2016 I turned 21 and moved into an apartment I could not truly afford with an abusive ex-boyfriend.

I was promoted to a position that paid me a mere $1.75 more than I was making as a lower-level teller only it involved the transfer to a town hellbent on bullying me for being a newcomer.

As if being bullied at work wasn’t enough, I was regularly belittled by my boyfriend at the time only I didn’t realize that what he was doing to me counted as abuse.

My mom was also officially diagnosed with MS.

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So, yea, 2016 was not great and I remember sobbing when my grandparents sent me a check to help us cover our electric bill. Sitting in a laundromat I found myself boo-hooing about myself thinking about how I could barely afford to wash our clothes let alone keep the lights on in my house. It was tough but it was only tough because I didn’t have the right support. I didn’t have a partner that pulled their weight, that encouraged me, that lifted me up instead of putting me down.

I often sat at tables I didn’t belong and 2016 was the realization that if I am sitting at a table and I know what I bring to that table, then it’s perfectly OK for me to leave the table.

2026

Ironically, I’m at a laundromat right now.

Not because I don’t own a washer or because I can barely afford my utilities bills, quite the opposite.

I’m here because I simply don’t want to exhaust our washer with our heavy blankets and the ever-mounting dog hair. This is a privilege I once dreamed of.

In 2016 I dreamed of college but never thought I would make it. In 2026, I have two college degrees, a house, a partner who supports my insanity (OK I’ll be kind to myself – ambition), and the hard-fought for currency I call hindsight.

How beautiful it is to be able to look back at who I was and thank her. Thank her for not giving up when she felt her lowest. When she cried as she drove to work with a busted-out window and broken blinker. The nights she cried herself to sleep because she was convinced life would always be this miserable.

2026 feels so kind in comparison and we’ve barely started. I hope to step forward into this year with appreciation and grace.

Thank you, 2016, for teaching me that our lowest is often the end of chapters, not the beginning.

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a manifestation of a divine or supernatural being; or

a moment of sudden revelation or insight.

-Epiphany.

My super power is sleep. My weakness is also sleep.

For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with sleep. We can blame childhood head trauma, OCD, nature, nurture, the full moon. But the fact is simple: sleep is my favorite when I have the time.

It was the middle of this past Saturday where I suddenly feel compelled to lay down and sleep, I do. Poof. I sleep so well in the afternoons. If only my career could understand this. Hah.

The magical thing that happened is that instead of feeling groggy or off because it went from being 4 PM to 7 PM, I felt replenished. I’m sure there’s a whole study about women’s sleep cycles and how this is actually a thing but I don’t have time to be worried about that right now.

I had an epiphany. A light bulb moment. Or as my personal hero, Oprah Winfrey would say, an aha moment.

Suddenly, a missing part of my current work-in-progress novel clicked. I decided to change the story’s point of view despite having roughly 9,000 words already written. I also decided I’m going to balance my fiction, a style I struggle with, with non-fiction.

I’m going to share my non-fiction stories more regularly. On here. Facebook. Threads. That other blog. Wherever they’ll have me.

On a deeper level something also clicked: I can change my own life’s point of view.

I will no longer allow myself to be burdened by anyone’s timelines for myself.

I’m 30.

My whole life I grew up around women who acted like your life was over after 30. Or after you had kids. Or that you had to have kids before 35 because you will dry up and be useless. You know, all that fun depressing stuff women parrot to each other. I remember when my own mother turned 30 and I, at 4 years old went “wow mommy, that’s so many numbers.” She cried.

I thought I would have 4 kids by 30. I thought I needed to be married and have at least one child by now. Life however, has dealt me a consistently difficult hand to play but I’m to a point where I’ve gained some confidence in how I’m playing.

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For years I’ve dwelled on the numbers; the finance numbers, the word count numbers, the follower numbers, the amount of fertilizable eggs I still have.

I woke up and decided I have so much more control than I realized.

I don’t need to check off a box to fit into a mold I made for myself when I was 11. Or a mold I made for myself at 22. Or a mold I made for myself when I got married. Or a mold I made for myself last week.

Instead, I wake up and I meet the woman who has stood ten toes down to every demon that has tried to eat me alive.

I have woken up despite the pain from heartbreaks in my 20s. I have ran from broken homes and made my own safe place. I have rescued friends from similar situations I would face on my own. I have counted change and said prayers on the side of highways. I have shown up to events and smiled despite my depression. I have begged the earth to swallow me whole. I have showered after being covered in the blood of my baby’s miscarriage. I have held my husband through his own grief. I have persevered through countless nights of school only to wake up at 6 AM to go work a full day in a demanding job.

I have made peace with my body. I have given my mind some much needed rest. I have allowed my heart to break as many times as it needs. There is no need for limits on how many times one can rest or how many times we should let our hearts break.

So now, I look forward to living. To writing. To working. To planning my own family in a way that fits me. The version of me that has played countless hands of life’s chaotic card game.

Because after all this time and the experiences I’ve had to unbury myself from, I know what I am capable of. I know what I will and won’t tolerate. And I know that numbers are just that —numbers.

MONDAY WE START OVER

That’s what I’m telling myself in the new year; that every Monday we start over.

Whether it was a good week, bad night, rough sleep, great time, we are choosing Monday to be number 1. It’s the first day of a fresh week. It’s not “3 months since xxx,” or “4 weeks until xxx,” it’s just Monday. It’s the Present. It’s whatever I decide to be that day.

So, happy Monday. It’s day 1 of a new week.

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Good people are like flowers in my own little world. It’s taken years of caring and a little weeding to find them, but each one of them make my garden more beautiful.

I’m always hesitant to write myself in a way that appears like I’m all “woe is me” or “I’m such a victim.” Because I’m not, but I am. But I was and so now I’m cursed with hyper-vigilance to see it when others appear to be trapped. I live a good life now so why bother?

I bother because I see it now sometimes in others and I can’t help but want to be an advocate. But it’s a delicate balance to tell someone “hey, I think you’re in a bad relationship,” so maybe they will just see themselves in my own story.

$695.

That was how roughly much I was taking home every two weeks back when I was about 20 years old. That was 10 years ago.

I had no debt. I paid car insurance. I paid my boyfriend my portion of the phone bill. Yet some how, every month, I had no money.

Thinking back, though it’s not easy to live on $1400 a month, I should have been ok with a partner who was also employed.

I don’t remember the exact dollar amount of all my expenses, but I can tell you, it wasn’t crazy. I didn’t drive a new car. My phone was second-hand so really I was just paying for service. The basement apartment we rented from ex-boyfriend’s parents was maybe $200 a month, if we paid.

He always had a reason he couldn’t pay and it somehow was always blamed on me.

“She spends it all.”

I bought food for us both.

“She is wasteful.”

I bought feminine products.

“She doesn’t know how to save.”

I had nothing left to save after I paid his expenses and mine.

I don’t know how or why, but at some point I was handing over my entire paycheck every week, minus $50 he allowed me to keep for gas and “lunch,” and that was that. He allowed me my own money. Because to him I was all those things above.

I believed him and I didn’t have anyone to consult with because in my mind it was him and I against the world. This was just how life was. Life was hard and you work hard until hopefully one day you can afford things.

That’s how I grew up, too. My parents worked and worked and worked and we rarely had “gas money.” I’d call up my friend to pick me up for softball practice and her mother always so kindly did. My mom, always appreciative, but I wondered, did they feel bad for me? Hauling me to and from practice because my parents couldn’t get me there. Good people.

So this is all I knew. Life is expensive and you don’t get things you don’t need. In the back of my mind I always told myself that one day I’d make it big enough to be able to afford fancy things, like department store mascara and shoes from Payless instead of Walmart. Incredibly low and embarrassing standards.

$830 every two weeks.

Now I’m making the big bucks! Promoted and moving to our own place, no more windowless bedrooms. I was so excited to wake up and and greet the sun instead of a lamp.

Rent: $700

Electric: $140

Water: $70

Insurance: $200

Credit card payment that ex convinced me to open and use for him: $30

Cat litter: $40

Food: $100

Gas: $100

Me: broke.

You might be thinking hey Liz, what about your partner, wasn’t he making money?

Yes and no. See, Mr. Ex had this creative way of never keeping a job. I’d complain or get upset and suddenly he was employed. Things got better and poof, back to not working and fiddling with his own business adventures.

So it’s all on me. I’m paying his phone bill, my phone bill, all these other expenses that come up. I’m years deep in a relationship that never gifted me the promised land. I was supposed to go to college. “Wasteful,” he’d say. I’m ashamed because according to my mother, I was a whore. A sinner. Satan reserved a bed for me, didn’t you see? I heard it’s warm.

“Dad, can I come live with you for a while? I can pay rent.” I’m 21 but inside I was 5 knocking on my parents door because I had a nightmare.

And I ran just like I did at 18. The gun no longer in sight. No longer sitting on the table to intimidate me from leaving. Mr. Ex no longer huffing in the hallway about what an exhausting woman I am because I had questions about everything.

You see I was not beaten with a fist. I was molded by my weaknesses; my naive nature taken advantage of. Religious trauma hung over my head as I prayed to God that one day I’d make things right. Manipulated into living a life where my sole purpose once again became survival. A relationship and an apartment sounded like freedom to 18 year old me. A relationship and an apartment became an anchor to a self-serving man that only saw me for the pitiful cushion in living expenses I paid for. I paid for everything.

“This place isn’t even in your name.” The landlord informed me when I called to responsibly ask about breaking the lease because I wanted to leave him. We split yet I still paid that months rent. Paying for everything yet nothing in my name.

I was once powerless but I can confidently tell you that I’m powerful now. I’m proudly confrontational about doing the right thing. The timid girl is still there sometimes, and sometimes I melt into those memories. But I will never tolerate that life and I’ve never settled since. I am only successful because I took back my power by doing the bravest thing ever - being willing to start my life over.

I’ve started my life over more than once. I’ve since gone on to earn two degrees, married a kind man who respects what I bring to the table, and together we own a home.

So now I see it, I see it everywhere.

Financial abuse is domestic violence. Emotional abuse is domestic violence.

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, in any form, please call 1-800-799-7233 or text 88788. Please reach out to a trusted friend.

In a matter of 30 minutes we had 4 inches. A type of flash flood meteorologists predict only occur once every century.

“Hey are you guys ok?”

Myself and Kyle received tons of text like this and honestly, I didn’t understand why people were texting me over the fact that it was just raining really hard.

I saw the flash flood warnings, the severe thunderstorm alerts, etc. But that happens, doesn’t it? I’ve always loved a thunderstorm and I was in my happy little bubble at home vacuuming to the Hamilton soundtrack.

Then I saw it. My little bubble - popped. Ain’t that a lesson.

As of today, there have been 8 victims found as a result of the flooding in Ohio County, West Virginia.

Of those, a 3 year old and her mom.

I can’t stop thinking about them - about the victims. About how something so tragic can happen in just a matter of minutes. At the time, I thought the worst thing that would happen from all that rain were basements flooding.

I didn’t imagine a child being swept away from their mother’s arms.

Men and women of all ages at home one moment and down the street the next.

30 minutes.

That was all it took to usher out eight souls from my small city. A friendly space carved out of the northern panhandle valley and safely lined with tall trees that have surely witnessed Mother Nature’s wrath before.

I can’t stop thinking about the sweet little face of the little girl and her mother who were missing for over 24 hours before they were found.

One things for sure about West Virginia: we help each other. Volunteers ascended, donation drop sites immediately made, clean-up crews deployed. No ones quiet about this tragedy here. No one is saying “this didn’t affect me personally.” Because it did, it happened on our land, its always personal here.

I’m a transplant from Ohio, but no Ohio hate here. I’ve never witnessed community this way before.

It feels wrong to call it beautiful because there’s nothing beautiful about tragedy. It’s calamity. It’s also a reminder about what makes up so much of West Virginia’s veins: the need to fix and revive. You can trace it right back to 1863 when we told Virginia we had had enough of the Confederacy.

Each year I spend blending into this state I find myself appreciating the richness West Virginia has to offer. And while the wake of tragedy has my head spinning over questions that I’ll never be able to answer, I do know one thing for sure: West Virginia people take care each other.

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Busting my ass to get done by 5 pm. Determined to be dressed, hair curled, makeup done, and out the door and into my friend’s SUV headed to a night of fun with our hubbies.

It’s 4:45 and I’m asked to proof and file something. Sure, no problem, easy-peasy.

My MacBook decides right then that it does not want to allow me the ability to convert my downloaded word document into a PDF. Seriously? We’ve been converting all day my dear computer, please cooperate, please?

A restart, a scream, and an aggressive slamming of my hands on my desk later and we got her filed at 5:01 PM.

I’m hustling. Hair curler on, teeth brushed. Makeup? Half done at lunch, finished by 5:20. I move into my wardrobe to put on the outfit I had been envisioning all day to wear and what do you know, it does not look the way I thought.

Why am I crying?

Ridiculous. I need to get dressed. I suddenly feel ugly and fat in everything I’m putting on.

Period started.

Oh, that explains it.

I don’t care. I’m wearing something cute but comfier because that’s the beauty in growing older. You know when to throw in the towel with yourself and move on. Those wedge sandals? Put ‘em back, flip flops it is.

It’s not that serious Liz, I say to myself, you aren’t trying to catch a mate at the bar and we will look great in hindsight, lets go.

See? Wisdom. 30 is already rockin.

It’s pride night in Pittsburgh. It’s also my friend’s birthday and he chose a night at the museum - how cute?! What I didn’t expect was the Drag Show. What took us so long to ever get to one?! I HAD A BLAST.

I’ve watched plenty of Ru-Paul but I had no idea how fun it could be in person. My husband instantly lit up, he was enthralled. The lights, the music, the comedy, the bodysuits.

Later we moved our party to a bar where the music and dancing continued. I don’t think I’ve ever danced with my husband at a bar before and I had no idea how much we needed it.

Rolling into our front steps at 1 am was something you could not get Kyle or I to do on a typical weekend night. He’s a homebody, I’m social but introverted, he prefers the company of friends around a board game.

“That was fun.” He said as we rolled into bed and fought for space between the dogs that were equally shocked their parents stayed out so late.

“You even made a friend!” I say to Kyle. He did, because men owning the same shirt is friend-worthy, how adorable. Turns out the guy was a comedian and has a show coming up. Looks like I know what we’re doing next weekend.

“Why don’t periods just happen for one day. Like, okay, glad things are working, next.”

I say to Kyle the following morning. He nods and says he agrees with this logic while he types away at his desk. Further proof he’s mastered the craft of humoring his wife before she’s had her coffee.

I have a polaroid in my pocket from the photobooth I dragged my sweet friend into while I was 3 cocktails deep. A keepsake of a fun night. I made friends with the bathroom attendant. I forgot her name already. She had red nails and a sweet demeanor.

Once again I’m proving to myself that I only ever remember how people made me feel. That’s all that should matter anyway, right?

Had a dream that night I fell 52 floors into a swimming pool. The swimming pool was a simulation and I was perfectly fine. I was holding my breath for nothing.

That’s the message perhaps. Why am I holding my breath so much? Just breath.

I did again. Held my breath while I typed and got lost in a random thought laced with worry. Breath.

So hey, cheers to friends who get us moving, new people that make us feel seen, and melting away into a night every once and a while.

Happy Monday - let’s do this again soon.

Now raise your hand if your parents decided at some point they don’t agree with a preacher so they left yet another church. You lost yet another set of church friends.

Keep your hand up if you would attend late night bible studies with other “like-minded” thinking families.

Bonus points if you were homeschooled.

Okay well hello and welcome, please put your hand down.

That was me for much of my life. I joke sometimes that I grew up “religiously confused.” Which is funny because I was a kid who loved church, obsessively prayed to God AND Jesus, and cried about missing youth nights.

I volunteered myself to go on Mission Trips.

I dedicated my life at almost every baptizing event “just in case” I sinned because I wanted to keep my spot in heaven.

Looking over my own shoulder most of my life was my own way of keeping in line, keeping sweet, and being favorable to the Lord. I saw my flaws and attempted to self-correct before anyone could point them out. I was ahead of all of them, and little did I know just how painfully self-aware I’d be.

Part of the reason why I slept with a bible tucked beneath my pillow every night between the ages of 7 and 15 was because I believed it proved something I didn’t believe about myself. Can God hear these thoughts? I’d wonder while I laid in my twin bed, staring at the moon through the single tiny window above the foot of my bed.

Paranoia and I were longtime pals. Afraid after googling things like “why does God let children starve” and then quickly clearing my browser history off the home computer.

Behind every curtain of choir I felt myself questioning little things. Why did we come here and others didn’t? Why are we preparing for the End Times while others aren’t? Aren’t they afraid they won’t see their families in heaven? Revelations was my introduction to the genre of horror.

No one could know how much I questioned everything. Questioning God’s Word meant I was aligning myself with the devil, and the devil welcomes us with a smile and false promises, in case you didn’t know. Was I letting something in? No, no, no. I prayed and prayed all those scary thoughts away.

No one could know that returning from a Mission Trip actually erased some of the illusion for me. Suddenly, I saw it, on the ground in another part of the world, just how complicated we all are. Suddenly, I understood, that none of us really knew the answer to anything. Now I was really afraid. Fear accompanied me home but for a different reasons. Reasons like living the rest of my life with this burden of knowing the world isn’t always kind and that saying “Jesus loves you” did not heal most people.

My parents struggled with my inquisitive nature. For most of my life I was a force of nature swirling their orbit with my questions about everything. Where did the little girl that sang “I’ve Got Jesus In My Heart” at octaves way too high go.

“Dad, why did God let so many women get raped in the bible?”

Perhaps too stunned because it was morning or because I seemed to actually be reading my bible. A mix of emotion crossed his face that often told you exactly what he was thinking, just like mine. He was mid-bite into his Captain Crunch and his 14 year old daughter was saying the scary R word. Maybe it was the fact that I had my fingers keeping tabs of multiple chapters of my KJV bible, ready to cite my sources.

Should have known then I’d spend my adult days being a paralegal. Should have known then that this was the beginning of the end of praying myself to sleep and feeling better.

“Well, no, God doesn’t necessarily let that happen. He tells us of those evils because we as men are inherently evil.” Or something of that nature. To his credit, he tried his best, and he definitely didn’t condone it.

It wasn’t enough for me.

God can save her but not him, he can move mountains but not people out of hurricanes, why did this baby live and that one die, why, why, what, where, how. I had too many questions to count and the best answer I ever received was simply “I don’t know, but I hope we get to ask him ourselves.”

Yea, yea, I know all about free will and God’s promise to us and that the kingdom of heaven is sought in our hearts. Save your comment.

My mind constantly sought more answers than my poor parents or any well-meaning youth group leader could give me. I was never good at keeping my head down, keeping sweet, and waiting to be spoken to.

That curious brown-eyed girl turned into a teenager with a zest for life and a soft spot for a lot of “different” folks. For the sake of not turning this into a book, I’ll skip my damaging teen and early adult year reflections for now. It’s the touchiest spot in my life, honestly. But those years were necessary to be the reflective and softer woman I am now.

One day, a few years ago amidst writing down how angry I was at life, I found myself afraid again. The same fear that used to keep my mind spinning at bedtime and singing bible songs. I prayed to God for the first time in many years. I didn’t feel heard or better or anything special. I just craved a familiarity and maybe my nervous system needed that prayer. I do believe in prayer, just not the same way I did when I was a kid.

I was raised to be so fearful of so many wonderful things. Sometimes I’m bitter that no one nurtured those questions I had and instead dismissed, laughed at and sometimes, punished me for them.

I’ve spent most of my 20s running away from anything that sounded like church, bible study, worship music.

Which is why I audibly laughed when I had a new friend ask me if I ever read the bible a couple years ago. I didn’t mean to offend her with my laugh. It was just so obvious how little she knew of me.

“I’ve read it all the way through.” Her face visibly shocked as I carefully pulled us into Target.

“I didn’t know you were such a believer.”

“Who said I believe any of it?” And I smirked as she quickly realized I was much sassier and prepared for religious topics than her recently converted little head could imagine.

I don’t have a problem with church, bible study, or worship music. I realized a while ago it was a combination of so many things that made me feel like I didn’t belong in that atmosphere.

One night while chatting with my husband, who lucky for me, understood my questions because he also grew up and ran from a similar environment, I realized something:

My parents version of religion does not have to be my own. I reject so much of it because I could see the hypocrisy behind the scenes. I can call out the hypocrisy, I can cry to God, and I can question things, and it doesn’t mean I’m not worthy of something spiritual.

I’ve always been spiritual. I find myself drawn to people and places; I study the moon and I swear I can hear fates strings being tied behind the scenes of my life. My intuition keeps me tip toeing and my heart beats past the noise of my doubt. There’s definitely something bigger than me and I wouldn’t put it past the trees and the ocean to know it all, actually.

So maybe my God looks different than the children books that lined my childhood bedroom walls. Maybe my beliefs are a little out there, because I dare to say the quiet parts out loud. I’d much rather think for myself, and be kind to others because I want to, instead of living in such a way that makes me feel like I have to.

But you don’t need to hear about all of that.

I found myself writing more and more which is great and I take advantage of those moments as they come. Kyle has helped me work out some knots in my story as I throw myself into a nook in the living room to read and write all the things.

While I laid down the other night, terribly overwhelmed by some other stressors in my life, I couldn’t help but daydream (nightdream? I’m awake and dreaming but it’s night time) about my characters.

They’ve come alive in my mind. Suddenly, the scenes between my characters play out in my head and I think about getting back up and writing it all down. Have I gone crazy? Here I am scared to go to bed for fear of the very monster I created on the page should come and drain the life out of me.

Apparently, I’m a discovery writer. That is my style. Thanks to some lessons by the intelligent Brandon Sanderson (shoutout to Youtube & Spotify), I understand more about my writing style. I outline the world and setting, but the characters? They come alive as I write. I essentially discover them as I write.

Charles Dickens was a discovery writer. He was known for writing about things inspired by his real life and transforming them into meaningful stories.

Learning about my writing style has helped me tremendously. If you are an inspiring author, I highly recommend figuring out your style and leaning into it. It was about as freeing as finally being diagnosed after years of wondering what the heck is wrong with you.

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So here’s to writing and reading and scribbling down all the things that pop in your head. I’m going to try to participate in the real world this week and not be too distracted by the world I’m currently building for my novel.

Happy Monday.

-Liz

I should do this more often.

Normally, I’d be behind my work screens catching up on emails and reviewing tasks I need to annoy the Attorneys to do. Today, (here in the states for my out of US readers) I’ve got it off thanks to the many sacrifices of the veterans we observe on this glorious Memorial Day.

This was the date that always kicked off summer. Parades, cookouts, early fireworks, it was summer in bloom.

It’s a cold morning here in West Virginia so I’m not feeling summer. High of 66 is not high enough for me to want to bake in the sun.

Lately, I’ve been really leaning into my writings: Dabbling between a fictional horror story and my memoir. If you drew a circle you’d see a close resemblance of the two.

Why write a memoir? I don’t know, why write anything? I’ve processed a lot of my life and when I share bits of it on here, people seem interested, so why not?

Now the fun part. The Vampires.

Yes, I’m writing vampires. Their characters keep me up at night and so sometimes the pen demands a paper and I find myself creating a scene in the wee hours of the night.

I’m learning as a writer that writing takes many forms: plotting, scribbling random thoughts you have while you should be working into a notebook, and thinking.

A whole lot of thinking.

You know, when you picture a writer, you probably picture someone dedicated to their typewriter for hours upon hours. And maybe that is so, but I think now adays the modern writer juggles a lot.

We juggle writing and submitting short stories to be paid for. We juggle ideas and plot. We open Word documents and suddenly can’t remember our characters names. We research things like “do vampires have shadows?” and “popular names in 1914.”

Writing is a little bit of researching, a lot of creating, and way too much thinking.

“Just freakin write!” I say to myself, “we can make it pretty later.”

I’m finding it hard to not self-edit as I write. Just get the words down like the pros say and we will edit it later.

But I- no buts! Okay.

So, if you’re wondering what I’ve been up to, I’m writing a lot. I write at my day job as a paralegal where most of the time it’s legal jargon I don’t understand. I write on Threads. I write in my phone, in a notebook, on my laptop.

Oh, and I decided to start a new series that will be debuting soon - the Neighborhood Notes. I don’t know, still working on that title.

I hope whatever you’re doing today it is something you want to do.

Take care.

-Liz

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I don’t allow myself down those thoughts for too long but sometimes, I’ll wonder.

Would they be into dinosaurs? Barbie?

Whatever. They’d have whatever they wanted.

I love a theme and I’d probably be getting told by Kyle I was doing too much.

This is what loss does to a lot of us. While a lot of women move on because they are fortunate to have babies, some are like me and are too scared to go through a loss for the millionth time.

Society doesn’t make space for us because our losses are invisible.

I have no evidence I was suppose to be a mother. Instead, I have dates on calendars that get erased. Gifts returned or donated. Scars only found inside my womb.

This isn’t a pity party, just something I wish more people gave a little care to if they know someone who was struggling. I’ve healed a lot and I can happily enjoy things now. But there was a period of time where I was shamed for skipping holidays and baby showers. Shamed for how I was grieving. I don’t want anyone else to feel that weight, ever.

So whether you’ve lost 1 or many, or you’ve had to accept the loss of the future you thought you had, just know there’s a lot of us right there with you.

Have a gentle Mother’s Day.

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Like a lot of writers, I have always loved telling stories from a young age.

When I was small and learning to write, I would write "newspapers" and roll them up for my grandmother to read. I'd leave it at the door (from the inside) and she would pretend to go get the paper.

This is a memory I treasure and found more influential than I realized.

Someone I loved believed in me and my writing. Even though I was a child, and my stories were arguably silly, made up, or a rip-off of a tv show I just watched, Grandma still acted interested and excited to receive my "news."

When I was around 12 and got my first email address, something along the lines of "dolphinlover2008" or something more embarrassing, I began working on a "newsletter."

My sister and I had a friend, we will call her "Gayle," whose mother (Mrs. G) was a writer.

We took inspiration from seeing our moms read these digital "newsletters" and thought about doing one ourselves but much cooler, obviously.

I'll never forget telling Gayle's mom that I wanted to be a writer just like her while seated at their table. She responded, "well, you'd have to write better than you do now." I was 12.

I look back and see a lot of moments Gayle's mom pit me and my sister against her daughter. I'm not sure what the resentment was about. All three of us girls were homeschooled and spent almost every weekend together, often carpooling to youth group and having sleep overs. At one point we even decided to start a "Rock Sisters" band.

I often sought the approval of others and I guess in some ways, I still do (I mean hello I'm writing on the internet). So as a 12-year-old girl who looked up to writers, I wanted Mrs. G's approval.

I'd share how I got all A's, and she'd counter by saying her Gayle got A's, especially in writing, and that she is going to be a journalist one day. I don't recall Gayle ever talking about becoming a journalist, but her mother thought she would be. I envied the confidence her mother had in her writing.

My mom and dad encouraged my writing, too. I found my very first "manuscript" not long ago in one of my treasure chests. I even had a "book" published through a kids program where you submit art and photos along with your captions and they make it into a "story."

When I was 14, I went on a three-month mission trip to Belize. This trip was in a lot of ways, life changing, but not in the way my parents probably intended. That's a story for another day.

Regardless, I came back home with a new perspective on life and was excited to see my friends again at youth group.

Gayle, however, was no longer my friend. This was news to me. What happened? Did I do something wrong? Rebekah, my sister, didn't know why either, and we sat on the stairs and cried together.

Looking up those stairs, I could see my mom pacing the hallway while on our house phone. She looked irritated but her voice remained polite so I couldn't gauge what it was about. Regardless, I sensed it wasn't good.

"That was Mrs. G. She said you girls were speaking badly about Gayle at youth group and making fun of her brother."

"That's not true!" Rebekah protested.

"We would never do that!" I added.

We honestly, to my recollection, never spoke badly about our best friend. We were hurt and devastated by this accusation. Gayle's mom sent our mom a series of emails basically laying into us, saying my sister and I were bad influences.

My mother knew her children but was also not afraid to scold us if we did something wrong. She asked us point blank what we might have said or done.

I, having just gotten back from a rather traumatic summer experience, could not recall ever speaking badly of my beloved best friend. Neither could Rebekah.

We weren't perfect, but we were kind girls. Especially my sister. I can't think of a single mean thing my younger sister has ever done while children.

I sat there filled with guilt and confusion and over-analyzed everything I could possibly have said.

With hearts broken over our lost friendship, we began feeling like outsiders to our youth group due to this drama we never contributed to and retreated back into our secluded lives.

I later learned from another friend that a girl at youth group had struck up a friendship with Gayle while I was on my trip. She was who supposedly shared all this "gossip" my sister and I had been allegedly committing.

About a year or so after these events, social media became a thing and I could now see what my ex-bestie was up to. I saw all the photos of her and this new best friend and felt a pit in my stomach.

If we were such great friends, how could she believe a lie of a stranger? Perhaps we weren't such great friends after all. Looking back, I think Mrs. G had a lot more play into this because the other girl fit her "mold" better, but I can't prove that.

This was my first lesson of many on friendships and how things can go so wrong so quickly.

In the almost 15 years since this experience, I've lived a lot of life and obviously, moved on. Over the years I've occasionally wondered what my former newsletter co-writer and pretend band mate was up to. Is she a journalist? Is she a writer like her mom? Does she still know all the words to the songs we wrote?

From what I gathered, Gayle is a single-mother living at home and no longer friends with the girl that convinced her to ditch me. I don't know anything beyond that.

Ironically, me and the girl that "stole my friend" are Facebook friends now. We've bonded (via social media) over some other things, but I've never had the guts to ask what happened back when we were 14.

Hey remember youth group and how you convinced my best friend that I was bad-mouthing her? What was up with that? Isn't exactly a conversation starter.

It was a pivotal moment in my life but at the end of the day, it is but a short chapter. Thanks to the birthday card from Gayle I recently found in one of my hat boxes, I will probably always remember it.

I'm sure Mrs. G never thinks of me. But sometimes I think about how unhealed of a person you must be to belittle and hate on a young girl that expressed admiration and curiosity about your craft. At the end of the day, I was built up by strong women like my grandmothers and a sweet sister.

So it turns out that I don't need her approval even though she was exactly what I wanted to be.

Turns out I am a writer after all.

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Relatable, I thought.

I went on to read about how Tahlequah, one of the J-pod Orcas who are monitored by researchers for their declining population in the Pacific Ocean, had lost her second calf.

Two?! Relatable, again.

There I was in my office with a freshly made cup of coffee thinking I'd scroll for a few minutes and get back to work. Discretely, I dried the tears that streamed down my face as I read about this precious, mourning, mother Orca. Instantly, I felt a connection and seen by such a beautiful creature.

"While no significant data are available to suggest why Tahlequah may have lost two calves within her lifetime, orca pregnancies are fraught with challenges" CNN reported.

I also was given no reason for why I lost two pregnancies other than a "these things sadly happen to a lot of women and we don't know why."

As someone who is always searching for the answers to all my why's in life, this has been my biggest hurdle. I have asked to meet God and beg for the return of a life I was promised. I have threatened to fight every high ranking spiritual authority for the return of the souls that left me. I have cried and pleaded with every entity I could think of to rationalize for me why. Yet I still, have no reason, other than "these things just happen."

Today, it doesn't sting as much. I don't feel as angry as I used to. I'd like to say I've made my peace with the hand I was dealt but I'd be lying if I didn't think I could still pull off a flush and win.

For some reason, though, reading about the mama orca mourning her dead calf and reading all the speculations as to "why" stirred up some feelings in me.

"Of course she's sad, why wouldn't she be?" I wanted to yell at my computer. I felt protective and defensive of a beast capable of swallowing me whole. Despite our differences, I felt connected too.

If an Orca, an oceanic beast, a creature of this life, could feel this way about losing her baby, then maybe it wasn't so bad that I mourned as long as I did after losing my two babies?

But now I think of sweet Tahlequah, and her quest to carry her baby as long as she did, and how she captured the world with her brave display of grief. I feel a sense of comfort in this. I know I'm part of this nature pact now. This I-should-have-been-a-mother pact now.

Tahlequah and I, we carried our grief differently. I had no body to bury, no tangible thing to drag across the ocean of my own tears. I often times look for the evidence of the life that was inside me before I realize just how much I changed and how that, in itself, is the evidence. I've been gifted and cursed with an empathy that has me crying over animals who can't save their young.

How empowering is that to think that me and other women like me are as strong and capable and perhaps impactful as this beautiful creature.

When I pray myself to sleep I sometimes think of the mother whale that cries her way around the ocean and ask God to give her just a little peace, please, for me.

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I read this quote not long ago and it really got me thinking.

Have you ever met someone either in real life, perhaps at work, or maybe a random friend on your Facebook, who just seems to have nothing better to do than complain about surface-level issues?

You know the type. The ones that seem to always have some petty drama or posts controversial things and then wonders why “everyone hates them.” The ones who can’t engage in a meaningful discussion about anything and instead take everything they believe to be true at face value.

“The unfed mind devours itself” is attributed to Gore Vital, an American author known for writing about social and sexual norms.

 An unfed mind essentially craves information, often leading to destructive behavior and negative thoughts.

When I find my own mind spiraling down negative hallways and chaotically giving me scenarios that are just not true, I remind myself to feed my brain. Feed it with some care, some gratitude, something useful.

And as someone with OCD which means I often have obsessive thoughts, figuring out how to feed my brain information that isn’t destruction sometimes puts me into mentally overwhelmed overdrive.

Considering the constant news cycles and tense waters surrounding our current political climate, I’m seeking a reset.

So, here’s my little brain diet I came up with to combat the natural instincts to devour my mind:

1. Allow yourself sometime soon to learn something new. Recently, I learned how to decorate cookies using royal icing and found it relaxing. It was also an easy night with a friend.

2. See a friend in person on a work night. Sometimes we get so sucked in our 8-5s that we are just simply surviving the week, spending our remaining evenings vegging out in front of a TV or phone. I say change it up, go eat dinner. You deserve it.

3. Attempt to make one recipe from your Pinterest board that has followed every aesthetic change since high school. I found that even though some nights I just hatecooking, cooking is always rewarding. Even if it doesn’t turn out how you pictured.

4. Watch a music video. This is silly, but sometimes seeing your favorite artist perform your favorite song in their own artful way really wakes up the creative side in your brain.

5. Allow yourself time to digest. This especially applies to reading news headlines. Not all headlines are as they seem.

Feed your mind, feed your soul.

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Remnants of BBQ chip dust coat my freshly tanned fingers as I decide what game will be played next in the pool.

Mermaids, of course.

The public pool of Water Works is bustling with chatter and children and the occasional screaming toddler.

I imagine flying out of my tube down the waterslide as I stand in line next to my sister who stands just a hair shorter than me. Boastfully, we stand up against the height guide and cheerfully move forward in line upon receiving the coveted nod by the lifeguard, confirming our suspicions that we are indeed tall enough to fly.

The hot pavement escaped by walking briskly with soaking wet feet to the next activity - the lazy river.

The lazy river is perfect because you can float, you can swim a little, and you can ride a few waves if you get enough people to participate in your shenanigans. The lifeguard whistles and roars “no waves!”

It was -7 outside the other day and oh, how I’d love to be 8 1/2 and swimming in the hot Ohio sun. Wrapped up in a towel covered eating sun chips while we dry off. It was a different kind of heaviness tonight. One felt by missing her Mom, Grandma, and Sister, all of whom reside in different corners of the country.

“What do you want for dinner?” My husband asks.

I want the sandwich I ate in the sun with soggy hands surrounded by company I miss.

Instead, I simply respond, “sun chips.”

I tend to scroll back in the digital textbooks when I’m curious about something. I grew up fascinated by the different facts about our presidents, always interested in what they did with their time. But beyond that, I admittedly did not understand much.

My first opportunity to vote in a presidential election was in 2016.

I know, poor me.

It was Hilary Clinton v. Donald Trump. I was surrounded by a mixed bag of a state that hurled things like “lock her up!” or “orange dictator!”

“Has it always been like this?” I asked my grandparents recently. They’ve been around more elections then me, after all. But never in this digital age. An age where we get live-tweets (aka other peoples’ opinions) notified across our cell phones. Or where people make mocking photos and videos that go viral. The influence of social media is still a hot debate but I think we can all agree on one thing: it’s concerning.

Historically, we had political cartoons in our daily newspapers, which you can see here. That’s about as close of a comparison as I can find to the political climate on social media in our modern world.

2024 brought us another woman against Trump. While I commend Biden for acknowledging when it was time to quit, I can’t help but be bitter that we thought America would be accepting of a woman.

Yes, a lot of us were. I was. I think she is way more qualified than most men running for any sort of political office. But America, from my point of view, doesn’t. Not 8 years after we had “lock her up” as a chant by a man now convicted of 34 felonies.

It’s always been that way. This is what a lot of us mean when we say “fuck the patriarchy!” Ask any female in business. Our voice is questioned, our motives are over-analyzed, our existence is compared to every other human comparable.

But that’s what our democracy gave us.

And for a moment, I really believed a woman could be president.

To be clear, it’s not usually about gender for me. But in this situation, it was, because we were going up against a man that has successfully gaslit so many of us into thinking he cares about the same things we do.

I watched my first presidential inauguration when Biden was sworn in. It wasn’t because it was Biden but because I had just never been home to watch it before. I found it moving and inspiring.

Today, I watched Trump’s inauguration. There were a lot of things obviously different. I’m not going to go into the doom and gloom like so many are but I will ask: why are we OK with his seats being filled by the millionaires and billionaires when his supporters are adamant he’s a man of the people? They do not represent the people.

Maybe it’s because his supporters haven’t actually been in a room with the ultra-rich. They don’t know what they don’t know.

Rich isn’t bad. I know that most of them worked for their money. It’s just strange considering how much power they hold compared to the working class. How much they talk about cutting the very services that help so many people who voted.

But they voted this man in and that is the way it is. I like to think that things won’t be as bad as people think it will be. I like to think that historically, we’ve overcome a lot of different political climates. That at our core, we are a democracy, and we won’t fold within ourselves. I like to think that eventually, people will use better judgment on social media and not be so easily persuaded one way or another. I like to think….I like to think….

It was never this way before. Before when social media was not a thing. When a TikTok ban was not such a controversial and sweeping headline.

Could you imagine talking about TikTok in the 1930s? We all need to touch grass, I fear.

I’m going to keep those interviews up on that wordpress blog here. But moving forward, I intend to use this platform for my personal writing.

Looking forward to writing in this space. I’ve been a long time subscriber to many writers on here and decided it was time I finally come here, too.

Write soon.

Elizabeth

This is From My Notes to You.

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I know, I know, hold the applause.

I’ve somehow made mashed potatoes good enough that my own siblings, the people who were born to be your #1 humbler, are at my doorstep for a recipe. Metaphorically speaking of course. It was actually a text message but for storytelling purposes I want you to imagine me answering my front door with a top-knot and apron and a mixing bowl on my hip.

Now, you may be wondering, how did I get here? On this high pedestal, looking down on those that simply microwave their store-bought containers. I must say, Bob Evans makes a mean mashed potato and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to buying them from time to time for easy meals. But they are not my grandmother’s potatoes, and they are far from my potatoes.

Anyways, back to my accolade.

I was simply a girl who loved mashed potatoes growing up. I was blessed with not one but two grandmothers that made delicious homemade mashed potatoes not just on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but for family dinners sometimes, too. Allow me to detail my resume.

Grandma Sandy’s take on it was methodical. A kitchen aid mixer, a boiling pot of water, neatly peeled potatoes washed and diced. Whatever magic she mixed in post-boiling is a mystery to me, and I was never far from the first in line for a scoop.

“Can I have mashed potatoes” I once asked for my birthday meal. Just the potatoes. No need to worry about the rest.

Grandma Sharon would make hers with a different approach and care. Two spoons were always there: one for her and one for me. Measuring? Forget about it. We tasted it as we went. Butter? Double it. Milk? The evaporated kind.

“More butter?” she’d inquire. “Always,” I’d respond. And we’d drop another stick in.

I can still hear the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade replaying on the TV in the living room while my sister cries because mom is brushing her hair.

As I grew older and navigated relationships, I quickly found myself wanting to emulate that feeling of home cooking my grandmothers gave me. I wanted to be the wife that could come home from a busy day and throw her hair up and whip something delicious together. Let me just clarify that I am not that put together and 90% of the time it does not go that way.  

My first time offering to make mashed potatoes for a holiday came when I was 22 and in my first little home with a man I half-expected to become my husband. I excitedly offered to make mashed potatoes for the thanksgiving we’d host for about 10 guests and seriously underestimated its undertaking.

I had made them before but not for this many people. But I had a plan! I was going to wake up early, wash, peel and dice just like Grandma Sandy, and start the boiling pot of water. Then, I’d check the potatoes with the designated fork set aside to make sure it’s soft enough to start mashing, just like Grandma Sharon.

To my hosting horror, 7 A.M. that thanksgiving, my (now ex) boyfriend’s mother was in my kitchen, with boots covered in cow manure and whatever else she stepped in, and she was cooking.

It’s not horrible that she was cooking. It’s horrible that I had no idea she’d be in my kitchen that early and mashing my beloved potatoes.

YES! She was mashing them! Before they were ever washed or diced or even BOILED.

I stood there in my mismatched pajamas and one sock on and sleepily asked what was happening. The parade hasn’t even started yet, Lisa.

I wish I could more accurately account for what followed but long-story short, I did not make mashed potatoes that year, and I did not end up with that man, and his mother may or may not have been the final straw of that relationship.

It’s not you, it’s me, and that damn massacre of potatoes, I’d explain.

Fast-forward a few timelines and I’m here. I’m married and I’ve hosted enough to know that making the mashed potatoes should happen last, not first, because potatoes brown and the parade will distract me every year like it always has. Butter is not measured conventionally, it’s taste-tested throughout. And for creamier potatoes it’s recommended by the experts (Grandma) to incorporate a can of evaporated milk.

My sister-in-law has since asked for my recipe and most recently, my brother.

This, my friends, is an accomplishment my type-c self has finally achieved. Years of practice, patience, broken dishes that defamed ex mishandled, led me to this moment.

On thanksgiving, I’ll wake up in my own house, with no cow-poop caked boots in sight, and make my way to the kitchen where I will have neatly laid out the tools needed to prepare this coveted dish. My husband will know to stay out of my way but have the coffee ready. The parade will be on the TV. And anyone expected to sit at my table knows not to be in my kitchen regardless of if they are family before I even had my morning pee.  

The Recipe

• 5 lbs of Idaho potatoes – boiled and mashed

• 1 can of evaporated milk (or 1 cup or whole) slowly incorporated

• 1 stick of butter (but measure with your heart) that you can melt in the pot used to boil the potatoes while it’s still hot and then pour into your mixing bowl

• Salt & pepper (again, just measure with your heart)

• and a trusted taste-tester usually in the form of a little granddaughter who has elected herself to be your lifelong shadow but really anybody with a proper appreciation of mashed potatoes will do.

When someone loses a loved one we give them time to grieve. When someone loses a friend or beloved pet, we give them time to grieve.

But when you open up that you have suffered an early miscarriage there is no time to grieve because most likely time had already passed and you’re expected to keep carrying on just like you always have.

I don’t call you up and say “my baby just died” because you most likely didn’t know I was expecting.

I don’t call you up and say “I’m on my way to the hospital because I think I’m losing my baby again” because again you didn’t know.

So when the time comes around to where babies are brought up and nosey minds poke in when you are well aware that you’d have a glowing belly to answer all those questions, you kind of lose it.

“Why don’t you have kids?”

“When are you planning on having kids?”

“Do you want kids?”

“Don’t wait too long!”

“Have you gone to a specialist? My friend…”

I genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, despise and dread these questions and comments.

I don’t have kids because mine are dead.

I was planning on having lots of kids by now but infertility robbed that from me.

Of course I wanted both babies I lost.

Rough. Those answers are rough, right?

I now navigate two things simultaneously: moving on and answering those questions I never thought twice about before.

I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on negative pregnancy tests.

Thousands in medical bills.

And countless hours lying awake trying to convince myself to move forward.

I have become a different person through all this and by that I mean I truly no longer give a damn if my hurting hurts your feelings. I have suffered in silence and I have tried to suffer out loud. No matter how I chose to grieve nothing soothed me. The anger that I built up inside was enough to build a castle. It trickled out each time the wrong question was asked of me, the slightest comment made of me, and sometimes out of nowhere my own crushed expectations crippled me.

_

I started writing this post over a year ago. I don’t know why, but I felt like sharing bits of it now. Maybe knowing how angry I have been will comfort someone else freshly in that anger stage.

There’s not a lot of space for us to be angry.

It’s always “just you wait” or “I know someone who tried for _ years” or “I couldn’t imagine.”

There’s no finish line when you’re in the throes of infertility. We don’t know if or when it will end for us. So the overly positive comments feel toxic to us because we’ve lost touch with positivity.

Just let the people you know going through this be angry. Tell them how it sucks and they don’t deserve this. Remind them they did nothing wrong. Let them voice their unhinged rants about how the world feels like it ended.

I’m no longer in that anger stage. I’m not numb and I’m not not bothered. I’m here. I’ve accepted my life for what it is and hope still glimmers inside from time to time. I find joy in the little things and I’m not as shy to walk in the sun anymore. I recognize when I’m having a bad mental day and I tuck away from people that don’t see it.

I still grieve the woman I was before loss, the man my husband was before loss, and the life we thought we’d be living. I grieve the idea of picking out names and counting down to birthdays. I grieve the hope that now feels like a chore to keep around.

If anything, each day feels like a step on the grief ladder. One step at a time, off the ground, and closer to the top.

What’s at the top? I’m not sure.

Perhaps it’s the version of me that made it. The woman that suffered in silence, the one who screamed in her car, the one who used all her PTO to go to therapy, who broke down in grocery stores, or who sat near the edge of a bridge daring God to stop her.

Each day I’m one step closer to the strongest woman I’ve ever known – myself.

-Liz-

Suddenly, I’m two feet shorter and a lot lighter. Not just in weight but mentally, too. This lighter and smaller me is a young girl that throws herself into diaries and pretends to shop by circling clothes in the JCPenny catalog she knows she probably won’t receive.

That little girl had stories that seeped out in all the ways that play time reflects the imagination in a child’s mind.

In my childhood home, a lime green lamp shade illuminates the corner of my bedroom at night, and I’d pretend it was candlelight as I wrote “Dear Diary.”

“Today we pretended the large puddles in the field were lakes and went swimming. I haven’t seen Sam and Julia in a while. Sometimes I wish we lived in a neighborhood because then maybe I’d have a friend.”

And then I’d sign my full name because I thought it was cool to have a middle name.

Elizabeth Diana Bradcovich.

The swing set my dad built was tall with two wide seated swings so that both adults and kids could enjoy. A kid at heart, I think he just wanted to play, too. That swing would take me to places I’d visit via the imagination that canvased my mind after watching a movie or reading a book.

Today, I’m going to wherever the castles are. I think they’re in Ireland. I gave myself a new name and pretended to be an actress assigned the role of a princess hiding from vampires. Dad had been watching a lot of Dark Shadows rented from the library, so vampires became my latest fear and fascination.

The trees that enclosed the yard I’d disassociate in often served as my audience. I swear those trees knew all my dreams and all my secrets.

Sometimes, like today while mindlessly fiddling with work spreadsheets, I think about those trees. I even named one of them.

Was I a looney child? Perhaps. Or, perhaps I was just lonely.  

I can still smell the woodstove that warmed our home every winter if I try hard enough. Stacking the wood inside after my brother, Zack, chopped it, was one of my chores. The gloves I wore were those large work gloves made for men’s hands. My hands drowned in them as I fumbled around to grab the wood pieces and avoid splinters. The wood chips that would spill on the carpet between the door and the stove would bother me and I’d try to clean and vacuum it up as much as I could when we were done.

I was always trying to clean and tidy our home up, but it felt like no matter what I did everything was dusty and dirty and dark. Now as an adult I know that this was just my OCD beginning.

My OCD branched beyond just clean and tidiness. It kept me up at night with ruminating thoughts and fears, terrified that if I fell asleep, I wouldn’t be able to protect anyone from danger. What danger, you ask? I don’t know. My imagination ran with anything I absorbed, and I’d convince myself that just about anything could come in and hurt me. I’d say prayers in my mind repeatedly, obsessively, until I passed out with a bible underneath my pillow.

Worry was another facet of this strange obligation my mind held over me. I worried about everything.

Beneath my floorboards I could hear my parents talk after work in the bathroom while the jets in the bathtub ran. Now, I realize they probably thought none of us kids could hear them. I heard the stress, the financial insecurity, the concern about us, the biblical prophecies they discussed. I absorbed this and thought of all the ways I could help. I’d imagine myself working somewhere and secretly fixing things up around the house so that maybe my mom wouldn’t cry so much. I’d envision myself giving dad a break so that maybe he could play outside more just like he always talked about.

These worries and burdens transferred to different aspects of my life as I got older. I haven’t felt an obligation to help my parents in a long time for many reasons, but I still feel an obligation to that little girl who wouldn’t sleep unless she counted all her blessings seven times.

That house and its little woodstove are long gone. Crushed by abandoned dreams and a bulldozer. The last time I saw it was to empty its contents so that my parents could move away to their new adventure. The ghosts of children’s laughter that once rang these halls could be heard if you stood long enough and listened. You’d see pictures of a smiling family along a mantle built by Dad and silly statues that only us kids knew were from that one time we went to the Caribbean.

Crosses and the lord’s prayer still hung in the room with the woodstove that I would sneak downstairs to stare at its flames, wondering if falling asleep next to it would provide me kinder dreams.

My nightmares were so complex I’d wake up crying and run to my parents’ bed, begging to sleep with them. They’d pray over me and tell me that the devil sought me out because I was spiritually gifted. Another burden I carried: spiritually gifted.

Now, I think my nightmares were side effects of the head trauma I suffered in a freak accident as a toddler. Even as an adult, I occasionally wake up screaming. But that’s another story.

Standing in the house I’d daydream of fixing that would later turn its back on me felt intoxicating and healing at the same time. There’s something about time and acceptance and wisdom that accompanies the frontal lobe my brain now possesses.

Bitterness doesn’t coat my tongue as much as hindsight does now.

I wish I’d had gone into the yard and swung on that swing all those years ago when I was last there. I wish I could find that girl again that would proudly tell you about her daydreams without fear of judgment. I wish I had updated the trees that watched me grow and fly away. I’d let them know that I made it to another nest, my own nest, a nest that doesn’t require chopped wood or bathtub jetted confessions.

Learning I had OCD in my early 20s didn’t really hit me until my later 20s to be honest. At first, I just chuckled and thought “oh yea, that sounds right, I’ve always been a little quirky.” Recalling the birthday I had asked my grandmother for a real vacuum cleaner and not a pretend one. But it’s so much more burdensome than the need to just clean up stuff. Afterall, it stands for obsessive compulsive disorder.

I’d obsessively pray in my head and if I didn’t, I’d be convinced bad things would happen. I’d compulsively check the doorknobs in the middle of the night. My mind would convince myself that my whole family would die if I didn’t wear a certain color that day. If I didn’t pray or read my bible, I’d be eaten alive in hell. I was responsible for everything going wrong because I didn’t do xyz a certain way.

These are just some of the things present in someone like me who struggles with OCD.

Since learning more about it, I’ve realized there are different types. Like they say, though, knowledge is power. Recognizing when I’m just having a bad OCD moment has helped me tremendously. I don’t feel so weighed down by my thoughts because like my one therapist once said, “thoughts are just thoughts.” Breaking out of rumination or going against an urge to correct something is still a struggle from time to time, but at least I know when it’s a struggle and can give myself some slack.

Not sure what spurred all this. Actually, I do. It was the damn trees.

I saw a tree with a swing on this gorgeous September day and was taken back to the small girl with big brown eyes and an even bigger imagination. And so, I wrote because I believe we all owe that to ourselves. To write about our little selves. We are all still in there. Amongst the mundane, the heartache, the stress, the fatigue, somewhere inside us is a little kid with a delightful daydream. My mom, my dad, you, and me. Our little spirits are the woodstoves keeping us warm and sometimes they just need a little rekindling.  

I hope you write today.

-Liz

I love the soft snore that rings above my husband as he lay next to me.

It’s obvious to me he’s here and sometimes, I need that reminder when I’m stuck conversing with the ghosts in my mind.

I refuse to take for granted the peace he brings me. Too many nights I laid awake scared of the silence that hung out in my house.

Once when I was younger, I remember observing my grandpa take my grandma’s car for gas. I thought, “how sweet.”

She was perfectly capable of doing so but he did it just because. He’d fold the laundry and tell me how much my grandma cares about “all you kids” more than we could fathom. His face beamed with pride that his wife loved and to him, that was enough.

It was enough to be loved.

Between 17 and 21 I found myself in a relationship that drained me in every way imaginable. Financially, emotionally, physically. I wore ignorance like sunglasses, looking away at every flag. It altered my brain but I remained resilient despite it.

I’d hold onto the moments of connecting over music or eating out together and think “this is good, this is a good relationship.” Yet the crockpot I cooked chicken in ended up down the apartment stairs because I told him I needed help around the house.

I was not enough.

“You are way too good for him,” my future husband would say to me as we drove one night to get the group of us Taco Bell. I remember thinking how nice he was and envying his ability to buy us all food.

Little did I know he'd be tied to me forever in the most spectacular way.

One night in the basement apartment of my ex, I found myself depressed more often than not. I didn’t know I was depressed, I didn’t know it wasn’t normal to want to immediately sleep upon coming home from work so that life would be over quicker. This boyfriend would tinker with his box of junk electronics he was fixing for extra cash and ask me how much my paycheck was. We relied on my paycheck since he couldn't hold a job for a number of reasons excuses.

After a while, I started fibbing and shaving off a few dollars of what my pay actually was so I could keep it for myself. Unmarried and 19, I was burdened with paying his medical bills, and the $300 in credit card balance that I had was the “reason we would never succeed.” He hung every cent I spent on anything he didn’t approve over my head.

One time, my card declined while I tried to buy a box of tampons. I didn’t know he needed to upgrade his computer for his project. I’d protest his spending but he always found a way to wear me down.

I recall a day we got McDonald’s and I had ordered an iced coffee. His Ford Mustang would shake and it smelled faintly of fast food.

“They forgot to give me a straw,” I said while in the passenger seat. He told me I didn’t need it and took the lid off.

A few minutes later he abruptly stopped the car and my coffee spilled everywhere. “If you’d stop buying these stupid coffees!” He yelled.

Tears silently rolled down my face as I’d turn out the window, wondering how I could make it all better.

I never saw him as the problem, I only saw me as the flaw.

At 17 my mother called me a whore and ordered me out of the house. Dad came home to find me gone and called me to come back. At that point, I was convinced I should be living on my own with this boyfriend. My pride and ego was determined to prove how our love was real and I didn’t need my mother anymore.

I’ve always needed my mother.

“How do you like your coffee?” Was one of the first questions my husband asked me when we began dating years later.

Before that coffee was an impromptu coffee date in December of '16 with my out-of-state sister, my lifelong best friend. She hung a metaphorical mirror in front of me and told me that I wasn't happy, that I wasn't the bubbly ball of life I once was.

She was right and my quest to prove everyone wrong was beginning to end.

After that tearful conversation with my sweet, well-meaning little sister, I found the courage to leave but, I did not have a plan.

Tears streaming down my face after losing my mind from yet another argument with my ex, I stood in the doorway of our new apartment we could barely afford and said, “I don’t think we are working anymore.” While sitting reclined on the couch my grandparents gave us, he smirked and said “yea, I was thinking the same thing.”

Immediately, we began separating our things. He told me “you still need to pay me half for rent.”

“Okay.” Half was nice, I was paying full before.

“I’ll be moving out as soon as I can.” I tell him as I get ready to leave for work one morning.

“You can’t move out until June,” which was six months away.

“It’s in the lease or else you have to pay all that rent.” His voice elevated as he towers over me.

Panicked, I begin to wonder how I’ll mentally survive 6 more months with him. Somehow, someone gave me the brilliant idea to call the landlord and ask for myself. This ex had a way of manipulating the truth and I was still climbing out of his web.

“Hi,” I’d nervously begin the phone call with the landlord while my ex wasn’t home.

“I was wondering how to go about breaking the lease. You see we broke up and I’d like to move out, but I don’t know how much that will cost.”

“Honey, that won’t cost you anything. Your name isn’t on the lease.” He said kindly.

Now with hindsight I think he knew I wasn’t in a good relationship. He always saw me dropping off the check, taking care of the trash, occasionally asking for an additional day until I got paid.

That night, I texted my ex and said I was leaving. He immediately came home and made a point to show me his gun. Scared, I went to my room and cried myself to sleep.

“Dad,” I’d softly say into the phone while rubbing my puffy eyes.

“Oh, hi Elizabeth.”

“Can I come live with you?” My voice about cracked. I was 21 and desperate to start over, scared to go back to a home that hadn't felt like home in 10 years, and worn down by the racing thoughts that held me captive.

That January night while my ex was out, I packed everything I could into my 2001 Pontiac with a broken window and temperamental heat. I had to leave before he got home and would try to convince me otherwise, or worse.

Despite paying for virtually everything our whole relationship, I still left my ex a check for that month’s rent. In my mind I thought this would have us leave on good terms. He’d see I’m not a shitty person that screws him over.

A rebound, a house, and a college degree later, I found myself living alone in a quaint little city working a dream career. I thrived after crawling out from the thumb of a man who could barely accomplish a day's work without calling off.

“So how do you like your coffee?” My future husband texted in response to my Snapchat picture of a coffee shop.

When he called me weeks later after I attempted to ghost him for fear of rejection, I found myself rambling away for 2 hours.

“So where are you staying now a days?” He asked.

“Okay hold on,” he paused while I giddily walked barefoot in my loft, feeling that hopeful feeling one does when they meet a new love interest.

“Oh cool, you’re only like an hour. I can be there in about 2 and we can go get ice cream.”

“Wait, really?” I was taken aback by his spontaneous commitment to come visit me.

The rest is history, honestly.

Some days I will say to my husband, “you are my good karma.” Because to me, I went through what I went through because of series of choices and in the midst of that I connected with him, and he found me when we were both free of toxic relationships, and now we share a loving life together.

I don’t recall a time he’s ever threatened me except when I brought a 2nd dog home. “Elizabeth, I swear if you get one more dog.” He’d attempt to say sternly while cuddling the fluffy little pup.

How lucky am I to have a love that gives me all this room to breathe.

He’s folding the towels when he says out of the blue, “I love you.”

In that moment I felt full circle: I am enough to be loved.