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.

 

  

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.

 

Power, Code, and Accountability

 Power, Code, and Accountability

What is real? Who lays the first name on it? And when the system splits open—when the bright machinery throws sparks in the dark—who is left beneath the light, carrying the answer like a weight?

The documents are the Rosetta Stone. Not the smoke. Not the theater. The record. The fragment. The half-buried tablet that teaches you the grammar of power, syllable by syllable, after the public story has gone thin.

Power moves like weather now—crossing borders, climbing walls, outrunning the old alarms, leaving the people at the fence with their hands still raised.

Capability keeps widening its river. Reach keeps learning new roads. And accountability arrives downstream, late again, counting what the current carried off.

So skepticism is not a luxury. Verification is not a luxury. Scrutiny is not a luxury. They are the small lanterns we keep lit for one another. They are the habits that keep the dark from getting organized.

Because the danger is not only the face you can point to. It is the institution that goes soft at the hinges. The incentive that bends toward profit. The signal, smothered under so much noise, begins to sound like an echo.

So support independent reporting. Ask the harder question, then ask the question beneath it. Demand what can be shown. Demand what can be checked. Demand something sturdier than performance, something that can hold in the light.