I Want More: A Survivor's Declaration

I Want More: A Survivor’s Declaration

I am the child of an alcoholic.
The wife of an abuser.
The mother of an addict.

And let me tell you something—

I am not just an expert
at surviving chaos.

I am a survivor.

I learned early
how to keep my head down,
keep the peace,
keep the secrets,
keep my mouth shut—

because silence felt safer
than telling the truth.

But silence
doesn't silence the ghosts.

It only teaches them
to whisper louder.

So I learned:

The first step
is admitting something is wrong.

The second—
is finding your voice
and talking about it.

And the third—

is reaching back
to help someone else

find their way out.

From 2011- 2012
I facilitated a poetry group
at Habilitat,
the place of change, a drug rehab in Hawaii.

I thought I was there
to help them find their voices.

But somewhere between
the poems,
the pain,
the laughter,
the tears—

they helped me find mine.

Together we produced—

“Powerful Words-Opening Doors,
Bridging the Gap-A Poultry Poetry Slam and

Navigating Change: Making a Difference.”

Words became doors.

Doors became choices.

And choices became
the courage
to finally leave

an abusive marriage.

Thirty-six years.

Thirty-six years
of being unhappy
and alone.

Thirty-six years
in a world that wasn't ready
to help battered women.

Back then,
we couldn't even have
our own credit cards.

So don't tell me
change happens overnight.

Sometimes change
takes a lifetime
to begin.

Twenty years ago,
I attended a writing retreat
at UH-Windward on Oahu.

I went there
to tell my story.

I didn't know then
that telling the story
would become part of
saving my life.

Because here's the truth
nobody tells you:

Leaving doesn't mean

the ghosts leave with you.

You can escape the house
and still carry it
inside your head.

You can leave the man
and still hear his voice.

You can change your address
and still live
in the old patterns.

Because sometimes
we are attracted
to what is familiar—

the same things,
the same men,
the same lies—

because familiar
can feel like normal.

And when everyone
around you is sick,

sometimes you mistake
survival
for belonging.

So you fall.

You go back.

You repeat.

You try to reinvent yourself

and sometimes—

you fail.

But listen to me:

Failure is not the end
of your story.

Surviving
is getting back up.

Brushing yourself off.

Looking at the pieces
and saying,

"All right.
Let's build again."

It isn't easy.

Sometimes it isn't pretty.

Sometimes it isn't even
a little bit cheesy.

Sometimes healing
looks like crying
in the bathroom
and walking back out
anyway.

Sometimes healing
looks like saying:

No.

No, I will not
kowtow to anyone.

No, I will not
be owned.

No, I will not
be stuck.

No, I will not
be a slave
to someone else's addiction,
anger,
expectations,
or lies.

No.

I want more.

So when I say,

"My name is Cornelia,"

I am not simply
introducing myself.

I am declaring myself.

I am saying:

I am done
with just surviving.

I am done
with just being okay.

I am done
repeating the same mistakes
and calling them destiny.

I want more.

More than survival.

More than making it
through another day.

I want to thrive.

I want to reclaim
everything I lost.

My voice.

My joy.

My choices.

My dreams.

My name.

My life.

And I want to go
beyond hopelessness
without pretending
that the darkness
never existed.

Because my scars
are not evidence
that I was weak.

They are evidence
that I stayed.

That I fought.

That I got back up.

And then—

I moved to Florida.

And what happened?

COVID happened.

Hurricane Ian happened.

Hurricane Milton happened.

Tornadoes spun up
and tore through lives.

Storm after storm.

Loss after loss.

And still—

I am here.

Why?

Because somewhere inside me
there was a voice
that refused to die.

A voice that kept saying:

I want more.

So if you're listening to me
and you're still trapped
in your own ghosts—

hear me.

You are not what happened to you.

You are not the person
who hurt you.

You are not your worst mistake.

You are not your relapse.

And you are not required
to stay where you were broken.

You can speak.

You can ask for help.

You can leave.

You can begin again.

And if you fall—

get back up.

If you fall again—

get back up again.

There is no shame
in beginning again.

There is courage
in beginning again.

Because sometimes
the greatest act of rebellion
is simply deciding:

My story isn't over.

So I stand here today
not because the storms
never came—

but because they came,

and I remained.

I stand here
with my voice intact.

With hope in my hands.

With tomorrow
still calling my name.

And I believe—

God has a plan for me.

But I also understand
something now:

God gave me a voice.

God gave me a choice.

And God gave me
the courage
to make a plan for myself.

So I will not
just survive this life.

I will live it.

I will love it.

I will speak.

I will create.

I will help someone else
find the door.

And when the ghosts
come knocking—

I will not open the door.

I will turn toward the light.

Because I know now:

The past may be part
of my story—
but it does not get
to write the ending.

My name is Cornelia.

I am still here.

I am still rising.

I am still becoming.

And after everything
I have survived,

after every storm,

after every goodbye,

after every broken piece—

I choose hope.

I choose life.

I choose me.

I want more.

And this time—

I am going to get it.

 

  

Your Brain Is Still Becoming

 Your Brain Is Still Becoming

Inside your mind, where neurons glow,
Like mushrooms sprout and start to grow.
Your brain is not fixed in one design—
It spreads, adapts, and realigns.

What you repeat, the brain makes strong,
Like mushroom threads that stretch along.

Though unused pathways fade away,
Like spores that drift and float astray.

Myelin wraps each pathway tight,
Like fungal threads beneath the light.
And when one pathway’s blocked or gone,
Your brain can grow new networks thereon.

So learn, repeat, and start anew—
Like rain that helps the ‘shrooms push through.
Each challenge plants a seed to grow,
And every practice helps it flow.

Your brain keeps changing, day by day,
Like mycelium spreading its own way.
New pathways form, old ones depart—
A living network, from the start.

 

Waxing Philosophical

 Waxing Philosophical

How about I leave,

and you can have your life back.

The brilliant one
you know—

the one
I seem to have dimmed
without meaning to.

Sooner than expected.

Aha.

Lightbulb moment.

How’s life treating you?

What can I do better?

Would you like to hear from me
more often?

Do you ever wonder
if I disappeared
whether you’d notice?

Not immediately.

Just eventually.

You seem to be doing fine
without me.

Don’t get me wrong.

I like that.

I like knowing
you don’t need me.

That I can leave
and nothing important
will stop moving.

I am important

Just not vital.

There’s a difference.

And somehow
that difference
has become
the whole story.

So say it.

You’re happy to see me.

You just don’t miss me.

I can live with that.

I think.

I am dispensable.

A word I never thought
I’d have to use
for someone I loved.

But while I’m still here
let’s get together.

We can talk about
the good times.

The bad ones.

The things we survived.

The things we didn’t.

We can laugh.

You can tell me
you’re doing well.

I’ll tell you
I’m happy for you.

And neither of us
will mention
how strange it is

to sit across from someone
who once felt like home

and realize

you could leave the room

and they’d still be fine.

So—

how about I leave?

Not dramatically.

Not angrily.

I’ll just go quietly,

the way people do

when they finally understand

they were never
the part you were afraid
to lose.

What A Country

What a Country

Appliances once lasted over forty years.

Cars lasted twenty-five before becoming antiques.

Now we get ten years, if we’re lucky.

A lousy ten years

and inflation breathing down your neck.

Who has enough money

to live to one hundred? 

 

We are the poor people.

Not poor because we own nothing.

Poor because everything we own

has an expiration date.

The refrigerator dies.

The stove dies.

The oil burner dies.

The air conditioner dies.

And every time something dies,

a little more of us

goes with it.

Because letting go

is expensive. And once you let go,

you may never get it back.

So what do you do?

Borrow.

Put interest on top of interest.

Sign your name

to money you already know

you cannot repay.

 

What if you’re ninety?

What if Social Security is all you have?

A benefit, they call it. 

As if someone gave you a gift.

As if you didn’t spend

your whole life paying for it.

 

Maybe insurance covers you.

Maybe your children rescue you.

But your children are already rescuing their children.

Everyone is carrying someone.

Everyone is one broken appliance away from the edge.

And then one morning you wake up

and understand the arithmetic: 

you have become another expense.

Your family loves you.

But love

does not pay the bill.

So the trip next winter

is postponed.

Again.

The little pleasure

you promised yourself

after a lifetime of work

is pushed further away.

Until there is no winter left.

No trip.

No next time.

Just the refrigerator humming

in the kitchen—

until it doesn’t.

What a country.

A country where

even the things meant to last

have learned how to die early.

And where, if you live long enough,

you become the thing everyone is afraid

they can no longer afford to keep. 

Webs Beyond this World

 On August 9, 1973, NASA requested that Skylab astronauts share a housefly-sized piece of their filet mignon with two spiders on their mission, named Anita and Arabella, so that the arachnids could continue their experiment spinning webs in zero-G.

 

Webs Beyond This World

Anita and Arabella’s very floaty adventure

Two spiders blast off
eight shoes apiece, none tied tight
Earth waves from below.

Which way is the floor?
Arabella twirls twice more
Skylab has no down.

Anita flings silk
it loops, wiggles, tickles space
then it lands—ta-da!—somewhere.

Dinner drifts nearby
a tiny steak moon sails past
catch it if you can.

Soon their webs gleam bright
two proud spiders bow in space
stars demand encore.

 

Meaning on the Loose

 Meaning on the Loose

Meaning has slipped its leash again—
metaphors never knock;
they tumble, laughing, from the roof
and leave the garden shocked.

They’re trolls with fairy wings,
with pollen on each shoe,
who leave the poets wondering,
“What did those creatures do?”

Once loose, they follow poets’ home
and scribble on the walls;

 

We watch the sunset spill its gold,
then cheer a friend at night:
“That scope is just a spelunker
with a helmet full of light.”

Then we mend the economy
while politicians graze;
we button jokes in wisdom’s coat
and lose them in the haze.

By now the metaphors have roamed
from garden beds to news,
with sunset gold upon their wings
and headlines on their shoes.

So if the meaning slips its leash,
just smile and let it rain;
the metaphor will shake its wings
upon your roof again.

 

 

 

 

The Lantern Belongs to Us

 The Lantern Belongs to Us

Not the hammer.

The bell.

The sound that says,
come together.

Every vote
is a hand reaching through the dark.
Every voice
strikes another spark.

The light is ours to carry.

Democracy
is not a fortress.

It is a table—
long enough
that another chair can always be pulled close.

It is bread,
broken until no one hungers alone.

It is a lantern,
passed from hand to hand.

Our leaders do not make the light.

They carry it
only because
we filled the lamp.

Our votes are the oil.

Our voices are the flame.

The light is ours to carry.

Hope does not bloom
because the ground is easy.

Hope roots beneath stone.

Hope learns
the language of cracks,
the patience of rivers,
the courage of seeds.

And when we stand together,
we become the weather—

not the storm that tears apart,
but the rain
that wakes forgotten fields.

The light is ours to carry.

Morning does not simply arrive.

It is opened.

By hands willing to build.
By hearts willing to listen.
By neighbors willing to stay.

The road ahead
is not waiting for heroes.

It is waiting for us.

One lantern.
Then another.

Until what seemed impossible
becomes visible.

Until what seemed distant
comes within reach.

Until the dawn
discovers
it has been walking toward us all along.

The light is ours to carry.