind until you write them down?
Let’s chat in the comments.
If this post resonated, give it a like, share it with a friend, and subscribe for more messy, heartfelt creative chaos.
Technically, May is ALS Awareness Month — but for me, the awareness never ends. I live with it every October.
Which super sucks because my allergy season starts at the end of August & lasts throughout September. Couple that with always catching the same cold everyone gets at the end of September, and my body & mind is just shot by the time October rolls around.
October is my birth month. But it’s also the anniversary of my mom passing away. So…everything sucks.
Brace yourself for some “heavy shit”. I’d like to share why I am the way I am, what shaped my perspectives as I grew up, and how I’m doing right now.
When My Mom Got Sick
I actually started writing a post explaining my family’s history with ALS, but it’s still sitting unfinished in my drafts because it depresses the fuck out of me. I’ll probably share it sometime though.
My mom got sick when I was 14, right around Thanksgiving. She started having trouble swallowing & speaking because she had “bulbar onset ALS”, which means her tongue was becoming paralyzed.
In the months that followed, I became a major caregiver for her. I found myself helping her on the phone & in person with debt collectors, doctors, everyone. It got to the point where I was the only one who could still understand what she was saying without her having to write anything down.
Then she couldn’t swallow at all anymore. So, she had a GI tube placed in her stomach so she could still get some nutrition. I helped “feed” her, and with cleaning the tube.
Nobody bothered to tell me that ALS progresses aggressively in our family – until recently, no one’s survived longer than 18 months from the onset of symptoms. I thought I had time.
By the time the school year started, she was in pretty rough shape. But I was still more than happy to continue my duties as a caregiver. However, my mom’s sister had other plans. She stepped in to help, ultimately pushing me out of the way so I could “focus on school”. (How the fuck was I supposed to focus on school with my mom wasting away at home? I digress…)
October rolled around, and she was rapidly getting weak in her limbs. Hospice was welcomed in. A hospital bed was placed in the living room for her. One of the aides stole money from my parents. Her diaphragm had become paralyzed & she refused to be intubated (because at that point, the stark reality of the situation is “why bother?”) Everything sucked.
Four days after my 15th birthday, she passed away.
The Night Everything Broke
I was in my room listening to Rancid after dinner. Between songs, I heard a terrible noise from out in the living room. So I stopped & listened at the door. I knew I didn’t want to face the situation; I knew what was happening. So I spent a moment trying to find the courage to face the reality.
I walked out & stopped in the doorway to the living room. My mom’s spit sucker was full of blood, and she was laying there lifeless with my dad, aunt, & uncle crying around her. She’d died of respiratory failure – in other words, she’d just choked to death on her own blood. The terrible noise was my aunt’s despair. The whole thing was horrific. Happy fuckin’ birthday.
My dad walked up & gave me a hug; that’s literally the only time I’d ever seen that man cry. When he let go, I walked over & held my aunt as she repeatedly screamed “I’m sorry, I did everything I could”. I didn’t shed a tear. Because that’s how I am – deal with the situation, & get emotional about it later.
As a side note… There were a couple things I’d found out about much later that I wish I’d known sooner. For example, my mom had sleeping pills that she wanted to use before things got too bad for her to use them, and my aunt told her “she couldn’t do that to (me)”. Had I known, I would’ve not only given them to her to shorten her horrific suffering, I would’ve been able to say good bye.
Well…
What Comes After Death
I sat on the couch in front of her. My dad & uncle went outside to smoke cigarettes & drink for a little bit, while my aunt went in the kitchen to call the coroner & family members. They were understandably traumatized.
I got to thinking about how a body is just a shell. That this corpse in front of me was not my mom; my mom was with me in spirit. I could feel it.
Eventually, our vessels will fail us all. It doesn’t necessarily mean the end of our existence, though none of us truly know what happens in the next phase.
Then I realized I was sitting alone with my mother’s still twitching corpse. I got it in my head that this is how it is – I’m alone in dealing with everything for the rest of my life; I’m expected to be there for everyone else, and I don’t deserve anyone being there for me. After all, I was barely 15, sitting alone with my mother’s still twitching corpse.
And I screamed in devastated rage. I can still feel it, I can still hear myself. No one should have to feel like that.
My aunt came running & wrapped her arms around me. She told me “I know”. No, you have no idea. Everyone had already abandoned me & my grief. You can’t really come back from that.
Fast forward to the funeral a few days later…
Everyone met at my grandma’s house. When it was time to leave for the church, I was forced toward the front of the line out the door.
She had a doorway from the kitchen to the stairs where the basement was, and then another doorway to the sun room, and then a doorway out of the house.
It was pouring all day. Quiet thunder rumbled in the distance.
The very second I stepped foot in the doorway to the sun room, it was like lightning struck in the yard – the loudest boom I’ve ever heard in my life & everything went completely white for a moment. I stopped dead in my tracks & was immediately hit with the idea that “this is the dawning of the rest of my life”. My aunt gently pushed me out the doorway.
And that’s the attitude I felt the need to develop from there on – You don’t get to stop, you don’t get to feel. You just keep going, pushing forward, else you’ll get sucked into a pit of despair.
I know better. I even knew better then. It inevitably always catches up to you eventually. But I had no choice; I was pushed out the door without acknowledgement.
At her funeral, I stood away from everyone. I wore a beautiful black velvet dress and held a red rose that someone had given me. I looked stunning.
But everyone seemed scared of me. Most of them didn’t even know who I was, nor did I know them. Why were they even there?!? They weren’t around my whole life, they weren’t around when she was sick… Why bother being there at her funeral, “honoring” her & “expressing” condolences? I was infuriated. But at least I looked good… Ugh.
How I Buried It All (and Dug It Back Up)
I’d forgotten about all of these things for years after.
About 10 years later, I got it in my head that I’d like to advocate for ALS awareness & research. So I decided to start by participating in the local “Walk to Defeat ALS” fundraiser.
Even my family members didn’t donate. (Well, I think one forked over 20 bucks.)
During that time, I found myself researching my family’s history with the disease online. Much to my surprise (& horror), there’s a lot more articles about us than I ever imagined. (And many many more now.)
That’s when I learned that we have one of the most aggressive SOD1 mutations in recorded medical history. Unlike everyone else who gets ALS, hereditary or sporadic, it wipes us out incredibly quick. And if we want to bother getting tested to find out whether or not we’ve been cursed with the gene, a positive result for the mutation means there’s a 96% chance that that’s our death sentence.
The genetic time bomb ticks louder in my ear every year. Even though I’ve never been tested.
It was at this time that all these memories came flooding back to me. I’d apparently repressed them, and they came back like a raging wildfire, tearing me the fuck apart in the process.
All those memories came back about a year after my father had his first stroke & cancer, and I was his only caregiver (for 12 years after, until he passed away).
And that was also when I lost my friend that I’ve mentioned briefly in previous posts…. Because I was too overwhelmed to know how to express all this to him properly.
Still Healing
Here we are.
I’m mentally & emotionally burned out from staying strong for the sake of taking care of my family during some chaos that lasted much too long.
So give me some grace as I work through all this mess – I’ll keep up with my weekly posts as best I can (& they should be more uplifting than this one!)
And thank you for giving me the space to vent – I hope I didn’t ruin your day LOL ❤️
If you’ve ever carried a loss that never fully leaves, know you’re not alone. Writing about it helps — even if it takes decades to find the words.
zen BLITZ 