storytelling blog

darnold1975

I Stand Up Because Too Many Still Can’t

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 #ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

A Life Too Bright for Silence: Honoring Alex Pretti

“Some people leave footprints. Alex left constellations.”

—This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Grab your protest sign and a cup of coffee. Because if you live in the Deep South like I do, grief doesn’t just arrive. It sweats through your clothes and fogs up your glasses before breakfast.

Before I knew his name. Before I knew the details that would punch me right in the chest, Alex Pretti reached me. All the way down here where I’m surrounded by red as far as the eye can see. And when a story travels that far and hits that hard, you know it’s not just news. It’s a wake‑up call. It’s a “Lord, give me strength” moment.

I didn’t know Alex personally. But the kind of man he was? You could feel it. He was one of those people whose light didn’t ask permission. It just showed up, loud and warm and human. The kind of man who loved deeply, laughed easily, and carried a softness this world doesn’t always know what to do with. A man who deserved to grow old, to be safe, to be held by a country he believed in.

However, an ICE agent took his life. Another name added to a list no one should ever be on. And here I am, a radical left lesbian mom in Mississippi, suddenly out in the streets protesting because a man I never met had his life taken by a system that keeps insisting it’s “protecting” us while leaving families shattered in its reality.

Alex was the kind of man who felt everything at full volume. He cared deeply. He believed people deserved second chances. Even when he rarely gave himself one. He was the friend who showed up with snacks, unsolicited advice, and a chaotic plan that somehow always worked out. He was the man who apologized to furniture when he bumped into it. The man who hugged like he meant it. Said everything with his full chest. And had a softness, that humanity, is exactly what makes his loss so difficult. When I learned that Alex had been shot by an ICE agent, something inside me cracked. Not because it was surprising. Even though it was. But because it was familiar. Too familiar.

Another life taken. Another family grieving. Another official statement full of phrases like “self-defense” and “ongoing investigation.” Another community left holding the weight of a story that should never have happened.

Alex wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t a danger. He wasn’t a headline. He was a man. A son. A friend. A human being who deserved dignity, safety, and a future. And here’s the part that keeps making tears well up in my eyes. We never met. Our lives never crossed. But somehow his light still reached me. Where people like me are used to feeling outnumbered, unheard, and underestimated. Your story landed right in the middle of my heart like a truth I didn’t know I needed. Your life touched a stranger hundreds of miles away. Your death shook a community you never met. Your name pulled me into the streets to protest because what happened to you was wrong, and silence would’ve been its own kind of violence.

We had the only thing we ever needed in common. We were both Americans who still loved this country. All the colors of the rainbow. Who believed in equality for all. And who loves and respects our constitution. Not blindly, but bravely. Not the sanitized version. Not the version politicians slip out when they want applause.

We loved the real country. The one made of people, not power. The one made of communities, not cruelty. The one that’s worth fighting for because it’s ours, even when it breaks our hearts. You loved this place enough to believe in its promise. And I love it enough to protest the systems that stole you from it.

When I speak Alex’s name, I think of the way he lived. I think of his light and his laugh. The kind that made strangers smile. I think of his hope for our neighbors and country. The kind that refused to dim. I think of his softness. The kind that made people feel safe.

Alex taught me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. He taught me that vulnerability is an act of courage. He taught me that showing up messy, flawed,  and human is enough. You and me strangers on paper. Yet connected in purpose. Your life touched mine, and now your name lives in my throat every time I show up with a sign, a voice, and a righteous amount of Southern gay attitude.

I wish your story ended differently. I wish this country loved you back the way you loved it. Your light didn’t go out. It spread. It reached a queer mom in Mississippi who refuses to be quiet. It reached a community that refuses to forget. It reached people who are tired of watching the same system break the same bodies and call it “order.”

And if ICE, the state, or anyone else wants to know why I’m out here protesting, yelling, writing, and refusing to sit down, the answer is simple. Because Alex Pretti and Renee Good deserved to grow old.Because loving this country means fighting the parts of it that keep killing people. Because silence is not patriotism. Accountability is. And because The United States of America’s Constitution specifically states, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that ALL men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” BECAUSE IN THIS COUNTRY, THERE ARE NO KINGS!

And yes, I’ll still make jokes, because grief and humor are cousins in my family. But don’t get it twisted. The fire is real.

Your story changed me. Your name will not fade. And if this country ever gets better, it’ll be because of people like you. And the people who refuse to stop saying your name. Thanks for reading! And never stay quiet.

Affirmation: I honor the fallen by fighting like hell for the living. And by keeping my sense of humor, because the revolution needs snacks and sarcasm.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife