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darnold1975

My Cats Heard ‘Save the Tatas’ and Showed Up Like Drag Queens at a Revival

“In this house we save the tatas, the gays, the strays, and whatever dignity we have left after the cats finish their activism tour.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, you’re going to need every ounce of spiritual protection you can muster. Because your Southern‑raised, chaos‑certified cats decide they’re attending a Save the Tatas event like it’s the Met Gala, the Essence Festival, and a church homecoming all rolled into one. When I casually mentioned I was going to a Save the Tatas event, my cats reacted like I’d just announced Pride Month was being extended by popular demand. And catered by RuPaul herself. Every queer ancestor within a 200‑mile radius sat up in their celestial lawn chairs like, “Oh baby, the girls are about to cut up” And they were right.

Piper immediately wrapped herself in a pink bandana like she was the grand Marshall of the Breast Cancer Awareness Pride Parade. Coco demanded glitter, rhinestones, and a wind machine “for dramatic effect.” And Tinkerbell? She started designing a fundraiser table that looked suspiciously like a drag queen’s merch booth.

In true Southern queer‑adjacent fashion, they didn’t ask permission. They just declared themselves the Official Feline Ambassadors of Bosom Preservation. And then told me, “start the car, Mama, we’re late for justice.” That’s when I knew this wasn’t going to be a simple charity event. This was about to be a pink‑glittered, rainbow‑dipped, Southern fried spectacle.

I should’ve known something was brewing when Piper dragged my pink headwrap out the drawer like she was preparing for a sermon. In this house, when the cats start accessorizing, the ancestors start whispering. And I start praying. All I said was, “Mama’s going to a Save the Tatas event this weekend.” And suddenly my living room turned into a Southern nonprofit board meeting run entirely by felines with no credentials and too much confidence.

Piper hopped onto the coffee table like she was about to deliver the State of the Union. She had a pink bandana, a clipboard, a schedule, and the spirit of every church mother who ever said, “Baby, let me tell you something.” She cleared her throat and announced,

Piper: “Mama, I’ve prepared a keynote speech titled ‘Blessed Are the Bosoms.’” 

Me: “Piper, this is a fundraiser. Not a revival.” 

Piper: “Awareness is revival.”

And honestly? She had a point.

Coco came strutting in wearing a tutu she absolutely stole from the donation pile. She looked like a tiny Southern belle who’d been raised on sweet tea, glitter, and delusion.

She flipped her tail dramatically and declared, 

Coco: “I will be the face of the movement.” 

Me: “The face?”

She nodded like she was accepting a crown. 

Coco: “Yes. I will pose. I will wink. I will inspire generosity. People give more when they feel emotionally manipulated.”  

Me: “Coco, that’s not how activism works.” 

Coco: “Mama, that’s exactly how activism works. Also, I need false eyelashes. Big ones. The kind that say, ‘I care deeply about the tatas.’”

I told her no. She told me I was stifling her activism.

Tinkerbell didn’t care about speeches or pageantry. She cared about the money. She dragged out a cardboard box. Slapped a pink sticker on it, and announced, 

Tink: “Raffle tickets. Five dollars. Winner gets something.”

Me: “What’s the prize?” 

She stared at me like I was slow. 

Tink: “Mystery. Mystery is the prize.”

Me: “Tink, you can’t sell raffle tickets for a mystery box.”

Piper: “Watch me. Mama. Breast cancer awareness is no joke. I’ve prepared a speech, a slideshow, and a prayer circle outline.”

She had bullet points. She had scripture references. She had a moment of silence scheduled for 2:17 PM sharp. And she did. She sold three tickets to the neighbor’s dog before we even left the house.

We arrived at the Save the Tatas event looking like a traveling circus of pink chaos. Piper marched in first, handing out pamphlets she printed herself titled ‘Breast Health & Blessings.’ Coco immediately found the photo booth and refused to leave until she had taken 47 glamour shots. Tinkerbell set up her illegal raffle table under a tree like she was running a back‑alley fundraiser. And people loved it. One lady said, “I’ve never seen cats so passionate about breast cancer awareness.” I said, “Ma’am, they’re passionate about everything. It’s exhausting.”

During the survivor recognition ceremony, Piper tried to lead the crowd in a hymn she wrote called ‘Hold On to Your Hope and Your Hooters.’ Coco attempted to crowd‑surf. Tinkerbell tried to auction off a breast‑shaped stress ball she found in someone’s purse. I was sweating like a sinner in a sauna. But somehow the event organizers said we “brought energy.” Energy is a polite Southern word for chaos you can’t legally complain about.

At the end of the day, my cats raised $112, three cans of Fancy Feast, and a half‑used Bath & Body Works lotion someone donated out of confusion. But they also reminded me of something real. Breast cancer awareness matters. Community matters. Showing up matters. And sometimes, the loudest advocates are the ones covered in fur while wearing stolen tutus. And selling illegal raffle tickets under a magnolia tree. Bless it all.

But between the glitter, the chaos, and the illegal fundraising, something beautiful happened. People laughed, hugged, and shared stories. And the whole event felt wrapped in that warm, Southern magic. The kind where community shows up loud, proud, and covered in sequins. 

My cats didn’t just show up to the Save the Tatas event. They took it over baptized it in glitter. Queered it up. And left that place looking like a breast‑health revival hosted by Dolly Parton and the entire cast of RuPaul’s Drag Race. They raised money. They raised awareness. They raised hell. And if that ain’t Southern activism, I don’t know what is.

Bless the tatas. Bless the survivors. Bless the fighters. Bless the ones we’ve lost. And bless my cats. Who have once again proved that when the cause is righteous and the vibes are gay, they will absolutely act a fool in public. Even when they’re doing the absolute most. They remind me that showing up matters. Joy matters. And community matters. Especially when it’s wearing a stolen tutu.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to sage the house again. The cats are already planning their next activism tour. And I swear I heard Coco whisper, “Mama, what’s the dress code for the next Pride‑adjacent charity event?”  Go ahead and close the doors, baby. The tatas have been saved. The ancestors are tired. And this blog? Consider the mic dropped. The stage cleared. And the glitter still falling. Thanks for reading! And get a mammogram.

Affirmation: I am held, protected, and hyped by ancestors, queer angels, and three chaotic cats who believe in me more than I believe in myself.

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

#ThisPuzzledLIfe

darnold1975

Domestic Violence Awareness Month: More Than Bruises, More Than One Story

“Leaving isn’t weakness. Staying alive long enough to escape is strength.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Call the ancestors the loud ones, the protective ones, in close. The ones who don’t mind flipping a table when truth needs to be told. Let the ancestors pull up their rocking chairs and lean in like, “Alright baby, tell it exactly how it happened.“ Because today, we’re walking straight into a fire that too many people pretend isn’t burning. And the topic is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

This month isn’t just a purple ribbon or a hashtag. It’s a national reckoning. A month carved out because silence has killed too many. Shame has trapped too many. And judgment has wounded too many who were already bleeding. It exists because domestic violence is not one thing. Not one story. Not one bruise. It’s a whole constellation of harm that is emotional abuse, financial control, spiritual manipulation, psychological warfare, sexual coercion, digital stalking, physical stalking, rape, threats, intimidation, and isolation. All of it real. All of it dangerous.

And Lord knows, the Deep South has a long tradition of saying, “Well, why didn’t she just leave?” With the same tone they use when asking why you didn’t bring potato salad to the church potluck. But today we’re not whispering. We’re not sugarcoating. We’re not letting judgment drown out truth.

Domestic violence is more than bruises. More than shouting. More than slammed doors. It’s the slow erosion of your identity. It’s the constant fear humming under your skin. It’s the way you learn to read someone’s footsteps like weather patterns. It’s the way you shrink. Fold. And contort yourself trying to keep the peace that never stays peaceful.

And let me say this with all the Southern sass I can muster. If you’ve never lived it, you don’t get to judge it. Because “just leaving” is a fantasy sold by people who have never had their life threatened. Their finances controlled. Their spirit manipulated. Or their faith weaponized against them. I know this because I lived it. Fourteen years in a domestic abuse situation that nearly swallowed me whole. The cycle wasn’t simple. It was a trap crafted with precision love bombing, threats, and intimidation. That is continuously repeated until you forget what freedom feels like.

I didn’t stay because I was weak. I stayed because I was scared. I stayed because I was conditioned. I stayed because every exit felt like a death sentence. And let me make something crystal clear. It wasn’t a billionaire. It wasn’t a senator. It wasn’t a monster hiding in the shadows. It wasn’t an immigrant. It wasn’t a drag queen with a story book. It wasn’t a trans person. It wasn’t a black person. It was a white, “Christian” man in the Deep South. One who used the Bible like a weapon. While twisting scripture into shackles. Preaching submission while practicing cruelty. A man who believed control was his God-given right. And fear was his favorite language.

That’s why Domestic Violence Awareness Month matters. Because abuse doesn’t look like one stereotype. Survivors don’t fit one mold. Judgment is easy. But understanding saves lives. It is a promise. A collective vow that we will speak loudly. Love fiercely. And refuse to let anyone’s suffering stay hidden behind closed doors.

And now, let me drop this mic so hard the ancestors stand up and clap. I survived what was meant to break me. I reclaimed what was stolen from me. And I will never apologize again for the fire in my voice. Thanks for reading! What have been your experiences?

Affirmation: I honor my survival, my truth, and my healing. I am worthy of safety, love, and a life without fear.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Blood on Mississippi Soil: Why Silence Is No Longer an Option

“Silence is the oldest accomplice of violence. And Mississippi has been silent for far too long.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal, y’all. Because my ancestors are pacing the porch tonight. I can feel them in the humidity, the cicada buzz, and in the way the air gets thick right before a storm. They’re whispering. Tapping their feet. And shaking their heads the way old Southern aunties do when they’ve had enough of the foolishness. And Lord knows Mississippi has given us more than enough foolishness wrapped in Bible verses. Dipped in denial. And served with a side of “the South will rise again” delusion.

Because let’s tell the truth. The “Christian” community down here loves to shout about sin until it’s time to call out violence against Black bodies. Then suddenly everybody’s quiet. Clutching pearls. And humming hymns like silence is salvation. They’ll condemn a teenager’s skirt length before they condemn a system that keeps killing Black people. They’ll preach forgiveness while refusing accountability. They’ll talk about “God’s love” while ignoring the blood on their own soil. And I’m done pretending that’s holy.

Mississippi has always been a place where racism isn’t just a belief. It’s infrastructure. It’s policy. It’s tradition. It’s the foundation poured into the dirt generations ago. And too many folks still treat it like sacred ground.

And now, again, violence has come knocking at the doors of Black families. Again, the state government refuses to investigate. Again, accountability disappears when the killer is white. Again, we are told to “wait for the facts.” While the facts are buried under good ol’ boy politics and backroom handshakes.

A one-year-old Black baby was shot and killed by a white officer over diapers. Let me say that again. A baby died because a grown man with a badge felt threatened by diapers.

A Black teenage boy was found dead under mysterious circumstances. And instead of answers, we get a cover-up thicker than Delta mud. Evidence missing. Stories changing. Officials shrugging like a child’s life is just a paperwork inconvenience.

And now, a Black woman found hanging from a tree in 2026. And the state wants us to believe it’s anything other than what it looks like. Mississippi has a long, violent history with Black bodies and trees. We know what this is. We’ve seen it before. Our ancestors saw it before. And the silence from leadership is louder than any confession.

This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t isolated. This is a pattern, a legacy, and a sickness that Mississippi refuses to treat because too many people benefit from the infection. And let me tell you something. I’m old enough now to stand up and say it plainly. I’m old enough to fight for marginalized groups which include Black folks, brown folks, Indigenous folks, immigrants, and anyone who doesn’t fit the whitewashed mold Mississippi keeps trying to force us into. I’m old enough to say that I’m proud that I didn’t buy into the racist ideology that some of my own family members still cling to like it’s heirloom china.

I broke the cycle. I chose humanity over heritage. I chose truth over tradition. I chose justice over comfort. And if that makes me the black sheep at the family reunion, hand me the potato salad because I’ll graze in the pasture with pride. I’m proud to say I’m not like them. Not molded by their fear. Not shaped by their hate. Not carved into the same brittle statue of “tradition” they keep worshiping like it’s holy. I’m proud to say I crawled out of the same Mississippi clay. And still managed to grow in a different direction. And it was one that didn’t twist my roots around racism and call it heritage.

If rejecting their ideology means I lose my seat at the family table, then pull the chair out from under me. If refusing to swallow their silence means I’m no longer welcome in their church pews, then let the hymns echo without me. If choosing humanity over hypocrisy means I have to walk away from religion entirely, then I’ll walk away barefoot. Head high and unbothered.

Because I refuse to be loyal to a system that kills Black children and calls it “procedure.” I refuse to be loyal to a state that covers up Black death and calls it “ongoing investigation.” I refuse to be loyal to a community that sees a Black woman hanging from a tree and calls it “unfortunate.” I refuse to be loyal to people who hide behind scripture while ignoring suffering. I refuse to be loyal to any ideology that demands my silence while it destroys lives.

Mississippi may be built on racism. But I am not. Mississippi may cling to its racist past. But I do not. Mississippi may worship its own mythology. But I refuse to kneel. I am not like them. I will never be like them. And if breaking away from their beliefs is the cost of protecting my soul, integrity, and humanity, then that’s a price I’ll pay in full with no regrets.

Let them keep their “South will rise again” fantasies. I’m rising in a different direction. One they can’t touch. Can’t claim. And sure as hell can’t control. That’s my mic drop. And I won’t be picking it back up. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: I honor my ancestors by refusing to repeat their pain. I stand in truth. I stand in courage. And I stand in love even when I stand alone.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Suicide Awareness Month: When Silence Becomes the Sin

“I don’t blame the people we lost. I blame the silence that swallowed them.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Lord knows, if we’re gonna talk about Suicide Awareness Month in the Deep South, we’re gonna need all the spiritual reinforcements we can get. The air gets thick. The whispers get quieter. And the truth starts pacing the room like it’s looking for a way out.

Let me set the scene. It’s September in the Deep South. Humidity thick enough to baptize you against your will. Church signs flashing Bible verses like spiritual traffic tickets. Every conversation about mental health wrapped in a casserole dish of denial. Then Suicide Awareness Month rolls around. And the way conservative Southern Baptists respond? You’d think someone asked them to admit they’ve been depressed since Reagan.

They hit you with the classic, “Thoughts and prayers.” And that’s the entire statement. Full stop. Period. End of sentence. End of conversation. If you try to talk about suicide beyond that? Oh, honey that happens behind closed doors. Whispered like gossip. Treated like sin. And buried under shame so thick you’d need a backhoe to dig it out. That’s how the shaming works down here. Not by yelling. But by refusing to speak at all. And I’m tired of silence being the loudest killer in the room. Suicide isn’t a “them” problem. It’s an all of us problem. And the numbers don’t lie. Even when the people in power do.

Over 49,000 people died by suicide in 2023. And that’s one death every 11 minutes. Suicide rates have climbed back to their previous peak after years of fluctuation. But some groups are hurting more than others. https://www.cdc.gov/suicide/facts/data.html?, 2026

1.American Indian & Alaska Native Communities

These communities have some of the highest suicide rates in the nation. Youth in these groups are disproportionately impacted due to historical trauma. Lack of access to care. And systemic neglect. 

Click to access JED-Suicide-Trends-Report_June-2024.pdf

2.LGBTQIA+ Youth

LGBTQIA+ youth face significantly higher suicide risk due to rejection, discrimination, and lack of safe spaces. And let’s be honest. The current political climate isn’t helping. Policies targeting queer and trans youth only increase fear, isolation, and hopelessness.

Click to access JED-Suicide-Trends-Report_June-2024.pdf

3.Black Youth

Black youth suicide rates have been rising with unique stressors tied to racism, community stigma, and lack of culturally competent mental health care. 

Click to access JED-Suicide-Trends-Report_June-2024.pdf

4.Veterans

Veterans continue to face elevated suicide risk due to PTSD, trauma, homelessness, and lack of adequate support. The VA reports long‑term patterns of high suicide rates among veterans. Especially those facing mental health and substance use disorders. 

https://mentalhealth.va.gov/MENTALHEALTH/docs/data-sheets/2024/2024-Annual-Report-Part-1-of-2_508.pdf?

5.Young People (15–24)

Suicide is the second leading cause of death for young people. In 2024 alone, nearly 5,915 young people died by suicide. 

https://suicidology.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/US-2024-Suicide-Final-Data.pdf?

I don’t write this from a distance. I write this from the front row of grief and personal struggle.

My life has been touched by suicide from more angles than I ever wanted. I’ve seen it happen to friends and family. People I loved. People I tried to reach. People I didn’t know were hurting until it was too late. And let me say this clearly. I am not mad at them. I do not hate them. I am not angry at what they did.

I am just deeply, sorry that they weren’t able to be reached. Sorry that the world failed them. Sorry that shame kept them silent. Sorry that help wasn’t accessible, safe, or welcoming. Sorry that they believed the lie that their pain was a burden. They deserved better. And so do the people still here.

I’m not here to sugarcoat this. Our nation’s mental health crisis is rising in part because of the current administration’s policies. And the harm they inflict on marginalized communities. When leaders create fear. Strip rights. Target vulnerable groups. And normalize cruelty. The emotional fallout is real. People feel unsafe. People feel hopeless. People feel hunted. And hopelessness is fertile ground for despair. This isn’t partisan. It’s human. And the statistics reflect the pain people are living through.

And here’s the thing I keep coming back to, over and over, like a hymn that won’t leave my bones. We are losing people because we refuse to talk. We are losing people because shame is easier to hand out than compassion. We are losing people because silence is the South’s favorite weapon. And its most deadly.

I grew up watching folks whisper about suicide like it was a scandal instead of a tragedy. I watched churches pray for “healing” while refusing to name the wound. I watched families bury their children and still pretend nothing was wrong. I watched people I loved slip through cracks that should never have existed in the first place. And I’m done pretending that this is normal. I’m done pretending that this is holy. I’m done pretending that this is anything but deadly.

Because the truth is this. People don’t die from weakness. People die from isolation. People die from shame. People die from being told their pain is an inconvenience. And if that stings, good. Some truths are supposed to.

 I have lost people I loved. People I laughed with. People I prayed for. People I would’ve driven across state lines for if I had known they needed me. And I don’t carry anger toward them. I don’t carry resentment. I don’t carry judgment. What I carry is sorrow. A deep, marrow‑level sorrow that they didn’t feel reachable. That they didn’t feel safe. That they didn’t feel like this world had room for their pain. And I will never stop wishing they had stayed. Not because their leaving was wrong. But because they deserved a world that didn’t make leaving feel like the only option.

 Let me say this plainly. Because I’m not sugarcoating a damn thing today. Our country is hurting because our leadership is hurting us. Policies that target the vulnerable create despair. Cruelty from the top trickles down like poison in the water supply. And if that makes someone uncomfortable, they can go ahead and sit with that discomfort. Maybe it’ll teach them something. I’m not here to protect feelings. I’m here to protect lives.

 This is my altar call, benediction, my Southern‑fried truth served hot and holy. We cannot pray away what we refuse to confront. We cannot heal what we refuse to name. We cannot save people we refuse to see. If we want to stop losing our loved ones, we have to stop hiding behind “thoughts and prayers” like they’re bulletproof. We have to talk. We have to listen. We have to show up. We have to fight for the living with the same passion we mourn the dead. Because every single person lost to suicide deserved a world that didn’t break them. So, if you hear me. If you really hear me. Then stand up. Even in the back. Even if your knees pop like bubble wrap. And say it with your whole chest. Thanks for reading! How can you relate to this?

 Affirmation: My voice is a lifeline. My truth is a lantern. I speak so others don’t have to suffer in the dark.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

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

Fentanyl Awareness: Denial Isn’t a Life-Saving Strategy

“Awareness isn’t comfortable, but neither is grief. Choose the discomfort that saves lives.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re talking about Fentanyl Awareness. And Lord knows some folks need more than sage. They need a whole spiritual intervention. A PowerPoint and maybe a smack from an ancestor with a wooden spoon.

We’re still living in a world where people think fentanyl is something that happens to “other families,” “other communities,” or “those people over there.” Fentanyl doesn’t care about your zip code. Your Bible study attendance record. Or how many casseroles you’ve delivered to the church potluck. It is an equal-opportunity destroyer. And yet, some folks still clutch their pearls and say, “Well, if people didn’t do drugs.” Sweetheart, if ignorance burned calories, half this country would be runway-ready.

Fentanyl isn’t a moral issue. It’s a public health crisis. A grief generator. And a silent killer that slips into communities like humidity in Mississippi. It comes uninvited. Suffocating. And everywhere. But sure, let’s keep pretending it’s just a “bad choice” problem. And just for shits and giggles, I’ll say that bombing people in fishing boats that are clearly are not transporting this substance is not an answer to the problem.

Fentanyl doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait until you’re ready to have your life rearranged. It shows up like a tornado in the middle of a sunny day. It’s fast. Violent. And leaves you standing in the wreckage while wondering how the hell everything changed in seconds.

People aren’t overdosing because they’re weak. They’re overdosing because fentanyl is 50 times stronger than heroin. And 100 times stronger than morphine. They’re overdosing because it’s being mixed into substances without their knowledge. They’re overdosing because the world is heavy. Trauma is real. And coping mechanisms don’t magically appear with a bow on top.

But try telling that to the folks who think addiction is a “willpower issue.” These are the same people who can’t resist a clearance sale at Hobby Lobby. But somehow believe others should resist a chemically engineered substance designed to hijack the brain.

Addiction is not a character flaw. It’s not a spiritual failure. It’s not a lack of discipline. It’s a medical condition. A trauma response. And sometimes a desperate attempt to feel anything other than pain.

And fentanyl? It’s the predator waiting in the shadows. Families are burying children. Parents are burying parents. Communities are burying potential futures and dreams. And still some folks would rather cling to judgment than compassion. Because compassion requires effort. Judgment is free and easy like drive-thru theology.

So, here’s the truth that’s wrapped in Southern sass and tied with a bow of reality. Fentanyl doesn’t care about your opinions. It doesn’t care about your politics. It doesn’t care about your moral superiority complex. But we should care. We should care enough to talk about it. We should care enough to educate ourselves. We should care enough to stop pretending this crisis is happening in some faraway land to people we’ll never meet.

Fentanyl is already here. It’s in our towns, our schools, families, and our communities. And pretending otherwise won’t save a single life. And for the love of all things holy, open your eyes. Denial has never saved anyone. Awareness does. Compassion does. Action does. Try not to trip over it on your way back to reality. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: I choose compassion over judgment. Truth over denial. And awareness over silence. My voice matters. And so does every life touched by this crisis.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife