emotional resilience

darnold1975

International Overdose Awareness Day: The Day We Stop Pretending Willpower Is Medicine

“Shame has never saved a life. Compassion has. And still can.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re not just cleansing the house. We’re cleansing the collective delusion that addiction is a moral failing. The sage is smoking like it’s trying to file a worker’s comp claim. The charcoal is popping like it’s gossiping about the neighbors. And I’m standing in the kitchen with the kind of determination usually reserved for Southern women who’ve had enough.

Piper struts in first.Tail high. Eyes narrowed. And a clipboard already out like she’s conducting a federal audit.

Piper: “Before we begin. I need to know if this is a cleansing ritual, a public dragging, or a memorial service. My paperwork differs.”

Me: “All three. It’s International Overdose Awareness Day. And I’m about to educate the masses.”

Coco barrels in next. She’s breathing heavily like she just ran a marathon but actually just walked from the living room.

Coco: “Is this about the humans who say addiction is willpower? And overdose is a moral collapse? I once ate an entire rotisserie chicken while sleepwalking. Explain that with willpower.”

Tinkerbell descends from the top of the fridge like a Victorian ghost who died of judgment.

Tinkerbell: “If willpower cured anything, half this household would stop doomscrolling at 2 AM. And the other half would stop emotionally eating Cheez-Its.”

Me: “Exactly. We’re dragging ignorance today.”

Piper adjusts her glasses. The glasses she does not need and sighs.

Piper: “I’ll prepare the minutes. This meeting is already chaotic.”

International Overdose Awareness Day started in 2001 as a remembrance event at a Salvation Army needle exchange in Melbourne, Australia. It was created to honor those lost. Reduce stigma around overdose. And to push the world to stop treating overdose like a shameful secret instead of a public health crisis. And let me say this plainly, with all the Southern sweetness of a peach cobbler baked in righteous fury, “Addiction and overdose are not moral issues.” And it’s not about willpower.

The next time you have diarrhea, keep in mind that it’s just willpower. Sit there with a Bible verse and see if the situation resolves itself. Let me know how that works out. That’s how ludicrous that argument is.

People don’t become addicts because they’re weak, sinful, lazy, or lacking character. Many addicts die wanting anything in life other than to be an addict. They die fighting. They die trying. They die hoping. But some folks, including people in my own family, love to say, “Addiction is about willpower.” It never has been. It never will be.

I’ve been an addict. I’ve been a professional treating addicts. I’ve buried friends. I’ve buried family. Not once have I judged them for their struggle. But the hypocrites in my life? The ones who claim moral superiority while ingesting alcohol at a rate that Pete Hegseth and Kash Patel struggle to keep up with? Hypocrite, please.

Overdose is an unfortunate part of addiction. Whether it’s chemicals, behaviors, or the slow-motion self-destruction people pretend “doesn’t count.” Because it’s socially acceptable. So how about we stop demonizing people who overdose while absolving ourselves of our own harmful, numbing, escapist overdoses?

If we’re being honest, some folks overdose on alcohol, self-righteousness, denial, Amazon Prime, gossip, rage, food, religion, and control. But somehow that doesn’t get labeled as a moral failure. Funny how selective morality works.

And here’s the truth that makes some folks squirm like they sat on a church pew with a splinter. Overdose doesn’t happen because someone is weak. It happens because someone is human. Humans who loved. Humans who tried. Humans who fought battles most people couldn’t survive for five minutes. Humans who deserved compassion instead of commentary.

But every year, we lose more people. Not because they were broken. But because the world still treats addiction and overdose like a character flaw instead of a medical condition. We lose them because shame is louder than science. Because judgment is easier than empathy. Because some folks would rather cling to their superiority complex than admit they don’t know a damn thing about what they’re talking about.

So on International Overdose Awareness Day, I’m lighting this charcoal. Sprinkling this sage. And saying this with my whole chest, “Stop demonizing the people who are drowning while you’re out here drinking from your own poison well. Stop pretending your socially acceptable overdoses are any less destructive just because they come with a cute, monogrammed tumbler or a Bible verse slapped on top. Stop acting like overdose is a choice when half the people judging can’t even choose to drink water or go to bed on time. And most importantly, start honoring the people we’ve lost by refusing to let stigma bury the living.

The dead deserve dignity. The living deserve compassion. And the ignorant deserve education. Loud, unapologetic, Southern‑fried education. Today, I’m choosing truth over tradition. Compassion over comfort. And humanity over hypocrisy. If that makes some folks uncomfortable? Good. Growth never happens in comfort. And comfort has never saved a single life. But truth might. Compassion might. You might. Thanks for reading! Share this with others.

 Affirmation: I honor the lives lost. Uplift the living. And refuse to let stigma speak louder than truth.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Badass Affirmations For Today’s Gen X Legends

“I am one minor inconvenience away from becoming a cryptid who lives in the woods and only appears to steal Wi-Fi.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. If we Gen Xers are gonna summon our inner Badass Affirmations, we need fire, smoke, and at least one neighbor peeking over the fence wondering if we’re starting a cookout or an exorcism. (Honestly, could be both. Depends on the day and the humidity.)

Listen, Gen Xers. We are the generation that survived lead paint, lawn darts, and riding in the back of pickup trucks at 70 mph. And parents who thought “therapy” was a sign of demonic possession. We are the middle children of America. The duct tape holding this country together. While Boomers argue on Facebook. Ok, I do argue on Facebook too. And Millennials cry into their oat milk. And now? Now we’re supposed to “affirm” ourselves like we’re soft, gentle beings who believe the universe is listening. Well, the universe is listening. But she’s got AirPods in. And she’s halfway through a true crime podcast.

So, today’s affirmations are not soft. They’re not gentle. They’re not written in pastel fonts with butterflies. No ma’am. These are Badass Affirmations for Today’s Gen Xers. They are forged in sarcasm. Raised on MTV. And baptized in the holy waters of “I don’t have time for this mess.” And yes, we’re doing it with Southern sass. Queer sparkle. And a healthy side-eye toward the conservative Christians. Who, ironically, swear Jesus hates everything except casseroles and Hobby Lobby.

Let us begin with the First Commandment of Gen X Badassery.

1. Thou shalt not let anyone born after 1995 tell you how to live.

If a 22-year-old tries to explain “self-care” to you, simply nod. Smile. And remember you once moisturized with St. Ives Apricot Scrub and survived.

2. Thou shalt embrace the chaos.

We are the generation that watched our parents scream about Satanic Panic while we listened to Madonna and played Dungeons & Dragons. Chaos is our birthright. We don’t run from it. We season it. Fry it. And serve it with sweet tea.

3. Thou shalt not be guilt-tripped by hypocrites.

If someone clutching a Bible tries to shame you for existing, remind them Jesus hung out with prostitutes, tax collectors, and fishermen. Not HOA presidents. And if they still don’t get it, bless their heart and move on. (Bless their heart = Southern for “I hope your casserole burns.”)

4. Thou shalt affirm thyself with the confidence of a drag queen at a Baptist potluck.

You are not too old. You are not too tired. You are not too anything. You are a Gen Xer. We were forged in sarcasm. Fueled by caffeine. And held together by ibuprofen and spite.

5. Thou shalt remember that Gen X invented minding your business.

We walked home alone after school. We raised ourselves on microwaved pizza rolls. We learned to fix emotional trauma with sarcasm and a mixtape. We do not need Karen from church telling us how to parent, pray, or process our trauma.

6. Thou shalt embrace your gay sass, even if your mee-maw still calls it “your little personality.”

Honey, shine. Shimmer. Sparkle like a disco ball at a revival tent. If they don’t like it, they can go read Leviticus and leave you alone.

7. Thou shalt affirm your worth even when your back pops like bubble wrap every time you stand up.

You are still hot. You are still powerful. You are still the generation that survived dial-up internet. You can survive anything.

So, light the charcoal. Gen X is not just for ambiance. But as a spiritual act of rebellion. Let that smoke rise like our collective patience leaving our bodies every time someone under 30 says, “OK boomer.” And we have to remind them we are the generation that invented eye‑rolling, sarcasm, and emotional detachment as a coping mechanism.

Stand tall in your Crocs. Your orthopedic inserts. Your “I swear I used to be fun” hoodie. Lift your chin with the confidence of someone who survived dial‑up, Reaganomics, and parents who thought seatbelts were “optional suggestions.” Declare your affirmations with the boldness of a queer Southerner walking into a conservative church potluck carrying a rainbow Jell‑O mold and a smile that says, “Yes, Brenda, I am the agenda.”

Let your voice boom like a Baptist preacher who just found out the choir director is gay (again). Let your spirit shine like Aqua Net on prom night. Let your boundaries be firmer than your lower back when it locks up at 6 a.m. for no reason.

Because you, my darling Gen X legend, are a walking contradiction of grit, glitter, trauma, triumph, sarcasm, and survival. You are the generation that raised yourself. Therapized yourself. Caffeinated yourself. And resurrected yourself more times than Jesus’ PR team could keep up with.

You are the duct tape holding this country together. You are the middle child of America who learned to thrive in chaos. You are the badass who can say “bless your heart” with 47 different meanings. And all of them legally binding.

And if anyone tries to dim your shine or question your worth or tell you you’re “too old” for something, smile sweetly. Take a deep breath. Channel your ancestors. Your inner drag queen. Your inner grunge‑era rage. And your inner Southern auntie who keeps a flask in her purse. Then say, with holy conviction, “I survived the 80s, the 90s, and three decades of other people’s nonsense. I am not the one.”

Now go forth, Gen X. Be bold. Be loud. Be unbothered. Be the badass affirmation the world needs. And may your charcoal always light on the first try. Thanks for reading! Does this blog feel “right on the money” for our generation?

Affirmation: I am a Gen X masterpiece. I’m sarcastically blessed. Spiritually moisturized. And too seasoned to be shaken by amateurs.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Why Every 80s Kid Was One Bad Decision Away From A Lifetime Movie Plot

“If the 80s didn’t kill me. Your opinion definitely won’t.”

-This Puzzled life

Light the charcoal. If we’re gonna talk about the 80s, we need smoke, drama, and at least one angelic visitation from a Southern Baptist church lady clutching a casserole. And whisper‑praying for our souls.

I had barely struck the match when Piper strutted in like she was auditioning for RuPaul’s Drag Race: Feline Edition. Coco followed. She was rolling her eyes so hard she saw her own brain. Tinkerbell arrived last. She was carrying the emotional weight of someone who lived through dial‑up internet. And refuses to talk about it.

Piper: “Mama, tell us again how y’all used to chase the mosquito‑spraying truck like it was the ice cream man.” 

Me: “Baby, that was our version of aromatherapy.” 

Coco: “So you willingly ran toward poison?” 

Me: “Yes, and we called it summer.”

Tinkerbell: “Lord have mercy. Y’all were one bad decision away from a Lifetime movie called ‘Bless Her Heart: The Dana Story.’” 

Piper: “Was this before or after you realized you were gay?” 

Me: “Before. But the signs were there. I had a favorite Golden Girl.” 

Coco: “Which one?” 

Me: “Dorothy.” 

Tinkerbell: “Yeah, that tracks.”

The charcoal popped. The cats stared. And I knew it was time to confess the truth. 80s childhood wasn’t a vibe. It was a survival sport.

Look, kids today have helmets, GPS trackers, and parents who Google things like “Is this safe?” We had none of that. We had vibes and the Lord’s protection. Which was honestly stretched thin. He was also busy dealing with televangelists, Reaganomics, and every Southern mama praying for her gay child without knowing why.

UNSUPERVISED BIKE RIDES

We rode bikes miles away from home with no water, no sunscreen, and no adult supervision. If you got lost, you didn’t call anyone. You just accepted your new life in the woods like a feral pioneer child.

THE MOSQUITO TRUCK

Modern kids run from danger. We ran toward it. That fog rolled down the street like a Stephen King villain and we said, “Oh goodie, free mist!”

THE SNACKS

We ate plastic‑wrapped cheese. Kool‑Aid with enough sugar to stop a grown man’s heart. Bologna that had a rainbow sheen. And popsicles that tasted like lead paint and joy.

THE PARENTING STYLE

Southern parents in the 80s didn’t “supervise.” They announced. “Be home by dark.” That was it. No follow‑up questions. No safety plan. Just vibes and Jesus.

THE GAY PART

Growing up gay in the conservative South was like being a unicorn in a deer stand. You knew you were magical. But you also knew you needed to stay quiet, or someone’s mee-maw would try to pray the glitter out of you.

Meanwhile, my cats listened to all this like they were taking notes for a documentary.

Piper: “So basically, y’all were raised by chaos and pesticides.” 

Coco: “And shame. Don’t forget the shame.”

Tinkerbell: “Honestly, it explains everything.”

So yes. Every 80s kid was one bad decision away from a Lifetime movie plot. We survived poison fog. Unsupervised adventures. Snacks that violated FDA guidelines. And Southern Christianity’s “We love you but also don’t ask questions” energy.

Let me tell you something right now. Standing here in my Mississippi kitchen with three judgmental cats and the ghost of every Southern church lady who ever side‑eyed my existence hovering over my left shoulder like a passive‑aggressive guardian angel.

We, the 80s kids, should not be alive. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. I mean biologically, medically, scientifically, and according to every modern parenting blog written by someone named Brittany who packs organic snacks in BPA‑free containers.

We were raised in an era where seatbelts were “optional suggestions.” Bike helmets were “for the weak.” And the mosquito truck was “community enrichment.” We were one bad decision away from starring in a Lifetime movie titled “Bless Her Heart: The Dana Chronicles” or “Raised By Pesticides” or “Southern Gay Survival Story.” Take your pick.

And while we were out there inhaling poison fog like it was Chanel No. 5, our Southern Christian parents were inside praying hedge‑of‑protection prayers so thick they could’ve been used as insulation. Not that they knew what we were doing. They thought we were “playing outside.” Ma’am, we were reenacting Lord of the Flies with bicycles and no adult supervision.

Meanwhile, I was also quietly navigating the spiritual obstacle course of being a gay kid in the conservative South. Which meant I was simultaneously dodging mosquito fog, emotional repression, and Sister Linda’s unsolicited prophecy that “the Lord has a special plan for you.” And he did. It involved glitter and sarcasm.

And now? Now we’re grown. We pay bills. We raise kids. We have opinions about grout. We have survived everything from Reagan to dial‑up to purity culture. To the fact that our childhood snacks were made of 40% petroleum byproduct.

My cats watched me deliver this sermon like I was testifying in the Church of Chaotic Upbringing.

Piper: “Mama, you’re not just a miracle. You’re a franchise.” 

Coco: “Honestly, you should’ve come with a warning label.” 

Tinkerbell: “Or a Lifetime contract.”

And here’s the mic‑drop truth. The gospel according to every 80s kid who lived through the fog, the freedom, the foolishness, and the fundamentalist fearmongering. We just didn’t survive the 80s. We outlived the 80s. We walked through the valley of mosquito spray and came out moisturized. We endured the shame, the chaos, the bologna with the rainbow sheen, and the Southern Christian guilt that could crush a lesser mortal. We are the chosen ones. The anointed. The pesticide‑kissed prophets of resilience.

So, if anyone tries to tell you you’re “too much,” just smile sweetly. Bless their heart and remember, “You survived an entire decade that tried to kill you with fog machines, sugar, and Jesus.” They can’t handle you. They’re not qualified to handle you. You are a walking Lifetime movie with better hair and boundaries. Charcoal still burning. Cats applauding silently in judgmental solidarity. Thanks for reading! How do you remember the 80s?

Affirmation: I am resilient. I am fabulous. And I survived the 80s. Nothing can stop me except maybe gluten.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Dollar Tree Detonation: A Southern Tragedy in One Aisle

“I didn’t just fart at Dollar Tree. I spiritually pressure‑washed aisle three. And my son treated it like the Super Bowl halftime show.”

–This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Lord knows what happened in Dollar Tree today was not of this realm. The air shifted. The ancestors paused. And even the off‑brand greeting cards seemed to lean back like, “Now hold on, what was that?” I swear the whole store took one collective inhale. And my spirit briefly left my body to file a complaint with the universe.

I walked into that store with dignity, purpose, and a buggy that already had one wheel screaming for help. I was just trying to buy some cheap sponges and mind my business. But the universe said, “No ma’am, today you will be humbled.” And my son? My own child stood beside me ready to witness my downfall like he bought front‑row tickets. What happened next could only be described as a biological betrayal wrapped in a spiritual lesson wrapped in a $1.25 price tag.

In the Deep South, conservative Christians act like they’re the self‑appointed referees of Southern Decency. And they’re ready to blow a whistle the second somebody steps outside the invisible rulebook of “proper behavior.” These are the same folks who will gasp so hard they inhale their own dentures if a woman accidentally lets one slip in Dollar Tree. Yet they’ll turn right around and scream at a Little League umpire like they’re auditioning for a demon‑possession documentary. They’ll tell you to “act right,” “sit pretty,” and “hold it in.” As if the Lord Himself is grading your internal plumbing.

Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to survive humidity, motherhood, and Dollar Tree air pressure. And my son is announcing my bodily failures like he’s the town crier. And southern properness never stood a chance.

Let me set the scene. It’s a peaceful Saturday at Dollar Tree. The kind of day where the fluorescent lights hum like they’re praying for release. And every shelf leans just a little to the left. I’m minding my business. Pushing my buggy with the wobbling wheel. And trying to decide if I need another pack of off‑brand sponges that dissolve on contact with water. My son is beside me, living his best life. He’s touching everything he shouldn’t. Narrating loudly like he’s the Dollar Tree David Attenborough. 

And then, my stomach shifts. Not a warning shift. Not a polite “hey girl, maybe walk slower” shift. No. This was the tectonic‑plate‑sliding, earth‑core‑rumbling shift of a woman who had coffee, anxiety, and a questionable breakfast. I try to hold it. I really do. But the Dollar Tree air pressure said absolutely not. And out it came. A fart so sharp, so sudden, so disrespectful to the floor that even the wind chimes in aisle seven stopped vibrating.

I froze. My soul left my body. I saw my ancestors shaking their heads. But my son? My child? My flesh and blood? The one I fed, raised, and protected? This boy collapsed. Not physically but emotionally. He folded like a Dollar Tree lawn chair. He screamed laughing. Not giggled. Not chuckled. Screamed. Like he was being tickled by the Holy Spirit of Comedy. “Oh my god, mom farted! Mom blew up the store!” He is pointing. He is wheezing. He is reenacting the sound like a sound‑effects intern on a cartoon.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there like a scandalized Victorian who just watched someone fry chicken in margarine. Serve instant mashed potatoes at Sunday dinner. And then announce they ‘don’t really like biscuits’ in front of the whole congregation. While also praying the security cameras don’t have audio.

And does he protect me? Does he shield his mother, the woman who helped give him life? Absolutely not. This boy is auditioning for a Netflix comedy special in aisle three. A woman two aisles over peeks around the corner like she’s checking for storm damage. A toddler starts crying. A pack of balloons rustles like they’re trying to escape.

My beloved child is now telling strangers, “It shook the shelves! I think she made the plastic storage bins vibrate!” I’m trying to walk away with dignity. But you can’t walk away with dignity when your own kid is narrating your fart like it’s breaking news.

By the time we get to the checkout, he’s still giggling, breathless, and still wiping tears. The cashier looks at me like she knows. She knows. I swipe my card in silence while praying the Lord will swallow me whole. Or at least cut the power so the cameras reset. We leave the store. My son looks at me with pure joy and betrayal in his eyes and says, “That was the best day of my life!” And honestly? I can’t even be mad.

If motherhood has taught me anything, it’s this. Your kids will not protect your dignity. They will not guard your secrets. They will not cover your shame. But they WILL laugh until they almost pass out. And somehow, that’s love. Lord, restore my dignity.

 After today, I’m convinced Dollar Tree needs to sage me out of the building. My son is still laughing like he just watched a stand‑up special written by the Holy Ghost. The cashier is probably telling her coworkers about “the woman who shook aisle three.” And I’m at home trying to process how a single fart turned into a family‑wide comedy event with zero protection from the child. But that’s motherhood in the Deep South. Your kids won’t shield your reputation. But they’ll sure holler it across the store like they’re calling hogs. And honestly? If laughter adds years to your life, my son will live to be 147. Thanks for reading! Keep laughing.

Affirmation: I release shame like I released that Dollar Tree thunder, and I stand tall knowing laughter is my legacy.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I Trust More Than This Administration: A Field Guide to Funk, Foolishness, and Feral Cats

“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.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Bitchuation Room: When “Love Thy Neighbor” Has Conditions

“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.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I Trust More Than This Administration: Queer, Southern, and Unbothered

“I’m not saying my life is chaotic. But even my sage asked for PTO.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. This is the moment that coal hisses. The ancestors lean in like, “Oh Lord… Dana ’bout to talk her talk again.” And the cats scatter like federal agents just pulled up in the driveway. And they should. This intro is hotter than Mississippi asphalt in July. And twice as disrespectful. Bless the yard. And hide your rainbow koozies. Because I’m about to say something that’ll make a Southern conservative clutch their pearls so hard they turn into diamonds. The smoke ain’t even settled yet and already my spirit guides are whispering, “Don’t hold back, sugar. Drag them like folding chairs at a riverfront brawl.”

The cats have formed a prayer circle. The neighbors are peeking through the blinds like they’re watching a tornado touchdown. And I’m standing in the yard with a rainbow apron and a spatula like, “Welcome to Pride, y’all. Let’s talk about trust. It sure ain’t coming from the administration.”

This ain’t just an intro. This is a front-porch sermon. A queer revival. And a Southern auntie prophecy delivered with the accuracy of a gossiping church lady who knows everybody’s business. It’s the version where Mississippi aunties, closeted deacons, rainbow‑flag‑waving cousins, and your one libertarian uncle who only shows up for barbecue all gather on the porch to say, “I don’t know what they’re doing up there in Washington, but it ain’t right.” And honestly? They’re not wrong.

Let’s talk about the things I trust more than this administration. Which is said through the lens of Southern conservative energy, queer resilience, and the chaotic truth of living below the Mason‑Dixon line.

1. A Southern conservative who says, “Now I’m not homophobic, BUT—”

At least I know what’s coming. Predictability is a love language.

2. The church fan with MLK on one side and a funeral home ad on the other.

That fan has been holding the community together longer than any policy.

3. The rainbow flag I hung outside that mysteriously disappears every June and reappears in the church lost‑and‑found.

Even the thieves have a conscience.

4. The deacon who whispers “I’m praying for you” but also slips me $20 for gas.

That’s bipartisan support.

5. The Southern mama who says she “doesn’t agree with the lifestyle” but will fight a senator with her bare hands if they try to take away her gay child’s healthcare.

That’s the kind of political complexity Washington could never handle.

6. The Pride parade in a conservative town where half the crowd is cheering and the other half is pretending they just happened to be walking by.

And yet it still runs smoother than federal operations.

7. The cat who judges my outfits but still shows up to Pride wearing a tiny American flag bandana like she’s running for office.

Piper 2028: “Claws Out for Civil Rights.”

8. The Southern conservative who says, “I don’t trust the government, but I trust Jesus and my tractor.” Honestly? Same.

9. The rainbow glitter that refuses to leave my floor.

It has more staying power than any administration I’ve lived through.

10. The HOA president who hates everything but still approves my Pride decorations because she’s scared of my grandma. That’s real governance.

Living queer in the Deep South means navigating a political landscape where people will vote against your rights at 9 a.m. Bring you a casserole at 11 a.m. And ask you to fix their Wi-Fi at 2 p.m. It’s a region where people say, “love the sinner, hate the sin,” but also “come get a plate, baby, I made extra.” Where the same person who says, “marriage is between a man and a woman” will also say “but y’all looked real cute in your engagement photos.” And somehow all of this still feels more stable, more honest, and more navigable than whatever the administration is doing on any given Tuesday.

May your charcoal burn steady. May your sage smoke be thick. May your boundaries be fortified like a Mississippi grandma’s chicken and dumpling recipe. May your Pride be loud and your joy be protected. And may you always trust the things that have never failed you like queer resilience, Southern contradictions, ancestral side‑eye, and the unstoppable force of a community that survives on humor, grit, and the ability to say, “bless their heart.”

And that’s why, at the end of the day, I trust my cats’ union bylaws, a drag queen’s wig glue, a conservative uncle’s “I ain’t sayin’ I agree, but I love you,” and the glitter that’s been stuck in my carpet since Obama’s first term. And it’s all more than I trust this administration. So, Let the rainbow flags wave high. Let the Southern conservatives keep pretending they “don’t get it” while secretly watching RuPaul’s Drag Race in 480p so the Lord can’t see.

Pride ain’t waiting on permission. Pride ain’t asking for approval. Pride is the mic drop. The finale. The fireworks. The testimony. And the whole damn altar call. And if the administration wants to catch up? They better lace up their boots, ’cause the queer South already left the porch. Thanks for reading! Happy Pride and keep resisting bigotry.

Affirmation: I move through this world like a Southern thunderstorm in June. It’s loud, dramatic, cleansing, and absolutely nobody’s business but God’s and the cats who witnessed it.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Dear Allies: The Gays Salute You With Both Hands And A Fan Snap

“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.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Even My Cats Know You Can’t Heal in the Same Environment That Hurt You.

“You can’t heal in the same environment that taught you to hide your wounds. Sometimes the bravest thing you’ll ever do iswalk away from the place that expected you to stay broken.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Apparently, healing requires both barbecue energy and spiritual pest control. Welcome back to my household. Where the cats run the HOA. The ancestors run the commentary. And I’m just trying to unlearn 30 years of “bless your heart and keep suffering quietly.” Today’s sermon is titled, “You Cannot Heal in the Same Environment That Hurt You.” And yes, the cats have notes.

You ever try to heal in the same place that taught you to pretend everything was fine? It’s like trying to detox from sugar while sitting inside a Krispy Kreme with the “Hot Now” sign glowing like the gates of temptation. Meanwhile, my Southern upbringing is in the corner whispering, “Well now, you can leave, but don’t you dare make a scene. And take this casserole so folks don’t think you’re ungrateful.”

Healing in the same environment that hurt you is basically a full‑contact sport. You’re dodging old triggers. Outdated expectations. And that one relative who still thinks therapy is “for people who don’t pray hard enough. And still thinks Obama personally raised your rent.” Nothing says emotional clarity like feline commentary.m

Coco (the judgmental one): “Girl, you keep trying to heal in the same room where your trauma sleeps. Move the furniture or move yourself.”

Piper (the chaotic one): “I say we knock everything off the shelves and start fresh. Healing begins with destruction.”

Tinkerbell (the Southern belle of the group): “Bless your heart. Even Jesus left Nazareth.”

And honestly, they’re right. Cats don’t stay in places that stress them out. They relocate with the confidence of a woman who knows she’s too good for this nonsense.

Southern Conservative Truth #1

“If it ain’t working, you don’t fix it. You replace it.” This applies to lawn chairs, husbands, and emotional environments.

Southern Conservative Truth #2

“You can’t grow tomatoes in poisoned soil.” But you can grow generational trauma if you keep watering it.

Southern Conservative Truth #3

“If the dog keeps biting you, stop blaming the dog and fix the fence.” Stop expecting people who hurt you to suddenly develop character.

Southern Conservative Truth #4

“You can’t sit on a broken chair and then get mad when you hit the floor.” If the environment is unstable, your healing will be too.

Southern Conservative Truth #5

“If the chicken’s burnt, the oven ain’t gonna apologize.” Some folks will never take accountability. Move on.

Southern Conservative Truth #6

“You can’t plant hope in a field full of denial and expect a harvest.” Healing requires fertile ground. Not family members who think boundaries are disrespectful.

Southern Conservative Truth #7

“If the swamp keeps producing gators, stop acting surprised when you get bit.” Patterns are patterns, not mysteries.

And of course, the cats had to weigh in again.

Coco: “Humans love staying in toxic places because they’re sentimental. Cats leave because we’re smart.” 

Piper: “If the vibes are off, I’m gone. No explanation. No forwarding address.” 

Tinkerbell: “A lady does not heal where she was harmed. She relocates with grace and a fresh can of Fancy Feast.”

https://youtube.com/shorts/FJsg9tZ8V_o?si=7jJzDhcPvsKJb8KB

Here’s the truth they don’t stitch on pillows. You cannot heal in the same environment that taught you to shrink, hush, or swallow your own voice like it was impolite to exist. You cannot bloom in soil that resents your roots. You cannot rise in a room built to keep you small. And you sure as hell cannot become your highest self in a place that only wanted the quiet, obedient version of you.

Healing requires space. Not the kind of space where you shove your feelings into a Tupperware container and label it “Later.” I mean real space. The kind where you can breathe without hearing echoes of who you used to be. Healing requires distance. Healing requires disruption. Healing requires the courage to walk away from the familiar and toward the version of you that refuses to die in the same cage she was born in.

Sometimes that means leaving the room. Sometimes that means leaving the house. Sometimes that means leaving the whole dang ZIP code. And sometimes it means telling your inner Southern critic, “No ma’am, we are not staying here out of politeness.” Healing requires new air, new light, new boundaries, and sometimes, a new porch to sit on while you process your life choices.

Leaving the environment that hurt you isn’t betrayal. It’s survival. It’s reclamation. It’s the moment you decide your healing deserves better than the bare minimum. And if anyone has a problem with it. Just tell them the cats said you’re unavailable for nonsense until further notice. And that’s on healing. Now excuse me while I sage the house like I’m trying to smoke out a demon.

So let them talk. Let them misunderstand you. Let them clutch their church bulletin and call it rebellion. Let them say you’ve changed. Because God knows you have. And thank goodness for that. You are not obligated to stay where your spirit was suffocated. You are not required to keep shrinking to fit the room. You are allowed to outgrow the places that could not love you whole.

And if anyone has a problem with your healing journey, tell them, “I didn’t leave because I was angry. I left because I was finally ready to breathe. And once you taste oxygen, you don’t go back to drowning.” Thanks for reading! And stop shrinking for their comfort.

Affirmation: I honor my healing by choosing spaces that honor me. I release the rooms that dimmed my light. And I rise in environments that celebrate my growth, my boundaries, and my becoming.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

https://suno.com/s/yUMvAAJCwb7DpPK4