This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“Weed is good weed is fine, if you share yours, then I’ll share mine.”
-Unknown
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today I want to tell you about a strain that seems to go perfectly in the month of love. It’s name is Red Velvet by Manna.
Red Velvet aka Red Cake is a 60/40 indica-dominant hybrid strain. The genetics are a cross between Lemon Cherry Gelato X Pine Acai. Lemon Cherry Gelato is a cross between Sun Sherbet x GSC (Girls Scout Cookies). Pine Acai lineage states that it’s a collection from unknown balanced hybrids. Gelatos are typically known to have very balanced fruity flowers flavoring. On inhale the Gelato flavoring came through instantly. And for a strain that’s at only 15%, it really packs a powerful punch. And that is why I don’t let percentages determine whether or not I try a particular strain.
Top terpenes include B-Caryophyllene, a-Bisabolol, Linalool. Medical benefits from this strain have been known to help with depression, chronic stress, anxiety, mood swings, chronic pain and chronic fatigue. Leafly Buzz strain May 2022. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin’.
Affirmation: I am sativa happy and indica relaxed.
“At this point, I’m not sure if I’m fighting for democracy or just trying to survive a year that keeps acting like it’s on bath salts.”
-Unknown
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. If this year had a Yelp page, I’d give it one star and a strongly worded paragraph. We are thirty‑something days into the mess of 2026, and I already feel like I’ve aged a decade. I’ve developed three new stress wrinkles. And spiritually relocated to a hammock in the void. Every morning, I wake up, stretch, hydrate, and whisper, “Lord, please don’t let the news be stupid today.” And every morning the universe replies, “Lol, girl… buckle up.”
This year is already acting like it’s on a Red Bull and trauma cocktail, and I’m just trying to keep my chakras aligned and my blood pressure below “boiling crawfish water.” Because friends, we have made it through one month of this year, and I already feel like I’ve lived through three seasons of a political horror series that nobody asked for. One month down, eleven to go in this year, and I’m already spiritually dehydrated, emotionally crunchy, and mentally on airplane mode.
But before we collapse into a heap of snacks and despair, we need to remember something. We are living through one of the most crucial moments in our country’s history. Not the fun kind. Not the “look at us making progress” kind. The “why does it feel like the universe put us on the wrong timeline” kind.
I’ve lived through some terrifying chapter moments where the country felt shaken to its bones. And now, in these recent years, we’ve watched scenes unfold in our own streets that feel like they belong in a dystopian movie Not in the United States of America. It’s heartbreaking. It’s exhausting. It’s infuriating. But here we are. Still standing. Still fighting. Still lighting sage like it’s a full‑time job.
This year isn’t just another year. It’s a battle for the soul of our democracy. And for the freedoms that generations before us fought, marched, bled, and prayed for. And yes, it feels like those freedoms are hanging on by a thread. A frayed, overworked, overstressed thread that needs a nap and a snack.
We cannot sit back and hope the courts fix it. We’ve seen enough to know that institutions don’t always protect us the way they should. So, we do what people in this country have always done when the system fails. We raise our voices. We show up. We refuse to be silent.
And if that means losing friends, family members, coworkers, or that one Facebook cousin who thinks memes are research? So be it. Democracy is not a group project where everyone gets an A for showing up. You pick a side. You stand for freedom and equality, or you stand with the people trying to dismantle them. There is no middle ground left.
And let me be clear. If someone chooses to align themselves with cruelty, corruption, or movements that excuse harm, they will not be around me or the people I love. Period. Boundaries are healthy. Boundaries are holy. Boundaries are the reason some of us are still sane. Because the same folks who scream “family values” the loudest are often the ones forgetting what values actually are. They’ll clutch their pearls over drag queens reading storybooks. But stay silent when real harm happens in their own communities. The hypocrisy is so strong it could power the entire state of Mississippi if we could bottle it.
And don’t even get me started on “purity culture.” The idea of signing my virginity over to my father? Absolutely not. I would rather have a hysterectomy with a ballpoint pen. Here’s the real truth beneath all the rage, humor and exhaustion. We will not have a future if we don’t fight for the present. Democracy doesn’t disappear all at once. It erodes, inch by inch, while people look away. And once it’s gone, it’s gone.
So, we stay loud. We stay vigilant. We stay connected. We stay hopeful even when hope feels like a thrift‑store candle burning on its last wick. Because the future is watching us. And we are not going down quietly. As we drag ourselves through the rest of this year like a Walmart buggy with one busted wheel, let us remember that we are tired, yes. We are stressed, absolutely. We are one headline away from screaming into a pillow, correct.
We are also loud, alive, unbothered in spirit, and too damn stubborn to let democracy slip away on our watch. So, light your sage. Charge your crystals. Hydrate your soul. And prepare your voice because silence is a luxury we cannot afford. We will fight. We will vote. We will show up like the ancestors are watching because they are. And when this year tries to test us again, we will simply look it dead in the eye and say, “Not today, demon.” Thanks for reading! And keep hope alive.
Affirmation: I stay grounded, loud, and unbothered, because my spirit refuses to let chaos, clowns, or corrupt leaders dim the light the ancestors handed me.
“What cannot be communicated to the mother cannot be communicated to the self.”
-John Bowlby
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away.Some topics require us to slow down, breathe deeper, and open our hearts a little wider. Children of Addiction Awareness is one of those topics that are tender, urgent, and often hidden in plain sight. When we talk about addiction, the conversation usually centers on the person struggling. But in the quiet corners of those stories are children who carry the weight of what they cannot name.
They are not statistics. Not headlines. Not “someone else’s problem.” They are real kids. Real families. Real hearts trying to grow in soil that isn’t always steady. You don’t need a degree or special training to understand this. However, you just need to know this. When addiction lives in a home, children feel it in their bones. Even when they don’t have the words. Even when they pretend everything is fine.
Children growing up in homes affected by addiction often learn to read emotional weather patterns before they learn to read books. They become experts at sensing tension, anticipating conflict, and adjusting themselves to survive unpredictable environments.
They are the kids who:
Tiptoe around moods.
Become caretakers far too young.
Hide their fear behind perfection or silence.
Carry secrets that feel too heavy for their age.
Love their parents fiercely, even when life feels chaotic.
These children are not defined by the addiction around them. But they are shaped by it in ways that deserve understanding, compassion, and support.
Kids who grow up around addiction often learn to:
Stay quiet
Stay small
Stay out of the way
Stay “strong” even when they’re hurting
They become experts at reading moods, hiding feelings, and pretending everything is okay even when it’s not.
Growing up with addiction in the home can create emotional landscapes that are confusing and overwhelming. Many children experience:
Unpredictability: never knowing what version of a parent will appear.
Emotional neglect: not from lack of love, but from addiction’s consuming nature.
Role reversal: becoming the “adult” in the home.
Isolation: believing no one else lives this way.
Hypervigilance: always on alert for the next crisis.
And yet, these same children often develop extraordinary strengths: empathy, intuition, resilience, and emotional intelligence. They learn to survive in ways that would humble most adults.
But survival is different from thriving. Awareness is the bridge between the two. These children don’t need perfect parents. They don’t need someone to “fix” everything. They don’t need pity.
They need:
Consistency
Predictability
A safe adult who listens without judgment
Reassurance that none of this is their fault
Permission to feel their feelings — all of them
Sometimes the most healing words a child can hear are: “You didn’t cause this. You can’t control this. You are not alone.”
Whether you’re a teacher, neighbor, mentor, family member, or simply a caring human, you can make a meaningful difference.
Create safe spaces for conversation.
Model healthy coping skills.
Offer stability and routine.
Validate their emotions.
Connect them to supportive resources.
You don’t need a degree to change a child’s life. You just need to show up consistently, compassionately, and without judgment.
For the parents struggling with addiction, this conversation is not here to shame you. It’s here to remind you that healing is possible for you and for your child. Your effort matters. Your recovery matters. Your presence matters more than perfection ever could. Children don’t need flawless parents. They need honest ones. They need parents who try, who apologize, who grow, who keep coming back to love. Every step you take toward healing is a step toward breaking generational cycles.
Children of Addiction Awareness is not just a month, it’s a movement toward visibility, compassion, and collective responsibility. When we acknowledge these children, we give them language. When we give them language, we give them power. And when we give them power, we give them hope. So, take a breath and hold this truth close: Awareness opens the door. Connection keeps it open. Love walks a child through. Thanks for reading! Keep HOPE alive.
Affirmation: I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, but I can take care of myself.
“Some people leave footprints. Alex left constellations.”
—This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Grab your protest sign and a cup of coffee. Because if you live in the Deep South like I do, grief doesn’t just arrive. It sweats through your clothes and fogs up your glasses before breakfast.
Before I knew his name. Before I knew the details that would punch me right in the chest, Alex Pretti reached me. All the way down here where I’m surrounded by red as far as the eye can see. And when a story travels that far and hits that hard, you know it’s not just news. It’s a wake‑up call. It’s a “Lord, give me strength” moment.
I didn’t know Alex personally. But the kind of man he was? You could feel it. He was one of those people whose light didn’t ask permission. It just showed up, loud and warm and human. The kind of man who loved deeply, laughed easily, and carried a softness this world doesn’t always know what to do with. A man who deserved to grow old, to be safe, to be held by a country he believed in.
However, an ICE agent took his life. Another name added to a list no one should ever be on. And here I am, a radical left lesbian mom in Mississippi, suddenly out in the streets protesting because a man I never met had his life taken by a system that keeps insisting it’s “protecting” us while leaving families shattered in its reality.
Alex was the kind of man who felt everything at full volume. He cared deeply. He believed people deserved second chances. Even when he rarely gave himself one. He was the friend who showed up with snacks, unsolicited advice, and a chaotic plan that somehow always worked out. He was the man who apologized to furniture when he bumped into it. The man who hugged like he meant it. Said everything with his full chest. And had a softness, that humanity, is exactly what makes his loss so difficult. When I learned that Alex had been shot by an ICE agent, something inside me cracked. Not because it was surprising. Even though it was. But because it was familiar. Too familiar.
Another life taken. Another family grieving. Another official statement full of phrases like “self-defense” and “ongoing investigation.” Another community left holding the weight of a story that should never have happened.
Alex wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t a danger. He wasn’t a headline. He was a man. A son. A friend. A human being who deserved dignity, safety, and a future. And here’s the part that keeps making tears well up in my eyes. We never met. Our lives never crossed. But somehow his light still reached me. Where people like me are used to feeling outnumbered, unheard, and underestimated. Your story landed right in the middle of my heart like a truth I didn’t know I needed. Your life touched a stranger hundreds of miles away. Your death shook a community you never met. Your name pulled me into the streets to protest because what happened to you was wrong, and silence would’ve been its own kind of violence.
We had the only thing we ever needed in common. We were both Americans who still loved this country. All the colors of the rainbow. Who believed in equality for all. And who loves and respects our constitution. Not blindly, but bravely. Not the sanitized version. Not the version politicians slip out when they want applause.
We loved the real country. The one made of people, not power. The one made of communities, not cruelty. The one that’s worth fighting for because it’s ours, even when it breaks our hearts. You loved this place enough to believe in its promise. And I love it enough to protest the systems that stole you from it.
When I speak Alex’s name, I think of the way he lived. I think of his light and his laugh. The kind that made strangers smile. I think of his hope for our neighbors and country. The kind that refused to dim. I think of his softness. The kind that made people feel safe.
Alex taught me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. He taught me that vulnerability is an act of courage. He taught me that showing up messy, flawed, and human is enough. You and me strangers on paper. Yet connected in purpose. Your life touched mine, and now your name lives in my throat every time I show up with a sign, a voice, and a righteous amount of Southern gay attitude.
I wish your story ended differently. I wish this country loved you back the way you loved it. Your light didn’t go out. It spread. It reached a queer mom in Mississippi who refuses to be quiet. It reached a community that refuses to forget. It reached people who are tired of watching the same system break the same bodies and call it “order.”
And if ICE, the state, or anyone else wants to know why I’m out here protesting, yelling, writing, and refusing to sit down, the answer is simple. Because Alex Pretti and Renee Good deserved to grow old.Because loving this country means fighting the parts of it that keep killing people.Because silence is not patriotism. Accountability is. And because The United States of America’s Constitution specifically states, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that ALL men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” BECAUSE IN THIS COUNTRY, THERE ARE NO KINGS!
And yes, I’ll still make jokes, because grief and humor are cousins in my family. But don’t get it twisted. The fire is real.
Your story changed me. Your name will not fade. And if this country ever gets better, it’ll be because of people like you. And the people who refuse to stop saying your name. Thanks for reading! And never stay quiet.
Affirmation: I honor the fallen by fighting like hell for the living. And by keeping my sense of humor, because the revolution needs snacks and sarcasm.
“Cannabis doesn’t take you away from reality. It changes how you look at it.”
-Unknown
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain called Purple Punch.
Purple Punch is an 80/20 indica-dominant hybrid. It is a cross between Larry OG x Grandaddy Purple. Larry OG is a cross between OG Kush x SFV OG (San Fernando Valley). And what powerful strains those genetics are. Grandaddy Purple is a cross between Purple Urkle x Big Bud. All of these genetics are well known historic strains.
The most prominent terpenes in this strain are Myrcene, Caryophyllene, and Pinene. Patients report relief from conditions such as stress, anxiety, insomnia, appetite loss, and body aches. What I can tell you about this strain is that you will feel like you got purple punched. It is a very potent strain as flower. But in this vape cart, it’s not long before you get that punch. I can attest to the above relief from stated conditions. This one will put you out and give you some much needed pain relief.
Please keep in mind that each grow will be different and the flower effects, terpenes and genetics will differ depending on which region of the country that the plant is grown. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’
“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
— Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Because today, we’re stepping into a month that carries the weight of history, the fire of resilience, and the joy that refuses to be dimmed. This is Black History Month, and we’re honoring it with truth, emotion, and a little humor. I, for one, know that sometimes laughter is the only thing keeping any of us from flipping a table.
Black History Month is not just a commemorative event. It’s a living, breathing reminder of the brilliance, struggle, creativity, and endurance of Black Americans. It began as Negro History Week in 1926, founded by historian Carter G. Woodson and the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History. The week was intentionally placed in February to align with the birthdays of Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln, two figures central to Black liberation.
Black history is a story of survival and excellence that deserves its own cinematic universe. It’s the spirituals sung in fields where hope was outlawed. It’s the Harlem Renaissance that has exploded with art, music, and literature that still shapes culture today. It’s the Civil Rights Movement marching with blistered feet and unbreakable courage. It’s Black scientists, inventors, activists, teachers, and everyday heroes shaping the world. And often while the world pretended not to notice.
Black History Month holds space for:
Grief for what was stolen.
Rage for what was endured.
Awe for what was created.
Joy that refuses to be dimmed.
Humor that has carried generations through the impossible.
Black humor is a survival skill. It’s the auntie who tells the truth with a side of shade. It’s the uncle who swears he marched with Dr. King even though he was born in 1972. It’s the family reunion where the food is seasoned, the stories are exaggerated, and the love is louder. Humor doesn’t erase the pain. It makes the journey bearable. The work isn’t done. Because the wounds aren’t healed. Because the systems aren’t equal. Because the stories still need telling. Because the future still needs building.
This is a reminder that the story is still being written in classrooms, in living rooms, in protests, in art, in laughter, in love. And if you listen closely, you can hear the ancestors whispering: “Keep going. And baby, don’t forget to moisturize.”
As we light the charcoal and sprinkle the sage, may we remember that it’s not just to clear the air. But to honor the ancestors who cleared paths with their bare hands. We breathe deeply for the generations who weren’t allowed to. We laugh loudly for the ones who needed joy but didn’t get enough of it. We celebrate fiercely for the dreams that were deferred but never destroyed.
“As a white person, I honor Black History Month by listening more than I speak, learning what I was never taught, and showing up with humility instead of ego. I affirm my commitment to unlearning harmful narratives, amplifying Black voices, and standing on the right side of history. I choose growth over comfort, accountability over silence, and action over performative allyship. I honor the legacy of Black brilliance by being someone who refuses to look away.” Thanks for reading! And keep on keeping on.
Affirmation:I honor Black History Month by choosing growth, listening with intention, and respect.
“Some stories break you. Some stories change you. And some stories demand you stand up, speak up, and refuse to look away. Renee Nicole Good deserved to grow old.”
— Dana, This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today’s story is heavy, holy, and heartbreaking. And it deserves to be told without flinching.
There are moments when the world tilts. Moments when a headline hits you in the chest because you know this isn’t just news. This is someone’s daughter. Someone’s mother. Someone who laughed, cried, loved, lived, and deserved to grow old.
And this time, her name was Renee Nicole Good. She was a 37‑year‑old mother of three who was shot and killed by an ICE agent in Minneapolis on January 7, 2026, as reported by CBS News and NBC News. She was unarmed. She was shot three times including once in the head. And it was the wound that killed her according to the Hennepin County Medical Examiner’s report, cited by MPR News.
I didn’t know Renee personally. But I know the shape of injustice. I know the sound of a system cracking under its own weight. I know what it feels like to be trapped in a place where the people with power insist they’re “keeping you safe” while your body tells you otherwise.
When I read about Renee and about how the fatal shot was to her head. And about how the agent claimed “self‑defense,” about how the body‑camera footage released by ICE shows her backing away when the shots were fired. I felt that familiar ache. The one that says, This should not have happened. The one that says, This keeps happening. The one that says, How many more?
The world saw the moment she died. Millions watched the video, replayed it, argued about it. But Renee was more than the last seconds of her life. She was a whole human being. She was a mother. A woman trying to survive. Someone who deserved to be seen in her fullness. And not just her final frame. Another woman gone. Another family shattered. Another official statement claiming “self‑defense,” as reported by The Associated Press. Another community calling bullshit.
I’ve spent enough time in psychiatric, legal, and medical systems to know how quickly institutions protect themselves. How fast the narrative shifts. How easily a person becomes a problem instead of a person. But Renee wasn’t a problem. She was a life.
When I say her name, Renee Nicole Good, I feel the heaviness of it. The way a name becomes a headline. The way a headline becomes a debate. And the way a debate becomes noise. But behind that noise is a family who will never be the same. Children who will grow up with a before and after. A community that will remember the day everything changed.
And I think about how often marginalized people are told to “comply,” “calm down,” “cooperate,” “not escalate,” “not resist,” “not move,” “not breathe wrong.” And still they die. Grief like this doesn’t fade when the headlines do. It lingers. It haunts. It becomes part of the landscape of a community. And it should. Forgetting is how injustice survives.
Renee deserves better than to be forgotten. She deserves better than to be reduced to a political talking point. She deserves better than to be a momentary outrage. She deserves to be remembered as a woman whose life mattered.
When I read that her death was ruled a homicide, even if the system refuses to call it a crime, I felt that familiar sting. The one that says, We see what happened. We just refuse to name it. And when I read that she was unarmed. And that she posed no threat, and that the fatal shot was to her head, I felt the anger rise. Not the wild, chaotic anger. The quiet kind. The kind that sits in your chest like a stone. The kind that says, This is not justice. This is not safety. This is not okay.
I don’t have a neat ending for this. There isn’t one. But I can say this, Renee, your life mattered. Your story matters. Your name will not be swallowed by the noise. To her family, I am holding you in the softest part of my heart. To her children, I hope the world becomes gentler for you than it was for your mother. To her community, keep speaking, keep fighting, keep remembering. And to anyone reading this who feels the weight of it, you’re not imagining it. You’re not overreacting. You’re not alone.
Some stories demand to be told. Some losses demand to be honored. Some names demand to be spoken. Renee Nicole Good. We see you. We remember you. We will not look away. Thanks for reading! And from the bottom of my heart I say, “Fuck ICE!”
Affirmation: I honor Renee by telling the truth, holding the grief, and refusing to let her name fade.
“Eating disorders are so incredibly complex. And they are not about the food.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to talk about something that sits quietly in the corners of so many lives. And it’s also something we don’t talk about nearly enough because it’s wrapped in shame, silence, and misunderstanding. And the topic is eating disorders.
This isn’t just a national awareness week to me. It’s a reminder of how many people walk through the world carrying a pain that no one sees. A reminder that the strongest people you know might be fighting battles with food, with their bodies, with their own reflection. A reminder that healing is possible. But it’s not easy. And it’s never linear.
Eating Disorders are not about vanity. They’re about survival. People love to reduce eating disorders to “wanting to be skinny,” but that’s not the truth. Not even close. Eating disorders often grow out of trauma, anxiety, perfectionism, or the desperate need to feel in control when everything else feels chaotic. They’re coping mechanisms that become cages. They’re ways of surviving will eventually start to suffocate.
And the cruelest part is that most people suffering look “fine” on the outside. They smile. They function. They pretend. They hide. Because the world has taught them that their pain is embarrassing, dramatic, or self‑inflicted.
We Live in a culture that worships self‑punishment.And we’re surrounded by messages that tell us to shrink, restrict, cleanse, detox, earn our food, burn our calories, and hate our bodies until they fit someone else’s idea of “acceptable.” We praise people for losing weight without ever asking if they’re okay. We compliment discipline without knowing it might be self‑destruction.
Awareness means calling out the culture that normalizes harm. It means refusing to participate in conversations that shame our own bodies or anyone else’s. It means unlearning the lies we were raised on.
Recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s not a single moment of clarity or a dramatic breakthrough. It’s a thousand tiny choices. It’s eating when you don’t want to. Resting when your mind screams at you to move. Speaking kindly to yourself when the old voice whispers cruelty.
It’s crying in the grocery store. It’s celebrating the days you nourish yourself without guilt. It’s forgiving yourself when you slip. It’s learning to trust your body again, even when it feels impossible. And recovery is not weakness. It is strength in its purest form.
The person who always says they “already ate.” The friend who jokes about needing to “earn” their dinner. The coworker who never joins for lunch. The family member who avoids mirrors. The person who seems confident but is quietly unraveling inside.
Awareness means choosing compassion over assumptions. It means listening without judgment. It means creating space where people feel safe enough to be honest. If you are struggling,you deserve nourishment, and rest. You deserve a life that isn’t ruled by fear, shame, or numbers. You deserve to feel at home in your body not at war with it.
You are not broken. You are not alone. And you are not defined by the hardest thing you’ve survived.
National Eating Disorders Awareness isn’t just a date. It’s a call to soften. To speak gently. To challenge the toxic norms, we’ve accepted for far too long. To check on the people we love. To check on ourselves. To build a world where bodies are respected, not judged. Where food is nourishment, not punishment. Where healing is celebrated, not hidden.
As someone who has battled with eating disorders for more years than I haven’t, I know what it means to live inside a cycle that feels impossible to break. My struggles were born out of trauma but just like so many of my other survival behaviors and even now, after all this time, the echoes of that pain still follow me.
My body isn’t as depleted or fragile as it once was. But the thoughts haven’t magically disappeared. They still show up every day, whispering the old rules, the old fears, and the old lies. I still avoid eating in front of people whenever I can. I still feel that familiar tightening in my chest when food becomes a spotlight instead of nourishment.
Eating disorders are a quiet trap, consuming, and cruel. They take root in the mind long before they show up in the body. They convince you that you’re in control while slowly taking that control away. They drain you mentally and physically, piece by piece, until you feel like there’s nothing left but the disorder itself. And the hardest part is how invisible it can all be. How easy it is to smile, to function and to pretend. How easy it is for the world to miss the pain entirely.
This isn’t weakness. It’s something that grows out of hurt, out of fear, out of the desperate need to feel safe in a world that hasn’t always been safe. And even though the thoughts still come. Even though the habits still tug at me. I’m here. I’m still fighting. I’m still choosing to stay. That matters more than anyone on the outside will ever understand. Thanks for reading! And reach out for help.
Affirmation: My body is not my enemy. I deserve compassion, nourishment, and peace.
This Puzzled Life 