This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“Gushers is the strain that reminds you joy doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes it’s just fruit‑flavored and waiting on you.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for its shift. Today we’re calling in the spirit of Gushers. It’s the strain that tastes like somebody melted a bag of fruit snacks on the dashboard of a ’98 Corolla and somehow made it holy.
Gushers is a 60/40 indica-hybrid. Not the kind that can’t make up its mind. This one knows exactly who it is. It’s a laid‑back, fruit‑forward, body‑melting hybrid. And walks into the room wearing Crocs and still pulls focus. This strain is a cross between Gelato #41 × Triangle Kush. Gelato #41 is a cross between Sunset Sherbet × Thin Mint GSC. And Triangle Kush is a cross between Emerald Triangle OG × Hindu Kush. Gushers tastes like fruit snacks, sweet berry syrup, tropical candy, and a whisper of earthy kush on the exhale. It’s the strain equivalent of someone handing you a Capri Sun and saying, “You look like you need this.”
The terpene profile is Caryophyllene, Limonene, and Linalool. Together they create a vibe that’s equal parts candy aisle and meditation pillow. Patients reach for this strain to help with chronic stress, anxiety, mild to moderate pain, mood swings, appetite support, and end‑of‑day decompression. This is a strain that doesn’t rush you. It just hands you a blanket and says, “Baby, breathe.”
Please keep in mind that depending on differences in grows depends on what area of the country it is grown in. Ther will also be slight differences depending on when, where the plant was grown. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’ Have you tried this strain?
Affirmation: I allow sweetness to find me. I soften. I settle. And I let my body remember ease.
“If it smells bad, at least it’s not pretending to be leadership.”
-This Puzzled Life
The Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors pinch their noses and look away. Today we’re diving deeper into the olfactory underworld. We are not merely discussing stink. We are invoking it. We are calling forth the foul, the funky, the spiritually disrespectful aromas that have shaped us. Traumatized us. And strengthened our immune systems.
This is not a blog post. This is a ritual of olfactory truth‑telling. The realm of smells so violent, spiritually disrespectful, and chemically aggressive that OSHA would need a prayer circle. And yet. I trust every single one of them more than the current administration.
Piper has already climbed onto the counter like a tiny, judgmental priestess. While waving her paw through the sage smoke like she’s blessing the space. Tinkerbell is pacing the hallway like she’s preparing to testify before Congress. Coco is sitting in the corner with her eyes half‑closed, whispering, “Mother, the air is lying to us.” And She’s right.
When the world is full of institutional nonsense. Bureaucratic gaslighting. And leadership that smells like a compost bin in August. Sometimes the only thing you can trust is the honest, unfiltered, unapologetic funk of everyday life. So, gather your courage. Gather your nose plugs. Gather your cats if they’re willing. We’re going in. Here is a list of stinky things I trust more than the current administration.
1. The Diaper With a Personal Vendetta
This diaper is not merely stinky. This diaper is sentient. It has a backstory. It has unresolved conflict. It has seen the rise and fall of civilizations. And is now wandering the earth like a cursed relic. It smells like betrayal, hot milk, and generational trauma.
Piper: “Momma, that diaper has a stronger moral compass than the entire federal budget.”
2. The Litter Box Couple in a Toxic Relationship
These two litter boxes have been together for years. They fight. They reconcile. They break up. They get back together. They smell like resentment and clumping clay. One is passive-aggressive. The other is emotionally unavailable. Together, they are the most stable relationship in the house.
Tinkerbell: “At least they own their mess. Can the administration say the same?”
3. The Onion That Has Gone Full Demon Mode
This onion has sprouted tentacles. It has opinions. It has a five‑year plan and a side hustle. It smells like a root vegetable that has lost its faith. You don’t throw this onion away. You negotiate with it.
Coco: “That onion has transparency. I respect that.”
4. The Gym Sock That Has Survived Three Regimes
This sock is crunchy. This sock is haunted. This sock has been to war metaphorically and possibly literally. It smells like despair, ambition, and a middle school locker room.
Piper: “That sock has done more for this country than the administration.”
5. The Trash Can You Forgot During a Heat Wave
This trash can smells like sin. It smells like regret. It smells like a decision you made at 2 a.m. that still haunts you. It has its own gravitational pull.
Tinkerbell: “At least the trash knows it’s trash. And doesn’t require a newly purchased jet to function.”
6. The Forgotten Tupperware in the Back of the Fridge
You know the one. You don’t open it. You don’t touch it. You don’t even look directly at it. It contains a life form that has achieved consciousness and is now applying for citizenship.
Coco: “That Tupperware has accountability. Revolutionary.”
7. The Muddy Boot That Never Fully Dries
This boot smells like mildew, swamp secrets, and the ghost of a crawfish boil. It has been through things. It has trauma. It has character development.
Piper: “That boot would never gaslight me.”
8. The Sponge You Should Have Thrown Away in 2019
This sponge is a biohazard. It is a microbial theme park. It smells like a wet gremlin. And yet? It is more reliable than any press briefing.
Tinkerbell: “That sponge has more structural integrity.”
9. The Bag of Salad That Turned Into Swamp Water Overnight
You bought it with good intentions. You blinked. It liquefied. It smells like a bog witch’s armpit.
Coco: “That salad at least tried to do something productive.”
And so, after reviewing diapers with emotional baggage and a vendetta. Litter boxes in codependent chaos and in couples therapy. Onions with career goals. Haunted gym socks with PTSD. A liquefied bag of salad. And Tupperware that has achieved full spiritual ascension. One truth stands firm. We have toured the underworld of stink. The swamp of scents. The olfactory apocalypse itself. And the current administration? Give me the stink. Give me the chaos. Give me the onion with a five‑year plan. At least they don’t gaslight me.
There are many things in this world that stink. And after all that? I trust every single one of these foul, unholy, nose‑curling abominations more than I trust the current administration. Because at least the stink is honest.
At least the stink warns you before it ruins your day. At least the stink doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. At least the stink owns its chaos instead of filing it under “pending review.” The administration? They’ll hand you a burning dumpster and call it “innovation.”
Piper is lighting sage like she’s trying to smoke out a demon. Tinkerbell is drafting a bill titled “The National Odor Accountability Act.” And Coco is in the corner filing a FOIA request with a clipboard whispering, “We need oversight. We need structure. We need a nose‑based justice system.” As for me? I’m opening a window and letting the truth air out. And my spirit guides begging me to stop reading the news before bed.
Let the record show itself carved into stone. Embroidered on a pillow. Tattooed on the lower back of democracy itself. I trust the stink. I believe the stink. I stand with the stink. And until the administration can match the moral clarity of a trash can in a heat wave? I’ll be over here with my cats, my sage, and my nose plugs. And I’ll be choosing the truth. Choosing the chaos. And choosing the funk. Thanks for reading! And watch this stinky administration cause chaos and ruin our democracy.
Affirmation: I release all illusions, delusions, and government issued nonsense.
“I’m not saying my life is chaotic, but even my cats hold emergency staff meetings before waking me up.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. America just turned 250 years old. And the ancestors, the cats, and the queer community all have something to say.Welcome to the backyard celebration where the grill is smoking. The humidity is judging us. And my cats have formed a bipartisan committee to review the last two and a half centuries of American behavior.Spoiler: the report reads like a Yelp review written by someone who did not enjoy their meal.
Tink, the union rep, conspiracy theorist, and the only cat who can quote the Declaration of Independence while knocking over a pitcher of sweet tea. She is pacing the yard like a Southern aunt who just found out someone brought store‑bought potato salad to the reunion.
Coco, the Sunbeam High Priestess, is perched on the porch rail wearing a magnolia crown. With a look that says she’s about to bless the food. Curse the government. And call on the ancestors in one breath.
Piper, the chaotic gremlin and Security Briefing Officer, is under the picnic table shredding a copy of the Bill of Rights. And it’s like she’s reenacting the Boston Tea Party. But with more attitude and fewer boats.
And me? I’m standing here with a spatula, a prayer, and the kind of patience only a Southern woman with humidity pressing on her soul can muster.
Let’s start with the part America keeps trying to whisper like it’s gossip instead of history. This land belonged to Native peoples. Sovereign nations. Ancient cultures. Communities with governments, languages, and spiritual traditions older than anything Europe could dream up. And from the moment colonizers arrived, Native people were met with violence, displacement, broken treaties, and centuries of injustice that still echo today.
Piper has already drafted a resolution titled, “Acknowledge the original landlords, sugar.”
Tink is lighting a candle for every Native ancestor whose story was erased.
Coco is chewing on a map as symbolism.
The Declaration vs. Today: A Southern Birthday Roast
1. “All men are created equal.”
Back then: a bold statement. Today: treated like the fine print on a Dollar General receipt.
And let’s be honest. It did include Black people, Native people, women, or queer folks. We’ve been fighting ever since to make those words true.
2. “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.”
Originally: a promise. Now: feels like trying to get a refund at Walmart without a receipt.
Tink is offended on behalf of the ancestors.
3. “No taxation without representation.”
Today: Representation that sometimes forgets who it’s supposed to represent.
Coco is chewing on a campaign flyer as symbolism and possibly a snack.
4. The Bill of Rights
A beautiful list of protections America treats like a potluck. Take what you want. Ignore the vegetables. And pretend the casserole section doesn’t exist.
Piper is muttering, “If they’d just read the whole thing, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
America didn’t magically improve. It was dragged lovingly, loudly, and sometimes kicking by people who refused to sit down or shut up.
I’m talking about people like:
Harriet Tubman, who freed herself and then went back repeatedly to free others.
Frederick Douglass, who told America the truth with more clarity than any Founder.
Rosa Parks, who sat down so the nation would stand up.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who turned civil disobedience into a moral mirror.
John Lewis, who taught us about “good trouble.”
Fannie Lou Hamer, Mississippi’s own, who said she was, “sick and tired of being sick and tired” and meant it.
Native activists, from the American Indian Movement to modern water protectors, who have fought for sovereignty and dignity for generations.
Tink has declared them the true Founders of America’s second draft.
And because America’s story isn’t complete without the queer community. Especially the ones who risked everything so future generations could breathe freely.
Our leaders were:
Marsha P. Johnson, who threw the first brick of truth.
Sylvia Rivera, who demanded that trans people not be erased from the movement they helped build.
Bayard Rustin, the strategist behind the March on Washington, whose brilliance shaped the Civil Rights Movement even as he faced discrimination for being gay.
Audre Lorde, who taught us that silence never saved anyone.
Harvey Milk, who insisted that visibility is power.
These leaders didn’t just fight for rights. They fought for the right to exist.
Piper has added them to the “Heroes Who Did America’s Homework For Her” list.
And while we’re being honest. America isn’t white. America is black brilliance. Native resilience. Brown creativity. Asian innovation. Pacific Islander strength. Middle Eastern wisdom. Multiracial beauty. Queer joy. Immigrant courage. And every shade, accent, and story in between. Color is what makes this country beautiful. Color is what makes this country possible.
Tink has declared this the official theme of the 250th, “Patriotism, but make it multicultural.”
Coco has declared the theme, “Snacks and diversity.”
Piper has declared the theme, “America is a gumbo, not a mayonnaise sandwich.”
Happy 250th, America!You’re messy. You’re dramatic. You’re full of contradictions, potential, and fireworks that definitely violate at least three county ordinances.But you’re ours. And we’re going to keep fighting, laughing, voting, boundary‑setting, and sage‑burning until you live up to the promises you made on Day One.
Because the Declaration wasn’t a suggestion. The Bill of Rights wasn’t a Pinterest board. And democracy isn’t a spectator sport. It’s a potluck where everybody better bring something besides complaints. May America’s next 250 years be less “Hold my beer” and more “Hold my principles.” And if not, don’t worry. My cats already drafted a backup government using crayons, glitter, and pure Southern audacity. Thanks for reading! And let freedom ring.
Affirmation: I am a whole miracle with seasoning. Not everyone can handle the flavor. And that’s their burden to carry, bless their heart.”
“Hemp is strong. Sustainable. And slightly less dramatic than the cats in this house.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. If we’re going to honor National Hemp Month, we need the ancestors, the angels, and at least three bored saints on standby. The spirits of Southern chaos have already begun circling the living room like they’re waiting for a casserole to come out the oven. The energy in this house is already vibrating like a Dollar General ceiling fan on its last screw. And Piper has been pacing the hallway like she’s waiting for a verdict from the Supreme Court of Snacks.
The moment the sage smoke curled upward, Piper burst into the room wearing a bathrobe she absolutely stole from the clean laundry basket.
She spoke like she was about to deliver a prophecy.
Piper: “Momma, it is Hemp Month. I have prepared a statement.”
Before I could respond, Coco slid in behind her like a baseball player stealing home. She was holding a bag of Temptations in her mouth like a union negotiator arriving with concessions. She mumbled through the bag.
Coco: “I’m here in solidarity, And also because I heard hemp can be used to make rope. And rope can be used to hang treat piñatas.”
From above us, on top of the fridge, Tinkerbell let out the kind of sigh that only a cat who has read the Constitution twice can produce.
Tinkerbell: “You two are embarrassing. Hemp is an agricultural commodity with a nuanced regulatory framework. Not a snack-based holiday.”
Piper gasped.
Piper: “Everything is a snack-based holiday if you believe hard enough.”
And that’s when I knew that this intro needed to be fortified. This month needed to be fortified. I needed to be fortified. So, I sprinkled more sage. A little more charcoal. And maybe a splash of holy water for good measure.
If National Hemp Month is going to happen in thishousehold, I’m going to need the strength of industrial hemp itself. It’s flexible. Resilient. And capable of withstanding the absolute foolishness of three feline revolutionaries who think they’re about to unionize the living room. And that’s just the intro.
I swear. I was just trying to light a candle and mind my business. And Piper came skidding into the kitchen like she’d been summoned by the Department of Agriculture itself.
Piper: “We must prepare the house.”
Coco peeked around the corner holding a bag of treats like a bribe.
Coco: “I’m just here to support the movement and also to see if snacks are involved.”
Tinkerbell: “Both of you are unserious. Hemp is a versatile agricultural commodity with a complex regulatory history. And you, she pointed a paw at Piper, are wearing a cape made from a dish towel.”
Piper: “It’s ceremonial.”
I tried to explain that National Hemp Month is about education, sustainability, and celebrating a plant that has been misunderstood more than a Southern woman who says, “I’m fine.” Piper had already declared herself Hemp Czar and was marching through the house inspecting imaginary crops.
Coco: “Do hemp farmers get snacks? Because I’m willing to pivot careers.”
Tinkerbell rolled her eyes so hard I heard it.
Tinkerbell: “Hemp is federally legal, Coco. You don’t get snacks for following the law.”
Coco: “Then what’s the point?”
Tinkerbell cleared her throat like she was about to read from the Book of Revelation.
Tinkerbell: “Under the 2018 Farm Bill, hemp was federally legalized as long as it contains no more than 0.3 percent THC. States regulate production through USDA-approved plans. And farmers must test crops to ensure compliance. Some states are stricter. Some are looser. And all of them are confused. Hemp is legal. But only if it behaves.”
Piper: “So if the hemp gets too excited, it becomes a criminal?”
Tinkerbell: “Yes. Just like you after 9 p.m.”
I tried to bring the energy back to something wholesome.
She climbed onto the coffee table. Cleared her throat. And declared,
Piper: “Hemp is the fabric of our future. Also, I request a hemp hammock, a hemp scratching post, and a hemp crown.”
Coco clapped
Coco: “I second the crown.”
Tinkerbell stared at me like, “This is your circus. These are your monkeys.”
By the end of the night, Piper had drafted a “Hemp Bill of Rights.” Coco had eaten half a bag of treats in the name of activism. And Tinkerbell had filed three formal complaints with the imaginary Feline Ethics Committee.
And me? I blew out the sage. Looked at my household of furry legislators. And whispered, “Lord, give me the strength of industrial hemp to withstand the foolishness of this house.” Curtain closed. Hemp Month survived. Thanks for reading! Stay educated. What do you think about the current legislation regarding hemp?
Affirmation: “I honor the plant. Embrace the chaos. And stay grounded even when my cats form a hemp committee without my consent.”
“Some folks meditate. Some folks journal. I personally prefer a strain strong enough to make my trauma sit down and hush like it’s in church.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re not just talking about PTSD. We’re talking about the botanical emotional support squad that keeps half this nation from screaming into a throw pillow at 3 AM. These are the 2026 strains for PTSD. Plus, the classic strains that have held us down since the Bush administration.
Let me tell you something. If PTSD awareness had a mascot. It wouldn’t be a bald eagle, a ribbon, or some inspirational mountain silhouette. It would be a raccoon in a bathrobe holding a half‑charged vape pen and whispering, “You good?”
And before anybody starts with the “PTSD is only for veterans” , it is equal‑opportunity chaos. It hits veterans, yes. But it also hits childhood survivors, domestic violence survivors, medical trauma survivors, and people who grew up in households where the family motto was basically “We don’t talk about that.” And anyone who has ever tried to call customer service during Mercury retrograde.
My PTSD didn’t come from a battlefield. It came from childhood trauma, adult trauma, and a lifetime of being handed emotional assignments I, absolutely, did not sign up for. And guess what? It’s still real. It’s still valid. And it still deserves treatment that doesn’t come with a 47‑page lawsuit attached to it.
Which brings me to medical cannabis. It’s the only medication I’ve ever taken that didn’t require a blood test, a warning label, and a prayer circle. Big Pharma stays in court like it’s a hobby. Cannabis? Cannabis just wants you hydrated, fed, and emotionally stable enough to fold laundry.
And with the way this country is going, the news, the politics, the economy, the general vibe, the rate of PTSD is about to skyrocket like it’s trying to win a prize. Let’s talk about the strains that are stepping up in 2026 to keep us from losing our entire minds.
2026 NEW STRAINS FOR PTSD
1. Moonwater Mercy (Hybrid)
(Blue Moonshine x Lavender Ghost x Watermelon Gelato)
This strain feels like someone put a weighted blanket on your soul. Expect calm, clarity, and the sudden ability to answer emails without crying. Perfect for: intrusive thoughts, doom spirals, and “Why did I walk into this room?”
2. Velvet Lantern (Indica‑leaning Hybrid)
(Purple Velvet × (Ghost OG × Honeydew Cream))
Soft. Warm. Comforting. Like being hugged by a grandmother who actually went to therapy. Great for nighttime PTSD symptoms and shutting down the brain’s late‑night conspiracy theories.
Bright, uplifting, and shockingly functional. This one gives you energy without anxiety — a miracle, truly. Ideal for daytime PTSD management and remembering you’re a whole adult with things to do.
4. Quiet Harbor (Indica)
(Northern Lights × (Harbor Mist × Blue Zkittlez))
This strain is basically emotional noise‑canceling headphones. Your nervous system goes from “car alarm” to “gentle tide sounds” in about ten minutes.
5. Blue Ember Renewal (Balanced Hybrid)
(Blueberry × (Ember Kush × Renewal Cake))
A perfect 50/50 that smooths out mood swings, reduces hypervigilance, and helps you stop side‑eyeing every noise in the house like you’re in a horror movie.
CLASSIC STRAINS FOR PTSD (The OG Emotional Support Crew)
1. Granddaddy Purple
(Purple Urkle × Big Bud)
The strain that tucked half of America into bed. Heavy relaxation, deep calm, and the ability to sleep like you’re being paid for it.
2. Blue Dream
(Blueberry × Haze)
The people’s champion. Creative, calm, and uplifting without making your heart beat like a hummingbird on espresso.
3. Girl Scout Cookies (GSC)
(Durban Poison × OG Kush)
Euphoric, grounding, and perfect for when your brain is doing too much. A classic for emotional regulation and mood stabilization
4. Do‑Si‑Dos
(Girl Scout Cookies (GSC) × Face Off OG)
Deep body calm, mental quiet, and the sudden ability to forgive people you don’t even like. A PTSD staple.
5. OG Kush
(Chemdawg × Lemon Thai × Hindu Kush)
The original “I need to chill before I throw this whole house away” strain. Relaxing, grounding, and reliable.
If you’ve made it this far, you’ve just survived a guided tour through the 2026 PTSD strain lineup. The classics that raised us. And the emotional circus that is living in this country right now. PTSD is real. PTSD is widespread. PTSD is not limited to veterans. And pretending otherwise only hurts the millions of us who survived battles nobody saw.
But here’s the good news. We’re healing. We’re laughing. We’re finding relief in plant medicine that doesn’t come with a lawsuit or a side effect list longer than a CVS receipt. And if the world keeps spiraling the way it’s spiraling, at least we’ll have strains strong enough to keep us grounded, sane, and spiritually moisturized. Trauma may have shaped you, but cannabis is helping you rewrite the ending. Sage still burning. We’re healing anyway. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’
Affirmation: I am healing, hydrated, and held together by equal parts resilience and premium-grade cannabis. My peace is non‑refundable. My boundaries are laminate. And my nervous system is finally minding its business.
“My peace stays protected because I refuse to wrestle with hypocrisy. Especially when my cats can spot it faster than I can.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today we’re talking about conservative Christians who shame the LGBTQIA+ community while swimming in hypocrisy so deep they need a snorkel, a flotation device, and a word with Jesus Himself. And doing the spiritual equivalent of showing up to church with a flask in their Bible cover.
Piper has already put on her “I’m judging you but politely” face. Coco is pacing like she’s waiting for someone to confess on camera. Tinkerbell has taken one look at the hypocrisy and gone back to bed because she said, “Mama, I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for this.” If hypocrisy were a sport, half these folks would have endorsement deals. It is not ankle‑deep. It is not knee‑deep. It is baptism‑level immersion. Gather your spirit, your boundaries, and your emotional support snacks, we’re going in.
You ever notice how the loudest voices yelling “SIN!” are the same ones who have a secret second family. Or are having premarital sex that they condemn others about. They have a prayer request list longer than the CVS receipt. And a browser history that would make a demon blush? They’ll shame queer folks for existing. Then turn around and gossip so hard the angels have to put in earplugs. They’ll say, “We’re just protecting traditional values.” While their own values are out back doing donuts in the church parking lot. They’ll say, “We’re worried about the children.” While their children are on TikTok learning more compassion in 30 seconds than the adults have learned in 30 years.
Piper watches conservative Christian culture shame queer folks and whispers, “If hypocrisy were a spiritual gift, half these people would be apostles.” She sits on the arm of the couch like a bishop. She remembers the potluck of 2014. She knows who brought the store‑bought potato salad and lied.
Coco sees the hypocrisy and immediately starts knocking things off the counter. She says it’s “symbolic.” She says she’s “cleansing the space.” She says if one more person uses Jesus as a weapon, she’s flipping the whole table like it’s the Last Supper Reunion Special. And she is one tail flick away from staging a full‑scale revival.
Tinkerbell curls up in my lap and whispers, “If they spent half as much time loving people as they do policing them, the world would be healed by now.” Then she falls asleep because the hypocrisy exhausted her spirit. It hurts. I really does.
To be told you’re wrong for loving. To be told you’re broken for existing. To be told your joy is sinful while someone else’s cruelty is “righteous.” But the ancestors keep whispering, “There is nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you. The problem is the mirror they refuse to look into.” And that mirror is dusty.
Piper says, “Judge not, lest ye be caught doing worse behind the fellowship hall.” Coco says, “Shame is not a ministry. But I can make it one if needed.” And Tinkerbell says, “Take a nap. You deserve softness.” And I say, “We will not shrink. We will not apologize. We will not dim our joy to make someone else’s fear comfortable.”
That concludes today’s sermon on love, truth, and the Olympic‑level gymnastics required to shame queer folks while ignoring your own mess. Piper has officially closed her Bible and whispered, “This ain’t what Jesus meant.” Coco is knocking over a decorative cross because she said the energy is fraudulent. Tinkerbell has curled up on my chest and declared the hypocrisy “spiritually crusty.”
Bless your identity, your joy, your pronouns, your peace, and your whole queer spirit. Because if conservative Christian culture insists on swimming in hypocrisy, then we’ll be over here floating in truth, glitter, and emotional freedom. And supervised by three cats who refuse to let shame win.
Affirmation: I walk in truth, joy, and glitter‑coated freedom. No shame formed against me will prosper, because my spirit is protected, my boundaries are blessed, and my cats will hiss at anything that tries me.
“I’m not saying I’m dramatic. But if God wanted me to stay calm, he wouldn’t have given me this much personality and this many conservative relatives.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today we’re gathering around the communal table to honor a sacred, undercelebrated, and deeply cherished group of humans. Our allies. The real ones. Not the “I posted a rainbow square once in 2020” crowd. Not the “I love you but don’t tell my pastor” crowd. Not the “thoughts and prayers for your eternal soul” crowd who clutch their prayer list so hard they leave dents.
I’m talking about the folks who show up when nobody’s watching. The ones who defend us without needing applause, cameras, or a political campaign ad with soft piano music and a bald eagle crying in the background. The ones who embody actual Christianity. The kind Jesus practiced before it got franchised. Monetized. And turned into a small‑town HOA with a pulpit.
Piper has already hopped on the counter and declared, “Finally. A blog about the humans who actually act right.” Tinkerbell is nodding solemnly like a tiny furry deacon. Coco is passing out imaginary communion wafers made of Temptations treats.
And me? I’m over here emotional because these allies, the everyday saints, remind us that our souls aren’t one color. Our souls are a rainbow quilt that is stitched together with joy, grief, glitter, and generational resilience. Humanity was always meant to be fabulous. Some folks just missed the memo while they were too busy policing everyone else’s salvation.
To our allies who stand up for us in grocery store aisles, family dinners, church parking lots, and in group chats where the bigots get bold. And we see you. You don’t do it for credit. You don’t do it for clout. You don’t do it because it’s trendy. You do it because your moral compass isn’t powered by fear, shame, or whatever Fox News is microwaving that day. You do it because you know love is supposed to be lived. Not legislated.
You do it because you understand that Jesus wasn’t white, wealthy, or sponsored by the pulpit politics committee. You do it because you know that if Jesus showed up today, half these conservative Christians would call the cops on him for wearing sandals and hanging out with marginalized people. You do it because you know the difference between performative faith and actual compassion. And the difference is louder than a praise band with a broken sound system.
Meanwhile, some conservative Christians are out here condemning queer folks by day and conducting their secret lives in the dark night of shadows like they’re auditioning for a low‑budget soap opera. Piper said, “Mama, the hypocrisy is giving mildew.” Tinkerbell added, “It’s giving spiritual swamp water.” And Coco simply hissed and walked away. Honestly, they’re honesty felt like Scripture.
Tinkerbell (the eldest emotionally, the judge, the one who has seen things): “First of all, thank you to the allies who defend my mama like she’s the last biscuit at a Baptist potluck. Y’all are the reason she walks around this house with her shoulders back and her spirit moisturized. I watch everything from the top of the fridge. And trust me. The world needs more of you and fewer people who weaponize Scripture like it’s a coupon they clipped wrong.”
Piper (chaotic, believes she is a pastor): “I would like to personally thank the allies who understand that Jesus hung out with the marginalized. And not the HOA board of conservative Christianity. If Jesus came back today, half these folks would call the police because he looks ‘suspicious.’ And the other half would ask him to sign their Bible like it’s a meet‑and‑greet. But you allies would offer him a seat, a snack, and a safe place to rest. That’s ministry.”
Coco (the one who knocks things over for emphasis): “Thank you for clapping back at bigots with the precision of a cat swatting a glass off a counter. Thank you for knowing that love is louder than hypocrisy. And that closets are for coats, not people. Also, I knocked over that decorative cross because the energy felt off. You’re welcome.”
Piper (interrupting): “And let’s be clear. The allies who show up quietly and don’t need applause, y’all are the real disciples. Meanwhile, some folks out here preaching purity while living double lives that smell like unwashed secrets and expired communion juice.”
Tinkerbell (fanning herself with an imaginary church program): “It’s always the loudest ones who have the most to hide. But our allies? They’re out here living the gospel without needing to weaponize it. They’re out here loving people like Jesus actually instructed. They’re out here doing the work while others are doing theatrics.”
Coco (dramatically rolling onto her back): “Thank you for loving my mama in ways that make her laugh. Breathe easier. And feel safe. Thank you for being the humans she trusts. Thank you for being the reason she doesn’t hiss at the world like I do.”
And before this blog sashays off the stage in a cloud of glitter and righteous truth. My cats insisted, loudly, dramatically, and with the authority of three tiny elders, that they get the final word.
Piper (tail flicking like a church lady’s fan):“Thank you, allies. Without you, Mama wouldn’t have had the courage to build the life she has now. And without that life, we wouldn’t have our brothers. The chaotic, beloved, biscuit‑stealing boys who complete this household circus.”
Tinkerbell (paws folded like she’s about to deliver a sermon): “Y’all didn’t just stand up for Mama. You stood beside her. And because of that, this rainbow‑stitched, Southern‑chaotic, cat‑ruled family, exists exactly as it should. Our brothers are here because you helped create a world where love could breathe.”
Coco (rolling dramatically onto her back again for emphasis): “Thank you for giving Mama the safety and strength to choose love boldly. And because of you, we have brothers to wrestle, cuddle, judge, and occasionally blame for things we definitely did.”
To every ally who shows up without needing a spotlight, thank you. Thank you for representing the Jesus who loved without conditions, fear, or a PR team. Thank you for knowing that our souls shimmer in every color ever created. Thank you for standing in the gap when the world gets loud, cruel, or hypocritical.
And to the conservative Christians who are more performative than biblical? Your secret life is showing. And it’s not giving Beatitudes. Our allies are out here living the gospel without needing to weaponize it. They’re out here loving us in ways that heal generational wounds. And they’re out here proving that humanity, at its best, is a rainbow.
All three, in a furry chorus of gratitude, “Thank you for helping build the home we nap in. The love we live in. And the family we purr in.” And with that, the cats have spoken. The rainbow has shimmered. The truth has been told. The gays salute you with both hands. A fan snap. And three very grateful cats. Piper has closed her laptop. Tinkerbell has said “Amen.” Coco has knocked over another decorative cross for emphasis.
And me? I’m ending this with a fan snap. A grateful heart. And a truth that cannot be dimmed. Real allies don’t just stand with us. They help us rise. Spirit moisturized. Rainbow restored. Thanks for reading! And Happy Pride Everyone Especially Our Allies!
Affirmation: Today, I walk in my truth, glitter, and my God‑given audacity. I am loved. Protected. And too fabulous to be bothered by anyone who still thinks ‘rainbow’ is a political statement.
“My boundaries are so tight now that if you overstep, my spirit will escort you back to your lane before I even open my mouth free of charge.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. The ancestors have gathered on my porch like it’s a family reunion, and they are whispering, “We did NOT endure Jim Crow, bad perms, and church fans with funeral ads on the back for you to let people treat your peace like a community potluck.”
Meanwhile, my cats have formed a boundary tribunal on the kitchen counter. Tails flicking. Eyes narrowed. And judging me with the same intensity they use when I buy the wrong flavor of treats.
One cat is channeling Harriet Tubman energy. Another is giving “your great‑granddaddy who didn’t play about his land.” The third is licking her paw like, “Let’s see if she finally learned how to say no without a 12‑slide PowerPoint.”
So welcome to Boundary School. Where the ancestors are the professors. The cats are the teaching assistants. And I am the student who keeps asking, “Is this going to be on the test?” People know the word boundaries the way they know the word ‘fiber.’ They’ve heard it’s important. But they have no earthly idea how to actually use it.”
People think boundaries are a vibe, a mood, a Pinterest board, or a cute quote on Instagram with a beige background. Boundaries are actually a set of rules that protect your time, energy, and sanity. A spiritual fence. A divine “Do Not Disturb” sign blessed by your ancestors. Boundaries are not rude. They are not mean. They are not optional. They are emotional sunscreen. And some of y’all are out here raw‑dogging the sun.
People misinterpret boundaries the way they misinterpret IKEA instructions. They think they understand. But the final product is wobbling. Missing screws. And leaning against the wall for emotional support. And people will swear you need their approval like it’s oxygen. When really it’s more like glitter which is unnecessary. Messy. And half the time it ends up places it shouldn’t.
Here’s the thing. You don’t need outside validation to live your life. Make your choices. Or protect your peace. You’re not a coupon that needs to be scanned. You’re not a parking ticket waiting for someone to stamp “approved.” You’re a whole human being with ancestors behind you. And a spirit that knows exactly what it’s doing.
People will misinterpret your confidence as arrogance. Because they’re used to you shrinking. They’ll say things like “You sure about that?” “I mean if that’s what you want to do.” Or “you’re making a mistake. But suit yourself.” When the only mistake would be letting people who can’t manage their own lives narrate yours.
My cats don’t seek validation. They don’t ask, “Was that a good jump?” They don’t wonder, “Do you like my vibe today?” They simply exist confidently, unapologetically, and occasionally on top of the fridge for no reason. Meanwhile, humans out here waiting for applause before they take a step.
Here’s the truth the ancestors keep whispering. “If you need permission, you’ll always be waiting. If you trust yourself, you’ll always be moving.” Your worth is not up for a vote. Your decisions are not a group project. Your life is not a suggestion box. You don’t need validation. You need alignment. And those are two very distinctly different things.
Some folks hear the word “boundaries” and immediately translate it into, “You’re being mean.” “You’re shutting me out.” “You think you’re better than me.” “You must be going through something.” Or my favorite “You’ve changed.” No, sweetheart. I’m not being mean. I’m being clear. And clarity feels like cruelty to people who benefited from your confusion.
Boundaries are not punishment. They are not revenge. They are not emotional eviction notices. But people will swear up and down that your boundary is a personal attack. Even though all you said was, “I’m not available for that.” Suddenly you’re the villain in their story. the antagonist in their memoir, the reason their tomato plants won’t grow this year.
Meanwhile, my cats set boundaries all day long and nobody questions it. A cat can walk away mid‑petting session, and everyone says, “Aww, look at her being independent.” But let a human say, “I need some space,” and suddenly it’s a federal investigation. Boundaries get misinterpreted because people confuse access with entitlement. They think your time is their time. Your energy is their energy. Your peace is their playground. And when you finally say, “Actually, no,” they act like you’ve personally unplugged their life support.
But here’s the truth and the ancestors are nodding in agreement. A boundary is not a wall. It’s a door with a lock. And you get to decide who has the key. Boundaries fall into categories and knowing them helps you enforce them without guilt.
1. Physical Boundaries
Your body, your space, your bubble. If someone stands too close, you have the right to step back like a cat avoiding a toddler.
2. Emotional Boundaries
You are not a sponge. You are not a therapist. You are not a free emotional storage unit.
3. Time Boundaries
Your time is not a community resource. You are not FEMA.
4. Material Boundaries
Your car, your money, your Tupperware. Especially the Tupperware. The ancestors get real loud about that one.
5. Conversational Boundaries
You don’t have to discuss things that drain you. You can simply say, “I’m not available for that topic,” and walk away like a cat who heard the treat bag but decided you weren’t worthy.
WHY HUMANS STRUGGLE (AND CATS DO NOT)
Humans: “I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”
Cats: “I will leave this room mid‑sentence and feel nothing.”
Humans: “I don’t want them to think I’m mean.”
Cats: “I will slap your hand away and then take a nap.”
Humans: “I don’t want to disappoint people.”
Cats: “I disappoint people recreationally.”
Cats are boundary prodigies. Humans are boundary interns.
The ancestors want you to know that “No” is a complete sentence. “I’m not available” is a spiritual practice. “That doesn’t work for me” is a generational blessing. “I’m leaving now” is self‑care. “I don’t receive that” is emotional pest control. They also want you to stop explaining yourself like you’re applying for a loan.
And as we close this ceremony of wisdom, comedy, and feline judgment, let us honor the truth. The ancestors did not survive oppression, heartbreak, and church potlucks with questionable potato salad for you to let someone’s grown child drain your spirit like a cracked Yeti cup. Your boundaries are sacred. Your peace is ancestral property. Your “no” is a generational blessing.
May your boundaries be as firm as a cat who has decided your pillow is now their homeland. May your spirit be as unbothered as a cat ignoring its name. May your peace be as protected as the good Tupperware. And may your boundaries rise up like your ancestors intended.
My boundaries are set. My peace is protected. And my spirit is no longer accepting walk‑ins. If you can’t handle that, take it up with the ancestors. They’re the ones who told me to stop letting folks treat my life like an open‑bar wedding. And with that, I’m stepping back into my joy, my clarity, and my God‑given right to say “no” without a dissertation. Thanks for reading! And protect your peace.
Affirmation: “I honor my peace like it’s heirloom china. I say no with confidence, yes with intention, and I protect my energy the way my ancestors protected the good cornbread recipe.”
“I’m not tired. I’m Southern‑tired. Which means my soul needs a nap. My spirit needs a snack. And my cats need me to stop acting like I’m immortal.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors clock in for their shift. Today’s energy walked in here barefoot. Tracking mud across my spirit. And my Southern cats have already filed a complaint. Listen. If self‑care were a Southern woman, she’d be standing on your porch right now. Her hands on hips. Church finger raised saying, “Baby, you look tired. Not regular tired. The kind of tired where even your shadow needs to sit down.”
Let me tell you something right now. Self‑care is not optional. Self‑care is not a luxury. Self‑care is not “I’ll get to it after I finish these 47 tasks and emotionally babysit three grown adults.” Self‑care is a requirement like sweet tea at a funeral. Or humidity in July. And if you don’t believe me, that’s fine. The cats do. And they’ve unionized. The cats are inside holding a family meeting about your wellbeing like, “Bless her heart. She tried to drink coffee for hydration again.”
This is not a drill. This is a wellness emergency. This is FEMA‑level fatigue with a side of “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” And the cats have decided they will NOT be attending your funeral if you don’t get it together. Piper has already drafted a strongly worded letter to the universe. Coco is practicing her disappointed stare in the mirror. And Tinkerbell is pacing like she’s preparing to deliver a eulogy she absolutely does not have time for. They’re unified. They’re fed up. And they’ve declared you a Code Red Hot Mess until further notice.
Piper is perched on the counter like a tiny porch‑sitting auntie whispering, “Baby, cleanse this house before the chaos gets ideas.” Coco is circling my feet like she’s smudging the perimeter with her attitude alone. And Tinkerbell has taken her position by the window. And she’s staring into the horizon like she’s negotiating with forces I can’t see. We reclaim the room, the mood, and the moment. Negative energy gather your belongings and exit like you were raised right.
It started last Tuesday when I sat down on the couch. I was exhausted. And holding a cup of coffee that tasted like it had given up on life. Piper hopped up beside me, stared directly into my soul, and said (in fluent Southern telepathy),“Ma’am. When was the last time you drank water?”
Coco strutted in behind her like a wellness coach who charges $300 an hour and doesn’t take insurance. “And when,” she added, “was the last time you sat down without clenching your jaw like you’re trying to crack a pecan with your molars?” Tinkerbell didn’t say a word. She just placed one paw on my knee which is the universal sign for, “Baby, you’re running on fumes and spite.”
People hear “self‑care” and think it means a spa day, a $90 candle, or a bath bomb that promises enlightenment. But real self‑care is things like drinking water before your kidneys file a complaint. Saying “no” without writing a three‑paragraph apology. Resting because your body is not a rental car. Eating something green that didn’t come from a gummy bear. And getting enough rest so that your mind and body has time to digest what’s going on throughout our nation. It’s the quiet, unglamorous maintenance that keeps you from turning into a feral possum in a Dollar General parking lot.
Getting enough rest is not optional. It’s the bare‑minimum maintenance required to keep you from turning into a sleep‑deprived cryptid haunting your own kitchen. Your body is not a 24‑hour Waffle House. And yet you keep acting like folks can wander in at any hour demanding emotional hash browns “scattered, smothered, and covered.” Meanwhile, your Southern cats are watching you shuffle around the house like a ghost who missed their exit to the afterlife.
Piper keeps blinking slow like she’s trying to Morse‑code “go lay down.” Coco has already dragged a blanket onto the couch in protest. Tinkerbell is perched on the armrest while giving you that look that says, “If you don’t rest voluntarily, we will stage a wellness coup.” Rest is not laziness. Rest is strategy. Rest is how you keep your spirit from filing for divorce.
Piper naps 19 hours a day and feels no shame. Coco refuses to let anyone touch her unless she specifically requests it. Tinkerbell meditates by staring at the wall like she’s communing with the ancestors. These cats have boundaries so strong they could stop a hurricane. And here I am, letting people text me “hey u up?” at 6 AM like I’m a Waffle House.
Down South self‑care also means ignoring your phone like it’s a bill collector. Sitting on the porch and letting the breeze baptize you. Lighting a candle and telling the ancestors, “Handle it. I’m tired.” And eating a biscuit because joy is medicinal. And yes, sometimes it means telling your entire family, “I love y’all. But I’m off duty today. Please direct all emotional emergencies to Jesus or the group chat.”
Piper says, “Hydrate or diedrate.” Tinkerbell says, “Rest is resistance.” And Coco says, “If you don’t take care of yourself, I will sit on your chest until you do.” Honestly, that last one felt like both a threat and a blessing. You deserve rest. You deserve softness. You deserve to take care of yourself without guilt gnawing at your ankles. Self‑care is not selfish. Self‑care is how you stay alive. Stay sane. And stay Southern without cussing out the entire tri‑county area. This means that I also need to do better at self-care.
So, here’s the truth. And it’s delivered with the force of a cast‑iron skillet hitting a countertop. If you don’t start taking care of yourself, your cats will file a formal complaint with the ancestors. And they will win. Rest. Hydrate. Set boundaries. Do it like your sanity depends on it because it does. We’ve still got many months of with this horrible administration.
Now go practice some self‑care before Piper drafts a PowerPoint. Coco calls HR. And Tinkerbell summons the spirits to intervene. And that’s on sweet tea, porch swings, and minding your blessed business. Thanks for reading! And know that you’re worth it.
Affirmation: I honor my rest. Protect my peace. And let my body recharge without guilt. Because even my ancestors and my cats agree that a well‑rested me is a powerful me.
“Trauma doesn’t make you weak. It makes you a witness to your own survival.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for a shift. And let the air shift like it’s bracing itself for whatever truth you’re about to drag into the daylight. Today isn’t about pretending everything’s fine or slapping a smile on top of a wound. It’s not about the vibes, snacks, or cats doing interpretive dance in the sunbeam. It’s about trauma awareness. It is about naming the things we survived. The things we carried alone. The things we laughed through so we wouldn’t crumble. It’s a Southern‑fried, emotionally honest, and funny enough to keep you from dissolving into a puddle on the kitchen floor.
Trauma Awareness is the kind that hides in your shoulders, jaw, breath, memories, and your jokes. And if we’re going to talk about it, we’re going to do it the only way I know how. Complete with honesty, humor, and the kind of emotional courage that feels like taking your bra off after a long day. It’s painful, relieving, and absolutely necessary.
There’s a moment right before you talk about trauma where your whole spirit goes, “Are we sure we want to do this?” It’s the same tone you use when someone says, “Let’s just run into Walmart real quick.” You know it’s not going to be quick. You know you’re going to see something you can’t unsee. You know you’re going to come out changed. Talking about trauma is like that. Except instead of a man in pajama pants buying raw chicken and fireworks, it’s your nervous system holding up a sign that says, “We’ve been through some things, ma’am.”
Trauma doesn’t just show up when you’re ready. Trauma is that one cousin who arrives early. Eats all the good snacks. And then says, “Why you look stressed?” It pops up at the worst times especially when you’re trying to relax. When you’re trying to sleep. When you’re trying to enjoy a sandwich. When you’re trying to mind your business. And when you’re trying to be a functioning adult for five minutes. Trauma will tap you on the shoulder like, “Hey bestie, remember that thing from 1998? No? Well, I do.” And suddenly you’re staring at the wall like it owes you money.
Your body remembers everything. Even the stuff you tried to bury under humor, iced coffee, and pretending you’re fine. You’ll be walking through Wal-Mart. Touching a throw pillow. And your body will whisper, “Hey, remember that time?” And you’re like, “No I do not. I am touching a pillow. Let me live.” But trauma doesn’t care. Trauma is like a Southern grandmother with a memory like a steel trap. And no sense of timing.
People talk about healing like it’s a spa day. Let me tell you something. Healing is not cucumber water and a robe. Healing is crying in the shower because your shampoo smells like 2007. Healing is realizing you’ve been clenching your jaw since the Bush administration. Healing is sitting in your car after therapy like you just got hit by an emotional freight train. Healing is messy. Healing is loud. Healing is quiet. Healing is confusing. Healing is holy. Healing is exhausting. Healing is worth it. But cute? Absolutely not.
So, buckle up. Because the cats have decided it’s Trauma Awareness Hour. And apparently they’ve all been waiting their whole lives to trauma dump with the enthusiasm of a group therapy circle run by toddlers. And today is the day they ask deeply personal questions with the emotional sensitivity of a toddler holding a chainsaw. They have formed a circle. They have snacks. They have opinions. And apparently, they have questions about my trauma.
Me: “Okay, girls. Today we’re talking about trauma. Share whatever you feel comfortable with.”
She raises paw like she’s in kindergarten
Piper: “I’ll go first because my story is the most dramatic. Obviously.”
Coco: “Oh lord.”
Tinkerbell: “Let the child speak. She needs this.”
Piper: “So picture this. Me and my siblings. In a metal box. In the Mississippi heat, basically sautéing like tiny furry cornbread muffins.”
Me: “Baby, that’s awful.”
Piper: “I know. I was basically a rotisserie chicken with trauma.”
Coco: “You were a sweaty raisin with opinions.”
Piper: “Anyway, I survived because I’m dramatic and stubborn. And now every time the sunbeam hits me wrong, I flop over like a Victorian woman fainting at a garden party.”
Tinkerbell: “You faint because you forget to breathe when you get excited.”
Piper: “Trauma. Tinkerbell. Let me have this.”
Coco clears throat like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk
Coco: “My siblings and I were found under a house. A house. Do you know what lives under houses? Darkness. Ghosts. Tax evasion. I was basically a feral raccoon with trust issues.”
Me: “You’ve come so far.”
Coco: “Yes. And now I cope by judging everyone. It’s called growth.”
Piper: “You judge me the most.”
Coco: “You give me the most material.”
Tinkerbell: “I don’t remember my trauma.”
Me: “At all?”
Tinkerbell: “No. I simply chose not to be present. I was spiritually unavailable.”
Coco: “You had worms.”
Tinkerbell: “Yes, apparently my intestines were hosting a music festival.”
Piper: “You pooped like you were trying to summon something.”
Tinkerbell: “I was summoning peace. And a vet. Preferably both.”
Me: “You really don’t remember anything?”
Tinkerbell: “I remember diarrhea. And then I remember you. Everything else is optional.”
Me: “Well, we’ve all been through some things.”
Piper: “Yeah, but now we’re together! A family! With two crazy brothers who scream at dust!”
Coco: “We are a support group. A dysfunctional one, but still.”
Tinkerbell: “We heal one memory at a time. Preferably with snacks.”
Piper: “And naps!”
Coco: “And boundaries. Mostly for Piper.”
Piper: “I don’t believe in boundaries.”
Tinkerbell: “We know.”
Piper: “Sometimes I get scared when it’s hot outside. So, I cope by yelling at the sun.”
Coco: “I cope by staring at people until they feel bad.”
Tinkerbell: “I cope by leaving my body spiritually whenever something stressful happens. Like when the vacuum turns on. Or when Piper breathes too loud.”
Piper: “I have big emotions.”
Coco: “You have no volume control.”
Tinkerbell: “You have the energy of a toddler who drank a Red Bull.”
Piper: “Momma, what is your trauma about?”
Me: “Oh absolutely not. We are not opening that can of worms. We’ll be here until this time next year. And I don’t have enough snacks or emotional stamina.”
Coco: “Is that why you have panic attacks in Walmart?”
Me: “Yes.”
Tinkerbell: “But what’s scary about going to the pharmacy?”
Me: “Everything.”
Piper: “Everything?? Like the shelves? The people? The lighting?”
Me: “Yes.”
Coco: “The lighting is aggressive.”
Tinkerbell: “The vibes are hostile.”
Piper: “The blood pressure machine is a demon.”
Me: “Exactly.”
Coco: “So what did our therapist tell you?”
Me: “She said, ‘I’ll see you in another couple of days.’”
Tinkerbell: “Translation: ‘You’re a lot. But I believe in you.’”
Piper: “Translation: ‘You have so many issues we need a punch card.’”
Coco: “Translation: ‘You’re keeping the lights on in that office.’”
Me: “But look at us now. We’re safe. We’re loved. We’re healing together.”
Piper: “And we have snacks!”
Coco: “And stability.”
Tinkerbell: “And indoor plumbing.”
Me: “We survived things we never should’ve had to survive. And now we get to build something soft and silly and sacred together.”
All Three Cats: “Group hug!”
Coco: “But don’t touch me too long.”
Piper: “I’m crying!”
Tinkerbell: “I’m dissociating!”
Me: “Perfect. Exactly the emotional range I expected.”
In small Southern towns, admitting trauma is treated like a social crime. The moment you name what happened, you’re not just telling your story. You’re “disgracing the family,” “embarrassing the community,” and threatening the carefully polished illusion of stability that everyone works so hard to maintain. The culture teaches people to swallow their pain. Protect the reputation of the town at all costs. And never, under any circumstances, call out the people who caused the harm. And because the “good ole boy” network is alive and well. And sitting in every position of authority from the courthouse to the church pews, the truth gets buried right alongside the accountability. Even when the perpetrators are known. Especially when they’re known. Nothing is done. The silence is enforced. The victims are shamed. And the town keeps smiling for the church directory photo like nothing ever happened. But the truth doesn’t disappear just because the town refuses to look at it. It lingers in the air, the families, the generations, waiting for someone brave enough to break the cycle and say, “This happened. And it mattered.” And I am that one in my family who refuses to stay quiet about the trauma that happened in the small city of Petal, MS.
Trauma will have you doing things that make absolutely no sense. Things like apologizing to furniture when you bump into it. Jumping at sounds that aren’t even loud. Overthinking texts like you’re decoding ancient scripture. Saying “I’m fine” in a tone that suggests you are, in fact, not fine. And crying because someone said, “I’m proud of you.” And your body wasn’t prepared for that level of kindness. Trauma will also make you emotionally attached to random objects. A mug. A blanket. A rock you found on a walk. A pen that writes really smooth. Your brain will be like, “This is my emotional support spoon. Touch it and perish.”
Trauma awareness isn’t about reliving the pain. It’s about naming it, so it stops owning you. It’s about understanding why you react the way you do. It’s about giving yourself grace for surviving things you never should’ve had to survive. It’s about learning that your triggers aren’t flaws. They’re evidence that you lived through something real. And it’s about knowing you’re not broken.
You’re healing. You’re growing. You’re learning how to breathe again. You’re learning how to trust softness again. You’re learning how to exist without bracing for impact. That’s not weakness. That’s strength with stretch marks.
May your healing be gentle. May your memories lose their sharp edges. May your nervous system unclench one muscle at a time. May your heart learn safety. May your voice return to you. May your laughter come back louder. May your story be yours again. And not something that happened to you. But something you rose from.
So, if no one told you today. You’re not dramatic. You’re not broken. And you’re not “too much.” You’re a whole human who lived through storms that would’ve snapped lesser souls in half. And you’re still here healing. Laughing. Unlearning, Softening. Reclaiming. That’s not survival. That’s resurrection. And baby, if that isn’t holy, I don’t know what is. Drop the sage. Keep the truth. And walk away knowing this. Your story didn’t end in the dark. You did.
Affirmation: I honor the parts of me that survived. I honor the parts of me that are still healing. I am allowed to grow, to rest, to feel, and to reclaim my peace. And I can do it one breath at a time.
This Puzzled Life 