Sometimes our uncomfortable feelings are not entirely the fallout of a trauma trigger, but righteous anger caused by injustice.

I ache for something unknown, and now, with this kind community member’s recognition, the ache calls for acknowledgement: In the hustle of parenting and education/career development to whiteknuckle my fiercely beloved small posse out of poverty and the exhausting complications of multifaceted trauma recovery that accompanied, an entire section of my heart/spirit has been mostly unacknowledged.

What I know for certain is that stillness can heal.

let’s focus a sweet, silly, somewhat salty moment on that which brings me joy: 

When the panic attacks started, I felt betrayed by my almost 40 yr old body for remembering so vividly how panicked my 20 yr old body felt.

This might seem odd to you, but it makes sense to me. 

a new habit has appeared in my weekends: a casual saunter downtown, sunshine on skin, breeze through hair, weight of the week dispersing.

I don't intend this to become a free for all in bashing religion, even though expressions of my hurt will likely come off as salty.

That I have to consistently put food & water in my body to survive is my biggest peeve of being human.

my third poetry collection, goosesong, is now available for purchase

Our cities are all uniquely shaped by what we experience in them. This is my version of a city tour:

Stream of consciousness: sometime in the time after I hit my head real hard, I promised myself to be unhinged as often as possible.

Can I really earn passive income from organizations that contribute to social injustice? The truth is uncomfortable.

a poetic telling of my latest holiday

here is my heart, beating in your sweaty palms. what will you do with it, I wonder, while you beat your own heart numb

Months ago, inspiration blessed me with the idea to re-labor a poem from my last self-published collection, creating a series of topics...

My inner church choirgirl needs hymns for optimal holiday whimsy. Whatever you are listening to, I pray you have a blessed season.

Much of my Becoming a Mother story is saturated in trauma. I don’t need to drudge up painful details anymore in search of validation ...

All the right spices for a maddening depression. Restorative however, is my belief that God redeems; makes Holy what was Horrible.

I can’t decide if continuing to attend church is brave and essential to my eternal spiritual welfare, or masochistic and twisting metaphoric