LGBTQ+ Pride

darnold1975

Glitter, Grace, Gay Rage, and the Feelings Police

“If catching gay were possible, I’d have turned half this town by now just by standing near the produce section.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the glitter. Negative energy go away. It’s Pride 2026! And I just got a text from my red hat relative that said, “Praying for you during this difficult season of rainbow confusion.” Ma’am, the only confusion here is why you think Jesus would skip the parade. My neighbor just taped a sign to my mailbox that says, “We don’t hate you. We just hate your lifestyle.” Ma’am, the only lifestyle I’m living is hydrated, moisturized, and unbothered. Something your church potluck potato salad could never relate to.

Welcome back to This Puzzled Life, where the cats are dramatic. The snacks are questionable. And the Pride decorations mysteriously disappeared after my neighbor’s Bible study group “accidentally” parked in my yard. This year’s Pride theme? “Glitter, Grace, and Gay Rage.” And yes, the cats have thoughts.

Meanwhile, my cats are already in the living room holding a strategy meeting about which Pride float they plan to hijack. The engines roared. The asphalt trembled. And the red‑hat brigade clutched their pearls like they were auditioning for a Victorian fainting couch.

Tinkerbell: “That sound is freedom, Brenda.”

Piper: “I tried to hop on a Harley. They said no. I said ‘cowards.’”

Coco: “They look like they could fix a carburetor and my self-esteem.”

The queens rolled by on a float shaped like a giant glitter‑encrusted Bible with a banner that read, “JESUS SAID LOVE EVERYBODY. Y’ALL JUST CAN’T READ.” My red hat wearing uncle gasped so hard he almost inhaled a sequin.

Coco: “Finally, someone with the confidence I deserve.”

Piper: “I asked one queen to adopt me. She said she already had three cats. I said ‘same.’”

And right as a queen in a rhinestone robe blew a kiss to a group of teenagers, one of the red‑hat ladies muttered, “This is how they turn kids gay.”

Me: “Sweetheart, if you could catch gay from a drag queen reading a book, half the South would’ve come out during library story hour.”

Piper: “Honestly, that would’ve solved a lot of problems.”

Coco: “Imagine thinking literacy is contagious but kindness isn’t. And calling other people “woke” while your leader is basically a tangerine influencer with two boyfriends.”

Tinkerbell: “Bless her heart. And by bless, I mean educate.”

Next, were the beautiful furries that lighten the mood. A neon wolf handed me a sticker that said, “You’re valid, babe.” A sparkly fox tried to pet Piper. Piper hissed. The fox hissed back. Mutual respect was achieved.

Tinkerbell: “They are kind, gentle creatures. Unlike the family values feelings police.”

Then came the leather community walking in polished boots, harnesses, vests, and enough confidence to power the entire parade without electricity. The conservative Christian red‑hat brigade froze like someone had unplugged their programming. One leather daddy walked past holding a sign that said, “CONSENT IS HOLY.”

Coco: “I like them. They mind their business and moisturize.”

Piper: “One of them winked at me. I don’t know what it meant. But I felt powerful.”

Tinkerbell: “They have better manners than half the people at your family reunion.”

Meanwhile, one red‑hat lady whispered, “This is inappropriate for children.” Ma’am, your child just watched a wolf hand out emotional support stickers. They’re fine. One of the red hats approached me and said, “We’re here to defend traditional families.”

Me: “Sweetheart, my family includes three cats, a vape pen, and a group chat called ‘Queer & Petty.’ We’re thriving.”

Coco: “She asked if I was saved. I said I was spayed.”

Piper: “I offered her a rainbow sticker. She recoiled like I was handing her a tax increase.”

Tinkerbell: “She tried to quote Leviticus. I countered with RuPaul. She had no defense.”

And then the girls decided about the importance of being happy in life. Here are their responses.

Piper: “I want lasers, snacks, and a fog machine that smells like lavender.”

Coco: “I want a float that plays Beyoncé and throws shade.”

Tinkerbell: “I want a float that offers hydration, affirmation, and a safe space for questioning squirrels.”

Just when the parade felt like it couldn’t get any more radiant, the Trans Joy Float rolled in. It was a shimmering, sky‑blue and cotton‑candy‑pink cloud of pure euphoria. The float glowed like someone had bottled sunrise and set it loose on wheels. Silk flags rippled in the air. Bubbles drifted like blessings. And a banner stretched across the top reading, “TRANS IS BEAUTIFUL. TRANS IS HOLY. TRANS IS HOME.”

The crowd erupted. They shouted cheers, tears, and hands over hearts. And our trans community seems to be the personal scapegoat of the red hat leader in our country this year. Even the furries paused their chaotic frolicking to clap.

Piper: “I want to live on that float. They have snacks and good lighting.”

Coco: “Those outfits are immaculate. I respect a community that commits to a color palette.”

Tinkerbell: “This is what liberation looks like. It’s soft, fierce, and unapologetically alive.”

A group of trans elders stood at the front, waving like royalty. Behind them, trans teens danced with the kind of joy that makes the air feel lighter. And in the very back, a trans man in a sparkly binder held a sign that said, “I survived. I’m thriving. Keep up.”

The red‑hat brigade tried to look away, but the float was too bright, beautiful, and full of life to ignore. One of them muttered, “This is confusing.”

Me: “Sweetheart, compassion isn’t confusing. You just haven’t tried it yet.”

Tinkerbell: “Bless her heart. And by bless, I mean educate.”

So, sprinkle the glitter. And tell your neighbor that Jesus fed people without asking for a lifestyle audit. Pride isn’t a phase, a parade, or a “difficult season of rainbow confusion.” It’s a declaration. A reclamation. It’s a glitter‑coated refusal to shrink that fills in the cracks of oppression. It’s Dykes on Bikes shaking the pavement. Drag queens blessing the crowd like queer clergy. Furries handing out emotional support stickers. The leather community teaching consent. And that’s better than half the churches in this zip code. And, finally, it’s the red‑hat feelings police losing theological debates to a cat in rainbow sunglasses. It’s my family that is chosen, furry, chaotic, and unbothered.

Piper: “If they don’t like it, they can look away. I’m queer, chaotic, and emotionally unavailable. Happy Pride.”

Coco: “Piper you are not gay. I’m not either. But I am petty. And that counts. But if they look away, I’ll make them look back.”

Tinkerbell: “Child, Pride is holy. Act like you know.”

And me? I’m hydrated. I’m moisturized. I’m queerly fortified. And I’m done explaining myself to people who think glitter is a threat. This is Pride 2026. This is my life. This is my family. And it’s me standing here in full queer glory. And watching people scream about “wokeness”, while their own orange‑tinted leader wears a full face of makeup. Which reportedly, he swoons over someone named Bubba. And keeps a communist‑flavored second daddy on speed dial. But somehow I’m the one who threatens traditional values. And if that offends you? Take it up with Jesus. He’s at the parade. Thanks for reading! Happy Pride!

Affirmation: I am unbothered. Uncloseted. And untouchable. I’m too hydrated for hate. And too holy for homophobia.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Truth Over Tradition: My Exit From Comfortable Dysfunction

“The truth didn’t break my family. The pretending did.”

-Unknown

Here’s the bigger picture. I didn’t grow up in a family that heals. Problems don’t get solved. They get buried alive. And then resurrected during holidays like emotional zombies. Now that me and my sister are adults, childhood resentments still pop up like whack‑a‑mole. And nobody wants to pick up a mallet. Let’s all smile in public so we don’t “defame the family.” Which honestly, does a fantastic job defaming itself.

And my family isn’t special. Dysfunction is everywhere. I have enough mental health education in my background to recognize the patterns. But they’ll swear I’m the problem. If you look past the church smiles, the whole system is sick. I would genuinely rather be hit by a car than attend “family time.” And because my kids were born into a lesbian family, they get treated like they came with a moral recall notice.

You can’t throw money at children and then take no active part in their lives the rest of the time. Especially, when you do the opposite with the other children in the family. The kids notice. I’ve tried talking about it for 17 years. And the truth is this. They just don’t care.

I have a master’s degree in counseling psychology. Yet somehow I’m the ignorant one. They don’t want insight. They don’t want help. They want silence. And mine has officially expired. I defend myself and my kids however I see fit. Respectfully? No. Effectively? Absolutely.

They want healing without effort. They’re emotional pillow princesses that want the benefits of growth while doing absolutely nothing but blinking dramatically. And when truth bruises their egos, accountability never shows up. Meanwhile, my dad plays messenger pigeon flying information back and forth between me and the rest of the family so that the dysfunction stays perfectly preserved.

Here’s the part they’ll never admit. Family therapy requires guts and transparency. And those two things they treat like forbidden sins. Instead, they’ve built a giant sand pile where they can bury their heads. And pretend nothing is wrong. That’s their comfort zone. Not truth. Not healing. Just sand. Neck‑deep and breathing through a straw of selective memory.

My favorite quote says it best, “If nothing changes, then nothing changes.” And I refuse to be silenced because their comfort depends on my suffering.

Our family lives in what I call comfortable dysfunction. It’s the emotional recliner they refuse to replace even though the springs are broken. And the fabric smells like denial. It’s easier than accountability. Easier than honesty. Easier than saying, “Maybe the gay daughter isn’t the downfall of civilization.”

And as if being the rainbow sheep wasn’t enough. I’m also the green sheep of the family because I’m a medical cannabis patient. And the family’s translation is that I’m “druggin’ and thuggin’.” The “bad influence.” And the “one who needs prayer.” But that’s not even the real issue.

The problem is my refusal to sit quietly in the pew of generational silence. The issue is that I no longer participate in the family’s favorite pastime of pretending. I’m done shrinking myself so other people can stay cozy in their outdated beliefs. I’m done letting conservative Christian values be weaponized against me and my children.

They can keep their selective morality. The kind where my sister thinks being gay is “wrong and evil.” But somehow premarital sex is just the Olympic sport of “being human.” Funny how sin gets flexible when it’s their behavior on the table. 

“My family says I’m ‘living in sin.’ Which is wild coming from some of them who wave a red hat like it’s the state flower. They preach about morality and still treat premarital sex, drinking, and hypocrisy like they’re covered under the ‘Jesus forgives me’ warranty.”And trust me. They act like I graffitied the Ten Commandments in rainbow glitter.

Being gay automatically made me the family’s “problem child.” Even though the real problems have nothing to do with what gender I love. And everything to do with the fact that I refuse to pretend. My sister can have premarital sex. Drink like she’s hydrating for the Olympics and drive afterward. And micromanage her child like she’s running a dictatorship. But somehow I’m the moral crisis.

Meanwhile, my sister’s shot glasses stays full. Her judgment stays loud. And her hypocrisy stays undefeated. Funny how cannabis for medical reasons is “dangerous.” But alcohol with a side of denial is “just being human.” I’m the rainbow sheep because I live authentically. I’m the green sheep because I choose a legal, doctor‑recommended treatment. And I’m the scapegoat because I refuse to shrink so other people can stay comfortable in their dysfunction. If being myself makes me the rainbow‑green hybrid sheep of the family, then so be it. At least I’m not grazing in the pasture of hypocrisy.

So no, I’m not stepping back into the box they built for me. I’m not dimming myself, so their comfort stays intact. I’m not carrying the weight of a family that refuses to lift a finger for its own healing. They can keep their comfortable dysfunction. They can keep their silence. They can keep their outdated beliefs wrapped in Bible verses that only apply to me.

Today I honor my inner rainbow‑green sheep. I’m fabulously queer. I’m medically lifted. And completely unbothered by the opinions of people who confuse hypocrisy with holiness.”

I’m choosing truth over tradition. I’m choosing growth over guilt. I’m choosing my children, my peace, and my sanity. And if my existence shakes the foundation of their worldview. Then the foundation was weak to begin with. Thanks for reading! Do you and let the others do them.

Affirmation: I bless my rainbow‑green sheep soul today queer, medicated, and thriving. While certain relatives clutch their red hats and pearls at my existence. But don’t blink twice at their own chaos, contradictions, or alcohol fueled commandments.

***Don’t forget the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Family Roles & The Circus They Created

“My family says I’m ‘living in sin.’ Which is hilarious coming from people who treat denial like a spiritual gift. And premarital sex like a community service.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy, get your shoes on and leave. Today we’re diving into one of my favorite dysfunctional family topics. Family roles. Those unofficial job titles we never applied for. Never wanted. And yet somehow ended up performing like we were on salary. Take a moment and see where you and your people fall. And here’s the spoiler. If you’re reading this, you already know.

Before we get started, let me warn you. This is not a gentle stroll through family history. This is a full‑blown guided tour through a Southern household. That’s been held together with casserole, denial, and conservative Christian values. That seem to get applied with the accuracy of a toddler using glitter glue.

I grew up in a family where “we don’t talk about that” wasn’t a suggestion. It was the eleventh commandment. Emotions were treated like illegal fireworks. Everyone had them. Nobody handled them correctly. And something always exploded at the worst possible time.

In my house, honesty was considered aggressive. Accountability was considered disrespectful. And therapy? Therapy was treated like witchcraft performed by people who “don’t know Jesus personally.”

Meanwhile, the dysfunction strutted around the living room in broad daylight wearing a name tag and a church hat. And everyone pretended they couldn’t see it. If denial were a sport, my family would have Olympic medals and a sponsorship from Hobby Lobby.

So, buckle your emotional seatbelt. And prepare yourself. Because once you recognize the roles in a dysfunctional family. It’s like spotting roaches. You can’t unsee them. And suddenly they’re everywhere.

Family roles are the expected behaviors, responsibilities, and emotional acrobatics each person performs to keep the family circus running. These roles shift depending on culture, family size, and personality. But the classics are Hero, Scapegoat, Golden Child, Lost Child, Mascot. And I show up everywhere like glitter after a craft project.

Let’s begin.

1. The Hero (a.k.a. The Family PR Department) The Hero’s job is to make the family look normal, stable, and “blessed and highly favored” to the outside world. According to theraplatform.com (2025), they take on excessive responsibility to gain approval. This is my mother’s role. Or at least the role she auditions for. She is attention-seeking. Reputation-obsessed. And allergic to accountability. She delivers passive-aggressive comments like she’s handing out communion wafers. And then acts shocked when people get upset.

Her signature move? “The Dummy Card.” Suddenly she “doesn’t remember,” “didn’t mean it like that,” or “doesn’t know what you’re talking about.” But trust me, she knows. And right after she stirs the pot. She gives my dad the “rescue me” look. As if she didn’t just season that pot with cayenne, spite, and generational trauma. We only have real conversations when she’s mad at my sister, The Golden Child. Otherwise, it’s news, sports, and weather which is the Holy Trinity of Avoidance.


2. The Scapegoat (hi, it’s me) The Scapegoat is blamed for everything wrong in the family. Stubbed toe? My fault. Bad weather? Somehow me. The economy? Probably me too. I don’t conform to their lifestyle. I’m gay. I use medical cannabis. I don’t go to church because there are too many people who support the cruelty of the Trump regime. And align theirselves with the MAGA movement which practices a form of chriatianity that cannot be found in any Bible. And quite frankly, they have a bad reputation for normalizing pedophilia while demonizing being gay. I guess I should be glad that I just can’t understand that rationale. 

I talk about taboo topics. And I acknowledge reality instead of pretending everything is fine.
And did I mention I’m gay? Because trust me they will. Instead of saying,
“She’s our family and we love her no matter the gender of someone she loves and that loves her.” They act like my existence is a PR crisis. The attitude is like, “Remember when Dana destroyed the family by being prouid to be gay and authentic?”  I’m also the family whistleblower. I don’t play along with generational nonsense. I’m my own person. And I’m not apologizing for it.

3. The Golden Child (my sister, obviously) The Golden Child is the family’s prized possession. The chosen one. The favorite. And the one who can do no wrong even when she is actively doing wrong. Thriveworks.com (2023) describes this child as obedient, praised, and protected. That’s her. She has been dipped in gold since birth. She follows the script. Holds the same beliefs. And passes them down to her children like heirloom china. She was taught what to think. Not how to think. And the cycle continues. Children aren’t born to hate. They learn it from the adults who raise them. And this is what my sister excels at consistently.

4. The Lost Child (also my sister — she multitasks) The Lost Child avoids conflict like it’s a full-time job with benefits. She withdraws. Stays quiet. And pretends she’s above the chaos. While simultaneously contributing to it. She never acknowledges her harmful behavior. She believes most people are beneath her. And when she talks about someone being gay, she spells it out “G-A-Y” like she’s avoiding summoning a demon. Her emotional range is that of a frozen waffle. And honestly, that’s the family vibe overall.

5. The Mascot (me and my dad) Mascots use humor to distract from the dysfunction. We crack jokes. Lighten the mood. And do not dare fix anything. We just to keep the room from exploding. This doesn’t always work especially when me and my sister are at war like rainbows and bibles. My dad rescues my mom and sister from “big, bad Dana.” Who refuses to sweep things under the rug. I’m the villain because I tell the truth. Imagine that. Kind of sounds like the current government’s level of functioning.

Now you’ve met the cast and the roles they cling to like emotional security blankets. In the next part we’ll zoom out and look at the bigger picture. And it’s the part they refuse to acknowledge.

That concludes our tour of the Family Circus. Please exit through the gift shop. Where denial is half‑off. Accountability is out of stock. And the Scapegoat merchandise is mysteriously overpriced.” Thanks for reading! Keep breaking chains.

Affirmation: Today I honor my emotionally athletic self. The whistleblowing. Boundary‑setting. Truth‑telling legend who refuses to join the family’s Olympic Denial Team. Even though they’ve been training since the womb.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Happy Birthday, Copeland: The Preemie Who Became A Full-Sized Chaos Grenade

“From NICU royalty to Dollar Tree whistleblower. This child has never once entered a room quietly.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we honor the boy who arrived early. Stayed tiny. Scared the hell out of two moms. And then grew into an 11‑year‑old whose armpits now smell like a possum that lost a custody battle with a dumpster. Let me take y’all back.

Two moms. One hospital. One baby who looked at the world, shrugged, and said, “Yeah I’m not ready for all that. Y’all go on home without me.” We were terrified. We were exhausted. We were Googling things like “Can a baby be this small and still have an attitude?” And Copeland? He was in his little NICU throne like, “Bring me my warm lights and my beeping machines. I shall join the household when I am good and ready.”

Fast‑forward 11 years. This once‑delicate, fragile, tiny miracle now smells, at times, worse than the up‑the‑back diaper blowouts that used to make me question my will to live. And I say that with love. And trauma. And a gag reflex that still twitches when he walks by after baseball practice.

Copeland is funny. Not “ha-ha cute kid funny.” No. He is feral‑comedian funny. He is Dollar Tree Public Announcement funny. This is the same child who once let the entire store know his momma farted with gusto. And not only did he announce it. He narrated it like a nature documentary. He said, “This is the sound of a mother releasing her soul into the wild.”

He keeps me on my toes. He keeps me humble. He keeps me praying. We make primitive tools together like we’re auditioning for Naked and Afraid: Mississippi Edition. We shoot fireworks like two people who absolutely should not be trusted with fire. We have Nerf gun wars that end with me questioning my cardio and my life choices. We play baseball. Where he hits the ball like he’s trying to send it back to the NICU to apologize for the stress he caused.

And then. There is his special talent. The one he inherited from the diaper‑blowout era. The one he wields with pride. Farting on my leg while sitting in my lap. He does it. He waits. He watches my face. He studies the gag. He cherishes the moment. It is his art. His calling. His legacy. And honestly? It’s poetic justice. Because I gagged changing his diapers. And now he gags me recreationally.

But beneath the chaos, the comedy, the bodily functions, the Dollar Tree humiliation, the fireworks, the Nerf ambushes, and the prehistoric tool‑making. There is this boy. This beautiful, bright‑souled, hilarious, life‑loving boy who laughs like the world is a gift. And loves like he’s never known fear.

His joy is loud. His spirit is huge. His light is blinding in the best way. And I hope, with every fiber of my momma heart, that nothing in this world ever dims that light. Because I am lucky. So damn lucky. To be one of his three moms. To watch him grow. To watch him shine. To watch him fart and then blame me in public.

Happy Birthday, Copeland. You came into this world early, tiny, fragile, and already acting like you had a contract with the NICU. Two moms stood there terrified. Praying. Bargaining. Googling. And trying not to fall apart while you lounged under warm lights like a miniature king who simply wasn’t ready to clock into Earth yet. You were the baby we had to leave behind. The one who taught us that love can be fierce and terrified at the same time. The one who showed us that miracles don’t always arrive on schedule. Sometimes they show up early and demand special lighting.

And now? Now you are 11 years old and built like a walking plot twist. You are loud. You are wild. You are funny in a way that feels spiritually assigned. You smell like puberty is trying to take you out. You fart with the confidence of a grown man who pays property taxes. You love life like it’s a buffet. And you’re first in line. You laugh like joy is your native tongue.

You are the child who will announce to an entire Dollar Tree that your momma farted with gusto. And then take a bow like you just delivered a TED Talk. You are the child who will sit in my lap. Rip one on my leg. And watch my soul leave my body like you’re studying the effects for a science fair project. You are the child who builds primitive tools with me like we’re preparing for the apocalypse. Shoots fireworks like we’re trying to get banned from the county. And plays baseball like you’re sending the ball back to the NICU to say, “Look at me now.”

You are chaos wrapped in kindness. Mischief wrapped in magic. Humor wrapped in heart. A miracle wrapped in a boy who somehow manages to be both my greatest joy and my greatest olfactory challenge.

And I hope, with everything in me, that nothing ever dims your light. Not fear. Not doubt. Not the world. Not the noise. Not the storms. Not the shadows. Not even the puberty funk that is currently trying to overthrow your household. Because your light is rare. Your joy is rare. Your spirit is rare. And the world needs every bit of it.

I am lucky to be one of your three moms. Lucky to witness your life. Lucky to survive your smells. Lucky to be chosen by a boy who once fit in the palm of my hand. And now fills entire rooms with laughter, love, and the occasional biological weapon.

So, here’s to you, Copeland. To the preemie who became a powerhouse. To the NICU baby who became a legend. To the tiny fighter who became the funniest, wildest, brightest soul I’ve ever known.

May your life stay loud. May your joy stay reckless. May your heart stay open. May your spirit stay unbreakable. And may your farts, just once, miss my leg. Happy Birthday, my boy. You are the story I’ll never stop telling. And the punchline I’ll never stop laughing at. Thanks for reading!

Affirmation: I honor the chaos, comedy, the cosmic joy of raising a boy whose spirit is brighter than his armpits are deadly. I am blessed. Chosen. And fully equipped to mother this miracle with humor, grit, and Febreze.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

https://suno.com/s/BWb1eV0x632d8rYi

darnold1975

You Can’t Pray the Gay Away, But You Sure Can Expose the Hypocrisy: A Southern Queer Survival Guide

“If your faith requires someone else to suffer, it’s not holy. It’s just dressed‑up cruelty.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Apparently the courts woke up. Stretched. Sipped their Folgers and said, “Hmm. What if we brought back psychological torture today?” And the conservative Christians said, “YAY! Revival!” Meanwhile, every queer person in the South is standing on their porch like, “Lord, give me strength, patience, and a Xanax the size of a biscuit.”

Down here in Mississippi, we know hypocrisy like we know humidity. It clings. It suffocates. It ruins your hair and your spirit at the same time. And nothing brings out the hypocrisy quite like a ruling that says, “Sure, go ahead and traumatize queer people in the name of Jesus. He won’t mind.” These folks will tell you with a straight face that they’re doing this out of “love.” If that’s love, then I’m a straight man named Bubba who drives a lifted truck and says “bro” every six seconds.

Let’s be honest. This ruling isn’t about saving souls. It’s about controlling bodies. It’s about punishing difference. It’s about making queer people small enough to fit inside their narrow theology and even narrower worldview. And the wildest part? These are the same people who can’t keep their own households together. The same people who preach “traditional marriage” while living like a deleted storyline from a messy reality show. The same people who scream “protect the children!” While ignoring the actual dangers children face like abuse, exploitation, and the youth pastor who keeps volunteering for overnight trips.

But sure. Let’s focus on the gays. Because we’re clearly the problem. Not the pastors who keep getting “relocated.” Not the lawmakers who can’t keep their pants zipped. Not the “family values” influencers who spend more time in hotel rooms than in prayer.

Let me break it down in terms even a conservative uncle can understand. You cannot convert someone out of being gay. You cannot shame someone out of being gay. You cannot therapy someone out of being gay. You cannot “deliverance session” someone out of being gay. Unless the only thing you’re delivering is trauma.

If sexuality were a choice, don’t you think I would’ve chosen something easier? Something with less paperwork? Something that didn’t require me to explain myself at every family gathering like I’m giving a TED Talk in a Cracker Barrel? But no. God made me like this. Curved, colorful, and incapable of pretending otherwise.

You could dangle 45 sets of dangly bits in front of me like a clearance sale at Spencer’s Gifts and I still wouldn’t be straight. But put me in front of some boobs and a cooter cat and suddenly I’m glowing like a porch light in July. That’s not a choice. That’s not a phase. That’s not a “lifestyle.” That’s divine architecture.

If you want to stay in the closet because it feels safer, I get it. But don’t pretend it’s holiness. Don’t pretend it’s righteousness. Don’t pretend it’s “God’s plan.” It’s fear. And fear is the currency of conservative Christianity. I sprinted out of the closet like it was on fire. And I’ve been free ever since. Even with my own family members who weaponize scripture like it’s a Nerf gun filled with shame. I send that mess right back to sender with a smile and a boundary. Chosen family is where the love lives. Chosen family is where the truth lives. Chosen family is where the rainbow was always meant to shine.

Theo rainbow is divine reassurance. It’s God saying, “Relax. I made y’all fabulous on purpose.” No court ruling can change that. No pastor can change that. No conversion therapist with a clipboard and a superiority complex can change that. We are here. We are queer. We are not going anywhere. And we are not apologizing for existing.

So let the smoke rise like a prayer the evangelicals forgot to proofread. Stand tall in your queerness like a magnolia tree that refuses to bow to the storm. Because here’s the truth they don’t want to face. Every time they try to erase us. We multiply. Every time they try to shame us. We shine harder. Every time they try to legislate us out of existence. We become louder, brighter, and more unbothered than ever.

Their hypocrisy is loud. But our joy is louder. Their cruelty is sharp. But our resilience is sharper. Their fear is deep. But our love is deeper. And at the end of the day, when the court rulings fade. When the sermons lose their sting. When the shame campaigns collapse under their own weight. We will still be here laughing. Loving. Living. Thriving. Dancing in the rainbow God hung in the sky as a reminder that storms don’t last forever.

So let them clutch their pearls. Let them scream about “family values.” Let them pretend their closets don’t have motion‑activated lights. We know the truth. You damn sure cannot stop the rainbow from rising. Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Hypocrisy exposed. Amen and pass the sweet tea. Thanks for reading! And Happy Pride year-round. What are your thoughts on this type of ruling?

Affirmation: “My identity is divine. My joy is sacred. And no court, church, or closet can dim the rainbow God put in my soul.”

***Don’t forget to watch the video!!!

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

I Stand Up Because Too Many Still Can’t

“I don’t raise my voice because I’m angry. I raise it because whispering never changed a damn thing except how fast people ignore you.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like it knows the truth is about to get told. Let the smoke rise slowly and dramatic, the way my ancestors intended. Curling through the room like it’s searching for the lies we’re about to burn out. This is the moment where the air shifts, the spirits lean in, and even the cats pause mid‑chaos because they know Mama’s about to say something real. This is my “brace yourself, I’m done being polite” announcement to the universe. It’s the Southern version of rolling up your sleeves. Except with more sage, more attitude, and a whole lot more intention. When that charcoal glows, so do I. And whatever truth I’ve been holding in my chest finally gets permission to walk out the front door like it pays rent.

I write the way I live. Loud enough to be heard, honest enough to be felt, and Southern enough to confuse anyone who’s never survived a family reunion with both potato‑salad politics and generational trauma. I stand up and speak out because silence never saved me. And it sure as hell never protected the people I love. So, if you’re here for polite whispers, bless your heart. But if you’re here for truth with humor, grit, and a little Holy‑Ghost side‑eye, pull up a chair. You’re in the right place.

I’ve been asked many times, “Why Do I Stand Up And Speak Out?” And here’s my explanation. There’s a moment in every Southern woman’s life when she realizes she has two choices:

  1. Sit quietly and let the world run wild with foolishness.
  2. Or stand up, speak out, and let the church fans flutter in shock.

I chose the second one. Mainly because the first option has never worked for me a day in my life. I didn’t grow up planning to be “the outspoken one.” I was raised in the Deep South, where you’re expected to smile politely, keep your voice at a respectable whisper, and only speak your truth if it fits neatly between a cobbler and a prayer request. But life has a way of handing you a microphone when you least expect it. It’s usually right after you’ve sworn you’re done talking. So, here’s the truth I carry deep in my bones. I was that child who screamed in silence that no one heard.

And now? I stand up for those who don’t have the power to stand up. Or who have been intimidated into swallowing their truths whole. I will absolutely be a voice for Immigrants, LGBTQIA+ (my home group), Native Americans, Canada, Venezuela, Mexico, Greenland, Venezuelan fishermen, Gazans, the homeless, the victimized, Black and Brown communities, and anyone who needs support through solidarity. I can’t get away from this calling because I will always stand up against tyranny, crimes against children, religious scapegoating, hypocrisy, racism, and oppression. And especially here in the South, where silence is expected and resistance is treated like a character flaw.

But I am not built for quiet compliance. I have never been. I speak out because silence never saved me. Silence never protected me or my kids. Silence never made the world kinder. Silence protected the perpetrators with fragile egos and made the wrong people louder. And Lord knows the wrong people do not need a volume boost. Their voice is almost as big as their unfinished golden ballroom. Their headquarters are located at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

I stand up because I’ve lived through enough chaos to qualify for a punch card. After your tenth traumatic event, you should legally get a free smoothie or something. But instead, I got a voice. And the realization that if I don’t use it, someone else will use theirs to rewrite my story in a way that makes them comfortable. Absolutely not.

I was forced as a child to watch adults do absolutely nothing about the abuse they knew was happening. They didn’t want to “rock the boat.” They didn’t want to challenge the system. They didn’t want to stand up for what was right. They stood up for what was popular. What was convenient. And what kept the illusion intact. And while they protected their comfort, I was left to protect myself.

As a child, my only way to survive was by fighting back. Not just against the adults who caused the harm. But also, against the complicit bystanders who saw everything and chose silence. That kind of abandonment teaches you something. And it is this, “if you don’t stand up for yourself, no one else will.” And that lesson, painful as it was, is exactly why I refuse to be quiet now.

But here’s the part they never planned for. I didn’t stay small. It took years and years to claw my way back to myself. To unlearn the lies. To rebuild a voice that had been broken, bent, and boxed in. To stand in my own truth without shaking. To speak without apologizing. To breathe without asking permission.

For years, my voice wasn’t quiet. It was taken. Stolen by abuse. Smothered by “be nice” expectations. Buried under the weight of family roles I never agreed to play. And when I finally stumbled into adulthood, those lessons didn’t magically disappear. They clung to me like wet clothes, heavy and suffocating, convincing me that silence was survival and shrinking was safety.

I speak out because my kids are watching. I speak out because my community deserves better. I speak out because our nation can do better. I speak out because my cats already assume I run the world, and honestly, who am I to disappoint them. But mostly, I speak out because my voice is not a liability. It’s a legacy. A tool. A torch. A refusal to let the world slide backward while I sit politely on the porch pretending not to notice. I speak out because I know what it feels like to be unheard. And I refuse to let anyone else sit in that silence alone.

So let the world adjust its volume, because I’m done shrinking to fit inside anyone’s comfort zone. I was born with a backbone. I earned this voice. And I’m using it whether the room is ready or not. If standing up makes some folks uncomfortable, they can go ahead and shift in their seats. I’m not sitting back down. This is my line in the sand, my truth on full display, and my promise carved in stone. I will not be silent, I will not be small, and I will not stop.

I have learned the beauty and the necessity of boundaries. I am absolutely, unequivocally, and in no universe responsible for anyone else’s feelings about my truth, my choices, or my existence. I was raised to believe that people‑pleasing was practically a family requirement. And that we should disguise what was really going on for fear someone might realize our family wasn’t the picture‑perfect postcard we pretended to be. But those lessons didn’t protect me. They imprisoned me. And to feel strong enough, grounded enough, and whole enough to speak my truth after being silenced for so long is a miracle in itself.

But once I broke free from the expectations, the abuse, and the boundary‑less people who benefitted from my quiet suffering, something in me locked into place. I will never be silenced again. Not for family. Not for comfort. Not for tradition. Not for anyone. I earned this voice. I fought for this voice. And now that I have it back, I’m using it. Loudly, clearly, and without hesitation. Thanks for reading! And stand up.

Affirmation: My voice is not too much. It is exactly enough and it was built to be heard.

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

 #ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

We Love Our Allies

“An ally is someone who stands up even when they feel they can’t.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. As Pride month begins to wrap up, I want to talk to you about a group of people that many of us LGBTQ+ people draw strength from. It’s our allies! This group of people are usually straight. But they stand up for different issues within the gay community that continually marginalize us. They are voices that stand up and say, “I’m straight. But your discrimination and hate is wrong.”

Our allies who are sometimes known as “fruit flies,” bring strength to our battles with equality. And they also love us for who we are versus many of our families who love us for “who they want us to be.” I will be the first to say that there are zero gay affirming people in my family. No matter who agrees or doesn’t agree, the gay person is here to stay. And I gladly wear the title of the “rainbow sheep” in the family.

There are those still who say, “We love you for who you are.” But they stand against equality and continue with their homophobic or transphobic comments. That, my friends, is not an ally. You just know someone who is gay. You cannot say that you’re ok with me being a lesbian and then speak out about how my transgender friends are wrong or abnormal. That’s hypocritical. You don’t have to be gay or trans to be active and say, “Equality should be for all and not just one gender or sexual orientation.”

Our transgender brothers and sisters need our support in the fight for their rights to be who and what they want to be. To be able to fight for our country on the frontlines for freedom. And to be able to use any damn toilet that matches the gender in which they identify. They do not want to harm you or your children. Individuals who have or are transitioning do not want to rip your genitalia off or steal whatever small amount of virginity you may have left. They simply want to empty their bladder and bowels.

 I had a friend that I had a close relationship with one time. But when I came out to her, our friendship ended. That is what I call a conditional friend. As long as I was who they wanted me to be everything was ok. But when I told them who I really was, that was not acceptable. It is truly their problem and not mine. That is not an ally. That is an asshole. I know they both start with the letter “A,” and it can be confusing to some.

People have a misconception that anyone under the LGBTQ+ umbrella has an insatiable sexual appetite. And that we are lurking around to force straight people into gay submission. If I know that someone is straight, I will not cross the line by trying to seduce them. It’s call mutual respect. I know that there are creepy people that do that and are ok with that. I would simply call “bullshit” and tell them that it’s very disrespectful. But I know even more straight people who want to pound the gay out of us. It would be like someone forcing me to be straight. And I barf in my mouth just a little at the thought of ever having to pretend that I’m straight again. If someone who is gay comes on to you, simply tell them that you’re straight. Most of the time that is respected. And sometimes is just a faulty “GAYDAR.”

As a lesbian, the misconception that we want to run in and turn straight women gay is an absolutely ridiculous argument. And this is where our allies come into play. They not only love us for our authenticity, but they are also on the front lines of the pride banner to speak up against hate even when we are not around. Allies are another source of strength that can only be found within them. And for this, I am eternally grateful. Beautiful friendships and family relationships can be mended by being an ally.

In my family there are those who when discussing someone who is gay, they spell it. Like “Yea, I collaborate with this guy, and he is G-A-Y!” Let me help put your minds at ease, “You cannot catch the gay from saying someone is gay.”  So, making the statement, “I love you because you’re my child or my family member.” Then to counter with, “Hate the sin, love the sinner” asserts that you hold yourself to a higher level because you know God better than he knows himself. When God actually spoke about loving everyone. And that no one deserves his love any more than the other. Jesus preached about equality and inclusion, not discrimination and hate. And from what I’ve seen in my life, there’s a lot of “cherry picking” of the Bible to satisfy an argument. God’s people are taught to spread his love. But some of them are the very ones who close the church doors when the gay people arrive. And if you are let in there is no shortage of stares and whispers.

If there was ever a group of people who I give the utmost respect, it would be our allies. I have always been one to stand up for the underdog in most situations. And I can promise you that it doesn’t always make me popular in a good way. So, for a “straight ally” to stand up for me and others, you will always be considered members of my Pride family.

A lot of us LGBTQ+ individuals create families among others, because our families are simply too rich in bigotry and self-righteousness to be considered a “safe place” that nurtures love and growth in a relationship. And I live in a “hotspot” of the country that has a lot of judgement and ignorance. They have simply become a wounding vessel and a very rigid group of people that do not deserve the time nor the energy to continue relationships with them. So, we form close ties and bonds with our allies instead.

I have used this phrase many times and it stems from my own family when I say, “If nothing changes, then nothing changes.”  I have to hold my head high, turn around and walk away like a boss. And I walk right over to my ally’s house where love and acceptance isn’t only spoken, it’s shown. You can love me and stand up for our rights as we do. But you cannot say that you love me and think that neither I nor my friends are entitled to the same rights you have. I absolutely will NOT be a part of that in any way.

Thank you so many allies for everything that you do that we never know about. And thank you for showing us what the love of Christ is all about. Homophobes, transphobes, and the self-righteous thank you for showing me who I never want to be. As always, take what you can use and leave the rest. Keep smiling. Happy Pride Everyone!

Affirmation: I will not shrink myself for the comfort of others.

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

#Thispuzzledlife