Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

 Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

A family-shopping satire

We packed up the children, the coupons, the car,
And ventured to shop—not especially far.
We entered for trousers, some socks, and a shirt;
We left with a headache, a leaflet, and hurt.

The sign said, “WELCOME!” in corporate cheer,
Then twelve smaller notices made nothing quite clear.
“For comfort and safety, please follow Rule Eight”—
But Rules One through Seven were “pending updates.”

We asked one young clerk, who consulted a screen;
The screen asked a chatbot what “family” might mean.
The chatbot said, “Thank you—your concern has been logged,”
Then froze with a smile while the whole system bogged.

The app needed passwords with symbols and flair,
A fingerprint, PIN, and a sample of hair.
It welcomed us warmly, then crashed at the till:
“For faster assistance, please reinstall.”

We queued by a doorway beneath a red light,
Where arrows pointed left while the floor pointed right.
A manager arrived with a binder of lore:
“The policy’s simple—except in this store.”

The children grew hungry; Dad studied the map;
Mom guarded the cart from a clearance-rack trap.
Each sensible question produced, by design,
A survey, a QR code, and “Terms” to decline.

“May families shop here?” we asked with restraint.
“We welcome all shoppers,” came back the complaint.
“But where should we go?” “That depends,” they replied,
“On which temporary sign has most recently dried.”

So downward we tumbled through jargon and spin,
Where nobody knows where the rules end or begin.
The rabbit wore khakis, a badge, and a tie,
And promised, “Your comfort is our highest priority.”

At last we escaped with one sock and a hat,
Three digital coupons, no clue where they’re at.
The receipt was six feet, the explanation thin—
And somehow, we’d signed up to shop there again.

So here’s to the household, still mostly intact,
Seeking plain common sense in a maze of fine fact.
If this is “progress,” then kindly take note:
The rabbit hole now has a loyalty code.

With daughters and sons in one family crew,
The fitting-room puzzle soon came into view.
Should Dad join the ladies while helping them dress?
“Consult Appendix Q,” said the clerk at the desk.

Mom needed one doorway, the boys needed more,
Dad stood like a bellhop outside every door.
One daughter cried, “Help!” while the youngest yelled, “When?”
And Dad checked the policy binder again.

“A family room, perhaps?” we politely proposed.
The clerk tapped a tablet; the tablet then froze.
“We had one last Tuesday, from ten until three,
But now it’s reserved for the store’s Wi-Fi tree.”

So husband and wife, with their boys and their girl,
Were routed through arrows that twisted and curled.
We came for new clothing; instead, we were schooled:
A family of six needs a flowchart—and rules.

Watch The Hands

 Watch The Hands

It began in the ’90s—

or maybe earlier,

but nobody remembers,

which is how you know

the shell game was working.

Poison the food supply.

Move the shell.

Disregard the weather.

Move the shell.

Destroy the coral reefs.

Move the shell.

Look—

look over here—

another crisis,

another war,

another miracle cure,

another billionaire

promising to save us

by leaving.

The plan was

to go to another planet,

but what they needed

to do first

was fail.

And fail they did.

Spectacularly.

The big, beautiful plan

lifted off

into the stratosphere,

burned through the sky,

and crashed—

again— and again—

and again—

into the ocean.

Everyone watched the rocket.

Nobody watched the hands.

Except for a few.

A few who stood

at the edge of the crowd

pointing at the table,

saying—

There. There is the trick.

There is the shell.

There are the hands.

But nobody listened.

The crowd was too busy

watching the spectacle,

arguing over the shells,

cheering the magician,

booing the magician,

buying another ticket.

That was the trick. Not the shell.

Not the pea.

The hands.

The uptown shuffle,

the slide,

the razz-ma-Taz,

the doo-Wop,

the Diddy,

the shitty-shitty

bang Bang.

Now you see it. Now you don't.

Where did it go?

Under this shell?

No.

This one?

No.

Surely this one.

Look closer.

Keep watching.

Keep guessing.

Meanwhile, behind the little velvet table,

the whole country

was being rearranged.

The map moved.

The money moved.

The truth moved.

Even the meaning

of the words

began to move.

And those few—

those inconvenient few— kept pointing.

Kept shouting.

Kept saying,

You're looking at the wrong hand.

But nobody paid attention.

That was how they succeeded

for so long.

Not because nobody saw.

Because almost nobody

who saw

was heard. And while we argued

over which shell

held the pea,

the table disappeared.

Then the room.

Then the house.

And still—

the few were standing there,

pointing at empty air,

saying:

Look.

Look at the hands.

The Forest is not Finished

 The Forest Is Not Finished

 

Where is Congress?

Beneath the white dome,

the machinery still turns.

Votes are cast. The record grows.

On paper, the tree is alive.

But outside, people are calling through the branches:

Where are you?

Trust did not disappear overnight.

It left like water—

a little through the cracked earth,

a little beneath the door, a little each time the storm came

and someone insisted the roof was holding.

Vietnam. Watergate. Wars. Crashes.

Promises made beneath bright lights

and broken in rooms we could not see.

Leaf by leaf,

the canopy thinned.

And still we ask:

Are we watched?

The answer is more complicated than fear.

There are laws, courts, warrants, limits.

Some powers have ended.

Others are winding down. A sunset written into law
does not make the room dark at once.

And freedom—

freedom is not the flag alone.

It is whether the person beneath it
can speak, worship, vote,
and expect justice to recognize them.

America is still called free.

But freedom can remain written on the door
while people inside wonder
whether the room still belongs to them.

And still—

we vote.

Millions enter the booth,
close the curtain,
and make the smallest possible declaration:

I am here.

I count.

Perhaps that is where democracy begins again.

Not in making everyone the same,
but in remembering:

every person is one.

Not more.

Not less.

One.

Power prefers shadows.
Fear prefers enemies.
Despair says nothing will change.

Democracy asks something harder:

Look again.

Check the record.

Bring the lantern.

Tell the truth, even when it embarrasses your own side.
Revise what you believed.
Keep the question alive.

We do not have to become louder
to prove that we are awake.

We can stand in the forest

without pretending every tree is healthy.

We can notice the dead branches.
Smell the smoke.
Hear the roots beneath the soil.

And still believe something can heal.

Because awakening is not madness.

Concern is not hatred.

Doubt is not betrayal.

To ask whether the roots are dying
is not an act of destruction.

It is an act of love.

The forest is not finished.

Beneath the dark soil,
something is still reaching.

So we listen—

not for proof that everything is well,

not for proof that everything is lost,

but for the faint, stubborn movement
of the roots.

 

 

Many Coats of Light

 Many Coats of Light

Where Tennessee dawn
lays gold along the pines
and blue hills gather
the first thin light of morning,
Dolly rose with a voice
warm enough to enter a room
without asking permission.

She knew something about hard roads—
how they can narrow a life,
how a song can widen it again.

She braided truth into melody,
wore courage without calling it courage,
and laughed as though joy
were another kind of strength.

Then she opened books

and opened doors.

A child turned a page
and found a larger world waiting.
A weary heart heard a song
and remembered, for a little while,
that sorrow was not the whole story.

Her songs became lanterns.
Her stories became windows.
And wherever they traveled,
they left behind
some small assurance
that hope could still be found.

But fame is only one kind of light.

There are others
whose names will never be printed,
whose kindness will never make a headline—
the teacher who stays late,

the neighbor who notices,
the grandmother who reads
one more story before bed.

There is the hand
that stitches a coat for a child,
the stranger who carries a burden
without being asked,
the person who leaves groceries
on a doorstep
and walks away before anyone can say thank you.

These things seem small
until you begin to count them.

A coat.
A book.
A meal.
A listening ear.
A little courage given
to someone who has run out.

Ten thousand hidden stars,
perhaps—
quiet lights scattered
through ordinary lives.

They do not need an audience.

They shine because shining
is what they have chosen to do.

And perhaps this is how
the world is changed:

not always by the brightest star,
but by one light finding another
and refusing to go dark.

So let tomorrow open
the way morning opens over Tennessee—
slowly,
goldenly,

one ridge at a time.

Let one generous heart
call to another.

Let the kindness we thought
was too small to matter
become the very thing
that carries someone home.

Until, across the long dark,
a million quiet voices
lift their light—

and the world,
for a moment,
is brighter than we knew.

 

Failing Systems

 Failing Systems

For every voice made to wait while the safety net frays

Listen—

They told us the system was built to catch us.

But when we fall,
it answers with a locked door.
A dead phone line.
A form stamped DENIED
because one box—
one box—
was left without a mark.

Come to the kitchen table.
Look.
The numbers are laid out like bones,
and still they refuse to stretch.

Rent.
Medicine.
Heat.

Three winter hands at the window,
knocking—
knocking—
through the glass
of one thin wallet.

A parent counts the meals,
turns an empty cupboard
into a bedtime story:
We already ate. We are not hungry tonight.

An elder halves a dose
and listens to the clock
between each careful breath.

But listen—
beneath that frozen ground,
roots are gripping the dark.

And the worker?
The worker clocks in before sunrise,
sleep hanging from their shoulders like wet wool,
one small ember cupped against the wind,
then clocks out
still owing the day.

The shift runs long.
The paycheck does not.

Say it again:
the shift runs long—
the paycheck does not.

Rent climbs.
Mortgages climb.

Hours vanish.
The schedule changes without warning,
and one sick morning
splits the whole month open,
spilling every careful plan across the floor.

These hands lift.
These hands sweep.
These hands stock, carry, clean, build.

Palms split beneath cardboard and steel.
Backs burn beneath fluorescent suns.

Still—
these hands rise every morning.
Weathered tools.
Mended tools.
Tools that were promised
work would build a steady life.

So they become their own bridge:
plank by trembling plank,
name beside name,
shoulder beside shoulder,
even while the floor moves underfoot.

And when the hours are cut—
when the factory gate goes quiet—
lunch pails gather dust by the door,
work boots wait like faithful dogs,
and silence punches in for the night shift.

Still, a neighbor knocks.
Still, a meal appears.
Still, we become a patchwork roof—
each small kindness another shingle
held against the storm.

Then the frayed system asks for proof.
Proof that the fall was real.
Proof that the bruise belongs to us.
Proof that breaking
was not our fault.

Meanwhile, comfort speaks of sacrifice
as if sacrifice were weightless.
As if hunger were homework.
As if dignity could take a number,
sit down,
and wait.

So hear me—

when my own hands tremble,
when the stairs become a mountain,
when the rooms go cold
and the days narrow
to one long, dim hallway,
remember this:

We were never burdens.

We were people.
Roots gripping the dark earth.
Embers refusing the wind.
Bridges built from one another.
Hearts beating behind closed doors.

We are still here.
Still here.

Not asking to be carried—
asking for the ground to stop giving way.
Not asking to be praised—
asking not to disappear.

We were never burdens.
We were people.
We are people.

And we will not
be abandoned
in silence.

 

Late-Summer Colors

Goldenrod lifts its yellow flame,
while Joe-Pye blushes, tall and bright;
native asters softly frame
the fields in blue and violet light.

Morning dew lays pearls in view,
each petal shines with silver-blue.

Coneflowers wear a rosy crown,
while purple ironweed brushes the sky;
chicory stars look softly down,
and snowy boneset rises nearby.

Black-eyed Susans face the sun,
with golden rays and centers deep;
marigolds glow, one by one,
where painted butterflies may sweep.

Monarchs drift on amber wings,
swallowtails sail through sunny air;
painted ladies dance in rings,
then rest on blossoms bright and fair.

Sunflowers tower, bold and high,
zinnias scatter colors bright;
cosmos nod as winds pass by,
and dahlias bloom in petals tight.

A hover fly tiptoes where golden seeds lie,
crossing the sunflower beneath the blue sky.

Bumblebees hum from bloom to bloom,
honeybees sip the clover sweet;
dusting gold through garden perfume,
they carry summer on their feet.

Spotted jewelweed, orange and small,
dances beside the shaded stream;
cardinal flowers, red and tall,
burn like sparks within a dream.

Hydrangeas fade from blue to green,
hardy hibiscus opens wide;
Rose-of-Sharon joins the scene,
with lotus floating at its side.

Blue vervain raises slender spires,
and every breeze becomes a song;
summer blooms with jeweled fires—
a rainbow garden all day long.

At sunset, crimson clouds unfold,
and every flower dims its light;
the garden glows in rose and gold,
then folds its colors into night.

Tiny Teapots, Big Adventures

Tiny Teapots, Big Adventures

Five Delightful Characters Filled with Courage, Kindness, Curiosity, Glitter, and Adventure

Ruby

Red captain puffs steam
“Full steam ahead!” she cries
Brave heart leads the way
Through clouds of warm, rising mist
She leads with courage each day.

Bluebell

Gentle Bluebell dreams
Quiet wishes steep in warmth
Calm tea warms all hearts
Soft dreams drift across the room
Warm kindness fills every heart.

Dot

Lids bounce; questions fly
Sleepy duck sounds fill the air
Her wonder now grows
Each small sound brings a question
Wonder keeps her wide awake.

Stripe

Glitter fills the room
Sneezes make grand theater
Sparkles everywhere
One bright sneeze sends glitter high
The whole room begins to shine.

Pip

Small silver teapot
A brave toot shakes the time train
Quiet hearts can soar
Though small, Pip finds strength within
And rides where adventures call.

Strike A Pose

 Strike a Pose

In my family,
we have degrees—
degrees in Shopping,
with honors in Bargain Hunting,
from Infant Training
all the way to Advanced Masters.

It’s a lifelong pursuit,
a glittering pilgrimage
down aisles paved with possibility,
and we are a dedicated bunch.
Thrifting or runway,
clearance rack or couture,
we treat every outfit
like a canvas waiting for its masterpiece.

Design is not merely clothing—
it is architecture for the body,
a little engineering of the soul,

a way of telling the world,
I have arrived,
and yes, I planned the entrance.

Designers like Susan Graver
and Kim Gravel
can turn a sale into an art form,
a clearance rack into a treasure chest,
a cardigan into a declaration of confidence.
They wave their fashion wands
and suddenly style is singing,
while self-esteem stands taller
in a perfectly chosen shade.

They rescue us
from fashion faux pas,
snatch us from the jaws
of questionable hemlines,
rearrange the stars,
straighten the planets,

and bring the universe
back into fashionable alignment.

Because without them,
what would we wear
when destiny comes calling?

A robe?

Absolutely not.

We must master
the magic of first impressions—
because, darling,
you never get a second chance
to sparkle at hello.

So come on, girls—
get your mani-pedi,

book that massage,
let your skin glow
like the morning sun
on a brand-new window display.

Then settle bottom-side-down
in your favorite chair,
queen of your own little kingdom,
and rest those hardworking feet.

Rest.
Refresh.
Recharge.

Because when you step out
into Spring,

you won’t simply enter the season—
you’ll arrive like a parade.

The flowers may bloom,
the birds may sing,
but the sun?

The sun won’t know
where to shine first.

So—

Spotlight on.
Chin up.
Colors bright.
Confidence blazing.

Let’s go shopping, girls.

Let’s turn the sidewalk
into our runway,
the mirror into our audience,
and every doorway
into a grand entrance.

Strike a pose.

And make the whole world
look twice.

 

Sadie and Pal, A Ballad

 Sadie and Pal, A Ballad

Sadie and Pal are dead now—
since November, more or less.
Which seems like a long time ago,
but grief has its own address.

Sad Cornelia.
Sad Connie.
No bears at Bear Mountain.
The Trailside Zoo is bear-less now,
which feels like poor accounting.

The heroes of my heart,
I like to think,
are not exactly gone.
They’ve slipped into another dimension
and carried the good stuff on.

Down some secret tunnel
beneath the mountain floor,
where bears have endless blueberries
and nobody asks for more.

Meanwhile, here I am,
with cholesterol,
with fat,
with the mysterious determination
of my body to attach it
to my belly and my hips.

But my heart is fine.

So, suck it up, Connie.

It’s not forever.

There will be bears again.

Eventually.

Once they upgrade the habitat
and presumably get the paperwork

and whatever else you need
to make a bear comfortable
in the modern world.

And then the names.

Oh, the names.

Sasquatch and Sam.
Palisade and Peek.
Sable and Spruce.
Hudson and Highlands.

Ramble and Ridge.
Picnic and Basket.

Actually—

Maybe the last two.

Picnic and Basket.

Tell me that isn't a pair of bears
who know exactly what they're doing.

But before we get there,
before the new bears arrive,
perhaps we could ask the visitors
to stop treating the park
like the landscape is indestructible.

Rest, people.

Let the mountain breathe.

Let the trails be trails.
Let the woods be woods.
Let the bears, when they return,
have something worth coming back to.

Sadie and Pal are gone.

The mountain remains.

And somewhere, I hope,
two enormous bears
are having an excellent afternoon
in another dimension—

probably eating berries,
probably ignoring us,

and absolutely
not worrying about their hips.

 

Beyond the Loudest Voice

 Beyond the Loudest Voice

People like us listen beneath the noise—

outliers, sparks beyond the media’s pull,
able to think without being carried
by passing opinion.

We are creative, vigilant,
lighthouse eyes sweeping the dark,
recognizing what threatens our shared humanity
and meeting it with clear, steady eyes.

We live among you,
work beside you,
train our bodies and minds,
learn from those who know,
and move with the restless tide of humanity.

We notice what others miss—
what we can see, hear, touch, and smell,
the thunder already gathering
beneath the horizon.

We face the world as it is
while imagining what it might become—
through changing climates
and uncertain markets.

We recognize misinformation,
manipulation, and opportunism.
We refuse to do harm
and stand beside the vulnerable—
children, those who serve,
the elderly, and the sick.

We make plans and follow through.
We volunteer, fill what needs filling,
and keep hope turning
for those who cannot.

We live by principles,
accept sacrifice, when necessary,
and become bridges
where others cannot cross alone.

We do not echo the loudest voice
or mistake one road for the whole horizon.
We sharpen questions
until truth catches the light.

So listen deeper.
Question bravely.
Stand together where the road divides.
And carry the light forward.

Because truth is not the

loudest voice; it is the clearest light. 

 

The Hollow Nest

 

you came in
wearing rain
like borrowed skin.

your shoes grew wings.
time ate its hands.

memory, a cracked mirror,
kept your face
in every shard.

the wine tasted of rust.
the moon drowned.

but you never came.
the door dreamed you.

by morning,
I held only feathers—

you nested in the hollow I became.

 

The Blue Wave

The Blue Wave
is coming—
not a whisper,
not a warning,
but a rising tide
that no wall can hold.

It will crash against the shoreline
of corruption and lies,
tear through the barricades
of privilege and power,
and leave the old machinery
of greed exposed
beneath the salt and sand.

We are done
with crumbs dressed up as feasts.
We are entitled to the whole table—
the bread,

the meal,
the dessert,
the cocktails,
the dignity of knowing
that what we build together
belongs to everyone.

And we are awake now.

Even the infants
seem to be asking:

What kind of world
are you leaving us?

You take our children,
our futures,
our trust—
turn them into experiments,
then send us the bill
and call it freedom.

Are you kidding us?

Do you care about anything
beyond power,
profit,
and the machinery
that keeps your name
at the center of everything?

We see you.

We see the cracks
beneath the polished speeches.
We see the games.
We see the rigged promises,
the distractions,
the endless spectacle.

And we are no longer hypnotized.

We are not children.
We are not props

in your theater.
We are not going to surrender
our streets,
our neighbors,
our schools,
our voices,
or our country
to fear.

You can shout.

You can lie.

You can rage at the microphone
until your voice is nothing
but static.

But the people
are still here.

And we are louder.

You are not a king.

You are not the country.
You are not the future.

You are a man
standing against a tide
that has finally learned
its own strength.

So go.

Go quietly or go shouting.
Go wrapped in slogans,
go buried beneath excuses,
go wherever yesterday's power
goes when tomorrow arrives.

But understand this:

We will not kowtow.
We will not disappear.
We will not be distracted.
We will not be afraid.

The Blue Wave is rising.

And this time,
we are the shore.

 

Greeting Golden Hour--Mid August

 Greeting the Golden Hour in Mid-August

 

Golden morning light
spills softly through the green woods,
warmth on every leaf.

…

Sunbeams lace the trees,
dappling branches, bark, and moss,
the forest aglow.

…

Full leaves breathe in light;
a few yellow leaves drift down,
gold across the lawn.

…

Morning calls softly:
wake, step outside, breathe the day,
greet the light with joy.

…

The forest is bright,
mid-August wrapped in golden
a new day begins.

…

I'd Rather Talk To Rocks

 How patient I am—

resting this and that

when I’d rather be scrambling the rocks

at Mohonk or Minnewaska.

Waiting to heal from another misstep:

a turned ankle, a sore knee,

a hip reattaching to bone—

or is the bone reattaching to the hip?

Meanwhile, Congress appears

to have misplaced its brain.

Can you count the stars?

List the things unfinished?

Draw pentagons out of thin air?

Question an atomic reactor

beside your favorite swimming hole?

Or question a president about his finances—

and whether he can name

three good things he’s done

without consulting a teleprompter.

We’re done waiting for one.

Must we keep repeating the past

as if nobody on this planet has a brain?

Perhaps they’re out there with the stars—

tiny brains awaiting harvest,

then a one-way ticket to Mars,

the billionaires’ favorite vacation plan.

Has Congress been bought and paid for?

Is the Big Dipper dripping tears?

Does mother’s milk enrich uranium?

Are children being issued longer bodies

and shorter attention spans?

Meanwhile, my older frame

keeps growing sideways and fluffing up.

Should I buy hippo clothes

and embrace the trend?

Shall we pray to the heavens,

then eat Ding Dongs and Devil Dogs

buried under ice cream, chocolate syrup,

and maraschino cherries?

But I digress.

I was out on the rocks,

spider-walking between two glacial erratics,

thinking I could do anything—

realizing, of course,

that someday it will all be over.

So I inhaled the clean air

and waited patiently for my turn

to dip my little hippo toes

into a cool, rushing brook.

And there, between the rocks,

everything seemed simple:

gravity, water, sky—

no spin, no scandals,

no billionaires headed for Mars.

For once,

the rocks made more sense

than Washington.

And frankly,

I’d rather talk to rocks.

What Grows Between Us

 What Grows Between Us

 

It is great to have friends
people of the same tribe
a community of like minds
banding together
week after week
enjoying each other’s company

sharing politics
religion
meditation practice
shopping
food
music

while the landscape changes around us—

mosquitoes biting
leaving welts
spiders dancing in the light
weaving their delicate webs
mushrooms capitalizing on damp ground
creating whole villages of their own

and beneath us
what we cannot see
is happening too—

roots reaching
mycelium threading through soil
one tree touching another
water moving
nutrients passing
life giving itself to life

nothing truly alone
nothing entirely separate

the patterns intertwining

forming their own economies
their own communities
their own small worlds

and when I step back
I see the larger picture—

not just a quilt
but a living fabric
where every thread
holds another

where the circle needs the square
the soil needs the rain
the mushroom needs the tree
and the tree, perhaps, needs
what grows unseen beneath it

And maybe this is what we are:

not only great

to have one another

but critical.

Inside the circle,
within the square,
beneath the surface,
we hold each other up.

We are whole.
We are one.

A small group of friends—
and a much larger
living thing.

 

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,
Chicken Scratch 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.