The Kids Are in Cages And Some Americans Are Cheering

“A society that traumatizes its children cannot call itself free. It can only call itself unfinished.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. If we’re going to talk about what’s happening to an entire generation of kids in this country, we might as well acknowledge the smoke, the heat, and the fact that someone, some system, keeps pretending they don’t smell the fire they started.

That’s what I tell myself every time the news hits too hard. When the stories feel too big, When the grief gets stuck in my throat. Grounding myself is the only way I can face the reality that children in our country are being traumatized by the very systems that claim to protect them.

And it’s not the “kids these days have it rough” kind of trauma. Not the “life is hard, they’ll be fine” kind of trauma. No. I’m talking about the kind that leaves scars you can’t see but can feel for a lifetime. We’re watching children grow up in a society that keeps calling them “resilient,” as if resilience is a prize and not a survival mechanism. As if being traumatized is some kind of character‑building exercise.

Oh, congratulations, you’ve unlocked Level 10 Emotional Endurance. Your reward is more adversity. And sarcasm is the only seasoning that makes this palatable. Because the truth is bitter. Our government’s dysfunction, cruelty, and chaos are shaping our kids in ways we won’t fully understand for decades.

Children are absorbing fear like secondhand smoke. They’re inhaling uncertainty. They’re watching adults crumble under policies and crises that never should’ve existed in the first place. And while all this is happening, we are living in a nation where children are having their parents ripped from their arms. Families are separated like someone is sorting laundry instead of human beings. Kids, actual kids, are being put in cages. Some Americans are cheering for it, proudly declaring, “They deserve it.”

And while they cheer, children are being:

  • Physically abused
  • Sexually abused
  • Forced to work for around $1 an hour
  • Fed food with worms
  • Denied medical care

This isn’t metaphor. This isn’t exaggeration. This is happening on our soil. And we’re supposed to pretend this won’t shape an entire generation? We already have a mental health crisis bursting at the seams. It’s understaffed. Underfunded. And overwhelmed. Kids are learning anxiety before they learn multiplication. They know the word “lockdown” before they know “confidence.” They watch adults fight for basic rights and think that’s just how life works. This isn’t resilience. This is trauma dressed up as “normal.” And the worst part? We’re gaslit into believing this is just the way things are now. Like the trauma is a feature, not a bug.

But here’s the mic drop. Trauma doesn’t disappear. It compounds. It grows roots. It becomes generational. And when you plant fear, instability, and cruelty in children, you don’t get a stronger society. You get a wounded one. We are cooking a future we are not prepared to eat. Because the children who survive this. Who grow up in cages. Who grow up watching their parents taken. Whoever grow up being told by a cheering crowd that their suffering is deserved, they will carry this with them into adulthood. Into parenthood. And into society.

We are not raising resilience. We are raising trauma survivors. And the people cheering? They don’t realize they’re cheering for a future that will haunt all of us. This isn’t politics. This is humanity. Or the lack of it. A society that harms children, any children, cannot call itself moral. It can only call itself complicit. Thanks for reading! And wake up America. Our children need protecting.

Affirmation: I refuse to be numb to what hurts us. I see the truth. I speak the truth. And I protect the next generation with my voice, my heart, and my fire.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

Top Cannabis Strains For ADHD

“Focus isn’t found in the noise. It’s grown in the quiet corners where intention meets the right strain.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re into the sacred room where ADHD meets the green medicine cabinet of Mother Nature. And the ancestors lean in whispering, “Baby, pick the strain that helps your brain. Not the one that sends you reorganizing your pantry at 3 a.m.”

Below is a curated list of 10 cannabis strains commonly cited for ADHD support. They’re grounded in terpene-forward research emphasizing limonene, alpha‑pinene, and beta‑caryophyllene. This is the trio most associated with focus, cognitive clarity, and task initiation.

Top 10 Cannabis Strains for ADHD (with Genetics & Type)

1. Jack Herer

  • Genetics: Haze × Northern Lights #5 × Shiva Skunk
  • Type: Sativa-dominant hybrid
  • Why ADHD-friendly: High pinene + limonene for alertness and mental clarity.

2. Super Lemon Haze

  • Genetics: Lemon Skunk × Super Silver Haze
  • Type: Sativa-dominant hybrid
  • Why ADHD-friendly: Limonene-heavy profile supports dopamine modulation. 

3. Harlequin

  • Genetics: Colombian Gold × Thai × Swiss Landrace
  • Type: Balanced hybrid (CBD-rich)
  • Why ADHD-friendly: CBD helps anxiety without sedation. Mild THC supports focus. 

4. Green Crack

  • Genetics: Skunk #1 lineage
  • Type: Sativa
  • Why ADHD-friendly: Known for sharp, energetic focus and task initiation.

5. Cinex

  • Genetics: Cinderella 99 × Vortex
  • Type: Sativa-dominant hybrid
  • Why ADHD-friendly: Pinene-forward profile supports working memory.

6. Durban Poison

  • Genetics: South African Landrace
  • Type: Pure sativa
  • Why ADHD-friendly: Clear-headed, uplifting, and mentally organizing.

7. Sour Diesel

  • Genetics: Chemdawg × Super Skunk
  • Type: Sativa-dominant hybrid
  • Why ADHD-friendly: Energizing, helps break through executive dysfunction.

8. Blue Dream

  • Genetics: Blueberry × Haze
  • Type: Sativa-dominant hybrid
  • Why ADHD-friendly: Gentle focus + mood stabilization.

9. Strawberry Cough

  • Genetics: Haze × Strawberry Fields
  • Type: Sativa
  • Why ADHD-friendly: Bright, uplifting, and mentally stimulating.

10. Lemon Skunk

  • Genetics: Two Skunk phenotypes
  • Type: Sativa-dominant hybrid
  • Why ADHD-friendly: Limonene-rich citrus profile supports attention and motivation. 

Research suggests ADHD symptom relief correlates more with terpene composition than with indica/sativa labels. And as always keep in mind that depending on the climate each strain will differ slightly. Thanks for reading! Have you tried any of these strains?

Affirmation: I honor my mind by choosing what supports my clarity, my calm, and my creative fire.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

ADHD Awareness Month: The Brain Rodeo

“ADHD isn’t a flaw. It’s a superpower with a slightly chaotic user manual.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like every thought I’ve ever had that showed up uninvited. Wearing cowboy boots. Holding a half‑finished idea. And demanding snacks because my brain sends its ideas to me like rowdy bar patrons who wandered in through the wrong door.

We are about to summon the sacred ADHD spirits. The ones who live in the corners of our minds. Rearranging our priorities like drunk raccoons in a Dollar General dumpster. And knocking over every plan we ever made and replacing it with “What if we reorganize the spice cabinet at 1:47 AM?”

ADHD Awareness Month deserves an entrance with smoke, drama, and the kind of chaotic flair that makes your ancestors lean forward in their rocking chairs. Clutch their pearls and whisper, “Lord this child.” While fanning themselves with a church bulletin. We’re about to roast the entire concept of “focus” like it’s a marshmallow we dropped in the fire. Watched roll into the ashes. Shrugged. And decided to eat anyway. That’s the most ADHD thing we could possibly do. In one chaotic Southern sermon of scatterbrain glory.

ADHD Awareness Month is here. Thirty whole days dedicated to understanding the majestic, unpredictable, frequently caffeinated roller coaster that is the ADHD brain. And let me tell you, this brain is not a gentle carousel. Oh no. It is Six Flags, Disney World, and a malfunctioning county fair ride all duct‑taped together by someone who said, “I saw this on YouTube once.”

This month is supposed to be about education, advocacy, and empowerment. But for those of us living the ADHD life, it’s more like:

  • “I’m gonna learn everything about ADHD!”

Immediately gets distracted by a documentary about competitive cheese rolling.

  • “Wait. What was I doing?”

Starts reorganizing the pantry at 2 AM.

  • “Oh right, ADHD Awareness Month!”

Forgets again.

Let’s talk about ADHD Awareness Month in the Deep South where the humidity is thick enough to butter toast. The cicadas scream like they’re being evicted. And your brain is already sweating before you even open your eyes. This month is meant to raise awareness. But honestly? Most of us are just trying to raise our blood sugar enough to remember why we walked into the kitchen. This month is a whole vibe. A whole saga. A whole epic poem written by someone who forgot the plot halfway through and started describing a completely different story.

The ADHD Time Warp

You start a task. You blink. It’s three hours later and you’re deep into a Wikipedia rabbit hole about the history of doorknobs.

The ADHD Cleaning Ritual

You decide to clean one thing. You end up cleaning nothing. But somehow you’ve rearranged the furniture. Started a load of laundry. Opened 14 browser tabs. And found a spoon you haven’t seen since 2019.

The ADHD Emotional Weather Report

Today’s forecast consists of 40% chance of hyperfocus. 60% chance of forgetting to eat. 80% chance of starting a new project. 100% chance of saying “I swear I’m trying” at least once.

The ADHD Advocacy Experience

People say, “ADHD is just being distracted.” Meanwhile, your brain is running 47 tabs, 3 playlists, 2 intrusive thoughts, and a full Broadway production of Why Did I Say That Out Loud? starring you.

The ADHD Southern Edition

You’re trying to explain ADHD to your relatives, and they hit you with “Baby, you just got a lot of personality”, “Baby, you just think fast”, “Baby, you just need a nap”, “Baby, you just like to talk”, and “Baby, you just need Jesus.” Ma’am, Jesus is tired too.

ADHD Awareness Month is basically a group project where everyone forgot the assignment. Nobody brought supplies. And yet somehow we still turned in something creative, chaotic, and absolutely unforgettable.

So, here’s to ADHD Awareness Month. The only awareness month where we forget it’s happening. Remember it dramatically. Forget again. And then suddenly become experts at 3 AM with a burst of hyperfocus that could power a small town.

Here’s to the people who live in a brain that is both a carnival and a NASA launch pad. Here’s to the ones who feel deeply. Think wildly. Love intensely. And create masterpieces out of pure chaos. Here’s to the ones who have been told they’re “too much.” When in reality they’re just operating at a frequency the rest of the world hasn’t caught up to yet.

We are not broken. We are not scattered. We are not lazy. We are not “trying to be difficult.” We are lightning in human form. We are creativity with a pulse. We are resilience wrapped in humor and duct tape. We are the reason the universe stays interesting. ADHD Awareness Month isn’t about fixing us. It’s about celebrating us.

Now excuse me while I drop this mic which will roll under the couch. Stay there for six months. And be rediscovered during a cleaning spree that started because I lost a sock. Month celebrated. Chaos honored. Thanks for reading! How has ADHD affected you?

Affirmation: I celebrate my creativity, energy, and my beautifully wired brain. I am not behind. I am building momentum in my own magic‑filled way.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

Cornell, LSU, and the America That Keeps Choosing Predators: What the Hell Is Wrong With Us?

“A nation that excuses its predators will always silence its survivors.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. And call in the ancestors. The loud ones, the unfiltered ones, the ones who never learned to whisper. Today I’m summoning Ida B. Wells, Maya Angelou, Nina Simone, Toni Morrison, and every grandmother who ever slammed a cast‑iron skillet down and said, “Not my babies. Not today. Not ever.” Because what we’re about to talk about requires their fire, their fury, and their refusal to sit politely while the world burns around us. They are pacing. They’re rattling the windows. They’re demanding to know how a nation with libraries, universities, churches, and a Constitution still can’t figure out that rape is wrong.

Cornell University and Louisiana State University are two institutions that love to brag about excellence, prestige, and legacy. Yet somehow can’t grasp the basic concept of protecting students from sexual assault. And now punishments include writing an essay? As if rape is a missed homework assignment. As if trauma is a teachable moment for the predator. Instead of a lifelong sentence for the victim. The ancestors are not amused. And neither am I.

Let’s ask the question America keeps dodging like it’s a bill collector, “What the hell is wrong with us when we have created a rape culture?” And don’t you dare pretend it came out of nowhere. Let’s start at the top at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Where 77,000,000 voters decided that sexual abuse, rape allegations, and bragging about assault were just personality quirks. You know the excuses about “Locker room talk,” “Boys will be boys” , and “He tells it like it is.” No. He told us exactly what he does. And millions said, “Sounds good to me.”

When the leader of the country can say he can “grab them by the pussy” and get away with it, why are we shocked when college students mimic the behavior? Why are we surprised when institutions protect predators? Why do we act confused when victims stay silent? This is not confusion. This is culture. This is conditioning. This is America refusing to confront its sickness.

Politicians have paid off victims. Church leaders have hidden abusers behind pulpits. Celebrities have settlements thicker than their resumes. And the public shrugs. But victims get shamed. We get interrogated. We get asked what we were wearing. We get told we “waited too long.” We get treated like E. Jean Carroll who was sexually assaulted, defamed, mocked, and dragged by the very man who attacked her, Donald Trump. And by his cultists who call themselves “Christians.”And you wonder why so many stay silent? You wonder why survivors disappear into themselves? You wonder why healing feels like climbing a mountain with no summit? Here are two recent incidences of the same type of justified behavior.

 Cornell University — Current Case (2024–2026)

The current Cornell case centers on a lawsuit filed in September 2026 by a former student, Jane Doe, who alleges she was drugged and gang‑raped by seven Chi Phi fraternity members on October 19, 2024. According to the lawsuit, she was intoxicated. Coerced into snorting what defendants claimed was ketamine. And then repeatedly assaulted for several hours by multiple fraternity members. One defendant allegedly sent a Snapchat message to the Chi Phi group chat advertising “free pussy” to encourage more men to join the assault. Doe reported the incident to Cornell police weeks later. The university conducted at least 12 hearings. Of the seven accused, only two were expelled. Others received lesser sanctions such as suspensions, workshops, or essays, according to Doe’s attorney. No arrests were made. And the Tompkins County District Attorney stated there was “insufficient evidence” for criminal charges. Cornell confirmed the fraternity remains barred from campus. And acknowledged that defendants were offered opportunities to “mitigate their conduct.” But cited federal privacy laws in declining to disclose individual disciplinary outcomes. https://www.cbsnews.com/newyork/news/cornell-university-lawsuit-fraternity-rape-allegations/?utm_source=copilot.com

Louisiana State University (LSU) — Current Case (2025–2026)

The current LSU case involves a sophomore student, Kendall Danielle, who alleges she was raped by an LSU football player on October 18, 2025, around 4:30 a.m. She underwent a rape kit examination and later participated in LSU’s Title IX process. Which concluded that the player was responsible for rape. And suspended him for two semesters. However, he appealed and was ultimately allowed to return to campus. Resume football activities. And participate in student organizations. Despite still being found responsible.

Danielle alleges the player’s mother contacted her urging her not to pursue charges because it could harm his football career. And that the player sent her $1,000 in an attempt to keep her from pressing charges. After learning he was allowed back on campus, she went public on TikTok and subsequently filed a criminal complaint. The East Baton Rouge District Attorney has since opened a criminal investigation. They are requesting reports from LSU, LSU Police, and Baton Rouge Police. LSU maintains it followed Title IX procedures and is cooperating with law enforcement. The player has not been publicly identified. https://www.wwltv.com/article/news/crime/student-files-sexual-assault-complaint-against-lsu-football-player/289-2bfa7986-e5fe-4d24-92db-9b069888c305?utm_source=copilot.com

But let’s talk about the roots of this rot. Is it the religions that teach masturbation is sinful? Is it the purity culture that tells young people their bodies are dangerous? Is it the sermons that say touching yourself will send you to hell? Let me be clear. You will not burn in the lake of flames for using two body parts God created you to have. For God’s sake, let them masturbate. Because when you shame normal, sexual behavior, you get people like the Duggars. They were raised in sexual repression so severe it turns into predation.

Is it misogyny influencers like Andrew Tate and Nick Fuentes? Men who teach boys that women are objects, property, and targets. Men who profit off hatred and call it masculinity. Or is it simply that America still refuses to teach boundaries? Still refuses to teach consent? Still refuses to teach respect?

Cornell and LSU are not anomalies. They are symptoms. Symptoms of a nation that treats sexual assault like a PR inconvenience instead of a violent crime. And when universities punish predators with essays, counseling sessions, or “reflection assignments,” they are telling victims, “Your trauma is worth less than his future.” And that is the message survivors hear every single day.

All predators no matter their status, wealth, influence, or fan base, should be held accountable. Not protected. Not excused. Not wrapped in a Bible verse and called “God’s Will.” 

As a sexual assault survivor myself, I will never fully heal from the years I was assaulted. Raped sometimes daily by a man who is just like Donald Trump. I will never fully heal from the damage inflicted on me at five years old by someone who saw a child as an easy target. You will never understand that fear. And I pray you never have to.

Lift victims up. Lift survivors up. Hold predators accountable. Every single one of them. Because rape is not a mistake. It is not a misunderstanding. It is not a lapse in judgment. It is violence. It is domination. It is a choice. And America needs to stop pretending otherwise. Thanks for reading!

Affirmation: I am not what happened to me. I am what I survived. My voice is powerful. My truth is valid. And my healing is sacred.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

The Mental Health Bingo Card

“Even on my messiest days, I am still becoming someone I’m proud of.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling up another episode of Southern‑chaotic mental health excellence. And this time we’re serving it on a Mental Health Bingo Card hotter than a Mississippi parking lot in July. And all because my brain apparently woke up this morning and said, “Let’s play a game.” Not a fun game like spades or Uno where you can cuss your family out and still get invited to Thanksgiving. But a full‑blown, unhinged round of “Let’s play Mental Health Bingo.” And I, being the responsible adult I pretend to be, just sighed and said, “Sure. Why not. I’ve survived worse. Like Mississippi humidity and group texts.” I printed my little bingo card. Took one look at it and immediately whispered, “Oh Lord. I’ve already got three in a row and it’s not even noon.”

Here are the 10 spaces on my Mental Health Bingo card this week. Each one earned with the grace of a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.

  • Cried in the car-Bonus points because it was in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru.
  • Forgot to eat-But remembered coffee, cannabis, chaos, and anxiety.
  • Overshared with a stranger-The cashier now knows my childhood wounds.
  • Started a new hobby at 3 a.m.-Crochet? Witchcraft? Who knows.
  • Reorganized the entire house-Instead of dealing with my emotions.
  • Googled symptoms-Diagnosed myself with 14 conditions and a personality I don’t have.
  • Had a fake argument in the shower-And won.
  • Stared at the wall for 27 minutes-Thinking about absolutely nothing and everything.
  • Said “I’m fine” while crying-A classic. A staple. A cultural artifact.
  • Therapy homework not done-But I did alphabetize my spices.

By 4 p.m., I had a full, glorious, diagonal BINGO like the emotionally unstable champion I am. So naturally, I strutted into therapy like I had just won the Olympics. I sat down. Crossed my legs like a Southern auntie about to spill tea, and said, “Ma’am I got BINGO.” And I slid that card across the table like it was a winning lottery ticket.

My therapist’s response? She looked at it. She looked at me. She looked back at it. Then she said, “Well I’m proud of you for tracking your patterns. I’m slightly concerned that you blacked out an entire row before breakfast. But I admire the commitment. This is the most enthusiastic self-reporting I’ve ever seen. Should I congratulate you? Or schedule an extra session?” Then she added, “Also, please stop oversharing with strangers. That woman at Walgreens did not need to know about your existential crisis over toothpaste.”

And as I left therapy, I swear I heard my ancestors whisper, “We survived plagues, wars, and the Great Depression. But this? This bingo card? This is new.” But listen. If healing is a journey, then I’m out here collecting stamps like a chaotic little passport official. And if Mental Health Bingo is wrong, I don’t want to be right. BINGO, baby.

And as I walked out of therapy clutching my laminated Mental Health Bingo card like it was the Declaration of Independence, something in me shifted. I felt accomplished. Victorious. Slightly unhinged. But in a cute way. Like a raccoon wearing lip gloss. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect crystals. Some people collect red flags like they’re Pokémon. But me? I collect emotional plot twists.

Every square on that bingo card was a tiny little badge of honor. Proof that I am out here doing the absolute most with the absolute least. I’m surviving on vibes, caffeine, cannabis, and the sheer audacity to keep showing up. And I’m proud of me. Not the Pinterest version of me. Not the “I have my life together” LinkedIn version of me. Not the “I only cry on weekends” version of me. No. I’m proud of the version of me who wakes up every day and chooses to keep going. Even when my brain is acting like a Walmart intercom system glitching during a thunderstorm.

I’m proud of the me who laughs through the chaos. Who heals crooked but heals anyway. Who turns breakdowns into blog posts. And therapy homework into performance art. So yeah, I got BINGO. And next week? I might get blackout. But that’s growth. Card stamped. Healing in progress. Thanks for reading! What square on your own mental health bingo card did you hit this week? And did you earn it with the chaotic flair of a true Southern champion?

Affirmation: I celebrate my progress. Honor my humanity. And allow joy to exist even in the chaos.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

If the South Got Hold of the DSM, This Is Exactly What It Would Look Like

“If you can’t fix it, fry it. If you can’t fry it, bless it.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. If we’re going to rewrite the DSM the way Southerners would actually diagnose each other, we need the grill hot. The humidity is thick enough to baptize you involuntarily. And at least one casserole is cooling on the counter like a therapy emotional support animal.

Picture this. A mental health clinic run entirely by Southern aunties. Not licensed. Not certified. But spiritually ordained by the power vested in them through gossip, Jesus, and generational spite. The waiting room smells like White Diamonds perfume and Velveeta. The intake forms ask questions like this.

  • “Do you cry in the Dollar General parking lot? Or the Walmart one?”
  • “Do you prefer your emotional breakdowns fried or baked?”
  • “Has an ancestor recently appeared to tell you to stop dating trash?”

Your ancestors gather in the corner like a spectral support group, whispering, “Baby, that ain’t depression. That’s just your spirit trying to clock out early because you keep ignoring the signs.” One ancestor fans herself dramatically. Another pulls out a folding chair like she’s about to watch a fight. A third one mutters, “Lord, give that child some boundaries.”

Welcome to the Bless‑Your‑Heart Mental Health Clinic. Where the diagnoses are seasoned. The advice is unsolicited. And the emotional support snacks are mandatory.

THE 10 SOUTHERN DSM DIAGNOSES THAT WILL NEVER PASS COMMITTEE (BUT SHOULD)

1. Bless‑Your‑Heart Burnout

A uniquely Southern exhaustion that occurs when you’ve been polite for too long. And your soul starts filing HR complaints.

Symptoms include: 

·     Smiling while dying inside.

  • Saying “it’s fine” in a tone that means “I’m about to set something on fire.”
  • Being the family’s emotional support possum since age seven.
  • Crying silently while making deviled eggs.

Treatment: A nap, a boundary, and a casserole you don’t have to share.

2. Sunday Scaries but Biblical

A spiritual condition where you fear Monday, the Rapture, and running into Sister Linda at Walmart all at once.

Symptoms include:

  • Feeling judged by Jesus and your mee-maw simultaneously.
  • Sudden urge to repent for things you didn’t even do.
  • Heart palpitations triggered by church group texts.

Treatment: A long bath, a longer nap, and ignoring your pastor’s Facebook posts.

3. Anxiety With a Side of Casserole

You’re spiraling. But you still show up with a Pyrex dish because manners.

Symptoms include:

  • Overthinking while preheating the oven.
  • Crying into shredded cheese.
  • Apologizing to inanimate objects.

Treatment: Therapy + carbs.

4. Generational Guilt Gumbo

A thick emotional stew seasoned with:

  • “Your great‑granddaddy didn’t fight in the war for you to nap.”
  • “We don’t talk about that side of the family.”
  • “Fix your face before it freezes like that.”

Treatment: Breaking cycles. Sage smoke. And ignoring Aunt Brenda.

5. Passive‑Aggressive Hospitality Disorder

You will offer sweet tea to your worst enemy and then talk about them for three hours after they leave.

Symptoms:

  • Weaponized politeness.
  • Compliments that feel like threats.
  • Hosting events you resent.

Treatment: Learning to say “no” without adding “but if you really need me.”

6. Sweet Tea–Induced Overconfidence

Symptoms include believing you can:

  • Fix a man.
  • Fix a carburetor.
  • Fix your life All incorrect.

Treatment: Hydration. Real hydration. With water.

7. Blessed & Stressed Syndrome

You’re grateful. You’re overwhelmed. You’re crying in the Dollar General parking lot.

Symptoms:

  • Saying “I’m blessed” while twitching.
  • Buying seasonal décor as a coping mechanism.
  • Emotional support Dr Pepper.

Treatment: A day off, a hug, and someone else handling dinner.

8. Porch Swing Existentialism

Staring into the distance like a Civil War widow while contemplating your purpose, your past, and whether you left the stove on.

Symptoms:

  • Sudden philosophical monologues.
  • Rocking chair-induced revelations.
  • Questioning everything except your love for biscuits.

Treatment: A breeze, a journal, and a break from people named Tammy.

9. Y’all Fatigue

A social exhaustion disorder caused by:

  • Too many group texts.
  • Too many church committees.
  • Too many people named Tammy.

 Symptoms include:

  • Avoiding calls.
  • Hiding in your car.
  • Whispering “I can’t do this today” into your steering wheel.

Treatment: Silence. Blessed, holy silence.

10. Ancestor Interference Episode

When your great‑great‑grandma’s ghost pops in to say, “Baby, that man is not your ministry.”

Symptoms:

  • Sudden chills.
  • Hearing “mmhmm” from the beyond.
  • Feeling judged by people who died before indoor plumbing.

Treatment: Listening. They’re never wrong.

Let me tell you something. If Southerners wrote the DSM, they wouldn’t just diagnose you. They’d claim you. Feed you. Pray over you. Roast you. And then send you home with leftovers and a warning. They’d hand you a casserole and a coping mechanism in the same breath. They’d tell you to hydrate. Set boundaries. And stop dating people who look like they smell like disappointment. Your therapist would be confused. Your pastor would be concerned. Your mee-maw would say, “Well, I always knew that child was touched.”

And your ancestors? Your ancestors would be standing in the corner like a spiritual hype squad. While fanning themselves with funeral‑home fans and whispering, “Tell it, baby. Tell it. They need this word.” Because they’ve watched you try to hold everything together with duct tape, sweet tea, and emotional suppression so thick it could be used as grout. They’ve watched you say, “I’m fine” in the same tone someone uses to lie on a witness stand. They’ve watched you carry generational trauma like it’s a monogrammed tote bag.

And they are tired. They want better for you. They want softer for you. They want you to stop letting people with the emotional intelligence of a wet paper plate have access to your spirit. So, here’s the real, Southern‑fried, spiritually seasoned truth. You deserve rest that doesn’t feel like guilt. You deserve joy that doesn’t feel like a chore. You deserve boundaries that don’t require a PowerPoint presentation. You deserve a life that doesn’t feel like a group project where you’re doing all the work. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise? Your ancestors will rise up like a holy wind through the magnolia trees and whisper directly into your ear, “Baby, that ain’t your ministry. Put it down.”

So go on. Take your sweet tea. Take your casserole. Take your emotional support porch swing. Take your entire lineage of loud, opinionated, spiritually nosy ancestors and walk boldly into your peace like you’re entering a potluck with the best damn mac and cheese in the room. Because you are. And you do. And you will. Because if Southerners wrote the DSM, therapy would come with a potluck sign‑up sheet. Diagnoses would be delivered with a hug and a warning. And every session would end with, “Now go on, sugar. Hydrate and mind your business.” Your ancestors approve. Your therapist is concerned. And that’s balance. Thanks for reading! Which casserole‑powered coping strategy gets you through the week?

Affirmation: I am divinely guided. Ancestrally protected. And emotionally supported by casseroles.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

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

Things I’ve Said In Therapy That Haunt Me

“Therapy is where my mouth says things my brain did not approve.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like your last nerve. Because apparently my healing journey requires ambiance, smoke, and at least three ancestors supervising like I’m about to shoplift emotionally from the universe. Summon the ancestors. They love a front‑row seat to your emotional chaos. And today we’re adding a full therapy‑session script to the memoir of oversharing that already has them passing around spiritual popcorn.

The moment the charcoal sparks, I can hear Great‑Grandma Eunice whispering, “Lord, she’s going back to therapy again. Somebody get the popcorn.” And she’s right. Every time I walk into therapy, I transform from a functioning adult into a confused emotional raccoon who has been handed a microphone and zero supervision. I walk in with the intention of being mature. Grounded. And emotionally regulated. Five minutes later I’m saying things like:

  • strategic avoidance-“I’m not avoiding my problems, I’m just strategically rescheduling them.”
  • vibes-based coping-“My coping skills are vibes-based.”
  • attachment enthusiasm– “I don’t have attachment issues. I have attachment enthusiasm.”
  • fine-while-crying-“I’m fine.” While crying like a Victorian widow who just lost her husband to a horse accident.

My therapist sits there nodding like she’s watching a documentary about a rare woodland creature trying to file taxes.

Healing is wild. But it’s also tender. It’s not just me blurting out unhinged one-liners like a raccoon with a microphone. It’s also the quiet moments where I surprise myself with actual growth. And a lot of times, it’s just not pretty going through the process. So, here’s the more wholesome side of the things I’ve said in therapy. The ones that haunt me, yes, but also hold me.

1. “I’m trying.”

Not perfectly. Not consistently. But honestly. My therapist smiled so softly I almost cried again.

2. “I didn’t know I was allowed to feel that.”

And the ancestors hummed in agreement like a gospel choir warming up.

3. “I’m learning to be kinder to myself.”

My therapist nodded. My inner child peeked out from behind a metaphorical couch. Even my houseplant perked up a little.

4. “I don’t want to shut down anymore.”

That one made the room quiet in a holy way. Even the ancestors stopped chewing their spiritual peppermints.

5. “I’m scared, but I’m here.”

And honestly? That’s the bravest sentence I’ve ever said.

6. “I didn’t run from the hard thing this week.”

The ancestors clapped like I just graduated from emotional kindergarten.

7. “I’m starting to believe I deserve good things.”

My therapist wrote something down very gently. Probably “progress,” but in therapist handwriting it could also say “pot roast.”

8. “I’m learning to rest without guilt.”

This one made Great‑Grandma shout, “FINALLY” from the ancestral balcony.

9. “I’m not who I used to be.”

And that’s not scary anymore. It’s sacred.

10. “I’m proud of myself.”

And for once, I meant it.

The ancestors still show up. But now they’re less “judgmental pigeons.” And more “spiritual aunties who brought snacks and encouragement.”

  • Mamaw: “Baby, healing is slow-cooked, not microwaved.”
  • Uncle: “You’re doing better than you think.”
  • Aunty: “Tell your therapist you drank water today. She’ll be thrilled.”

They’re still loud. They’re still dramatic. But they’re rooting for me like I’m the only contestant on a cosmic game show called Emotional Regulation: The Remix.

THINGS I SHOULD NOT HAVE SAID OUT LOUD

  • descending with style-“I’m not spiraling, I’m just descending with style.”
  • houseplant trauma bond– “I trauma-bonded with a houseplant once.”
  • trust questions-“I don’t have trust issues. I have trust questions.”
  • inner child rebellion-“My inner child is tired of my shit.”
  • emotional airplane mode-“I’m not emotionally unavailable. I’m emotionally… on airplane mode.”
  • ancestor disappointment -“My ancestors did not survive plagues, wars, and the Great Depression for me to be defeated by a group chat.”
  • financial miracle plan-“I don’t need coping skills. I need a nap and a financial miracle.”
  • conflict timeout-“I’m not avoiding conflict. I’m giving it space to think about what it’s done.”
  • haunted brain-“My brain is like a haunted house. I don’t go in there alone.”

The ancestors? They’re not supportive. They’re entertained.

The Therapy Session: The Day I Overshared So Hard The Ancestors Stood Up

Therapist: “So, how have you been since last week?”

Me: “Emotionally? I’m like a Walmart shopping cart. One wheel is fine. The other three are screaming.”

Ancestor Mamaw (materializing): “Tell her about the Wal-Mart parking lot incident.”

Me: “Not now, Mamaw.”

Therapist: “Who are you talking to?”

Me: “My ancestors. They’re very involved.”

Therapist: “Okay, let’s explore that.”

Me: “No. The last time we explored something, I cried so hard I dehydrated myself.”

Therapist: “What’s coming up for you today?”

Me: “Well, I said ‘I’m fine’ earlier and my left eye twitched so hard it tried to leave my body.”

Therapist: “And what do you think that means?”

Me: “That my nervous system is wanting to avoid feelings.”

Ancestor Uncle: “She’s not wrong.”

Therapist: “Let’s talk about your coping skills.”

Me: “They’re vibes-based.”

Therapist: “Meaning?”

Me: “Meaning sometimes I blog. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I eat a Pop-Tart and stare into the void.”

Therapist: “And how does that work for you?”

Me: “Well, I’m here.”

Ancestor Aunty: “Tell her about the houseplant.”

Me: “No.”

Therapist: “Houseplant?”

Me: “I trauma-bonded with a fern. We don’t need to unpack that.”

Therapist: “Everything is welcome here.”

Me: “Okay, but is everything refundable? I’d like to return some of these emotions.”

Therapist: “Let’s try grounding.”

Me: “I am grounded. That’s the problem. I’d like to be airborne.”

Therapist: “What do you need right now?”

Me: “A nap. A snack. A financial miracle. A dab, joint, and edible. And maybe a hug from someone with stable nervous system energy.”

Ancestor Mamaw: “She needs Jesus.”

Me: “I need a coupon code for life.”

Therapist: “Let’s breathe together.”

Me: “Okay, but if I start crying, it’s your fault.”

So here I stand surrounded by charcoal smoke. Ancestors perched like judgmental pigeons. Therapist scribbling notes like she’s drafting a memoir of her own. And me reflecting on the things I’ve said in therapy that haunt me like student loans.

And for the record? This was a tongue and cheek blog. My therapist has the patience of Job. Biblical-level patience. Generational patience. Patience that could calm a tornado with a peppermint and a soft voice. And I’ll say it plainly. I would not want to be my therapist or have her job. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next. Not even as a ghost with benefits.

Old ideologies and messages are hard to delineate from. Some of the ones about myself are probably be permanent. Others have changed or are changing slowly and stubbornly. And it’s like a mule being asked to do yoga.

But here’s the truth. Therapy can be where my mouth says things my brain did not approve. If you can’t laugh at some of the wild internal justifications your brain invents throughout the therapeutic process, the journey becomes heavier than it needs to be. Laughter doesn’t erase the work. It just makes the work survivable. So, if my therapy sessions sound like a comedy special hosted by a traumatized raccoon with a southern accent, that’s between me, my therapist, and the ancestors who refuse to mind their business. If oversharing burned calories, I’d be a supermodel by now.

Affirmation: I release shame. Embrace honesty. And trust that my chaos is still holy.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

The Stages of a Mental Health Spiral

“Sometimes the spiral isn’t a breakdown. It’s a plot twist.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Because the ancestors have pulled up lawn chairs. Piper is judging you from the counter. And your last functioning brain cell is wearing Crocs and screaming, “We’re fine.” Today, we’re about to roast our own mental health spiral like it’s Sunday dinner. And the ancestors are already circling the table whispering, “Lord, she’s doing that again.” Today’s sermon: The Stages of a Mental Health Spiral. This is not a gentle descent. This is a Six Flags drop tower operated by a raccoon with a GED and a dream.

You know that moment when you feel something is off? Not enough to call your therapist. But enough to stare at the wall like it owes you money. That’s when the spiral begins. Quietly. Softly. Like a Southern woman saying, “Bless your heart.”  Right before she ruins your life.

Behold, the official stages of a mental health spiral. The annotated. Dramatized. And spiritually supervised by your ancestors who are shaking their heads in unison.

1. Denial (a.k.a. “I’m fine.”)

You say “I’m fine” with the confidence of a toddler holding a permanent marker near a white couch. Your eye twitches. Your soul leaves your body. But you? You’re “fine.”

2. Snack-Based Coping

You open the fridge like it’s going to reveal the meaning of life. It does not. It reveals cheese. You eat the cheese. You feel nothing. You eat more cheese. You still feel nothing. You consider becoming cheese.

3. Googling Symptoms

You Google one minor sensation. “Why does my left eyebrow feel spicy?” 

Google: You have 14 minutes to live. 

You: “Reasonable.”

4. Texting Your Spouse

You send a message that is 40% panic. 40% apology. And 20% emojis that do not match the situation. Your spouse replies, “Did you eat today?” You did not. You lie anyway.

5. Bargaining With the Universe

You promise to drink water. You promise to stretch. You promise to stop doomscrolling. You do none of these things.

6. Existential Laundry

You stare at a laundry basket like it’s a metaphor for your entire life. You consider folding it. You do not fold it. You put a blanket over it like a Victorian ghost.

7. Deciding to Become a Forest Witch

You Google “how to disappear into the woods legally.” You imagine yourself living among moss, mushrooms, and emotionally stable squirrels. You start pricing cauldrons. You tell your spouse, “I’m going feral.” They say, “Okay, but text me when you get there.”

I told my therapist about the levels of decent into madness. She looked at me over her glasses like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh. Cry. Or call your ancestors for backup. She said, “Dana, you cannot diagnose yourself with 14 conditions. Eat a block of cheddar. And then attempt to join the woodland spirits. That’s not a treatment plan. That’s a Thursday.” Then she adds, “Next time, call me before you Google anything. Or before you buy a cauldron.”

And that, my friend, is the spiral. A journey. A pilgrimage. A spiritual hike through chaos, cheese, and questionable decisions. But you survived. You always do. Because even when my brain is doing NASCAR donuts in a Walmart parking lot, I still show up, I still laugh. And still threaten to become a forest witch at least twice a month. My ancestors are proud. My therapist is tired. My cats are unimpressed. And I’m doing amazing. Thanks for reading! What are things you do when you’re spiraling that isn’t funny at the time? But is now.

Affirmation: I can survive my own brain, one snack, one breath, and one dramatic monologue at a time.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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