generational cycles

darnold1975

Family Season: When Blood Isn’t Thicker Than Boundaries

“Family is not defined by the people who share your history. But by the ones who choose to share your future.”

–This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Invoke the ancestors. Because Lord knows November rolls in like a slow‑moving gospel choir humming “family, family, family.” While half the folks you share with are out here auditioning for the role of Bigoted Cousin #3 in a low‑budget political drama nobody asked for. Every November, I feel that familiar tug of that reminder that this month is supposed to be about gathering, gratitude, and the warmth of people who love you. But sometimes, the people who share your last name don’t share your humanity. And when the world gets loud with political tension, when folks cling to racist and homophobic ideologies like they’re heirlooms instead of harmful beliefs, I choose peace. I choose softness. I choose my real family. The ones who accept me without conditions which are my kids and my cats.

And honestly? My life is better because of it. Boundaries are holy. Boundaries are medicine. Boundaries are the quiet “amen” whispered under your breath when you finally walk away from what hurts.

Now listen. November in Mississippi hits different. The air gets crisp. The leaves get dramatic. And every grocery store starts smelling like cinnamon, guilt, and casseroles. Folks start posting on Facebook about “family values.” Which is code for “I’m about to ruin Thanksgiving with a political rant nobody asked for.”

Meanwhile, I’m over here stirring my sweet tea. Minding my business. And thanking the Lord above that I don’t have to sit at a table with people who think diversity is a threat. And empathy is a conspiracy.

And let me tell you something. I have found more unconditional love in the eyes of my children. And the judgmental side‑eye of my cats than I have ever found in certain branches of my family tree. And that tree? Honey, it’s got termites. It’s leaning. It’s one strong breeze away from collapsing on the neighbor’s shed.

My cats Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell don’t care for whom I vote. Who I love. Or what I believe. They only care about snacks, naps, and whether I’m available to provide emotional support at 3 AM when they decide to reenact The Lion King on my chest. My kids? They’re my heart walking around in two little bodies. They’re my real legacy. They’re the ones who remind me that family is built, not assigned.

And November, with all its cozy expectations, has taught me this. Sometimes the most radical act of self‑love is choosing who gets to sit at your table. Even if that table ends up being you, your kids, and three cats who think they pay rent.

November may be branded as the “family month.” But I’ve learned that sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is step back from the people who claim to love you while actively voting against your existence. I’ve learned that peace doesn’t come from pretending everything’s fine at a dinner table full of folks who think their bigotry is a personality trait. Peace comes from choosing who gets access to you. And who doesn’t.

The moment I stopped trying to twist myself into a shape that made certain relatives comfortable, my whole spirit exhaled. I stopped shrinking. I stopped apologizing. I stopped explaining why my humanity is not up for debate.

Instead, I leaned into the family I built. The ones who show up with love instead of lectures. My kids remind me daily that joy is loud and healing is possible. My cats act like tiny furry ancestors perched on the back of the couch. And judging anyone who dares disturb my peace. My home feels warmer without the cold front of intolerance blowing through it.

And here’s the truth that might sting for some folks. I don’t miss the chaos. I don’t miss the tension. I don’t miss the performative “we’re family” speeches from people who wouldn’t cross the street to understand me. My life is softer now. My holidays are calmer. My November is mine. Not theirs.

So, if anyone feels some type of way about my boundaries, my choices, or the fact that I’d rather spend Thanksgiving with my kids and three cats who think they’re the landlords of my living room? Well, bless their hearts. Because I’m done dimming my light to make someone else’s darkness feel comfortable. I’m done pretending that “family” automatically means loyalty. I’m done letting people weaponize “family” like it’s a leash.

This November, I’m choosing truth. I’m choosing joy. I’m choosing the family that chooses me back. And if that ruffles feathers, let them flutter. If that shakes tables, let them wobble. If that shuts mouths, let them stay shut. Because the only people who get a seat at my table are the ones who know how to love without conditions. And that is the kind of family value they can’t legislate, silence, or take away. Mic dropped. Charcoal still burning. Ancestors smiling. Thanks for reading! What does November mean for you currently?

Affirmation: I honor the family I create. The boundaries I set. And the peace I protect.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Horror of 80s Halloween Costumes: Plastic Bags With Eye Holes

“Nothing builds character like nearly passing out inside a $4 plastic mask shaped like a cartoon.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Today, we’re summoning the ghosts of 80s Halloween costumes. Those thin, flammable, suffocation‑adjacent plastic nightmares that were basically Glad trash bags with a licensing agreement. If you survived trick‑or‑treating in one of those, congratulations! You’ve already lived through your first near‑death experience before age eight.

Those masks? They trapped heat, sweat, breath, possibly carbon monoxide, lead, and whatever fumes were still off‑gassing from the factory in Taiwan. You’d put that mask on. And instantly feel like you were breathing through a microwaved shower curtain. The eye holes were never aligned with actual human eyes. So, you spent the entire night looking like a confused raccoon trying to navigate a fog machine.

And the costumes themselves? One static‑charged gust of wind and you’d be clinging to your own thighs like a Saran‑wrapped ham. We weren’t “wearing costumes.” We were marinating. Let’s honor the trauma.

10 ICONIC 80s HALLOWEEN COSTUMES THAT WERE BASICALLY OSHA VIOLATIONS

1. Plastic Smurfette

A blue trash bag with a picture of Smurfette printed on the front. Because why be the character when you can just wear a poster of her taped to your torso.

2. He‑Man (But Make It Sweaty)

The mask smelled like burnt crayons and despair. The costume was a plastic bib with “HE‑MAN” written across it in case anyone got confused.

3. Rainbow Brite: The Human Sauna

You looked adorable. You also lost three pounds of water weight in 45 minutes.

4. Darth Vader, But the Dollar Store Version

The mask fogged up instantly, so you spent the night breathing like a pug in a heatwave. The chest panel was printed on like a cereal box prize.

5. Strawberry Shortcake (Now With Berry‑Flavored Suffocation)

The mask had a permanent smile. Which was ironic because you were absolutely not smiling under there.

6. Casper the Friendly Ghost (Who Couldn’t See)

The eye holes were so far apart you needed a friend to guide you like a malfunctioning Roomba.

7. Care Bear With the Melting Face

The mask warped if you left it in the car for more than 12 minutes. Suddenly you were “Melted Grumpy Bear.” A character no one asked for.

8. Cabbage Patch Kid: The Fever Dream Edition

The mask was so round you couldn’t turn your head. You had to rotate your entire body like a forklift.

9. Generic Witch #4

The costume said “WITCH” in giant letters across the chest. Because the 80s believed children were too stupid to identify a hat and broom.

10. Plastic Superman (Who Couldn’t Bend His Knees)

You couldn’t run. You couldn’t sit. You couldn’t breathe. But by God, you could sweat.

And yet here we are. Survivors of the Great Plastic Costume Era. We walked miles in those suffocation sacks. While sweating like rotisserie chickens. Tripping over our own capes. And fogging up masks that smelled like a tire fire. Meanwhile today’s helicopter moms are out here with GPS trackers, reflective vests, hydration packs, and costumes made of breathable bamboo fabric. We survived carbon‑monoxide‑adjacent masks. They’re worried about gluten in the candy. Bye, Felishas. We earned our stripes in the trenches of flammable polyester. Thanks for reading! Tell me about other costume follies?

Affirmation: I am strong. I am resilient. And I have already survived the 80s Halloween Costume Industrial Complex. Nothing can stop me now.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

I am Jane Doe

My name is Jane Doe, 

and I learned too young that silence has a pulse. 

It thumps in the throat, it bruises the air, 

it teaches you how to fold yourself into something 

small enough to survive the night.

I did not choose this name

it was handed to me the moment someone decided 

my body was theirs to trespass. 

A name for the unnamed, 

for the girls who disappear inside themselves 

because speaking feels like stepping back into the fire.

I carry memories that shake 

even when my hands look still. 

I carry nights that never end, 

questions that never had answers, 

and a childhood that was rewritten by someone else’s violence.

My name is Jane Doe, 

because the world prefers me faceless 

it’s easier that way. 

Easier to ignore the trembling, the aftermath, 

the way a soul limps long after the body looks healed.

But I am not a headline, not a case file, 

not a whisper people avoid 

because it makes them uncomfortable. 

I am a survivor with a voice that learned to rise even when it cracked.

My name is Jane Doe, 

but I am not anonymous anymore. 

I speak for the ones still gathering courage, 

for the ones who only breathe in fragments, 

for the ones who haven’t yet remembered 

that their story is still theirs.

I survived what tried to erase me. 

I survived what tried to rename me. 

And today I say my name out loud, 

not because it is simple, 

but because it is mine.

-This Puzzled Life

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