Inner strength

darnold1975

National Opioid Awareness Day: Bless Your Heart, But Let’s Get Real

“Awareness is the first step toward healing. And healing is a community effort.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Call the ancestors. Today, we’re talking about National Opioid Awareness Day. And we’re doing it in full Southern-sass, porch‑swing truth‑telling mode. Grab your sweet tea, your emotional support cat, and maybe a biscuit for stability. Because this one’s gonna be equal parts hilarious, heartfelt, and holy‑ghost serious.

The truth is this. National Opioid Awareness Day exists because too many families have empty chairs at the dinner table. Too many mamas have cried into dish towels. Too many communities have buried dreams that should’ve lived.

This day is recognized to honor the lives lost. Uplift the ones still fighting. And remind the rest of us that addiction is not a moral failure. It’s a public health crisis that deserves compassion, resources, and loud, unapologetic awareness. But you know me. I can’t stay solemn for long. My ancestors didn’t raise me to be quiet or boring. Now let’s get sassy about it.

Let me tell you something. If the opioid epidemic were a person, it’d be that messy cousin who shows up uninvited. Eats all the potato salad. Steals your good Tupperware. And then has the nerve to ask for gas money. It’s rude. It’s destructive. And it’s been wreaking havoc across the nation like a raccoon with a grudge and access to your trash cans. This is the day we collectively say, “Not today, Satan. Not in my house. Not in my holler. And not in my county.”

It’s the day communities come together with churches, schools, aunties, cousins, and the neighbor who always knows everybody’s business. To learn. Support. And fight back with education, prevention, and love. Because love is louder than stigma. And community is stronger than crisis. And Southern women? We don’t play when it comes to protecting our people.

Addiction doesn’t care about zip codes. Because recovery is possible. Because shame kills. But awareness saves. Every life deserves a chance to come home. Sit at the table. And say, “I made it.” And if we don’t talk about it, we lose more than we can bear.

And so here we stand. Charcoal still glowing. Sage still swirling. Ancestors still humming that low in a knowing tune they save for moments when truth hits bone-deep. National Opioid Awareness Day isn’t just a date on a calendar. It’s a call to rise up like your grandma’s biscuits in a hot oven. It’s a reminder that we don’t get through hard things alone. And we sure don’t heal in silence.

Silence is a thief. Stigma is a liar. And shame? Shame is that dusty old cousin who shows up to the family reunion wearing flip-flops and bad decisions. While trying to tell everybody how to live. We don’t listen to shame in this house. We listen to compassion, community, and the ancestors who whisper, “Baby, keep going.”

We honor the ones we’ve lost. We uplift the ones still fighting. We stand guard over the ones who haven’t yet found their way home. And we do it with humor, heart, with Southern stubbornness. And with the kind of love that refuses to back down. It’s the kind of love that will fight a bear, a politician, and a malfunctioning church crockpot all before breakfast.

So today, light your charcoal. Sprinkle your sage. Call your ancestors. And then take one bold step toward awareness, healing, and being the kind of person who refuses to let crisis win. Because this story isn’t over. This fight isn’t finished. And this our community is louder, stronger, and more determined than any epidemic that ever tried to break us. Now excuse me while I drop this mic like it’s hotter than a Mississippi August sidewalk. We see you. We love you. We’re fighting with you. And we’re not done yet.

Affirmation: I honor the lives affected, uplift the ones still fighting, and choose compassion over judgment every single time.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Why My Boundaries Offend People Who Benefited From My Lack of Them

“When you stop people‑pleasing, you don’t become unkind. You become un-owned.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re not just cleansing the air. We’re cleansing the generational rot that tried to bury us alive. While I also smile sweetly and was asked if I wanted more casserole.

There’s a special kind of exhaustion that comes from being raised in a culture where your worth is measured by how small you can make yourself. Where “good manners” means “don’t make anyone uncomfortable.” Even if you’re bleeding out emotionally. Where “respect” means “don’t you dare speak the truth out loud.” And the South? The South will hand you a monogrammed apron, a church bulletin, and a generational trauma starter pack before you can even walk. But today we’re unpacking all of it.

Let’s talk about people‑pleasing. Not the cute kind where you bring someone banana pudding because you love them. But the dangerous kind. The kind that rewires your nervous system. The kind that teaches you to abandon yourself so thoroughly that you forget you ever had needs in the first place.

People‑pleasing is not a personality trait. It’s a survival skill. A trauma response. A generational inheritance wrapped in a bow of “be sweet” and “don’t cause trouble.” And in the South, it’s practically a rite of passage.

We’re taught early don’t speak up. Don’t contradict. Don’t embarrass the family. Don’t make waves. Don’t question authority. Don’t tell the truth if the truth makes anyone uncomfortable. Don’t you dare put yourself first. That’s selfish. And for the love of all things holy, don’t let the church ladies hear you say “no.”

People‑pleasing becomes the currency of acceptance. The ticket to belonging. The price of being considered “good.” But here’s the sinister part. People‑pleasing trains you to betray yourself before anyone else even gets the chance. You learn to anticipate everyone’s needs but your own. You learn to apologize for existing. You learn to smile through pain so convincingly that even you forget you’re hurting. You learn to make yourself small enough to fit inside other people’s expectations. And the world, especially the Southern world, rewards you for it. Until you stop.

The moment you stop people‑pleasing. The moment you say “no,” or “that’s not okay,” or “I’m not doing that anymore.” The moment you choose yourself? Suddenly you’re the villain in a story you didn’t write. Suddenly you’re “difficult.” Suddenly you’re “ungrateful.” Suddenly you’re “too sensitive,” “too outspoken,” “too much,” “too emotional,” “too opinionated,” “too educated,” “too aware,” and “too alive.” But the truth is simple. You’re not too much. You’re just finally enough for yourself. And that terrifies people who benefited from your silence.

People‑pleasing is dangerous because it teaches you that your safety depends on your compliance. It teaches you that love must be earned through self‑abandonment. It teaches you that your needs are negotiable. But everyone else’s are sacred. When you grow up in a culture that worships politeness more than honesty. Appearances more than integrity. And reputation more than reality. You learn to disappear. Until one day, you don’t.

And here’s where it gets personal. This isn’t theory for me. This isn’t something I read in a book or heard in a podcast. This is lived experience that was carved into my bones. Stitched into my history. And dragged behind me for decades like a cross I never volunteered to carry.

On a personal note, my family marinated me in people‑pleasing my entire life. And when you don’t comply? You get labeled the troublemaker. The problem. The one who “changed.” The one who “thinks she’s better.” The one who “needs to calm down.” The one who “makes everything difficult.” But not teaching me boundaries while simultaneously demanding I people‑please was dangerous. Not inconvenient. Not uncomfortable. Dangerous.

I have almost died multiple times because I gave more of myself than I had to give. I was trained to prioritize everyone else’s happiness over my own survival. I was taught that my needs were optional. But their approval was oxygen. And in the South, it’s a shameful way of life to even question this dynamic.

I had to come to a point, not helped by their expectations, where I finally put myself first. And now that I have strong boundaries, my family and the community think I’m “nasty” because I tell them I don’t need their validation. They want me to “cow tow” to their needs while never expecting the same from them. And that, my friends, is the pinnacle of hypocrisy and controlling behavior. And at this point in my life, I can say with confidence that I’ll never allow myself to be controlled by someone else ever again.

Let me make this plain in a way even the most selectively‑forgetful, Bible‑thumping, reputation‑worshipping, boundary‑hating folks can understand. I am no longer available for my own destruction. I am no longer the family sponge soaking up everyone else’s dysfunction. I am no longer the emotional punching bag for people who refuse to face their own shadows. I am no longer the scapegoat for sins I didn’t commit. I am no longer the child who learned to survive by disappearing. I am no longer the adult who thought love meant self‑sacrifice. I am no longer the woman who begged for crumbs of acceptance from people who never learned how to love without conditions. I am done.

I’m done with the gaslighting. Done with the hypocrisy. Done with the “good Christian” performances. Done with the selective morality. done with the selective compassion. Done with the silence that protects abusers. Done with the shame that was never mine to carry. Done with the generational curses disguised as tradition. And done with the expectation that I should shrink so others can feel tall.

I am not here to make anyone comfortable. I am not here to uphold anyone’s illusion. I am not here to play the role they assigned me. I am not here to be palatable, agreeable, or quiet. I am here to live. Fully. Boldly. Truthfully. Unapologetically. And if my boundaries offend you? If my healing threatens you? If my voice rattles your cage? If my truth exposes your lies? That’s not my burden. That’s your mirror.

So let me end this with the clarity of a woman who has crawled out of the grave they dug for me. I didn’t lose my family. I lost my captors. I didn’t lose my community. I lost my chains. I didn’t lose my identity. I reclaimed it. And I will never, ever, ever hand it back. Lights out. Thanks for reading! To thine own self be true. What are your experiences with this?

Affirmation: My boundaries are sacred. My truth is valid. My life belongs to me now fully and forever.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I’ve Said In Therapy That Haunt Me

“Therapy is where my mouth says things my brain did not approve.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like your last nerve. Because apparently my healing journey requires ambiance, smoke, and at least three ancestors supervising like I’m about to shoplift emotionally from the universe. Summon the ancestors. They love a front‑row seat to your emotional chaos. And today we’re adding a full therapy‑session script to the memoir of oversharing that already has them passing around spiritual popcorn.

The moment the charcoal sparks, I can hear Great‑Grandma Eunice whispering, “Lord, she’s going back to therapy again. Somebody get the popcorn.” And she’s right. Every time I walk into therapy, I transform from a functioning adult into a confused emotional raccoon who has been handed a microphone and zero supervision. I walk in with the intention of being mature. Grounded. And emotionally regulated. Five minutes later I’m saying things like:

  • strategic avoidance-“I’m not avoiding my problems, I’m just strategically rescheduling them.”
  • vibes-based coping-“My coping skills are vibes-based.”
  • attachment enthusiasm– “I don’t have attachment issues. I have attachment enthusiasm.”
  • fine-while-crying-“I’m fine.” While crying like a Victorian widow who just lost her husband to a horse accident.

My therapist sits there nodding like she’s watching a documentary about a rare woodland creature trying to file taxes.

Healing is wild. But it’s also tender. It’s not just me blurting out unhinged one-liners like a raccoon with a microphone. It’s also the quiet moments where I surprise myself with actual growth. And a lot of times, it’s just not pretty going through the process. So, here’s the more wholesome side of the things I’ve said in therapy. The ones that haunt me, yes, but also hold me.

1. “I’m trying.”

Not perfectly. Not consistently. But honestly. My therapist smiled so softly I almost cried again.

2. “I didn’t know I was allowed to feel that.”

And the ancestors hummed in agreement like a gospel choir warming up.

3. “I’m learning to be kinder to myself.”

My therapist nodded. My inner child peeked out from behind a metaphorical couch. Even my houseplant perked up a little.

4. “I don’t want to shut down anymore.”

That one made the room quiet in a holy way. Even the ancestors stopped chewing their spiritual peppermints.

5. “I’m scared, but I’m here.”

And honestly? That’s the bravest sentence I’ve ever said.

6. “I didn’t run from the hard thing this week.”

The ancestors clapped like I just graduated from emotional kindergarten.

7. “I’m starting to believe I deserve good things.”

My therapist wrote something down very gently. Probably “progress,” but in therapist handwriting it could also say “pot roast.”

8. “I’m learning to rest without guilt.”

This one made Great‑Grandma shout, “FINALLY” from the ancestral balcony.

9. “I’m not who I used to be.”

And that’s not scary anymore. It’s sacred.

10. “I’m proud of myself.”

And for once, I meant it.

The ancestors still show up. But now they’re less “judgmental pigeons.” And more “spiritual aunties who brought snacks and encouragement.”

  • Mamaw: “Baby, healing is slow-cooked, not microwaved.”
  • Uncle: “You’re doing better than you think.”
  • Aunty: “Tell your therapist you drank water today. She’ll be thrilled.”

They’re still loud. They’re still dramatic. But they’re rooting for me like I’m the only contestant on a cosmic game show called Emotional Regulation: The Remix.

THINGS I SHOULD NOT HAVE SAID OUT LOUD

  • descending with style-“I’m not spiraling, I’m just descending with style.”
  • houseplant trauma bond– “I trauma-bonded with a houseplant once.”
  • trust questions-“I don’t have trust issues. I have trust questions.”
  • inner child rebellion-“My inner child is tired of my shit.”
  • emotional airplane mode-“I’m not emotionally unavailable. I’m emotionally… on airplane mode.”
  • ancestor disappointment -“My ancestors did not survive plagues, wars, and the Great Depression for me to be defeated by a group chat.”
  • financial miracle plan-“I don’t need coping skills. I need a nap and a financial miracle.”
  • conflict timeout-“I’m not avoiding conflict. I’m giving it space to think about what it’s done.”
  • haunted brain-“My brain is like a haunted house. I don’t go in there alone.”

The ancestors? They’re not supportive. They’re entertained.

The Therapy Session: The Day I Overshared So Hard The Ancestors Stood Up

Therapist: “So, how have you been since last week?”

Me: “Emotionally? I’m like a Walmart shopping cart. One wheel is fine. The other three are screaming.”

Ancestor Mamaw (materializing): “Tell her about the Wal-Mart parking lot incident.”

Me: “Not now, Mamaw.”

Therapist: “Who are you talking to?”

Me: “My ancestors. They’re very involved.”

Therapist: “Okay, let’s explore that.”

Me: “No. The last time we explored something, I cried so hard I dehydrated myself.”

Therapist: “What’s coming up for you today?”

Me: “Well, I said ‘I’m fine’ earlier and my left eye twitched so hard it tried to leave my body.”

Therapist: “And what do you think that means?”

Me: “That my nervous system is wanting to avoid feelings.”

Ancestor Uncle: “She’s not wrong.”

Therapist: “Let’s talk about your coping skills.”

Me: “They’re vibes-based.”

Therapist: “Meaning?”

Me: “Meaning sometimes I blog. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I eat a Pop-Tart and stare into the void.”

Therapist: “And how does that work for you?”

Me: “Well, I’m here.”

Ancestor Aunty: “Tell her about the houseplant.”

Me: “No.”

Therapist: “Houseplant?”

Me: “I trauma-bonded with a fern. We don’t need to unpack that.”

Therapist: “Everything is welcome here.”

Me: “Okay, but is everything refundable? I’d like to return some of these emotions.”

Therapist: “Let’s try grounding.”

Me: “I am grounded. That’s the problem. I’d like to be airborne.”

Therapist: “What do you need right now?”

Me: “A nap. A snack. A financial miracle. A dab, joint, and edible. And maybe a hug from someone with stable nervous system energy.”

Ancestor Mamaw: “She needs Jesus.”

Me: “I need a coupon code for life.”

Therapist: “Let’s breathe together.”

Me: “Okay, but if I start crying, it’s your fault.”

So here I stand surrounded by charcoal smoke. Ancestors perched like judgmental pigeons. Therapist scribbling notes like she’s drafting a memoir of her own. And me reflecting on the things I’ve said in therapy that haunt me like student loans.

And for the record? This was a tongue and cheek blog. My therapist has the patience of Job. Biblical-level patience. Generational patience. Patience that could calm a tornado with a peppermint and a soft voice. And I’ll say it plainly. I would not want to be my therapist or have her job. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next. Not even as a ghost with benefits.

Old ideologies and messages are hard to delineate from. Some of the ones about myself are probably be permanent. Others have changed or are changing slowly and stubbornly. And it’s like a mule being asked to do yoga.

But here’s the truth. Therapy can be where my mouth says things my brain did not approve. If you can’t laugh at some of the wild internal justifications your brain invents throughout the therapeutic process, the journey becomes heavier than it needs to be. Laughter doesn’t erase the work. It just makes the work survivable. So, if my therapy sessions sound like a comedy special hosted by a traumatized raccoon with a southern accent, that’s between me, my therapist, and the ancestors who refuse to mind their business. If oversharing burned calories, I’d be a supermodel by now.

Affirmation: I release shame. Embrace honesty. And trust that my chaos is still holy.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Stages of a Mental Health Spiral

“Sometimes the spiral isn’t a breakdown. It’s a plot twist.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Because the ancestors have pulled up lawn chairs. Piper is judging you from the counter. And your last functioning brain cell is wearing Crocs and screaming, “We’re fine.” Today, we’re about to roast our own mental health spiral like it’s Sunday dinner. And the ancestors are already circling the table whispering, “Lord, she’s doing that again.” Today’s sermon: The Stages of a Mental Health Spiral. This is not a gentle descent. This is a Six Flags drop tower operated by a raccoon with a GED and a dream.

You know that moment when you feel something is off? Not enough to call your therapist. But enough to stare at the wall like it owes you money. That’s when the spiral begins. Quietly. Softly. Like a Southern woman saying, “Bless your heart.”  Right before she ruins your life.

Behold, the official stages of a mental health spiral. The annotated. Dramatized. And spiritually supervised by your ancestors who are shaking their heads in unison.

1. Denial (a.k.a. “I’m fine.”)

You say “I’m fine” with the confidence of a toddler holding a permanent marker near a white couch. Your eye twitches. Your soul leaves your body. But you? You’re “fine.”

2. Snack-Based Coping

You open the fridge like it’s going to reveal the meaning of life. It does not. It reveals cheese. You eat the cheese. You feel nothing. You eat more cheese. You still feel nothing. You consider becoming cheese.

3. Googling Symptoms

You Google one minor sensation. “Why does my left eyebrow feel spicy?” 

Google: You have 14 minutes to live. 

You: “Reasonable.”

4. Texting Your Spouse

You send a message that is 40% panic. 40% apology. And 20% emojis that do not match the situation. Your spouse replies, “Did you eat today?” You did not. You lie anyway.

5. Bargaining With the Universe

You promise to drink water. You promise to stretch. You promise to stop doomscrolling. You do none of these things.

6. Existential Laundry

You stare at a laundry basket like it’s a metaphor for your entire life. You consider folding it. You do not fold it. You put a blanket over it like a Victorian ghost.

7. Deciding to Become a Forest Witch

You Google “how to disappear into the woods legally.” You imagine yourself living among moss, mushrooms, and emotionally stable squirrels. You start pricing cauldrons. You tell your spouse, “I’m going feral.” They say, “Okay, but text me when you get there.”

I told my therapist about the levels of decent into madness. She looked at me over her glasses like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh. Cry. Or call your ancestors for backup. She said, “Dana, you cannot diagnose yourself with 14 conditions. Eat a block of cheddar. And then attempt to join the woodland spirits. That’s not a treatment plan. That’s a Thursday.” Then she adds, “Next time, call me before you Google anything. Or before you buy a cauldron.”

And that, my friend, is the spiral. A journey. A pilgrimage. A spiritual hike through chaos, cheese, and questionable decisions. But you survived. You always do. Because even when my brain is doing NASCAR donuts in a Walmart parking lot, I still show up, I still laugh. And still threaten to become a forest witch at least twice a month. My ancestors are proud. My therapist is tired. My cats are unimpressed. And I’m doing amazing. Thanks for reading! What are things you do when you’re spiraling that isn’t funny at the time? But is now.

Affirmation: I can survive my own brain, one snack, one breath, and one dramatic monologue at a time.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

My Inner Child Isn’t Healed. She is Fermented.

“My inner child isn’t healed. She’s fermented. Armed. And ready to defend the peace I never had.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Warn the neighbors. Tell the ancestors to buckle up and grab the holy water. My inner teenage child is not healed. She is fermented. Rebellious. Allergic to unbalanced rules in a way that should probably be studied by scientists. Or at least documented for future generations.

 She’s not pickled. Not preserved. Not gently marinated in therapeutic insight. Fermented. Like Appalachian moonshine brewed in a bathtub behind a Dollar General. She’s the kind of inner child who, if you say, “Don’t touch that,” will absolutely touch it while maintaining unbroken eye contact just to prove a point. She is the spiritual embodiment of a teenager who got grounded and said “Bet.” And then climbed out the window with eyeliner too dark and a plan too bold.

 And from that bubbling vat of defiance, spite, and ancestral side‑eye rose her. My main protector. Equal parts guardian angel. Petty deity. Rabid raccoon. And one who keeps a sword in her purse “just in case the Lord sends a sign.” A back‑alley swordfighter with a vendetta. And a loyalty so fierce it could bend metal.

 Today we’re talking about the one who meets a perceived threat with a blade in one hand and a laugh full of venom. Sometimes she has the personality of a pit viper. Sometimes she has the comedy that makes you dribble pee. And always, she has the full support of three generations of ancestors already rolling up their sleeves.

 My inner child didn’t heal into a soft, glowing cherub. She fermented with headphones too loud. And a moral compass that points directly toward, “I said what I said.” She is allergic to hypocrisy. She breaks unbalanced rules on sight. She will defy you simply because you thought you had authority. And she’ll do it with a smirk.

 That fermented teen spirit is the raw material my protector was forged from. The one who shows up like, “If you try to control us, I will absolutely climb out the window and join a biker gang.” She is loyal. She is vicious in the name of safety. She is the first to meet a threat with a sword in her hand. And a laugh that sounds like a demon gargling sweet tea. And she is me. 

 She bubbled. She brewed. She aged like ancestral sauerkraut left too close to the summer sun. And from that fermentation rose her again. She who steps forward like, “Oh, you thought you were gonna hurt us? I’ve been waiting for enrichment.” Loyal. Hilarious. Headstrong in a way that makes therapists sigh. And ancestors clutch stress balls. She is the spiritual equivalent of a possum with a PhD in boundary enforcement.

She is absolutely the one you want on your side. Because if you’re on the other side, she will meet you at dawn with a laugh that sounds like a snake hissing through a megaphone. She is just the version of me who survived childhood by turning into a mythological creature with emotional brass knuckles.

 Let me introduce her properly. She will replicate whatever energy you lead with. You want respect? Lead with respect and accountability. You want chaos? You’re cooked. That’s her specialty. And she won’t hesitate to use it in whatever situation presents itself. She’s the part who wakes up before the sun. Stretches her shoulders and says, “If anybody tries us today, I’m ready to ruin their lineage.” She could be violent. But that’s not her first choice. She’s efficient. She can escalate. But she also finishes. And she declares war with a smile. 

 Examples of Her Energy

  • Example One — Someone raises their voice at me. She appears like a Pokémon evolution and says, “We can use our words. Or we can use our ancestors. Choose wisely.”
  • Example Two — Someone tries emotional manipulation. She pulls out a sword she absolutely did not have a moment ago and whispers, “I’ve been waiting for this side quest.”
  • Example Three — Someone disrespects my boundaries. She summons the ghost of Big Mama. Who materializes holding a wooden spoon and a tax bill from 1974.

 Her Loyalty Is Biblical to those where the connection is solid and not wavering. She defends me and the underdogs of society with the intensity of a Southern grandmother guarding her potato salad recipe. She stands in front of me like, “If you want her, you gotta go through me, the ancestors, and three generations of unresolved trauma.” And honestly? That’s love. That means sometimes I’m just trying to buy cat litter at Walmart and she’s like, “Why is that man looking at us? Should I brandish the sword?” And I respond with, “No. He’s comparing prices. Put the sword back.”

 My ancestors watch all this from the spiritual balcony like they’re at a family reunion talent show. Some cheer. Some pray. Some sip sweet tea and say, “Well at least she’s not boring.” And one ancestor, my sassy nannie, always yells, “Let her cook!” That’s the one my protector listens to.

 Healing is beautiful. Growth is powerful. But sometimes the inner child doesn’t heal into a soft, glowing fairy of emotional regulation. Sometimes she ferments into a battle‑ready guardian with a weapon in one hand and generational trauma in the other. Sometimes she becomes the protector who says, “We are not repeating cycles. We are breaking them with flair.” Sometimes she becomes the part who will square up with a shadow, a memory, a stranger, or a poorly worded email. And sometimes she becomes the reason my therapist has to pause. Take off her glasses and says, “I’m gonna need a minute.”

So, here’s to her. To the protector. To the fermented inner child. To the sword‑wielding. Ancestor‑backed. Chaos‑certified guardian who keeps me alive. Safe. And laughing.

And if anyone ever tries to hurt me again? She will rise from the depths like a spiritual tax audit and saying, “You picked the wrong system today.” Thanks for reading! And Praise Be To Teenage Protectors!

Affirmation: I honor the parts of me that survived. I honor the protector who rose from the chaos. I am safe. I am whole. And my fermented inner child is a force of nature.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

When ‘Too Much’ Meets ‘Not Enough’: A Survival Guide for the Spirit They Couldn’t Resize

“Let them call you too much. Some people only say that because they’ve never met someone who refuses to live on mute.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for its shift. Like it’s ready to escort every dusty opinion, every unsolicited critique, and every generational expectation straight out the front door. The moment somebody decides to inform you that you are either “too much” or “not enough,” that’s when the ritual begins. That’s when you cleanse the room. Clear the energy. And prepare yourself for the comedy of errors that is other people trying to regulate a spirit they did not create. And once that sage hits the air? The truth comes out like it’s been waiting backstage with a mic and a spotlight.

You know that moment when your family, your friends, and the entire Southern social order gather around like a committee of porch‑sitting elders. And they proceed to inform you, very gently, very prayerfully, that you are either too much or not enough? That’s the moment you realize you were never the problem. The problem was the committee.

It always starts with someone holding a casserole like it’s a moral authority. They pull you aside and say, “We’re just worried.” Worried about what? Your volume? Your opinions? Your refusal to shrink yourself into a polite, beige, church‑approved silhouette?

They’ll say, “You’re too loud,” “You’re too emotional,” “You’re too confident,” And “You’re too honest.” And then, without even inhaling, they’ll pivot to, “You’re not grateful enough,” “You’re not humble enough,” “You’re not patient enough,” And “You’re not quiet enough.” Am I a Category 5 hurricane or a lukewarm drizzle? I cannot be both the storm and the drought.

There is nothing like being raised in a culture where people will literally say, “Bless your heart,” while handing you a personality correction like it’s a church bulletin. They want you to be authentic, as long as, your authenticity fits inside their emotional carry‑on bag. They’ll warn you “Tone it down,” “Don’t rock the boat,” “Don’t embarrass the family,” and “Don’t say that out loud.” Meanwhile, the family has been embarrassing you since 1986.

One day, you wake up and realize you are not auditioning for the role of “Acceptable Human #3” in someone else’s life. You stop editing your personality for people who don’t even proofread their own lives. You stop shrinking your joy to fit someone else’s comfort zone. You stop apologizing for existing at full wattage. And suddenly the same people who said you were “too much” start whispering, “She’s changed.” No, you haven’t. You just stopped offering the discounted version of yourself.

People call you “too much” when they’ve built their lives around being less. People call you “not enough” when they want you small enough to manage. People call you “intimidating” when they’re used to being unchallenged. People call you “dramatic” when they’re used to you swallowing your feelings like communion wafers. You are not too much. You are not, not enough. You are exactly the right amount for the life you’re meant to live.

Let’s start by rewriting the script. If they say you’re too loud. Maybe they’re too quiet. If they say you’re too emotional. Maybe they’re emotionally constipated. If they say you’re too confident. Maybe they’re allergic to self‑esteem. And if they say you’re too honest. Maybe they’re used to lies dressed as manners. You are not a problem to be solved. You are a whole person with a whole personality or many. And if that rattles the folding chairs at the family reunion, then let them rattle.

The next time somebody tries to hand you a personality correction like it’s a bulletin from the usher board, just smile. Adjust your crown. And keep walking. Because if being fully yourself shakes their table. Flips their pew. And rattles their casserole. Maybe the problem isn’t your volume. Maybe it’s their weak foundation. Opinions are like buttholes. We all have them. And they all stink. Thanks for reading! And keep letting your light shine no matter what they say.

Affirmation: I honor the fullness of who I am. I expand anyway, shine anyway and take up the space my spirit was built for.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

What Is Love?

“Love is not only something you feel, but it is something you do.”

-David Wilkerson

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, instead of politics, chaos, or the latest absurdity in the world, I want to talk about something that actually keeps us human: love.

Love is one of those words we throw around so casually that we forget how heavy it really is. It’s not just a feeling. It’s not just butterflies, or chemistry, or the way someone’s name lights up your phone. Love is a living thing and something that grows, shifts, bruises, heals, and transforms us whether we’re ready or not.

Real love isn’t possession. It isn’t control. It isn’t “you complete me,” because you should already be whole. Love is choosing someone again and again, not because you need them to fill a void, but because life feels richer with them in it. And let’s be clear: domestic violence is not love. It’s a cruel form of control, and it has no place in any relationship.

Love is honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s saying, “I’m hurt,” “I’m scared,” “I need you,” or “I’m sorry.” It’s vulnerability without the guarantee of being understood. It’s trusting someone with the parts of you that you usually keep locked away. What love is not is weaponizing someone’s insecurities against them.

If you have to shrink yourself to be loved, that’s not love. If you’re walking on eggshells, that’s not love. If you’re constantly trying to earn affection, approval, or basic respect, that’s not love. Love is the exhale after holding your breath too long. It’s the feeling of being seen without performing.

Love isn’t effortless. It’s effort that doesn’t feel like a burden. It’s the small things like remembering how they take their coffee, sending a text to check in, listening even when you’re tired, showing up when it matters. Love is maintenance, not magic.

The right love doesn’t keep you stagnant. It doesn’t clip your wings. It doesn’t fear your evolution. Love says, “Grow. Become. Expand. I’ll grow with you.” And sometimes love also says, “We’ve grown in different directions, and that’s okay.”

Some of the deepest love comes from friendships, family, pets, or even the relationship you build with yourself. Romantic love gets all the attention, but it’s not the only kind that saves us. Sometimes the most healing love is the one that teaches you how to treat yourself better.

Love is imperfect, and that’s what makes it real. It’s messy. It’s flawed. It’s human. It’s two people trying their best with the tools they have. It’s learning, unlearning, apologizing, forgiving, and trying again. It’s imperfect that people choosing to care anyway.

Love shows you who you are. It reflects your wounds, your strengths, your fears, your capacity for joy. The right love doesn’t fix you, but it inspires you to fix yourself. It challenges you to become the version of you that you’ve always been capable of being.

Love is many things, but above all, it’s this: Love is the courage to stay open in a world that constantly tries to harden you.

Affirmation: I am worthy of a love that feels like peace, not survival.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#Thispuzzledlife