This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“Love is not holy if it requires your child to shrink.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Invoke the ancestors. Because Lord, they’ve been watching this mess unfold for generations and they are tired. I can practically hear Big Mama in the spirit realm, fanning herself with a church program and whispering, “Baby, go on and say it. They need to hear it.” So, I’m writing this letter. This holy‑ghost‑powered, Southern‑fried, and emotionally charged letter to the parents of LGBTQIA+ kids everywhere. And I’m writing it in the voice of every queer ancestor who had to survive Sunday School shame, back‑pew gossip, and family reunions where the potato salad had more acceptance than they did.
This is a letter from me, a queer adult who lived through the fire. Walked through the brimstone. And still came out smelling like sandalwood and resilience. And I’m not holding back. Sit back while I speak some truth.
Dear Parents, before you bring a child into this world biologically, adoption, or through the “God told me to foster” pipeline, you need to sit with yourself and ask one question, “Am I going to love this child more than my beliefs?” If the answer is anything other than a full‑bodied, chest‑thumping, hallelujah‑shouting yes, then you don’t need children. You need a devotional, a therapist, and maybe a long walk through the woods to talk to Jesus directly.
Let me be clear. Jesus, the actual Jesus, not the one y’all weaponize, never bullied a child. He never told a kid they were going to hell. He never said, “Love thy neighbor unless they’re gay.” He never threw stones at queer folks. He only threw shade at hypocrites. So, if you’re out here being your child’s first bully, oppressor, heartbreak, first source of shame, you are not parenting. You are spiritually vandalizing a soul God trusted you with. And I’m here to tell you with all the ancestors nodding behind me, that is not holy. That is not righteous. That is not love.
10 Beliefs That Mean You Should Not Have Children
If your religion means more to you than your child’s humanity, you should not have children. Jesus didn’t die on the cross so you could weaponize Leviticus like a spiritual flyswatter.
If you plan to be your child’s first bully, you should not have children. Kids deserve parents. Not mean girls with mortgages.
If you believe your grandchildren are “tainted” because their parents are gay, you should’ve never had children yourself. The family tree didn’t rot. Your mindset did.
If you teach your child to hate LGBTQIA+ family members, you should not have children. Hell is not the destination here. But your behavior is the road map.
If you think “unconditional love” comes with fine print, you should not have children. God doesn’t do contracts. He does covenants.
If you believe queer kids are a punishment instead of a blessing, you should not have children. That’s not theology. That’s ignorance with a Bible cover.
If you think “pray the gay away” is a parenting strategy, you should not have children. Prayer is for healing. Not conversion therapy cosplay.
If you’d rather lose your child than lose your church friends, you should not have children.Jesus ate with outcasts. You’re worried about potluck politics.
If you think shame is a teaching tool, you should not have children. Shame doesn’t save souls. It breaks them.
If you believe love must be earned, you should not have children. Children are not employees. You are not their boss. Love is not a performance review.
Let me take a deep breath. Pull up a rocking chair on the porch of truth. And say this slow enough for even the folks in the back pew. This is for the ones who pretend they’re reading scripture. But are really scrolling Facebook to understand. If your love cannot stretch wide enough to hold a queer child, then your love is not love. It is fear dressed up in Sunday clothes.
And I’m going to tell you something the ancestors have been whispering for decades. Children come through you. Not for you. They are not born to validate your beliefs, your image, your reputation, or your standing in the church bulletin. Children are not your emotional support trophies. They are not your redemption arc. They are not your second chance at being the person you wish you were. They are not your spiritual PR campaign.
They are souls that are whole, holy, and handcrafted by the same God you claim to worship. And if you cannot love them without conditions, ultimatums, threats of hellfire, “pray it away” nonsense, and shame disguised as righteousness, then you are not parenting. You are performing. You are auditioning for approval from people who wouldn’t show up for you if your house caught fire. You are sacrificing your child’s mental health on the altar of “What will the church ladies think?” You are choosing doctrine over devotion. Fear over family. And ego over empathy.
Let me say this louder with the ancestors stomping their feet like a praise break behind me. Jesus never asked a child to shrink so a parent could feel tall. Jesus never told a child to hide so a parent could feel holy. Jesus never demanded silence from the oppressed to comfort the oppressor.
If your child comes out to you in fear, trembling, hope, desperation, and your first instinct is to shame them. Correct them. Punish them. Or “fix” them. Then you have misunderstood the entire point of parenthood.
And if your response is, “Well, I love them. But I don’t support their lifestyle,” let me lovingly, sarcastically, and spiritually inform you. Your child does not have a lifestyle. They have a life. And you are either in it, or you are not.
If you think rejecting your child is righteous. I promise you that Jesus is looking down at you like, “That’s not what I said.” If you think your child’s identity is a sin. But your cruelty isn’t. You might want to reread the red‑letter parts of the Bible. The ones where Jesus actually speaks. Because he spent his entire ministry calling out people who acted exactly like that.
If you think your child’s queerness is a burden. But your judgment isn’t. You need to sit with that. If you think your child’s truth is dangerous. But your silence isn’t. You need to sit with that. If you think your child’s love is wrong. But your rejection is holy. You need to sit with that.
And while you’re sitting, let me offer you the kind of truth that makes the ancestors nod and Jesus raise an eyebrow. Queer kids do not break families. Parents who choose fear over love do. Queer kids do not destroy homes. Parents who weaponize scripture do. Queer kids do not cause generational trauma. Parents who refuse to evolve do. And heterosexual parents create gay children. They don’t create themselves.
Queer kids do not walk away from families lightly. Parents who make home unsafe push them out. And if you lose your child because you could not love them fully, freely, and fiercely. That is not their sin. That is your consequence. If you cannot love a queer child. You are not ready to love any child. If your heart cannot expand. Your family cannot grow. If your faith cannot bend. Your relationships will break. If your compassion cannot stretch. Your legacy will shrink.
And one day you will look back and realize that the child you rejected was the one who could’ve taught you the most about love. But by then, they’ll be gone. And they’ll be loved somewhere else. Fully. Joyfully. Safely. And without conditions. Ancestors humming. Jesus nodding. And the truth standing tall. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?
Affirmation: I honor my truth, identity, and my worth. And I refuse to let anyone’s fear masquerading as faith define me.
“Leaving isn’t weakness. Staying alive long enough to escape is strength.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Call the ancestors the loud ones, the protective ones, in close. The ones who don’t mind flipping a table when truth needs to be told. Let the ancestors pull up their rocking chairs and lean in like, “Alright baby, tell it exactly how it happened.“ Because today, we’re walking straight into a fire that too many people pretend isn’t burning. And the topic is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.
This month isn’t just a purple ribbon or a hashtag. It’s a national reckoning. A month carved out because silence has killed too many. Shame has trapped too many. And judgment has wounded too many who were already bleeding. It exists because domestic violence is not one thing. Not one story. Not one bruise. It’s a whole constellation of harm that is emotional abuse, financial control, spiritual manipulation, psychological warfare, sexual coercion, digital stalking, physical stalking, rape, threats, intimidation, and isolation. All of it real. All of it dangerous.
And Lord knows, the Deep South has a long tradition of saying, “Well, why didn’t she just leave?” With the same tone they use when asking why you didn’t bring potato salad to the church potluck. But today we’re not whispering. We’re not sugarcoating. We’re not letting judgment drown out truth.
Domestic violence is more than bruises. More than shouting. More than slammed doors. It’s the slow erosion of your identity. It’s the constant fear humming under your skin. It’s the way you learn to read someone’s footsteps like weather patterns. It’s the way you shrink. Fold. And contort yourself trying to keep the peace that never stays peaceful.
And let me say this with all the Southern sass I can muster. If you’ve never lived it, you don’t get to judge it. Because “just leaving” is a fantasy sold by people who have never had their life threatened. Their finances controlled. Their spirit manipulated. Or their faith weaponized against them. I know this because I lived it. Fourteen years in a domestic abuse situation that nearly swallowed me whole. The cycle wasn’t simple. It was a trap crafted with precision love bombing, threats, and intimidation. That is continuously repeated until you forget what freedom feels like.
I didn’t stay because I was weak. I stayed because I was scared. I stayed because I was conditioned. I stayed because every exit felt like a death sentence. And let me make something crystal clear. It wasn’t a billionaire. It wasn’t a senator. It wasn’t a monster hiding in the shadows. It wasn’t an immigrant. It wasn’t a drag queen with a story book. It wasn’t a trans person. It wasn’t a black person. It was a white, “Christian” man in the Deep South. One who used the Bible like a weapon. While twisting scripture into shackles. Preaching submission while practicing cruelty. A man who believed control was his God-given right. And fear was his favorite language.
That’s why Domestic Violence Awareness Month matters. Because abuse doesn’t look like one stereotype. Survivors don’t fit one mold. Judgment is easy. But understanding saves lives. It is a promise. A collective vow that we will speak loudly. Love fiercely. And refuse to let anyone’s suffering stay hidden behind closed doors.
And now, let me drop this mic so hard the ancestors stand up and clap. I survived what was meant to break me. I reclaimed what was stolen from me. And I will never apologize again for the fire in my voice. Thanks for reading! What have been your experiences?
Affirmation: I honor my survival, my truth, and my healing. I am worthy of safety, love, and a life without fear.
“If self‑care requires a loan application, it’s not wellness. It’s a scam with eucalyptus.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling the Wellness Industrial Complex until it admits it’s been robbing us blind like a raccoon in Lululemon leggings. Self‑care has evolved from “take a nap and drink some water” to “sell a kidney so you can afford a serum infused with moonlight, angel tears, and ethically sourced unicorn collagen.”
Every time I open Instagram, some wellness guru named Saffron Moonbeam is perched on a rock in Sedona telling me, “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” Ma’am, I can’t even afford the cup. The cup is $89.99 and comes with a crystal straw that promises to “align my abundance chakra.” Meanwhile my bank account is over here whispering, “Your abundance chakra is over drafted by $37.12.”
Let’s take a guided tour through the self‑care items that the wellness industry swears I need. And the financial crimes they commit against my checking account.
$300 Serums-Apparently my face needs a potion made from fermented cloud vapor and the hopes of Scandinavian virgins. For $300, this serum better erase wrinkles, trauma, and student loans.
Sedona Retreats-“Reconnect with your inner child for only $4,999.” For $4,999 my inner child better come out doing taxes, laundry, and emotional labor.
Organic Herbal Teas-Why is tea $22 a bag? It’s leaves. Leaves! I can go outside and get leaves for free. Mississippi has leaves everywhere. I’m basically surrounded by generational wealth.
Crystal Water Bottles-$120 for a bottle with a rock in it. I can get a rock from my driveway. I can get a whole collection of rocks. I can start a rock museum.
Sound Baths-$75 to lay on the floor while someone hits a bowl with a spoon. I can do that at home with my cookware and a bad attitude.
Weighted Blankets-$200 to feel like a Victorian ghost is sitting on my chest. I can get that for free by thinking about my to‑do list.
Yoga Pants-$98 for leggings that roll down the second I inhale. For $98 they should hold me together emotionally, spiritually, and physically.
Let me tell you something. My ancestors did not survive polio, wars, and the Great Depression. So, I could spend half a paycheck on a jade roller that promises to “release facial tension.” My grandmother would rise from the grave. Slap the serum out of my hand and say, “Splash some cold water on your face and go sit down somewhere.” And honestly? She’d be right. Because self‑care is not supposed to require a credit check, a payment plan, or a GoFundMe titled ‘Help Me Achieve Inner Peace.’
Sometimes self‑care is drinking water. Taking a nap. Ignoring people. Eating a snack. Telling the world “no” with your whole chest. And none of that costs $300. Bowl rung. Crystal shattered. Sedona canceled. Thanks for reading! What’s your most outrageously overpriced “self‑care” moment? And did it at least come with a free sample or a spiritual awakening, or nah?
Affirmation: I am whole. I am worthy. And I do not need a $300 serum to glow. My radiance is free. My peace is priceless. And my bank account deserves rest too.
“Even on my messiest days, I am still becoming someone I’m proud of.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling up another episode of Southern‑chaotic mental health excellence. And this time we’re serving it on a Mental Health Bingo Card hotter than a Mississippi parking lot in July. And all because my brain apparently woke up this morning and said, “Let’s play a game.” Not a fun game like spades or Uno where you can cuss your family out and still get invited to Thanksgiving. But a full‑blown, unhinged round of “Let’s play Mental Health Bingo.” And I, being the responsible adult I pretend to be, just sighed and said, “Sure. Why not. I’ve survived worse. Like Mississippi humidity and group texts.” I printed my little bingo card. Took one look at it and immediately whispered, “Oh Lord. I’ve already got three in a row and it’s not even noon.”
Here are the 10 spaces on my Mental Health Bingo card this week. Each one earned with the grace of a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.
Cried in the car-Bonus points because it was in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru.
Forgot to eat-But remembered coffee, cannabis, chaos, and anxiety.
Overshared with a stranger-The cashier now knows my childhood wounds.
Started a new hobby at 3 a.m.-Crochet? Witchcraft? Who knows.
Reorganized the entire house-Instead of dealing with my emotions.
Googled symptoms-Diagnosed myself with 14 conditions and a personality I don’t have.
Had a fake argument in the shower-And won.
Stared at the wall for 27 minutes-Thinking about absolutely nothing and everything.
Said “I’m fine” while crying-A classic. A staple. A cultural artifact.
Therapy homework not done-But I did alphabetize my spices.
By 4 p.m., I had a full, glorious, diagonal BINGO like the emotionally unstable champion I am. So naturally, I strutted into therapy like I had just won the Olympics. I sat down. Crossed my legs like a Southern auntie about to spill tea, and said, “Ma’am I got BINGO.” And I slid that card across the table like it was a winning lottery ticket.
My therapist’s response? She looked at it. She looked at me. She looked back at it. Then she said, “Well I’m proud of you for tracking your patterns. I’m slightly concerned that you blacked out an entire row before breakfast. But I admire the commitment. This is the most enthusiastic self-reporting I’ve ever seen. Should I congratulate you? Or schedule an extra session?” Then she added, “Also, please stop oversharing with strangers. That woman at Walgreens did not need to know about your existential crisis over toothpaste.”
And as I left therapy, I swear I heard my ancestors whisper, “We survived plagues, wars, and the Great Depression. But this? This bingo card? This is new.” But listen. If healing is a journey, then I’m out here collecting stamps like a chaotic little passport official. And if Mental Health Bingo is wrong, I don’t want to be right. BINGO, baby.
And as I walked out of therapy clutching my laminated Mental Health Bingo card like it was the Declaration of Independence, something in me shifted. I felt accomplished. Victorious. Slightly unhinged. But in a cute way. Like a raccoon wearing lip gloss. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect crystals. Some people collect red flags like they’re Pokémon. But me? I collect emotional plot twists.
Every square on that bingo card was a tiny little badge of honor. Proof that I am out here doing the absolute most with the absolute least. I’m surviving on vibes, caffeine, cannabis, and the sheer audacity to keep showing up. And I’m proud of me. Not the Pinterest version of me. Not the “I have my life together” LinkedIn version of me. Not the “I only cry on weekends” version of me. No. I’m proud of the version of me who wakes up every day and chooses to keep going. Even when my brain is acting like a Walmart intercom system glitching during a thunderstorm.
I’m proud of the me who laughs through the chaos. Who heals crooked but heals anyway. Who turns breakdowns into blog posts. And therapy homework into performance art. So yeah, I got BINGO. And next week? I might get blackout. But that’s growth. Card stamped. Healing in progress. Thanks for reading! What square on your own mental health bingo card did you hit this week? And did you earn it with the chaotic flair of a true Southern champion?
Affirmation: I celebrate my progress. Honor my humanity. And allow joy to exist even in the chaos.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“Silence is the oldest accomplice of violence. And Mississippi has been silent for far too long.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal, y’all. Because my ancestors are pacing the porch tonight. I can feel them in the humidity, the cicada buzz, and in the way the air gets thick right before a storm. They’re whispering. Tapping their feet. And shaking their heads the way old Southern aunties do when they’ve had enough of the foolishness. And Lord knows Mississippi has given us more than enough foolishness wrapped in Bible verses. Dipped in denial. And served with a side of “the South will rise again” delusion.
Because let’s tell the truth. The “Christian” community down here loves to shout about sin until it’s time to call out violence against Black bodies. Then suddenly everybody’s quiet. Clutching pearls. And humming hymns like silence is salvation. They’ll condemn a teenager’s skirt length before they condemn a system that keeps killing Black people. They’ll preach forgiveness while refusing accountability. They’ll talk about “God’s love” while ignoring the blood on their own soil. And I’m done pretending that’s holy.
Mississippi has always been a place where racism isn’t just a belief. It’s infrastructure. It’s policy. It’s tradition. It’s the foundation poured into the dirt generations ago. And too many folks still treat it like sacred ground.
And now, again, violence has come knocking at the doors of Black families. Again, the state government refuses to investigate. Again, accountability disappears when the killer is white. Again, we are told to “wait for the facts.” While the facts are buried under good ol’ boy politics and backroom handshakes.
A one-year-old Black baby was shot and killed by a white officer over diapers. Let me say that again. A baby died because a grown man with a badge felt threatened by diapers.
A Black teenage boy was found dead under mysterious circumstances. And instead of answers, we get a cover-up thicker than Delta mud. Evidence missing. Stories changing. Officials shrugging like a child’s life is just a paperwork inconvenience.
And now, a Black woman found hanging from a tree in 2026. And the state wants us to believe it’s anything other than what it looks like. Mississippi has a long, violent history with Black bodies and trees. We know what this is. We’ve seen it before. Our ancestors saw it before. And the silence from leadership is louder than any confession.
This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t isolated. This is a pattern, a legacy, and a sickness that Mississippi refuses to treat because too many people benefit from the infection. And let me tell you something. I’m old enough now to stand up and say it plainly. I’m old enough to fight for marginalized groups which include Black folks, brown folks, Indigenous folks, immigrants, and anyone who doesn’t fit the whitewashed mold Mississippi keeps trying to force us into. I’m old enough to say that I’m proud that I didn’t buy into the racist ideology that some of my own family members still cling to like it’s heirloom china.
I broke the cycle. I chose humanity over heritage. I chose truth over tradition. I chose justice over comfort. And if that makes me the black sheep at the family reunion, hand me the potato salad because I’ll graze in the pasture with pride. I’m proud to say I’m not like them. Not molded by their fear. Not shaped by their hate. Not carved into the same brittle statue of “tradition” they keep worshiping like it’s holy. I’m proud to say I crawled out of the same Mississippi clay. And still managed to grow in a different direction. And it was one that didn’t twist my roots around racism and call it heritage.
If rejecting their ideology means I lose my seat at the family table, then pull the chair out from under me. If refusing to swallow their silence means I’m no longer welcome in their church pews, then let the hymns echo without me. If choosing humanity over hypocrisy means I have to walk away from religion entirely, then I’ll walk away barefoot. Head high and unbothered.
Because I refuse to be loyal to a system that kills Black children and calls it “procedure.” I refuse to be loyal to a state that covers up Black death and calls it “ongoing investigation.” I refuse to be loyal to a community that sees a Black woman hanging from a tree and calls it “unfortunate.” I refuse to be loyal to people who hide behind scripture while ignoring suffering. I refuse to be loyal to any ideology that demands my silence while it destroys lives.
Mississippi may be built on racism. But I am not. Mississippi may cling to its racist past. But I do not. Mississippi may worship its own mythology. But I refuse to kneel. I am not like them. I will never be like them. And if breaking away from their beliefs is the cost of protecting my soul, integrity, and humanity, then that’s a price I’ll pay in full with no regrets.
Let them keep their “South will rise again” fantasies. I’m rising in a different direction. One they can’t touch. Can’t claim. And sure as hell can’t control. That’s my mic drop. And I won’t be picking it back up. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?
Affirmation: I honor my ancestors by refusing to repeat their pain. I stand in truth. I stand in courage. And I stand in love even when I stand alone.
“Healing is messy, hilarious, and inconvenient. And sometimes smells like essential oils.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Because today we are diving into the chaotic swamp of Coping Skills I Learned on Social Media. And according to the internet, all my trauma can be cured with a mason jar, a deep breath, and a girl named Moonbeam who lives in a van and sells chakra stickers on Etsy. Now with a special guest appearance from my therapist. She has thoughts, feelings, and possibly a migraine because of me.
I used to think coping skills were things you learned in therapy from trained professionals with degrees and clipboards. But no. Social media said, “Move over, licensed clinicians. We’ve got influencers with ring lights.” Suddenly my For You Page became a spiritual Walgreens. One swipe: grounding techniques. Next swipe: breathwork tutorials. Next swipe: “Put lavender oil on your forehead and tell your inner child she’s a baddie.” And listen. I tried them all. Because I’m nothing if not committed to healing. And also easily influenced by people who speak in soft voices and have plants.
Social media told me to ground myself by naming five things I can see. So, there I was. Mid-anxiety spiral whispering, “A lamp. A cat. Another cat. A third cat A pile of laundry judging me. Did it help? Honestly yes. Because halfway through, Piper knocked over a cup. Coco screamed like a banshee. And Tinkerbell tried to eat the sage. Suddenly my anxiety had competition.
2. Breathwork (aka: Hyperventilating, but make it mindful)
Every influencer says the same thing, “Just breathe.” Ma’am I’ve been breathing. That’s the one thing I’ve consistently done since birth. But I tried the 4-6 method. Inhale for 4. Exhale for 6. Repeat until calm or until you pass out. And wake up spiritually refreshed.
At one point I inhaled so dramatically I sounded like a Victorian woman about to faint on a chaise lounge. Piper walked in and asked, “Are you okay or are you summoning something?” Honestly, both.
3. Lavender Oil Girl
There’s always one girl. She’s on every platform. She has perfect skin. A soft voice. And a house that looks like a Pinterest board.She says things like, “Lavender oil cured my generational trauma.”Ma’am my generational trauma is from the south. It has roots. It has acreage. It has a porch. Lavender oil is not strong enough.But I dabbed it on my wrists anyway because I’m weak and easily influenced. Did it cure my trauma? No. Did it make me smell like a Whole Foods aisle? Absolutely.
4. The Cold-Water Trick
“Put your face in ice water to reset your nervous system.” I tried it. I dunked my whole face in a bowl like a Labrador retrieving a tennis ball. Did it help? Yes. Because for 30 seconds, I forgot every problem I’ve ever had.
5. My Therapist’s Opinion (aka: The Professional Sigh Heard ‘Round the World)
Now let’s talk about my therapist. She’s a woman with the patience of Job. The stamina of a kindergarten teacher. And the facial expressions of someone silently asking God for strength. When I told her I’d been practicing coping skills I learned on social media, she blinked three times. Which is the clinical equivalent of buffering and said, “Okay, let’s unpack that.” Which is therapist code for, “Lord, give me the strength not to laugh. Cry. Or quit my job.”
I explained the grounding, the breathwork, the lavender oil, the ice-water face dunking, and the inner-child pep talks. She nodded slowly like someone watching a toddler proudly show them a macaroni necklace. Then she said, “I’m glad you’re trying things. But maybe let’s add some skills that don’t involve drowning yourself in a mixing bowl.” Honestly? Fair.
So, what have I learned from social media coping skills? That healing is a buffet. Take what works. Leave what doesn’t. Laugh at the rest. Grounding helps. Breathwork helps. Lavender oil smells nice. And that girl on TikTok who cured her generational trauma? Good for her. My ancestors said I need something stronger. Like therapy, boundaries, hydration, and maybe a nap that lasts from now until next Tuesday.
But the truth is. If it brings you peace, even for a moment, it counts. Healing doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours. Mic drop. Lavender-scented, but still a mic drop. Thanks for reading! I hope you had a good laugh. Have you noticed any other random social media coping skills?
Affirmation: I am grounding. Breathing. Healing. And laughing my way through the chaos one lavender-scented coping skill at a time.
