This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Turn the thermostat down to “Don’t Play With Me.” Today’s story begins with Piper. She’s my overly chaotic, dramatic, emotionally unstable lead actress. She is waking up. Stretching her little diva paws. And declaring, “I live in a PRISON. A carceral state. A maximum‑security facility with no parole.” Why? Because I wouldn’t let her go outside at 8:03 AM to fight a butterfly. But then. I opened the door. And Mississippi humidity said, “Come here, sweetheart. Let me teach you something.”
Me: “Alright Piper, you wanna go outside? Go ahead.”
Piper(strutting like she’s leading a protest): “ I will taste freedom! I will breathe liberty! I will-”
The door opens. The humidity hits her like a wet spiritual slap.
Piper: “What is this? Why is the air touching me?”
Coco(from the hallway, eating an imaginary snack):“I told her. I told her. But she thinks she’s the main character.”
Tinkerbell (adjusting her invisible glasses): “Statistically speaking. She lasted longer than expected. I predicted immediate collapse.”
Piper takes one step outside. One. Single. Step. Her fur frizzes. Her soul leaves her body. Her whiskers droop like overcooked noodles.
Piper: “I am melting. I am being steamed like a dumpling. Call 911.”
Me: “Baby, that’s just humidity.”
Piper: “This is a hate crime!”
She turns around dramatically. Panting like she just crossed the Sahara.
Piper: “Let me back in. I have been assaulted by the sky.”
I open the door. She collapses onto the floor like a Victorian widow whose fainting couch was repossessed.
Piper: “I take back everything I said. This is not a prison. This is a climate‑controlled sanctuary of salvation.”
Coco: “Mm‑hmm. And next time you’ll listen to your elders.”
Tinkerbell: “Unlikely. She has the memory of a wet sock.”
Piper: “I have been traumatized. I need compensation. I need snacks. I need-”
Me: “You need to sit down and stop being dramatic.”
Piper: “I am a victim of the outdoors!”
And that is how Piper went from “I am an oppressed inmate” to “I would like to personally thank the HVAC industry for its service.” All in under 12 seconds. The South didn’t just humble her. It baptized her in sweat. Snatched her ego. And sent her home reborn.
I would like to personally nominate the air conditioner for the Nobel Peace Prize.” The South sautéed her. Seasoned her. And served her back to the living room like a damp little cautionary tale.
So, the next time Piper demands “freedom,” open the door. Let the humidity slap her with a warm, wet truth. And remember, “Sometimes the lesson isn’t deep. Sometimes the lesson is, “Get back inside before you melt.” Thermostat lowered. Ego evaporated. Thanks for reading! And praise be for air conditioning. Can you relate?
Affirmation: “I honor my boundaries, my AC unit, and my right to stay indoors. Where the air is cold. The humidity is low. And the cats are only moderately feral.”
“I didn’t wake up to choose violence. But my spirit, my schedule, and my digestive system clearly held a secret meeting without me.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, I need spiritual reinforcement. I need divine intervention. I need the ancestors, the angels, and maybe even a hazmat team. Why? Because I have once again encountered the most baffling, lawless, civilization‑ending behavior known to humankind. And it’s the people who do not flush public toilets.
I’m not talking about toddlers. I’m not talking about someone in the middle of a plumbing emergency. I’m talking about full‑grown adults with jobs, vehicles, and voting rights walking away from a toilet like they’re leaving the scene of a crime. And I’m tired.
Clearly we need to cleanse this house, this neighborhood, and possibly the entire Deep South of the spiritual funk caused by grown adults who refuse to flush the commode. I’m not naming names. But if the shoe fits, it probably smells like the inside of a Dollar General bathroom after a power outage. The cats have convened an emergency meeting of the Feline Administration for Sanitation & Southern Decency. And let me tell you, they are fed up also.
Let me tell you something. Walking into a public bathroom in the South is like spinning a roulette wheel of trauma. You might get lucky and find a clean stall. Or you might open a door and see something that makes you reevaluate your entire relationship with humanity. I’ve walked into gas station bathrooms that smelled like someone tried to boil crawfish in holy water. I’ve walked into Walmart bathrooms where the lights flickered like the building was trying to warn me. I’ve walked into Dollar General bathrooms where the toilet seat was wet, and I didn’t ask a single question because I value my sanity. But the worst. The absolute worst is when someone leaves the toilet unflushed like it’s a public art installation titled “Chaos in Porcelain.”
I have questions. Deep, philosophical questions. Are people scared of the handle? Do they think the toilet is self‑cleaning? Are they performing a social experiment? Were they raised in a barn? Do they believe flushing is optional, like adding guac at Chipotle? I swear, some of these toilets look like someone tried to summon a demon and then got distracted.
Let me be clear. I have a list. A personal, emotional, spiritual list.
1. The gas‑station bathroom off Highway 49
The toilet was bubbling. I don’t know what was happening, but I left before it gained consciousness.
Piper’s Report: “I opened the door and immediately felt the presence of something unholy. The toilet was bubbling like it was trying to communicate. I will not be returning.” She has since saged her whiskers. The toilet made a noise that sounded like it was speaking in tongues.
2. The Walmart bathroom with the flickering lights
I opened the door and immediately felt like I was in a horror movie. I’m not auditioning to be the first one taken out. Absolutely not.
Tinkerbell’s Report: “I stepped inside and the lights flickered like a horror movie. I’m a cat, not a final girl. Absolutely not.” She then crossed herself even though she’s not religious.
Reason for Blacklisting: The stall door creaked open on its own. No one was inside. We left Immediately.
3. The Dollar General bathroom
If you know, you know. If you don’t know, keep it that way. Protect your peace.
Coco’s Report: “I don’t know what happened in there, but it smelled like someone tried to microwave a swamp. I’m not emotionally equipped for that.” She refused to make eye contact for the rest of the day.
Reason for Blacklisting: The toilet seat was wet. From what? We don’t ask questions in this house.
4. The Target bathroom with the graffiti warning
When a wall says, “Don’t look in the third stall,” that’s not a suggestion. That’s a prophecy. And I ignored it. And I regret it.
Tinkerbell’s Report: “The wall said, ‘Don’t look in the third stall.’ So naturally, I looked. I regret everything.” She has not spoken of what she saw.
Reason for Blacklisting: The third stall. That’s all we’re legally allowed to say.
5. The Buc‑ee’s bathroom that was suspiciously clean
Too clean. Uncomfortably clean. Like “someone is watching” clean.
Piper’s Report: “It was suspicious. No bathroom should sparkle like that. It felt like a trap.” She sniffed every corner like a bomb‑sniffing dog.
Reason for Blacklisting: Cleanliness so intense it felt like surveillance.
6. The Mall Bathroom With the Unflushed Situation
Coco’s Report: “I walked in, saw the unflushed disaster, and immediately filed a complaint with the universe. I’m still recovering.” She wrote his trauma memoir in crushed Goldfish cracker powder.
Reason for Blacklisting: The toilet bowl looked like a Jackson Pollock painting of regret.
7. The Park Bathroom With No Door
Tinkerbell’s Report: “I am a lady. I require privacy. I will not be conducting my business in an open‑air amphitheater.” She left with her dignity intact.
Reason for Blacklisting: No door. No lock. No hope.
I’m not asking for much. I’m not asking for aromatherapy diffusers or marble countertops or a choir of angels singing while I pee. I’m asking for one flush. One. Single. Flush. If you sprinkle, tinkle, plop, drop, splash, crash, or otherwise contribute anything to that toilet, flush it. It costs nothing. It takes one second. And it prevents trauma. May your public bathrooms be clean, your stalls be empty, and may you never again open a door and see something that requires therapy.
And so, as we gather our belongings, our dignity, and whatever spiritual protection we have left, let us remember this simple truth that Public bathrooms don’t have to be war zones. They don’t have to be escape rooms. They don’t have to be archaeological digs where you discover what the last person ate in 2007. All they require is for people to flush the commode like they were raised by humans and not released into the wild by accident.
Piper has spoken. Coco has unionized. Tinkerbell has filed a formal complaint with the ancestors. And together, they leave you with this final Southern blessing. “May your stalls be clean, your floors be dry, and may you never again encounter a toilet that looks like it needs a wellness check.” Amen, Ashe, and flush it.
If a bathroom requires courage, prayer, or a tetanus shot, the cats are out. If the toilet is unflushed, they’re out. If the air feels thick enough to chew, they’re out. And honestly? Same.
THE PUBLIC BATHROOM SURVIVAL GUIDE:
As mandated by the Feline Administration for Sanitation & Southern Decency
1. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK
Public bathrooms are not “restrooms.” They are escape rooms with plumbing. If you walk in and immediately smell something that makes your eyelashes curl backward, congratulations you’ve entered Level 1. Piper calls this “The Warm Welcome.” She says if the air feels chewy, turn around.
2. THE FLUSHING CRISIS: A NATIONAL EMERGENCY
Let’s address the porcelain elephant in the room. Why are people not flushing? Is it rebellion? Is it laziness? Is it generational trauma? Is it a cry for help? Tinkerbell says it’s a lack of home training. Coco says it’s a lack of supervision. Piper says it’s a lack of Jesus. I say it’s all three.
3. THE CATS’ OFFICIAL OBSERVATIONS
PIPER (Baby Chaos, Bathroom Anthropologist):
“Some of these toilets look like someone tried to summon a demon and then got scared halfway through. Flush it. I’m too young for this.” She now carries emotional support treats.
COCO (Snack Lobbyist & Public Restroom Union Rep):
“I’ve seen gas‑station toilets that looked like they needed a wellness check. If I can cover my business in a litter box and still be decent enough to bury it, humans can push a handle.” She then filed a petition written in crushed Goldfish cracker powder, because he believes in snack‑based activism.
TINKERBELL (Dignity Enforcement Officer):
“I walked into a Walmart bathroom and saw something that made me reconsider reincarnation. I will not be returning.” She has since created a personal Do‑Not‑Enter list that includes any bathroom with flickering lights, any bathroom with a wet floor for “mysterious reasons,” any bathroom where the toilet seat is up AND the stall door is unlocked, and any bathroom with graffiti that says, “Don’t look in the third stall.”
4. THE RULES OF SURVIVAL
Rule #1: If you make it, you flush it.
This is kindergarten-level stuff. If you can operate a smartphone, you can operate a toilet.
Rule #2: If the toilet looks like it’s fighting for its life, choose another stall.
Do not be a hero. This is not your battle.
Rule #3: If the floor is wet, assume the worst.
Do not investigate. Do not sniff. Do not ask questions. Just hover like your mama taught you.
Rule #4: Never trust a gas‑station bathroom after 10 p.m.
Coco calls this “The Witching Hour.”
Rule #5: If the hand dryer sounds like a jet engine, it’s lying.
It will not dry your hands. It will only blow your sins back at you.
Today we not only cleansed the house. We cleansed society. Specifically, the part of society that walks into a public bathroom, commits a biological felony, and then strolls out like they’re headed to a church potluck. I’m convinced some people think public toilets are interactive art installations. Or maybe they believe the commode is a museum exhibit titled “The Human Condition.”
So, let’s be honest. If you wouldn’t leave your own toilet looking like that, why are you doing it in public? This is not a scavenger hunt. This is not a science experiment. This is not a performance art piece titled “Chaos in Porcelain.” It’s a toilet. Flush it. We’ve cleansed the energy of every gas station, Walmart, Buc‑ee’s, and Dollar General bathroom from here to the Gulf Coast. The cats say it’s a public health crisis. I say it’s a moral failing. Together, we say, “FLUSH THE DAMN COMMODE!” Thanks for reading! And beware of unflushed toilets.
Affirmation: I honor my chaos, laugh at my disasters, and rise today knowing that even when life goes sideways, I still show up shining, hydrated, and unbothered.
“Hemp is strong. Sustainable. And slightly less dramatic than the cats in this house.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. If we’re going to honor National Hemp Month, we need the ancestors, the angels, and at least three bored saints on standby. The spirits of Southern chaos have already begun circling the living room like they’re waiting for a casserole to come out the oven. The energy in this house is already vibrating like a Dollar General ceiling fan on its last screw. And Piper has been pacing the hallway like she’s waiting for a verdict from the Supreme Court of Snacks.
The moment the sage smoke curled upward, Piper burst into the room wearing a bathrobe she absolutely stole from the clean laundry basket.
She spoke like she was about to deliver a prophecy.
Piper: “Momma, it is Hemp Month. I have prepared a statement.”
Before I could respond, Coco slid in behind her like a baseball player stealing home. She was holding a bag of Temptations in her mouth like a union negotiator arriving with concessions. She mumbled through the bag.
Coco: “I’m here in solidarity, And also because I heard hemp can be used to make rope. And rope can be used to hang treat piñatas.”
From above us, on top of the fridge, Tinkerbell let out the kind of sigh that only a cat who has read the Constitution twice can produce.
Tinkerbell: “You two are embarrassing. Hemp is an agricultural commodity with a nuanced regulatory framework. Not a snack-based holiday.”
Piper gasped.
Piper: “Everything is a snack-based holiday if you believe hard enough.”
And that’s when I knew that this intro needed to be fortified. This month needed to be fortified. I needed to be fortified. So, I sprinkled more sage. A little more charcoal. And maybe a splash of holy water for good measure.
If National Hemp Month is going to happen in thishousehold, I’m going to need the strength of industrial hemp itself. It’s flexible. Resilient. And capable of withstanding the absolute foolishness of three feline revolutionaries who think they’re about to unionize the living room. And that’s just the intro.
I swear. I was just trying to light a candle and mind my business. And Piper came skidding into the kitchen like she’d been summoned by the Department of Agriculture itself.
Piper: “We must prepare the house.”
Coco peeked around the corner holding a bag of treats like a bribe.
Coco: “I’m just here to support the movement and also to see if snacks are involved.”
Tinkerbell: “Both of you are unserious. Hemp is a versatile agricultural commodity with a complex regulatory history. And you, she pointed a paw at Piper, are wearing a cape made from a dish towel.”
Piper: “It’s ceremonial.”
I tried to explain that National Hemp Month is about education, sustainability, and celebrating a plant that has been misunderstood more than a Southern woman who says, “I’m fine.” Piper had already declared herself Hemp Czar and was marching through the house inspecting imaginary crops.
Coco: “Do hemp farmers get snacks? Because I’m willing to pivot careers.”
Tinkerbell rolled her eyes so hard I heard it.
Tinkerbell: “Hemp is federally legal, Coco. You don’t get snacks for following the law.”
Coco: “Then what’s the point?”
Tinkerbell cleared her throat like she was about to read from the Book of Revelation.
Tinkerbell: “Under the 2018 Farm Bill, hemp was federally legalized as long as it contains no more than 0.3 percent THC. States regulate production through USDA-approved plans. And farmers must test crops to ensure compliance. Some states are stricter. Some are looser. And all of them are confused. Hemp is legal. But only if it behaves.”
Piper: “So if the hemp gets too excited, it becomes a criminal?”
Tinkerbell: “Yes. Just like you after 9 p.m.”
I tried to bring the energy back to something wholesome.
She climbed onto the coffee table. Cleared her throat. And declared,
Piper: “Hemp is the fabric of our future. Also, I request a hemp hammock, a hemp scratching post, and a hemp crown.”
Coco clapped
Coco: “I second the crown.”
Tinkerbell stared at me like, “This is your circus. These are your monkeys.”
By the end of the night, Piper had drafted a “Hemp Bill of Rights.” Coco had eaten half a bag of treats in the name of activism. And Tinkerbell had filed three formal complaints with the imaginary Feline Ethics Committee.
And me? I blew out the sage. Looked at my household of furry legislators. And whispered, “Lord, give me the strength of industrial hemp to withstand the foolishness of this house.” Curtain closed. Hemp Month survived. Thanks for reading! Stay educated. What do you think about the current legislation regarding hemp?
Affirmation: “I honor the plant. Embrace the chaos. And stay grounded even when my cats form a hemp committee without my consent.”
“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.
“Down South, the storms are loud. But my cats are louder.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. If we’re going to talk about my cats and hurricane season, we might as well start this story the same way every Southern family meeting starts. With smoke in the air. Humidity thick enough to baptize you against your will. And at least one animal acting like the world is ending before the meteorologists even finish their sentence. And when I light the charcoal, my cats assume I’m performing some ancient Gulf Coast ritual to summon the first named storm of the season. Piper squints at the sky like she’s reading the Book of Revelations. Coco starts reorganizing the pantry like she’s prepping for a Category 12. And Tinkerbell? She faints dramatically onto the welcome mat like a Victorian widow who just heard the barometric pressure drop. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to grill a chicken thigh without being accused of weather witchcraft.
Hurricane season has begun and the cats must now enter their annual state of dramatic overreaction. Down here in Mississippi, we don’t wait for Jim Cantore to show up on the Weather Channel. We wait for Coco to start pacing like she’s the head of FEMA. Piper to start judging the barometric pressure. And Tinkerbell to start packing her emotional support toys like she’s evacuating to Baton Rouge.
Piper acts like she’s the only one in the house with a working weather app. The moment the first tropical depression forms off the coast of Africa, she sits in the window like she’s tracking it with Doppler radar. Tail twitching. Eyes narrowed. Judging the humidity like it personally offended her. If the National Hurricane Center ever needs a sassy, biscuit-making forecaster who communicates exclusively through side-eye, she’s available.
Coco takes hurricane season seriously. She starts reorganizing the pantry like she’s preparing for the apocalypse. She drags bags of treats under the bed “just in case,” and I swear she tried to ration the Temptations last week. She even inspected the generator by sitting on it and refusing to move. She also insists on doing “storm drills,” which is just her sprinting through the house at 3 a.m. like a Category 5 with fur.
Tinkerbell is not built for weather related stress. She is built for naps, snacks, and being carried like a Victorian child with delicate lungs. The moment thunder rolls, she becomes a 6-pound Southern damsel in distress, flopping dramatically across the floor like, “Oh lawd, take me now.” She packs her favorite mouse toy, her blanket, and her attitude, then sits by the door like she’s waiting for the evacuation bus.
Household Preparations (According to the Cats)
Secure loose items outside-Piper knocks over every plant on the porch to “test wind resistance.”
Check flashlights-Tinkerbell bites them to ensure “structural integrity.”
Stock up on essentials-Coco sits in the middle of the grocery bags like she’s guarding the nation’s last supply of Fancy Feast.
Review evacuation routes-All three cats run under the bed and refuse to come out, which is exactly where they’ll be if we ever actually need to leave.
When the first tropical storm finally forms, the cats gather like a furry emergency council.
Piper: “This humidity is unacceptable.”
Coco: “We need to shelter in place. Preferably near the treats.”
Tinkerbell: “I have fainted. Someone fetch my smelling salts.”
Meanwhile, I’m just trying to close the shutters while yelling, “Y’all, it’s just rain! We live in the Gulf South! This is our personality trait!” But no. According to them, this is a full-scale natural disaster requiring snacks, naps, and dramatic monologues.
Hurricane season in a Southern household with cats is less about preparedness and more about managing feline theatrics. The storms may come and go. But the cats’ commitment to chaos is year-round. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As hurricane season rolls in loud, humid, and disrespectful, my cats continue their annual tradition of acting like they’re the only ones holding this household together. And as the first storm bands roll in with wind howling. Trees bending. And humidity thick enough to butter toast. The cats will continue their sacred seasonal rituals. Piper will keep forecasting doom. Coco will keep hoarding snacks like she’s preparing for the Great Depression Part II: Gulf Coast Edition. And Tinkerbell will keep collapsing like she’s auditioning for a Southern Gothic opera. And whispering with her eyes, “Tell my story.”
And me? I’ll be right here. Lighting the charcoal. Praying for a breeze. And accepting that no matter what the National Hurricane Center says, the real storm is living with three dramatic Southern cats who believe they are the main characters of the Gulf Coast. And I’ll be standing in the doorway. Hair frizzed into a shape not recognized by science yelling, “IT’S JUST RAIN, Y’ALL!” While three furry Southerners behave like they’re starring in Gone With the Wind: The Meteorological Cut.
The truth is that hurricanes come and go. But the cats’ commitment to unnecessary theatrics is a year-round, Category 5 situation. And honestly? That’s the real emergency alert system in this house. So go on, Mother Nature. Spin your little storms. My cats have already declared a state of emergency. Eaten the rations. And blamed me for the humidity. Storm dismissed. The cats remain undefeated. Thanks for reading! And make sure you’re prepared.
Affirmation: I stay calm, even when the cats act like the Weather Channel is personally attacking them.
“If catching gay were possible, I’d have turned half this town by now just by standing nearthe produce section.”
-Unknown
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the glitter. Negative energy go away. It’s Pride 2026! And I just got a text from my red hat relative that said, “Praying for you during this difficult season of rainbow confusion.” Ma’am, the only confusion here is why you think Jesus would skip the parade. My neighbor just taped a sign to my mailbox that says, “We don’t hate you. We just hate your lifestyle.” Ma’am, the only lifestyle I’m living is hydrated, moisturized, and unbothered. Something your church potluck potato salad could never relate to.
Welcome back to This Puzzled Life, where the cats are dramatic. The snacks are questionable. And the Pride decorations mysteriously disappeared after my neighbor’s Bible study group “accidentally” parked in my yard. This year’s Pride theme? “Glitter, Grace, and Gay Rage.” And yes, the cats have thoughts.
Meanwhile, my cats are already in the living room holding a strategy meeting about which Pride float they plan to hijack. The engines roared. The asphalt trembled. And the red‑hat brigade clutched their pearls like they were auditioning for a Victorian fainting couch.
Tinkerbell: “That sound is freedom, Brenda.”
Piper: “I tried to hop on a Harley. They said no. I said ‘cowards.’”
Coco: “They look like they could fix a carburetor and my self-esteem.”
The queens rolled by on a float shaped like a giant glitter‑encrusted Bible with a banner that read, “JESUS SAID LOVE EVERYBODY. Y’ALL JUST CAN’T READ.” My red hat wearing uncle gasped so hard he almost inhaled a sequin.
Coco: “Finally, someone with the confidence I deserve.”
Piper: “I asked one queen to adopt me. She said she already had three cats. I said ‘same.’”
And right as a queen in a rhinestone robe blew a kiss to a group of teenagers, one of the red‑hat ladies muttered, “This is how they turn kids gay.”
Me: “Sweetheart, if you could catch gay from a drag queen reading a book, half the South would’ve come out during library story hour.”
Piper: “Honestly, that would’ve solved a lot of problems.”
Coco: “Imagine thinking literacy is contagious but kindness isn’t. And calling other people “woke” while your leader is basically a tangerine influencer with two boyfriends.”
Tinkerbell: “Bless her heart. And by bless, I mean educate.”
Next, were the beautiful furries that lighten the mood. A neon wolf handed me a sticker that said, “You’re valid, babe.” A sparkly fox tried to pet Piper. Piper hissed. The fox hissed back. Mutual respect was achieved.
Tinkerbell: “They are kind, gentle creatures. Unlike the family values feelings police.”
Then came the leather community walking in polished boots, harnesses, vests, and enough confidence to power the entire parade without electricity. The conservative Christian red‑hat brigade froze like someone had unplugged their programming. One leather daddy walked past holding a sign that said, “CONSENT IS HOLY.”
Coco: “I like them. They mind their business and moisturize.”
Piper: “One of them winked at me. I don’t know what it meant. But I felt powerful.”
Tinkerbell: “They have better manners than half the people at your family reunion.”
Meanwhile, one red‑hat lady whispered, “This is inappropriate for children.” Ma’am, your child just watched a wolf hand out emotional support stickers. They’re fine. One of the red hats approached me and said, “We’re here to defend traditional families.”
Me: “Sweetheart, my family includes three cats, a vape pen, and a group chat called ‘Queer & Petty.’ We’re thriving.”
Coco: “She asked if I was saved. I said I was spayed.”
Piper: “I offered her a rainbow sticker. She recoiled like I was handing her a tax increase.”
Tinkerbell: “She tried to quote Leviticus. I countered with RuPaul. She had no defense.”
And then the girls decided about the importance of being happy in life. Here are their responses.
Piper: “I want lasers, snacks, and a fog machine that smells like lavender.”
Coco: “I want a float that plays Beyoncé and throws shade.”
Tinkerbell: “I want a float that offers hydration, affirmation, and a safe space for questioning squirrels.”
Just when the parade felt like it couldn’t get any more radiant, the Trans Joy Float rolled in. It was a shimmering, sky‑blue and cotton‑candy‑pink cloud of pure euphoria. The float glowed like someone had bottled sunrise and set it loose on wheels. Silk flags rippled in the air. Bubbles drifted like blessings. And a banner stretched across the top reading, “TRANS IS BEAUTIFUL. TRANS IS HOLY. TRANS IS HOME.”
The crowd erupted. They shouted cheers, tears, and hands over hearts. And our trans community seems to be the personal scapegoat of the red hat leader in our country this year. Even the furries paused their chaotic frolicking to clap.
Piper: “I want to live on that float. They have snacks and good lighting.”
Coco: “Those outfits are immaculate. I respect a community that commits to a color palette.”
Tinkerbell: “This is what liberation looks like. It’s soft, fierce, and unapologetically alive.”
A group of trans elders stood at the front, waving like royalty. Behind them, trans teens danced with the kind of joy that makes the air feel lighter. And in the very back, a trans man in a sparkly binder held a sign that said, “I survived. I’m thriving. Keep up.”
The red‑hat brigade tried to look away, but the float was too bright, beautiful, and full of life to ignore. One of them muttered, “This is confusing.”
Me: “Sweetheart, compassion isn’t confusing. You just haven’t tried it yet.”
Tinkerbell: “Bless her heart. And by bless, I mean educate.”
So, sprinkle the glitter. And tell your neighbor that Jesus fed people without asking for a lifestyle audit. Pride isn’t a phase, a parade, or a “difficult season of rainbow confusion.” It’s a declaration. A reclamation. It’s a glitter‑coated refusal to shrink that fills in the cracks of oppression. It’s Dykes on Bikes shaking the pavement. Drag queens blessing the crowd like queer clergy. Furries handing out emotional support stickers. The leather community teaching consent. And that’s better than half the churches in this zip code. And, finally, it’s the red‑hat feelings police losing theological debates to a cat in rainbow sunglasses. It’s my family that is chosen, furry, chaotic, and unbothered.
Piper: “If they don’t like it, they can look away. I’m queer, chaotic, and emotionally unavailable. Happy Pride.”
Coco: “Piper you are not gay. I’m not either. But I am petty. And that counts. But if they look away, I’ll make them look back.”
Tinkerbell: “Child, Pride is holy. Act like you know.”
And me? I’m hydrated. I’m moisturized. I’m queerly fortified. And I’m done explaining myself to people who think glitter is a threat. This is Pride 2026. This is my life. This is my family. And it’s me standing here in full queer glory. And watching people scream about “wokeness”, while their own orange‑tinted leader wears a full face of makeup. Which reportedly, he swoons over someone named Bubba. And keeps a communist‑flavored second daddy on speed dial. But somehow I’m the one who threatens traditional values. And if that offends you? Take it up with Jesus. He’s at the parade. Thanks for reading! Happy Pride!
Affirmation: I am unbothered. Uncloseted. And untouchable. I’m too hydrated for hate. And too holy for homophobia.
“Shame was never my reflection. It was the shadow of someone else’s fear cast across my life.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like a soft warning. A trembling invitation. And a doorway cracked open just wide enough for the truth to step through without flinching. Let it drift through the room the way shame once drifted through our childhood homes as quiet and unspoken. But heavy enough to shape the way we learned to breathe.
This isn’t about performance. It isn’t about survival. It’s about naming the thing that has lived in your bones longer than some people have lived in their houses. I’m not writing from a place of humor or distance. I’m writing from the wound. From the memory. From the soil that raised me. And the silence that tried to claim me.
Shame is not born in us. It is handed to us. Pressed into our palms by people who were supposed to know better. People who were supposed to love better. People who were supposed to see us as whole. And in the Deep South, shame is practically a family heirloom.
Down here, some conservative communities have perfected shame into an art form as quiet, polished, and Sunday‑morning approved. They wield it like a switch they no longer have to swing. Because the words do the bruising for them. They don’t have to raise their voices. They just raise an eyebrow. They don’t have to say you’re wrong. They just say they’re “praying for you.” They don’t have to tell you to hide. They just make sure you know what happens to people who don’t.
Shame becomes the air you breathe before you even know what air is. It teaches you to fold yourself small. To tuck away the parts of you that don’t fit the script. To apologize for the way your heart beats. The way your voice trembles. And the way your truth refuses to die quietly. The worst part is how deeply it roots itself. And how it convinces you that you are the problem. Not the rules. Not the silence. Not the fear disguised as righteousness.
Some Southern conservative spaces are experts at this. They turn difference into danger. They turn authenticity into rebellion. They turn survival into sin. They shame you for who you are. And then shame you again for hurting because of it.
But here’s the truth shame never wants you to learn. You were never the one who failed. You were the one who endured. Shame is not your inheritance. It is not your identity. It is not your burden to carry one more mile. The moment you name what was done to you. The moment you say, “This wasn’t love. This was control.” The spell breaks. The weight shifts. The air clears. And you begin to see yourself without the fog of someone else’s fear. You begin to hear your own voice again. You begin to rise. And rising is the one thing shame cannot survive.
Shame is universal. It’s a part of every culture and every nation. And every community has its own way of teaching people to hide the parts of themselves that don’t fit the script. Shame is a global language. It is spoken in different dialects. It is enforced through different rituals. And it is carried in different bodies.
But the version I know. The one that shaped my bones and rewired my voice was born in the conservative Deep South. That’s the lens I speak from. That’s the air I learned to breathe. That’s the terrain where shame wasn’t just a feeling. It was a system.
Some conservative Southern communities wield shame like a tool of order. A way to keep people in line. A way to maintain the illusion of perfection even when the truth is rotting beneath the floorboards. They don’t have to say, “you’re wrong.” They just say, “we don’t talk about that.” They don’t have to say, “you’re unworthy.” They just say, “think of what people will think.” They don’t have to say, “you don’t belong.” They just make sure you feel it.
Shame becomes the soundtrack of your childhood. The shadow in every room. The reason you learn to fold yourself into shapes that hurt to hold. When you grow up queer, outspoken, different, or simply unwilling to disappear, the shame becomes sharper. More pointed. And more personal.
You were not the problem. You were the disruption. You were the truth they didn’t know how to hold. Shame thrives in silence. But it cannot survive being named. The moment you say, “This harmed me,” the spell breaks. The moment you say, “This wasn’t love,” the weight shifts. The moment you say, “I deserved better,” the ground beneath you changes shape.
You begin to see yourself without the fog of their expectations. You begin to hear your own voice without the echo of their judgment. You begin to rise in ways they never prepared for. And rising is the one thing shame cannot withstand.
Let every culture keep the shame it created. Let the South hold the weight of the shame it taught me to carry. I am done dragging their silence behind me. I am done mistaking their fear for my fault. I am done shrinking to make their world more comfortable. I speak now. I rise now. I reclaim every part of me they tried to bury.
And the sound of that truth is unapologetic. Unbroken. And is the loudest thing I’ve ever survived. You were never meant to carry it. Set it down. Walk forward. And let the sound of your unbroken truth shake the whole damn South. Thanks for reading! And put that shame down.
Affirmation: I release every ounce of shame that was handed to me. My truth rises. My voice steadies. And I walk forward unburdened and whole.
“The truth didn’t break my family. The pretending did.”
-Unknown
Here’s the bigger picture. I didn’t grow up in a family that heals. Problems don’t get solved. They get buried alive. And then resurrected during holidays like emotional zombies. Now that me and my sister are adults, childhood resentments still pop up like whack‑a‑mole. And nobody wants to pick up a mallet. Let’s all smile in public so we don’t “defame the family.” Which honestly, does a fantastic job defaming itself.
And my family isn’t special. Dysfunction is everywhere. I have enough mental health education in my background to recognize the patterns. But they’ll swear I’m the problem. If you look past the church smiles, the whole system is sick. I would genuinely rather be hit by a car than attend “family time.” And because my kids were born into a lesbian family, they get treated like they came with a moral recall notice.
You can’t throw money at children and then take no active part in their lives the rest of the time. Especially, when you do the opposite with the other children in the family. The kids notice. I’ve tried talking about it for 17 years. And the truth is this. They just don’t care.
I have a master’s degree in counseling psychology. Yet somehow I’m the ignorant one. They don’t want insight. They don’t want help. They want silence. And mine has officially expired. I defend myself and my kids however I see fit. Respectfully? No. Effectively? Absolutely.
They want healing without effort. They’re emotional pillow princesses that want the benefits of growth while doing absolutely nothing but blinking dramatically. And when truth bruises their egos, accountability never shows up. Meanwhile, my dad plays messenger pigeon flying information back and forth between me and the rest of the family so that the dysfunction stays perfectly preserved.
Here’s the part they’ll never admit. Family therapy requires guts and transparency. And those two things they treat like forbidden sins. Instead, they’ve built a giant sand pile where they can bury their heads. And pretend nothing is wrong. That’s their comfort zone. Not truth. Not healing. Just sand. Neck‑deep and breathing through a straw of selective memory.
My favorite quote says it best, “If nothing changes, then nothing changes.” And I refuse to be silenced because their comfort depends on my suffering.
Our family lives in what I call comfortable dysfunction. It’s the emotional recliner they refuse to replace even though the springs are broken. And the fabric smells like denial. It’s easier than accountability. Easier than honesty. Easier than saying, “Maybe the gay daughter isn’t the downfall of civilization.”
And as if being the rainbow sheep wasn’t enough. I’m also the green sheep of the family because I’m a medical cannabis patient. And the family’s translation is that I’m “druggin’ and thuggin’.” The “bad influence.” And the “one who needs prayer.” But that’s not even the real issue.
The problem is my refusal to sit quietly in the pew of generational silence. The issue is that I no longer participate in the family’s favorite pastime of pretending. I’m done shrinking myself so other people can stay cozy in their outdated beliefs. I’m done letting conservative Christian values be weaponized against me and my children.
They can keep their selective morality. The kind where my sister thinks being gay is “wrong and evil.” But somehow premarital sex is just the Olympic sport of “being human.” Funny how sin gets flexible when it’s their behavior on the table.
“My family says I’m ‘living in sin.’ Which is wild coming from some of them who wave a red hat like it’s the state flower. They preach about morality and still treat premarital sex, drinking, and hypocrisy like they’re covered under the ‘Jesus forgives me’ warranty.”And trust me. They act like I graffitied the Ten Commandments in rainbow glitter.
Being gay automatically made me the family’s “problem child.” Even though the real problems have nothing to do with what gender I love. And everything to do with the fact that I refuse to pretend. My sister can have premarital sex. Drink like she’s hydrating for the Olympics and drive afterward. And micromanage her child like she’s running a dictatorship. But somehow I’m the moral crisis.
Meanwhile, my sister’s shot glasses stays full. Her judgment stays loud. And her hypocrisy stays undefeated. Funny how cannabis for medical reasons is “dangerous.” But alcohol with a side of denial is “just being human.” I’m the rainbow sheep because I live authentically. I’m the green sheep because I choose a legal, doctor‑recommended treatment. And I’m the scapegoat because I refuse to shrink so other people can stay comfortable in their dysfunction. If being myself makes me the rainbow‑green hybrid sheep of the family, then so be it. At least I’m not grazing in the pasture of hypocrisy.
So no, I’m not stepping back into the box they built for me. I’m not dimming myself, so their comfort stays intact. I’m not carrying the weight of a family that refuses to lift a finger for its own healing. They can keep their comfortable dysfunction. They can keep their silence. They can keep their outdated beliefs wrapped in Bible verses that only apply to me.
Today I honor my inner rainbow‑green sheep. I’m fabulously queer. I’m medically lifted. And completely unbothered by the opinions of people who confuse hypocrisy with holiness.”
I’m choosing truth over tradition. I’m choosing growth over guilt. I’m choosing my children, my peace, and my sanity. And if my existence shakes the foundation of their worldview. Then the foundation was weak to begin with. Thanks for reading! Do you and let the others do them.
Affirmation: I bless my rainbow‑green sheep soul today queer, medicated, and thriving. While certain relatives clutch their red hats and pearls at my existence. But don’t blink twice at their own chaos, contradictions, or alcohol fueled commandments.
“My family says I’m ‘living in sin.’ Which is hilarious coming from people who treat denial like a spiritual gift. And premarital sex like a community service.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy, get your shoes on and leave. Today we’re diving into one of my favorite dysfunctional family topics. Family roles. Those unofficial job titles we never applied for. Never wanted. And yet somehow ended up performing like we were on salary. Take a moment and see where you and your people fall. And here’s the spoiler. If you’re reading this, you already know.
Before we get started, let me warn you. This is not a gentle stroll through family history. This is a full‑blown guided tour through a Southern household. That’s been held together with casserole, denial, and conservative Christian values. That seem to get applied with the accuracy of a toddler using glitter glue.
I grew up in a family where “we don’t talk about that” wasn’t a suggestion. It was the eleventh commandment. Emotions were treated like illegal fireworks. Everyone had them. Nobody handled them correctly. And something always exploded at the worst possible time.
In my house, honesty was considered aggressive. Accountability was considered disrespectful. And therapy? Therapy was treated like witchcraft performed by people who “don’t know Jesus personally.”
Meanwhile, the dysfunction strutted around the living room in broad daylight wearing a name tag and a church hat. And everyone pretended they couldn’t see it. If denial were a sport, my family would have Olympic medals and a sponsorship from Hobby Lobby.
So, buckle your emotional seatbelt. And prepare yourself. Because once you recognize the roles in a dysfunctional family. It’s like spotting roaches. You can’t unsee them. And suddenly they’re everywhere.
Family roles are the expected behaviors, responsibilities, and emotional acrobatics each person performs to keep the family circus running. These roles shift depending on culture, family size, and personality. But the classics are Hero, Scapegoat, Golden Child, Lost Child, Mascot. And I show up everywhere like glitter after a craft project.
Let’s begin.
1. The Hero (a.k.a. The Family PR Department) The Hero’s job is to make the family look normal, stable, and “blessed and highly favored” to the outside world. According to theraplatform.com (2025), they take on excessive responsibility to gain approval. This is my mother’s role. Or at least the role she auditions for. She is attention-seeking. Reputation-obsessed. And allergic to accountability. She delivers passive-aggressive comments like she’s handing out communion wafers. And then acts shocked when people get upset.
Her signature move? “The Dummy Card.” Suddenly she “doesn’t remember,” “didn’t mean it like that,” or “doesn’t know what you’re talking about.” But trust me, she knows. And right after she stirs the pot. She gives my dad the “rescue me” look. As if she didn’t just season that pot with cayenne, spite, and generational trauma. We only have real conversations when she’s mad at my sister, The Golden Child. Otherwise, it’s news, sports, and weather which is the Holy Trinity of Avoidance.
2. The Scapegoat (hi, it’s me) The Scapegoat is blamed for everything wrong in the family. Stubbed toe? My fault. Bad weather? Somehow me. The economy? Probably me too. I don’t conform to their lifestyle. I’m gay. I use medical cannabis. I don’t go to church because there are too many people who support the cruelty of the Trump regime. And align theirselves with the MAGA movement which practices a form of chriatianity that cannot be found in any Bible. And quite frankly, they have a bad reputation for normalizing pedophilia while demonizing being gay. I guess I should be glad that I just can’t understand that rationale.
I talk about taboo topics. And I acknowledge reality instead of pretending everything is fine. And did I mention I’m gay? Because trust me they will. Instead of saying, “She’s our family and we love her no matter the gender of someone she loves and that loves her.” They act like my existence is a PR crisis. The attitude is like, “Remember when Dana destroyed the family by being prouid to be gay and authentic?” I’m also the family whistleblower. I don’t play along with generational nonsense. I’m my own person. And I’m not apologizing for it.
3. The Golden Child (my sister, obviously) The Golden Child is the family’s prized possession. The chosen one. The favorite. And the one who can do no wrong even when she is actively doing wrong. Thriveworks.com (2023) describes this child as obedient, praised, and protected. That’s her. She has been dipped in gold since birth. She follows the script. Holds the same beliefs. And passes them down to her children like heirloom china. She was taught what to think. Not how to think. And the cycle continues. Children aren’t born to hate. They learn it from the adults who raise them. And this is what my sister excels at consistently.
4. The Lost Child (also my sister — she multitasks) The Lost Child avoids conflict like it’s a full-time job with benefits. She withdraws. Stays quiet. And pretends she’s above the chaos. While simultaneously contributing to it. She never acknowledges her harmful behavior. She believes most people are beneath her. And when she talks about someone being gay, she spells it out “G-A-Y” like she’s avoiding summoning a demon. Her emotional range is that of a frozen waffle. And honestly, that’s the family vibe overall.
5. The Mascot (me and my dad) Mascots use humor to distract from the dysfunction. We crack jokes. Lighten the mood. And do not dare fix anything. We just to keep the room from exploding. This doesn’t always work especially when me and my sister are at war like rainbows and bibles. My dad rescues my mom and sister from “big, bad Dana.” Who refuses to sweep things under the rug. I’m the villain because I tell the truth. Imagine that. Kind of sounds like the current government’s level of functioning.
Now you’ve met the cast and the roles they cling to like emotional security blankets. In the next part we’ll zoom out and look at the bigger picture. And it’s the part they refuse to acknowledge.
That concludes our tour of the Family Circus. Please exit through the gift shop. Where denial is half‑off. Accountability is out of stock. And the Scapegoat merchandise is mysteriously overpriced.” Thanks for reading! Keep breaking chains.
Affirmation: Today I honor my emotionally athletic self. The whistleblowing. Boundary‑setting. Truth‑telling legend who refuses to join the family’s Olympic Denial Team. Even though they’ve been training since the womb.
“Trauma doesn’t make you weak. It makes you a witness to your own survival.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for a shift. And let the air shift like it’s bracing itself for whatever truth you’re about to drag into the daylight. Today isn’t about pretending everything’s fine or slapping a smile on top of a wound. It’s not about the vibes, snacks, or cats doing interpretive dance in the sunbeam. It’s about trauma awareness. It is about naming the things we survived. The things we carried alone. The things we laughed through so we wouldn’t crumble. It’s a Southern‑fried, emotionally honest, and funny enough to keep you from dissolving into a puddle on the kitchen floor.
Trauma Awareness is the kind that hides in your shoulders, jaw, breath, memories, and your jokes. And if we’re going to talk about it, we’re going to do it the only way I know how. Complete with honesty, humor, and the kind of emotional courage that feels like taking your bra off after a long day. It’s painful, relieving, and absolutely necessary.
There’s a moment right before you talk about trauma where your whole spirit goes, “Are we sure we want to do this?” It’s the same tone you use when someone says, “Let’s just run into Walmart real quick.” You know it’s not going to be quick. You know you’re going to see something you can’t unsee. You know you’re going to come out changed. Talking about trauma is like that. Except instead of a man in pajama pants buying raw chicken and fireworks, it’s your nervous system holding up a sign that says, “We’ve been through some things, ma’am.”
Trauma doesn’t just show up when you’re ready. Trauma is that one cousin who arrives early. Eats all the good snacks. And then says, “Why you look stressed?” It pops up at the worst times especially when you’re trying to relax. When you’re trying to sleep. When you’re trying to enjoy a sandwich. When you’re trying to mind your business. And when you’re trying to be a functioning adult for five minutes. Trauma will tap you on the shoulder like, “Hey bestie, remember that thing from 1998? No? Well, I do.” And suddenly you’re staring at the wall like it owes you money.
Your body remembers everything. Even the stuff you tried to bury under humor, iced coffee, and pretending you’re fine. You’ll be walking through Wal-Mart. Touching a throw pillow. And your body will whisper, “Hey, remember that time?” And you’re like, “No I do not. I am touching a pillow. Let me live.” But trauma doesn’t care. Trauma is like a Southern grandmother with a memory like a steel trap. And no sense of timing.
People talk about healing like it’s a spa day. Let me tell you something. Healing is not cucumber water and a robe. Healing is crying in the shower because your shampoo smells like 2007. Healing is realizing you’ve been clenching your jaw since the Bush administration. Healing is sitting in your car after therapy like you just got hit by an emotional freight train. Healing is messy. Healing is loud. Healing is quiet. Healing is confusing. Healing is holy. Healing is exhausting. Healing is worth it. But cute? Absolutely not.
So, buckle up. Because the cats have decided it’s Trauma Awareness Hour. And apparently they’ve all been waiting their whole lives to trauma dump with the enthusiasm of a group therapy circle run by toddlers. And today is the day they ask deeply personal questions with the emotional sensitivity of a toddler holding a chainsaw. They have formed a circle. They have snacks. They have opinions. And apparently, they have questions about my trauma.
Me: “Okay, girls. Today we’re talking about trauma. Share whatever you feel comfortable with.”
She raises paw like she’s in kindergarten
Piper: “I’ll go first because my story is the most dramatic. Obviously.”
Coco: “Oh lord.”
Tinkerbell: “Let the child speak. She needs this.”
Piper: “So picture this. Me and my siblings. In a metal box. In the Mississippi heat, basically sautéing like tiny furry cornbread muffins.”
Me: “Baby, that’s awful.”
Piper: “I know. I was basically a rotisserie chicken with trauma.”
Coco: “You were a sweaty raisin with opinions.”
Piper: “Anyway, I survived because I’m dramatic and stubborn. And now every time the sunbeam hits me wrong, I flop over like a Victorian woman fainting at a garden party.”
Tinkerbell: “You faint because you forget to breathe when you get excited.”
Piper: “Trauma. Tinkerbell. Let me have this.”
Coco clears throat like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk
Coco: “My siblings and I were found under a house. A house. Do you know what lives under houses? Darkness. Ghosts. Tax evasion. I was basically a feral raccoon with trust issues.”
Me: “You’ve come so far.”
Coco: “Yes. And now I cope by judging everyone. It’s called growth.”
Piper: “You judge me the most.”
Coco: “You give me the most material.”
Tinkerbell: “I don’t remember my trauma.”
Me: “At all?”
Tinkerbell: “No. I simply chose not to be present. I was spiritually unavailable.”
Coco: “You had worms.”
Tinkerbell: “Yes, apparently my intestines were hosting a music festival.”
Piper: “You pooped like you were trying to summon something.”
Tinkerbell: “I was summoning peace. And a vet. Preferably both.”
Me: “You really don’t remember anything?”
Tinkerbell: “I remember diarrhea. And then I remember you. Everything else is optional.”
Me: “Well, we’ve all been through some things.”
Piper: “Yeah, but now we’re together! A family! With two crazy brothers who scream at dust!”
Coco: “We are a support group. A dysfunctional one, but still.”
Tinkerbell: “We heal one memory at a time. Preferably with snacks.”
Piper: “And naps!”
Coco: “And boundaries. Mostly for Piper.”
Piper: “I don’t believe in boundaries.”
Tinkerbell: “We know.”
Piper: “Sometimes I get scared when it’s hot outside. So, I cope by yelling at the sun.”
Coco: “I cope by staring at people until they feel bad.”
Tinkerbell: “I cope by leaving my body spiritually whenever something stressful happens. Like when the vacuum turns on. Or when Piper breathes too loud.”
Piper: “I have big emotions.”
Coco: “You have no volume control.”
Tinkerbell: “You have the energy of a toddler who drank a Red Bull.”
Piper: “Momma, what is your trauma about?”
Me: “Oh absolutely not. We are not opening that can of worms. We’ll be here until this time next year. And I don’t have enough snacks or emotional stamina.”
Coco: “Is that why you have panic attacks in Walmart?”
Me: “Yes.”
Tinkerbell: “But what’s scary about going to the pharmacy?”
Me: “Everything.”
Piper: “Everything?? Like the shelves? The people? The lighting?”
Me: “Yes.”
Coco: “The lighting is aggressive.”
Tinkerbell: “The vibes are hostile.”
Piper: “The blood pressure machine is a demon.”
Me: “Exactly.”
Coco: “So what did our therapist tell you?”
Me: “She said, ‘I’ll see you in another couple of days.’”
Tinkerbell: “Translation: ‘You’re a lot. But I believe in you.’”
Piper: “Translation: ‘You have so many issues we need a punch card.’”
Coco: “Translation: ‘You’re keeping the lights on in that office.’”
Me: “But look at us now. We’re safe. We’re loved. We’re healing together.”
Piper: “And we have snacks!”
Coco: “And stability.”
Tinkerbell: “And indoor plumbing.”
Me: “We survived things we never should’ve had to survive. And now we get to build something soft and silly and sacred together.”
All Three Cats: “Group hug!”
Coco: “But don’t touch me too long.”
Piper: “I’m crying!”
Tinkerbell: “I’m dissociating!”
Me: “Perfect. Exactly the emotional range I expected.”
In small Southern towns, admitting trauma is treated like a social crime. The moment you name what happened, you’re not just telling your story. You’re “disgracing the family,” “embarrassing the community,” and threatening the carefully polished illusion of stability that everyone works so hard to maintain. The culture teaches people to swallow their pain. Protect the reputation of the town at all costs. And never, under any circumstances, call out the people who caused the harm. And because the “good ole boy” network is alive and well. And sitting in every position of authority from the courthouse to the church pews, the truth gets buried right alongside the accountability. Even when the perpetrators are known. Especially when they’re known. Nothing is done. The silence is enforced. The victims are shamed. And the town keeps smiling for the church directory photo like nothing ever happened. But the truth doesn’t disappear just because the town refuses to look at it. It lingers in the air, the families, the generations, waiting for someone brave enough to break the cycle and say, “This happened. And it mattered.” And I am that one in my family who refuses to stay quiet about the trauma that happened in the small city of Petal, MS.
Trauma will have you doing things that make absolutely no sense. Things like apologizing to furniture when you bump into it. Jumping at sounds that aren’t even loud. Overthinking texts like you’re decoding ancient scripture. Saying “I’m fine” in a tone that suggests you are, in fact, not fine. And crying because someone said, “I’m proud of you.” And your body wasn’t prepared for that level of kindness. Trauma will also make you emotionally attached to random objects. A mug. A blanket. A rock you found on a walk. A pen that writes really smooth. Your brain will be like, “This is my emotional support spoon. Touch it and perish.”
Trauma awareness isn’t about reliving the pain. It’s about naming it, so it stops owning you. It’s about understanding why you react the way you do. It’s about giving yourself grace for surviving things you never should’ve had to survive. It’s about learning that your triggers aren’t flaws. They’re evidence that you lived through something real. And it’s about knowing you’re not broken.
You’re healing. You’re growing. You’re learning how to breathe again. You’re learning how to trust softness again. You’re learning how to exist without bracing for impact. That’s not weakness. That’s strength with stretch marks.
May your healing be gentle. May your memories lose their sharp edges. May your nervous system unclench one muscle at a time. May your heart learn safety. May your voice return to you. May your laughter come back louder. May your story be yours again. And not something that happened to you. But something you rose from.
So, if no one told you today. You’re not dramatic. You’re not broken. And you’re not “too much.” You’re a whole human who lived through storms that would’ve snapped lesser souls in half. And you’re still here healing. Laughing. Unlearning, Softening. Reclaiming. That’s not survival. That’s resurrection. And baby, if that isn’t holy, I don’t know what is. Drop the sage. Keep the truth. And walk away knowing this. Your story didn’t end in the dark. You did.
Affirmation: I honor the parts of me that survived. I honor the parts of me that are still healing. I am allowed to grow, to rest, to feel, and to reclaim my peace. And I can do it one breath at a time.
This Puzzled Life 