resilience

darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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

darnold1975

Mike Johnson: The Speaker Who Tried to Out‑Pray Reality

“Hypocrisy is loud. But truth has a way of hollering back.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle “Oh my GOD this is terrible.” And call upon the ancestors. We’re about to talk about Speaker of the House “Moses” Mike “Grindr” Johnson. Also known as the leader of the Closetocracy. The man who somehow manages to be both the nation’s top lawmaker. And the world’s most chaotic religious plot twist. Ancestors, gather ‘round. Bring sweet tea. Bring smelling salts. Bring a fan. Because this level of hypocrisy has me sweating like a Pentecostal preacher caught in a drag brunch.

The political and religious hypocrisy in this country has gotten so loud it’s rattling the picture frames in my hallway. Somebody grab the emergency sweet tea. We’re going to talk about the kind of political behavior that makes the ancestors collectively sigh.

This is about The Speaker of the House and the Biblical‑themed, reality‑TV‑level chaos that has unfolded since he picked up that gavel. And yes, we’re using real facts. And yes we’re adding Southern sarcasm so thick you could spread it on a biscuit.

10 FACTUAL THINGS MIKE JOHNSON HAS DONE, WITH SOURCES, AND A WHOLE LOT OF SOUTHERN SARCASM

1. Said God put him in the Speaker’s chair.

He told reporters his rise to power was part of “God’s plan.” Source: NBC News https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/congress/mike-johnson-says-god-put-speaker-s-chair-rcna122001 (nbcnews.com in Bing)

Southern translation: The man said God promoted him like it was a divine LinkedIn notification.

2. Compared his leadership role to Moses.

He invoked biblical figures to explain his political mission. Source: Washington Post https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2023/11/01/mike-johnson-religion/ (washingtonpost.com in Bing)

Southern translation: Sir, Moses parted the Red Sea. You can’t even part your caucus.

3. Co‑authored a legal brief defending Louisiana’s same‑sex marriage ban.

He argued same‑sex marriage would harm society. Source: AP News https://apnews.com/article/mike-johnson-louisiana-same-sex-marriage-brief-8e3f6a6e7c7f4c0b9a8f2e8e3e4a2b6b(apnews.com in Bing)

Southern translation: He said marriage equality was dangerous. While ignoring the actual dangers like Congress itself.

4. Supported criminalizing same‑sex relationships earlier in his career.

He wrote op‑eds defending laws against “homosexual conduct.” Source: CNN https://www.cnn.com/2023/10/26/politics/mike-johnson-anti-lgbtq-writings/index.html (cnn.com in Bing)

Southern translation: He tried to legislate love like it was a zoning violation.

5. Promoted “covenant marriage” to make divorce harder.

He pushed stricter marriage laws requiring counseling. Source: Politico https://www.politico.com/news/2023/10/27/mike-johnson-covenant-marriage-00124239(politico.com in Bing)

Southern translation: He said marriage should be harder to leave. Meanwhile half the country is trying to leave the group chat.

6. Opposes abortion in all cases, including rape and incest.

His stance is among the most restrictive in Congress. Source: NPR https://www.npr.org/2023/10/26/1210099674/mike-johnson-abortion-views(npr.org in Bing)

Southern translation: He wants fewer choices than a Waffle House menu at 3 a.m.

7. Played a key role in efforts to overturn the 2020 election.

He led House Republicans in supporting a lawsuit to invalidate votes. Source: New York Times https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/25/us/politics/mike-johnson-election.html (nytimes.com in Bing)

Southern translation: He tried to return democracy like it was an Amazon package.

8. Voted against disaster relief funding for his own state.

He opposed bipartisan hurricane aid. Source: The Advocate https://www.theadvocate.com/baton_rouge/news/politics/mike-johnson-hurricane-relief-vote/article_3b6f8a7e-5c9a-11ee-8a7a-6f2e0f4c2a0b.html(theadvocate.com in Bing)

Southern translation: Louisiana said “help,” and he said “thoughts and prayers only.”

9. Advocated for monitoring pornography as a “moral threat.”

He pushed anti‑porn activism and surveillance. Source: Rolling Stone https://www.rollingstone.com/politics/politics-news/mike-johnson-anti-porn-activism-1234854567/ (rollingstone.com in Bing)

Southern translation: He wants to track your browser history like it’s a Fitbit.

10. Called climate change a hoax.

He dismissed climate science and opposed environmental regulations. Source: The Guardianhttps://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2023/oct/26/mike-johnson-climate-change-hoax (theguardian.com in Bing)

Southern translation: Sir, the Gulf of Mexico is boiling like crawfish water. This is not the time.

Light the charcoal again. Because this whole situation needs a spiritual cleansing, a sage bundle, and maybe a priest. The Speaker’s record is a masterclass in political contradiction:

  • Biblical metaphors for leadership.
  • Restrictive policies for families.
  • Attempts to overturn elections.
  • Climate denial while the South melts like a candle.
  • LGBTQIA+ scapegoating while preaching “love thy neighbor.”

It’s the kind of hypocrisy that makes Southern liberals clutch their pearls and say, “Lord, take the wheel, the whole car, and the insurance policy.” The ancestors are tired. The sweet tea is gone. And I’m officially closed for renovations due to excessive foolishness. Thanks for reading! And get out and vote.“So what do you think? Is reality being dramatic? Or is Mike “Grindr” Johnson just trying to pray the plot twist away?”

Affirmation: I stand firm in my truth, my identity, and my joy. No matter who tries to rewrite the narrative.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

I’ve Had It Podcast: The Southern Sass Survival Guide for Blue Dots in Red States

“Sometimes the only thing keeping me from losing my already lost religion is two Oklahoma women yelling about petty grievances.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Invoke the ancestors. Preferably the messy ones. The ones who show up wearing house shoes. Clutching a gas‑station fountain drink. And whispering, “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this one.”

Because today, we gather in the sacred, humid, mosquito‑infested, spiritually charged arena to praise. Roast. And spiritually hydrate the chaotic holiness that is the I’ve Had It Podcast. The only place where two white liberal women from the red MAGA plains of Oklahoma have somehow built a sanctuary for every exhausted blue‑dot soul trying to survive in a country where people still proudly drink out of Stanley cups like it’s a personality trait. Let me set the table like MeeMaw used to that is loud. And with sweet tea strong enough to dissolve enamel.

Jennifer Welch and Angie “Pumps” Sullivan aren’t just podcasters. They are the patron saints of Petty Grievances. The matriarchs of Messy Liberation. And the spiritual mothers of every liberal woman trapped in a red state. While trying not to throat‑punch someone at the grocery store.

Jennifer, the sarcastically blunt atheist queen, speaks with the kind of clarity that only comes from years of saying, “No, actually, that is stupid” out loud. She’s the type of woman who could walk into a revival tent. Sneeze. And accidentally deconstruct someone’s entire theology. On a side note I’ll also say that she is an Olympic level Pickle Ball Champion like we’ve never seen before in the history of the world.

Then there’s Pumps. Lord help us all. Pumps is a recovering evangelical, the HBIC (Head Beaver In Charge), the teeny weenieologist, the MeeMaw Meat Curtains because she is much older than Jennifer. And apparently the patron saint of Asexuality in the Bible Belt. Her last sexual encounter was somewhere around 1,000 days ago. And Jennifer multiplies that number tenfold with each episode until the math starts giving Old Testament genealogy. We’re approaching, “And on the 40,000th day, Pumps rested.”

And presiding over this circus of holy chaos is Kiley. The beautiful lesbian gaytriot producer who keeps the entire operation from combusting. She’s the glue, the duct tape, the Queer Logistics Coordinator who ensures Jennifer and Pumps don’t accidentally start a small fire while recording. She produces the hilarious fuckery with the precision of a woman who knows exactly how chaotic these two can be.

As a white liberal sarcastic woman myself from the red MAGA state of Mississippi, these ladies have become my emotional support podcast. They take the isolation of wanting equal rights for everyone. While surrounded by neighbors who think democracy is optional. And turn it into a family. A loud, hilarious politically petty family that supports all marginalized groups and stands up for democracy. Despite the red hatred swirling around them.

And let me tell you. And their nicknames for politicians? Baby, they speak fluent Southern shade. People like Donald “Cankles McTaco Tits” Trump, Moses Mike Grindr Johnson, the late Lindsey “Lady” Graham, “Big Titty” Bryon Knoem, “Smokey-eyed sociopath” JD Vance, “Lyin’” Ted Cruz, Flamboyant Jesse “Lady” Waters with Fox News, Natalie “The Bunny Boiler” Harp, Markwayne “Booster Box” Mullin, and others. I heard that recently they both spoke with Mitch “Dead Not Dead” McConnell for twenty minutes from his life support rehabilitation unit. They roast public figures with the same energy my Aunt Linda uses when she says, “I’m not saying she’s trashy. But she does own a leopard‑print Bible cover.”

They expose the closetocracy, the folks who legislate against the very community they enjoy on weekends, with surgical precision and the comedic timing only two women who have truly had it can deliver. Are they crass? Yes. Do they speak my language? Absolutely. Do they have a low tolerance for stupidity? Honey, they have a negative tolerance.

And Pumps, sweet Pumps, if she would stop vaping like she’s trying to summon a Civil War ghost, Jennifer might finally unclench. And if she would please stop pooping in Styrofoam cups like she’s conducting a science fair project, the online audience would stop peeing on ourselves from laughing. Get it together, Pumps. At least the saggin’ dragons are secured.

These women have been my morning oxygen for over a year. They are my people that are  hilarious. And, at times, inappropriate. Unfiltered. Compassionate. And petty in all the right places. If you’re a prude. Easily offended. Or still clinging to conservative Christianity where some Christians use scripture as a mascot for cruelty, this is not your ministry.

But if you’re like me a blue dot in a red state. A queer person whose family can’t quite figure out acceptance. Or someone who needs laughter more than judgment. These ladies feel like home. They are the family I needed. The humor I craved. And the reminder that democracy is worth fighting for even when surrounded by folks who think Jesus rode a dinosaur. And if island living as a blue dot in a red state is what it takes, then baby, I’ll take my new family without question.

So let me say this with the full force of my ancestors, my sass, my trauma, my cats, and my last functioning nerve. The I’ve Had It Podcast isn’t just entertainment. It’s survival. It’s community. It’s the comedic resistance movement for every marginalized person living in a state where Hobby Lobby aisles are filled with people who think equality is a threat to their throw pillows.

Jennifer, Pumps, and Kiley have built a refuge for the tired, the queer, the liberal, the fed‑up, the chronically sarcastic, and the spiritually dehydrated. They’ve given us permission to laugh at the absurdity of our political landscape. To call out hypocrisy with humor. And to find joy in the middle of a country that feels like it’s being run by people who failed eighth‑grade civics. And who ate boogers and glue but never outgrew those behaviors.

I will be a loyal gaytriot as long as these ladies are around. I will follow them into the trenches of democracy, petty grievances, and Pumps’ colon‑control journey. I will take this island living. This blue dot existence. And choose my new family without hesitation.

Thank you, ladies, for your humor, your compassion, and your unapologetic refusal to tolerate bullshit in this tumultuous time. You are the laughter that keeps us fighting. CACAW!!!! Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Humidity rising. Ancestors hollering, “That’s Right, Baby!” Thanks for reading! Please tune in every day to the I’ve Had It podcast for political news with lots of humor.

Affirmation: I honor my truth, humor, identity, and my chosen family. I choose joy. I choose community. And I choose to laugh loudly. Even in the places that try to silence me.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

A Prayer So Wild Even the Angels Clocked Out Early

“Some prayers lift the spirit. Others just lift the eyebrows.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Hide your children, your casseroles, and your common sense. Because what I witnessed at that unfortunate local Mississippi event wasn’t a prayer. It was a theological Nascar crash. And every angel in heaven refused to file the insurance claim.

Picture it. A field full of red hats bobbing like a colony of patriotic mushrooms. The air thick with humidity, Axe body spray, and generational resentment. A folding table sagging under the weight of mayonnaise‑based salads. And a speaker system held together with duct tape and denial.

Then he stepped forward. The Chosen One of the Red‑Hat Prayer Circle. A man built like a refrigerator with opinions. A man whose shirt had more eagles than the actual sky. A man who looked like he’d been baptized in Monster Energy. He grabbed the microphone like he was about to drop a mixtape called “Gospel of the Grievance.” 

He clears his throat like he’s about to summon the Holy Ghost, the founding fathers, and the HOA board all at once. And then. Lord help us. He opened his mouth.

What came out was not a prayer. It was not a blessing. It was not even a coherent sentence structure. It was a spiritual Yelp review written by a man who thinks the Holy Trinity is God, Country, and Bathroom Legislation. Then he begins The Prayer. The one that made the angels file HR complaints.

“Heavenly Father. We come before you today under this blessed Mississippi sun. Which you made hotter every year to punish the radical left for their wickedness.

Lord, we know that every single problem in this world can be traced back to them. The hurricanes? The liberals. The price of eggs? The liberals. My gout flaring up last Tuesday? Father God, that was the liberals too.

And Lord, we thank you that our sins don’t count. Because we carry the “Jesus Warranty.” We swipe it like a rewards card. We sin. We repent. We sin again. And you just keep stamping that little heavenly punch card. But the liberals, Lord? Unforgivable. They are the real ones on the predatory registry. Not all the republicans. But that’s none of my business, Father.

Lord, we thank You that here in Mississippi, we stay focused on the things that matter most like genitals, bathrooms, and our loyal governor who kneels so faithfully before the Orange Messiah. He bends the knee so hard, Lord, he’s got calluses shaped like patriotism.

Father, we lift up the windmills to you. Those demonic pinwheels of destruction. They’re out there slaughtering birds. Driving whales insane. And screaming so loud they give people cancer. Lord, we know the whales are acting up because they can’t handle the noise. They’re liberals at heart, Father. Sensitive. Emotional. Always protesting something.

And Lord, we rebuke the immigrants who are coming here to eat our dogs and cats. We know this because someone’s cousin’s neighbor’s Facebook post said so. And that’s good enough for us.

Father, protect us from the left trying to make everyone gay and transgender. They’re out here handing out pronouns like coupons. Even though they say that pronouns are in the English language. And that’s also a hoax. Next thing you know, my truck’s gonna identify as a Prius.

Lord, we thank you for the brave idea of firing nuclear weapons into hurricanes. We know it would’ve worked if the deep state hadn’t interfered. We thank you for the tariffs on penguins, Father. The money is pouring in. We don’t know where from. But it’s pouring in.

We thank you for answering our prayer about gasoline. It’s the lowest it’s ever been. Even though the sign says otherwise. But we don’t read numbers. Lord numbers are liberal. We thank you for the funds for the Pedophile Patio at the White House. We don’t know what it is. But the liberals said it’s bad. So, it must really be good. And that’s enough for us.

Lord, we ask You to bless our crosses. Which absolve us of all wrongdoing. We wear them proudly, Father, even when we’re screaming at cashiers or crashing Grindr. Not that we’ve ever crashed Grindr. That was the liberals.

And Father, we rebuke the rumors about ladybugs we may or may not have contracted from Lindsey “Lady” Graham. We don’t have them. We’ve never had them. We don’t think. That’s the liberals’ fault too. Lord, we pray for this nation. We pray for our bathrooms. We pray for our genitals. We pray for our Orange Messiah. And we pray that you continue to forgive us instantly while holding everyone else accountable forever. In your holy, conservative, red‑hat‑approved name we pray. Amen.”

As the final “Amen” echoed across the field. Bounced off the port‑a‑potties. Ricocheting through the humidity. And startling at least three confused squirrels. I realized something profound. This wasn’t a prayer. This was a confession disguised as patriotism. A spiritual tantrum. A theological meltdown. A holy‑ghost‑free revival sponsored by conspiracy theories and lukewarm potato salad.

The red‑hat faithful walked away feeling forgiven. Justified. And spiritually moisturized. Not because they’d repented. But because they’d shouted loudly enough to drown out their own guilt. Meanwhile, the rest of us stood there blinking like we’d just witnessed a raccoon steal a wedding cake.

If delusion had a megachurch, this prayer would’ve been the keynote speaker. If hypocrisy had a hymn book, this prayer would’ve been track one. If nonsense had a national anthem, this prayer would’ve been sung at every football game.

And here’s my final word. May we all be delivered from prayers that sound like Facebook comments. May our humor stay sharp. Our queerness stay loud. And our spirits stay unbothered. And may the next local event have better food, better theology, and fewer polyester hats. Thanks for reading! And thank you for your attention to this matter. Praise Be To Allah!

  Affirmation: I stand rooted in truth, humor, and queer resilience. No amount of red‑hat chaos can shake my spirit or dim my brilliance.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Gospel of Dolly Parton: Kindness, Glitter, and Generational Healing

“Find out who you are and do it on purpose.” 

-Dolly Parton

Light the charcoal. Pull up a chair. And let’s call the ancestors. Today, we’re about to talk about a woman whose legacy smells like warm biscuits, rhinestones, and generational healing. Dolly Parton wasn’t just a country singer. She was a walking love letter to humanity. A Southern phoenix who rose from the Smoky Mountains with a voice full of honey and a heart full of fire. And Lord, did she use that fire to light the way for all of us.

When we speak Dolly Parton’s name, we’re not just telling a story. We’re summoning a legacy stitched into the bones of the South, the nation, and every child who ever held a book and felt their world crack open with possibility.

Dolly wasn’t just a singer. She was a healer. A mountain-born miracle. A Southern woman who took her own childhood that was poor, barefoot, brilliant, and turned it into a mission to make sure no child, anywhere, ever felt small because of their circumstances.

She carried the Smoky Mountains in her voice. It was the sass of every Southern auntie who ever said, “Bless your heart. But fix your life.” And the tenderness of a mama who knows what it means to struggle and still show up with love. And when it came to children, Dolly didn’t play. She built an empire of hope one book, one song, one act of kindness at a time.

10 Things Dolly Did for All Communities (Especially the Ones Society Overlooked)

  • She created the Imagination Library, sendingover 200 million free books to children in rural, urban, poor, wealthy, Black, white, immigrant, Indigenous, disabled, LGBTQ+ families, and everyone. Dolly said literacy wasn’t a privilege. It was a birthright.
  • She made sure those books were culturally inclusive. They featured stories with diverse characters, languages, and experiences so every child could see themselves reflected in the pages.
  • She funded vaccine research by helping save lives during a global crisis without needing applause or credit.
  • She uplifted LGBTQ+ communities by loving loudly. Defending boldly. And showing up long before it was “safe” or trendy.
  • She championed women’s empowerment by proving you can be glamorous, soft, and still run an empire with steel in your spine.
  • She protected Appalachian culture by honoring the stories, music, and people who shaped her. And making sure the world respected them too.
  • She donated millions to disaster relief, especially in overlooked Southern and rural communities that often get left behind.
  • She built Dollywood, creating thousands of jobs and economic stability for families who needed hope and opportunity.
  • She supported literacy and education beyond books, funding scholarships, schools, and programs for children who grew up like she did full of potential but lacking resources.
  • She modeled radical kindness, showing the world that compassion is not weakness. It’s world-changing power.

Dolly didn’t just give books. She gave children a future. She gave parents hope. She gave communities pride. She gave generations a chance to dream bigger than their circumstances.

Dolly Parton walked through this world like a rhinestone-wrapped blessing. She didn’t ask permission to shine. She just did. And she made sure everyone around her felt the warmth of that glow. She was the kind of woman who could take her own childhood poverty and turn it into a global literacy movement. Who could take her pain and turn it into poetry. Who could take her sass and turn it into strength.

She taught us that kindness is a revolution. She taught us that generosity is a legacy. She taught us that beauty is not about perfection. It’s about authenticity. She taught us that you can be underestimated your whole life and still outwork, out love, and outshine every last person who doubted you. She didn’t just leave behind songs. She left behind libraries. She left behind hope. She left behind a blueprint for how to live with grace, humor, and unapologetic sparkle.

So, light the charcoal. Let the ancestors hum. Let the mountains echo her name. Because Dolly Parton didn’t just change country music. She didn’t just change philanthropy. She didn’t just change the South. She changed humanity one child, one book, one act of love at a time. Mic dropped. Sequins scattered. Legacy eternal.

Affirmation: I shine boldly. Give generously. And build a legacy of love just like Dolly taught me.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I Trust More Than the Current Administration: 10 Reckless 80s Death Traps That Still Feel Safer Than Whatever This Is

“If the 80s taught me anything, it’s that danger builds character. And apparently more trust than modern governance.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. We’re about to smoke out some truth hotter than a Mississippi July with no AC and a broken ceiling fan. I’m talking about the 1980s. The era where children were basically raised by asbestos, sugar, and unregulated chaos. And somehow all ten of these hazards still feel more reliable than anything coming out of the current administration. According to what many people online joke about when comparing political frustrations to nostalgic dangers. So, buckle up. Preferably with a seatbelt that doesn’t lock. Fray. Or snap like the ones we had in ’84.

10 Dangerous Things From the 80s I Trust More Than the Current Administration

1. Metal Playgrounds That Reached the Temperature of Satan’s Forehead

Those slides would sear the skin clean off your thighs. But at least they were consistent. Predictable. Honest. They said, “Climb me and you will suffer.” And they delivered every time.

2. Lawn Darts

The 80s handed children spears and said, “Go outside.” And you know what? Those spears had more accountability than anything happening in Washington.

3. Station Wagons With No Seatbelts in the Back

We rolled around like loose produce in a grocery sack. But somehow we survived. Meanwhile, some people online say they feel like modern political decision-making is the real crash hazard.

4. The Original Easy-Bake Oven

Powered by a literal light bulb hot enough to melt a Barbie leg. And yet? Still felt safer than certain policy rollouts.

5. Tang

A powdered beverage that tasted like citrus-flavored drywall. But it never pretended to be anything else. A level of transparency many folks online wish they saw more often.

6. Those Giant Wooden Cable Spools We Used as Furniture

Splinters? Absolutely. Structural integrity? Questionable. But they held up better than some public promises.

7. Slip ’N Slides on Concrete

We didn’t have lush lawns. We had optimism and a hose. And even that felt like a more thought-out plan than some national strategies people complain about.

8. The McDonald’s Play Place Ball Pit

A microbial swamp of mystery fluids and lost socks. But at least the danger was visible. Tangible. Honest.

9. 80s Hair-Spray Clouds

We walked through enough aerosol to punch a hole in the ozone layer. But at least Aquanet never flip-flopped on its mission. It would hold that hair like your life depends on it.

10. The Sears Catalog Weight Set

Rusty. Questionable. Missing instructions. But it still felt more stable than the vibes coming out of D.C., according to many frustrated folks.

And that’s it. Ten relics of 80s chaos that could’ve taken us out at any moment. Metal slides that branded our thighs. Lawn darts that doubled as medieval weaponry. And Slip ’N Slides that were basically chiropractic roulette. And somehow, all that reckless nostalgia still feels sturdier than the national decision-making process folks online love to fuss about. If that ain’t Southern truth wrapped in neon spandex, I don’t know what is.

Let me tell you something. If surviving the 80s taught us anything, it’s that we were forged in a lawless era where children drank from garden hoses. Rode in the back of pickup trucks doing 70 on a gravel road. And ate popsicles that tasted like freezer burn and lead paint. We were raised by chaos, negligence, and whatever was on sale at K‑Mart. And somehow we still came out sturdier than the governmental circus folks keep hollering about these days.

Here’s the truth wrapped in a biscuit. The 80s didn’t pretend to protect us. They didn’t pat us on the head and say, “We’ve got this under control.” They didn’t hand us a flaming lawn dart and call it “innovative policy.” No, ma’am. The 80s looked us dead in the eye and said, “Listen, this might kill you. Good luck.” And honestly? That level of transparency feels downright refreshing compared to the current vibes.

So yes. Give me the metal slides, asbestos ceiling tiles, the unregulated fireworks, the neon‑soaked danger, the questionable snacks, the ozone‑destroying hair spray, and the Slip ’N Slide that doubled as a chiropractic emergency. At least those threats were honest. At least those hazards didn’t smile in my face while tripping me from behind.

And if that stings, light the charcoal. Because truth always cooks hotter than the grill. Now excuse me while I go pour myself a glass of sweet tea strong enough to dissolve a spoon. And pray for the strength of an 80s kid who survived Tang, lawn darts, and Reaganomics. Because apparently we’re gonna need it. Now pass me the charcoal. I’ve got more truth to smoke out. Mic dropped so hard it cracked the linoleum. Thanks for reading! What is your opinion?

Affirmation: I move through this world with the confidence of an 80s kid who survived. My resilience is vintage. My sass is eternal. And my trust is reserved for things that actually earn it.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Happy 250th Birthday, America! Please Stop Acting Like You’re Still in Your Rebellious Teen Phase

“I’m not saying my life is chaotic, but even my cats hold emergency staff meetings before waking me up.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. America just turned 250 years old. And the ancestors, the cats, and the queer community all have something to say. Welcome to the backyard celebration where the grill is smoking. The humidity is judging us. And my cats have formed a bipartisan committee to review the last two and a half centuries of American behavior. Spoiler: the report reads like a Yelp review written by someone who did not enjoy their meal.

Tink, the union rep, conspiracy theorist, and the only cat who can quote the Declaration of Independence while knocking over a pitcher of sweet tea. She is pacing the yard like a Southern aunt who just found out someone brought store‑bought potato salad to the reunion.

Coco, the Sunbeam High Priestess, is perched on the porch rail wearing a magnolia crown. With a look that says she’s about to bless the food. Curse the government. And call on the ancestors in one breath.

Piper, the chaotic gremlin and Security Briefing Officer, is under the picnic table shredding a copy of the Bill of Rights. And it’s like she’s reenacting the Boston Tea Party. But with more attitude and fewer boats.

And me? I’m standing here with a spatula, a prayer, and the kind of patience only a Southern woman with humidity pressing on her soul can muster.

Let’s start with the part America keeps trying to whisper like it’s gossip instead of history. This land belonged to Native peoples. Sovereign nations. Ancient cultures. Communities with governments, languages, and spiritual traditions older than anything Europe could dream up. And from the moment colonizers arrived, Native people were met with violence, displacement, broken treaties, and centuries of injustice that still echo today.

Piper has already drafted a resolution titled, “Acknowledge the original landlords, sugar.”

Tink is lighting a candle for every Native ancestor whose story was erased.

Coco is chewing on a map as symbolism.

The Declaration vs. Today: A Southern Birthday Roast

1. “All men are created equal.”

Back then: a bold statement. Today: treated like the fine print on a Dollar General receipt.

And let’s be honest. It did include Black people, Native people, women, or queer folks. We’ve been fighting ever since to make those words true.

2. “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.”

Originally: a promise. Now: feels like trying to get a refund at Walmart without a receipt.

Tink is offended on behalf of the ancestors.

3. “No taxation without representation.”

Today: Representation that sometimes forgets who it’s supposed to represent.

Coco is chewing on a campaign flyer as symbolism and possibly a snack.

4. The Bill of Rights

A beautiful list of protections America treats like a potluck. Take what you want. Ignore the vegetables. And pretend the casserole section doesn’t exist.

Piper is muttering, “If they’d just read the whole thing, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

America didn’t magically improve. It was dragged lovingly, loudly, and sometimes kicking by people who refused to sit down or shut up.

I’m talking about people like:

  • Harriet Tubman, who freed herself and then went back repeatedly to free others.
  • Frederick Douglass, who told America the truth with more clarity than any Founder.
  • Rosa Parks, who sat down so the nation would stand up.
  • Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who turned civil disobedience into a moral mirror.
  • John Lewis, who taught us about “good trouble.”
  • Fannie Lou Hamer, Mississippi’s own, who said she was, “sick and tired of being sick and tired” and meant it.
  • Native activists, from the American Indian Movement to modern water protectors, who have fought for sovereignty and dignity for generations.

Tink has declared them the true Founders of America’s second draft.

And because America’s story isn’t complete without the queer community. Especially the ones who risked everything so future generations could breathe freely.

Our leaders were:

  • Marsha P. Johnson, who threw the first brick of truth.
  • Sylvia Rivera, who demanded that trans people not be erased from the movement they helped build.
  • Bayard Rustin, the strategist behind the March on Washington, whose brilliance shaped the Civil Rights Movement even as he faced discrimination for being gay.
  • Audre Lorde, who taught us that silence never saved anyone.
  • Harvey Milk, who insisted that visibility is power.

These leaders didn’t just fight for rights. They fought for the right to exist.

Piper has added them to the “Heroes Who Did America’s Homework For Her” list.

And while we’re being honest. America isn’t white. America is black brilliance. Native resilience. Brown creativity. Asian innovation. Pacific Islander strength. Middle Eastern wisdom. Multiracial beauty. Queer joy. Immigrant courage. And every shade, accent, and story in between. Color is what makes this country beautiful. Color is what makes this country possible.

Tink has declared this the official theme of the 250th, “Patriotism, but make it multicultural.”

Coco has declared the theme, “Snacks and diversity.”

Piper has declared the theme, “America is a gumbo, not a mayonnaise sandwich.”

Happy 250th, America! You’re messy. You’re dramatic. You’re full of contradictions, potential, and fireworks that definitely violate at least three county ordinances. But you’re ours. And we’re going to keep fighting, laughing, voting, boundary‑setting, and sage‑burning until you live up to the promises you made on Day One.

Because the Declaration wasn’t a suggestion. The Bill of Rights wasn’t a Pinterest board. And democracy isn’t a spectator sport. It’s a potluck where everybody better bring something besides complaints. May America’s next 250 years be less “Hold my beer” and more “Hold my principles.” And if not, don’t worry. My cats already drafted a backup government using crayons, glitter, and pure Southern audacity. Thanks for reading! And let freedom ring.

Affirmation: I am a whole miracle with seasoning. Not everyone can handle the flavor. And that’s their burden to carry, bless their heart.”

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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

“My peace stays protected because I refuse to wrestle with hypocrisy. Especially when my cats can spot it faster than I can.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today we’re talking about conservative Christians who shame the LGBTQIA+ community while swimming in hypocrisy so deep they need a snorkel, a flotation device, and a word with Jesus Himself. And doing the spiritual equivalent of showing up to church with a flask in their Bible cover.

Piper has already put on her “I’m judging you but politely” face. Coco is pacing like she’s waiting for someone to confess on camera. Tinkerbell has taken one look at the hypocrisy and gone back to bed because she said, “Mama, I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for this.” If hypocrisy were a sport, half these folks would have endorsement deals. It is not ankle‑deep. It is not knee‑deep. It is baptism‑level immersion. Gather your spirit, your boundaries, and your emotional support snacks, we’re going in.

You ever notice how the loudest voices yelling “SIN!” are the same ones who have a secret second family. Or are having premarital sex that they condemn others about. They have a prayer request list longer than the CVS receipt. And a browser history that would make a demon blush? They’ll shame queer folks for existing. Then turn around and gossip so hard the angels have to put in earplugs. They’ll say, “We’re just protecting traditional values.” While their own values are out back doing donuts in the church parking lot. They’ll say, “We’re worried about the children.” While their children are on TikTok learning more compassion in 30 seconds than the adults have learned in 30 years.

Piper watches conservative Christian culture shame queer folks and whispers, “If hypocrisy were a spiritual gift, half these people would be apostles.” She sits on the arm of the couch like a bishop. She remembers the potluck of 2014. She knows who brought the store‑bought potato salad and lied.

Coco sees the hypocrisy and immediately starts knocking things off the counter. She says it’s “symbolic.” She says she’s “cleansing the space.” She says if one more person uses Jesus as a weapon, she’s flipping the whole table like it’s the Last Supper Reunion Special. And she is one tail flick away from staging a full‑scale revival.

Tinkerbell curls up in my lap and whispers, “If they spent half as much time loving people as they do policing them, the world would be healed by now.” Then she falls asleep because the hypocrisy exhausted her spirit. It hurts. I really does.

To be told you’re wrong for loving. To be told you’re broken for existing. To be told your joy is sinful while someone else’s cruelty is “righteous.” But the ancestors keep whispering, “There is nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you. The problem is the mirror they refuse to look into.” And that mirror is dusty.

Piper says, “Judge not, lest ye be caught doing worse behind the fellowship hall.” Coco says, “Shame is not a ministry. But I can make it one if needed.” And Tinkerbell says, “Take a nap. You deserve softness.” And I say, “We will not shrink. We will not apologize. We will not dim our joy to make someone else’s fear comfortable.”

That concludes today’s sermon on love, truth, and the Olympic‑level gymnastics required to shame queer folks while ignoring your own mess. Piper has officially closed her Bible and whispered, “This ain’t what Jesus meant.” Coco is knocking over a decorative cross because she said the energy is fraudulent. Tinkerbell has curled up on my chest and declared the hypocrisy “spiritually crusty.”

Bless your identity, your joy, your pronouns, your peace, and your whole queer spirit. Because if conservative Christian culture insists on swimming in hypocrisy, then we’ll be over here floating in truth, glitter, and emotional freedom. And supervised by three cats who refuse to let shame win.

Affirmation: I walk in truth, joy, and glitter‑coated freedom. No shame formed against me will prosper, because my spirit is protected, my boundaries are blessed, and my cats will hiss at anything that tries me.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife