storytelling blog

darnold1975

Part Two: The Leprechaun Who Regretted Knocking on This Door

“Coco tried to negotiate. Piper tried to bite him. And Tinkerbell tried to pretend she didn’t know us.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light a candle. Grab a helmet. Alert the neighbors. And that’s when I knew this wasn’t just Part Two. This was divine punishment for every time I said, “My cats can’t possibly get any weirder.” Part Two begins with a sound no human should ever hear before coffee.

I was in the kitchen minding my business. And trying to decide whether coffee counts as a meal. When I heard a scream. Not a cat scream. Not a human scream. A scream that sounded like a kazoo having a panic attack.

I walked in and found a real leprechaun standing on my coffee table. He was looking like he’d been kidnapped by fate. And dropped directly into a house he did NOT have the emotional bandwidth for. My cats froze like they’d just seen a ghost, a rotisserie chicken, and the IRS all at once. The leprechaun adjusted his little green coat and glared at them.

Tinkerbell: “Oh Lord, he’s real.” 

Coco: “We are so getting sued.” 

Piper: “I call dibs on his ankles.”

Leprechaun: “Which one of ye hooligans set a trap made of catnip, cereal, and a shoelace”

Coco: “That would be Piper.”

Piper: “It was a strategic ankle‑biting device.”

Tinkerbell: “It was a cry for help.”

The leprechaun rubbed his temples like he suddenly understood why humans drink. Tinkerbell stepped forward with the confidence of a Southern grandmother about to negotiate a discount at Hobby Lobby.

Tinkerbell: “Sir, we’d like to offer you employment.”

Leprechaun: “Employment. As what.”

Coco: “Our butler.”

Piper: “Treat butler.”

Leprechaun: “I beg yer pardon.”

Tinkerbell: “You have thumbs. We don’t. It’s simple economics.”

The leprechaun stared at them like he was reconsidering the entire concept of magic. He made a run for it. Unfortunately for him, Piper also made a run for it. And she runs like a Roomba possessed by the Holy Spirit. She launched herself off the couch. Skidded across the hardwood. And slammed into the leprechaun like a furry bowling ball.

Leprechaun: “Lord above, get this creature off me!”

Piper: “I got him! I got the gold man!”

Tinkerbell: “Piper, release the hostage.”

Piper: “No. he’s mine!”

Coco: “Girl, you can’t just claim people like coupons.”

Once the leprechaun was upright again (and Piper was placed in a time‑out behind a baby gate), Tinkerbell attempted diplomacy.

Tinkerbell: “We don’t want to harm you. We simply want your gold.”

Leprechaun: “Absolutely not.”

Coco: “Okay, then we want your thumbs.”

Leprechaun: “Absolutely not.”

Piper: from behind the gate “I want his ankles.”

Tinkerbell: “Ignore her. She’s… spirited.”

After twenty minutes of arguing, bribery attempts, and Piper trying to chew through the baby gate like a raccoon, the leprechaun finally sighed.

Leprechaun: “Fine. I’ll give ye one coin if ye promise to never summon me again.”

Coco: “Deal.”

Tinkerbell: “Agreed.”

Piper: “Can I bite it to make sure it’s real?”

Leprechaun: “NO.”

He tossed the coin onto the rug, muttered something in Gaelic that I’m pretty sure was a curse, and vanished in a puff of glitter. Piper immediately tried to eat the coin. So now my cats have one magical gold coin, no butler, no thumbs, and  a restraining order from the leprechaun realm. Disasters. Tinkerbell is drafting an apology letter to Ireland. Coco is Googling “how to invest one coin in crypto” Piper is behind a baby gate screaming, “I won the war!” And me? I’m just trying to drink my coffee in peace while living with three furry agents of chaos who almost started an international incident with the Fae.

And that, dear readers, is how my cats managed to terrify a magical creature, negotiate absolutely nothing, and still walk away with a gold coin that Piper immediately tried to swallow like it was communion. The leprechaun vanished in a puff of glitter, probably filing a complaint with the. The leprechaun vanished in a puff of glitter, probably filing a complaint with whatever Fae Department of Magical handles “feline‑related incidents.” is researching “how to retire on one coin.” Piper is behind a baby gate screaming, “I am the chosen one!” And me I’m just trying to figure out how to explain this to my therapist without getting put on a watchlist.

Don’t you worry. Part Three is on the way and trust me. The glitter storm hasn’t even peaked yet. Backup is on the way, and Piper is about to discover what consequences feel like. Stay tuned. Thanks for reading! Keep smiling.

Affirmation: I handle unexpected visitors with grace, unlike my cats who handle them with teeth.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

My Cat Tried to Call the Therapy Coach and Now We’re in a Full‑Blown Feline Intervention

“My system handles trauma like professionals. But the cats handle drama like they’re auditioning for a reality show called Real Housewives of the Litter Box.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Secure the breakables. Today’s episode of This Puzzled Life features a full‑blown feline committee meeting after Piper, chaos in fur form, announced that she “might have Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. Piper, however, is simply dramatic. And Tinkerbell and Coco are done with her antics. Welcome back where the sage is burning. The humidity is disrespectful. And the cats are holding more meetings than a Mississippi school board.

This morning started like any other. I was minding my business. Drinking my coffee. And trying to keep my nervous system from filing a complaint with HR. When Piper strutted into the room and announced that she “might have Dissociative Identity Disorder.” Before I could even blink, she was paw‑dialing my therapy coach like she had Blue Cross Blue Shield and a co‑pay. And that’s when Tinkerbell and Coco called an emergency meeting. Because apparently, in this house, I’m not the only one with a system. I’m just the only one with a diagnosis.

Tinkerbell climbed onto the arm of the couch like she was chairing a Mississippi church committee.

Tinkerbell: “This meeting will now come to order. Piper has made a claim. A bold one.”

Piper: “Ok. Well, there is no easy way to say this. I have DID.”

Tinkerbell: “Piper, having nine lives is not the same thing as having nine personalities. Stop confusing reincarnation with psychology.”

Coco: “Yeah, girl. Nine lives just means you make nine bad decisions. Not that you need nine therapists.”

Piper gasps, fluffs up, dramatic tail twitch

Piper:  “Wow! So, nobody believes me? Nobody supports my journey? I’m being silenced. This is oppression. I’m calling coach right now!”

Coco: “You can’t even remember where you left your toy mouse. Sit down.”

Piper: “I am a complex being with layers!”

Tinkerbell: “You’re a lasagna with fur. Calm down.”

Coco flicked her tail like she was swatting away generational trauma.

Coco: “She doesn’t have DID. She has Too Much Drama Disorder.”

Piper, sprawled across a pillow like a Victorian widow, sighed dramatically.

Piper: “Sometimes I feel like different versions of me.”

Tinkerbell blinked slowly. The kind of blink that says, Lord, give me strength.

Piper sat up, whiskers trembling with self‑importance.

Piper: “Sometimes I’m sweet. Sometimes I’m spicy. Sometimes I’m feral. That’s at least three personalities.”

Coco rolled her eyes so hard she almost saw her past lives.

According to Piper, and only Piper, she “dissociates” at least three times a day. To everyone else in the house, she simply forgets what she’s doing because she’s Piper.

This morning, she was walking toward her food bowl with purpose, confidence, and the swagger of a cat who believes she pays rent. Halfway there, she froze. Stared into the void. And blinked like she’d just been unplugged and rebooted.

Tinkerbell watched her with the patience of a grandmother who’s seen too much.

Tinkerbell: “She’s not dissociating. She’s buffering.”

Coco flicked her tail

Coco: “That’s not a switch. That’s a brain fart.”

But Piper insisted.

Piper: “I think I dissociated. I forgot what I was doing.”

Tinkerbell sighed

Tinkerbell: “Sweetheart, you forget what you’re doing because you have the attention span of a dust bunny.”

Coco: “If staring at the wall counts as dissociating, then every cat on Earth needs a therapist.”

Piper, unbothered, continued staring into the middle distance like she was receiving messages from the universe.

Piper: “I just drifted away.”

Tinkerbell: “You drifted because you saw a dust particle and got confused.”

Coco: “You’re not dissociating. You’re daydreaming with commitment.”

Coco: “That’s called being a cat.”

Tinkerbell nodded

Tinkerbell: “You’re not special, darling. You’re just enthusiastic.”

Piper gasped like someone insulted her casserole at a church potluck.

Piper: “So you’re saying I’m dramatic?”

Coco: “I’m saying you’re Piper.”

This is where things went off the rails. Piper marched over to my phone. Tapped the screen with her paw, and said,

Piper: “I’m calling our therapy coach. I need a professional opinion.”

Tinkerbell nearly fell off the couch.

Tinkerbell: “Absolutely not. You are not dragging a licensed human into your nonsense.”

Coco leapt forward like she was blocking a football pass.

Coco: “Put the phone down. You don’t even know the passcode.”

Piper: “I know it’s numbers.”

Tinkerbell: “That is not enough.”

Piper: “I just want to ask if I have DID.”

Coco: “You don’t even have object permanence.”

Tinkerbell gestured toward me like she was presenting a case study.

Tinkerbell: “Our mom has DID. That’s a real thing. A trauma thing. A serious thing.”

Coco nodded, suddenly solemn

Coco: “She’s strong. She’s healing. She’s doing the work. You, on the other hand, tried to eat a rubber band yesterday.”

Piper: “It looked like a noodle.”

Tinkerbell: “It was not a noodle.”

Coco: “You’re not dissociating. You’re just unsupervised.”

Tinkerbell cleared her throat like a judge delivering a sentence

Tinkerbell: “Piper does not have DID. What she does have is excessive enthusiasm, poor impulse control, a flair for the dramatic, and a mother who spoils her.

Coco: “Case closed. Someone bring snacks.”

Piper: “I still think I should call the therapy coach.”

Tinkerbell: “If you touch that phone again, I’m calling Jesus.”

And as we wrap up this episode of Cats Who Need Supervision, I’ve realized something important. Living with DID is complex, sacred, and deeply human. But living with these cats is a full‑time job with no benefits and no union representation.

Some days my system is grounded and organized. Other days it’s buffering like a Dollar Tree Wi‑Fi router in a thunderstorm. And meanwhile, Piper is over here diagnosing herself with conditions she found on TikTok. Tinkerbell is exhausted. Coco is judging everyone. And Piper is still trying to call the therapy coach.

To all of us I wish healing, much laughter, surviving, and keeping the phone away from the cat who thinks she needs a treatment plan. And Piper? She’s grounded from the phone until further notice. Thanks for reading! Hug a cat if they let you.

Affirmation: Every part of you is powerful and worthy. And Piper, in all her chaotic glory, fully supports your healing while acting like she’s the self‑appointed spokesperson for your system.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

DID Awareness Month: Many Voices, One Whole Self

“My brain runs like a full‑time committee meeting, and the cats still think they’re the ones in charge.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today’s blog is about Dissociative Identity Disorder. And three cats who have absolutely no business being professionally involved. But who insist on participating like they’re on salary.

Welcome to another episode of “My Life Is a Sitcom and Nobody Warned Me.” Secure your wigs. Because today we’re diving into DID Awareness also known as “Me, Myself, and the Entire Internal Group Chat.” 

Living with DID means my brain runs like a committee meeting that could’ve been an email. And my cats act like they’re the board of directors.

Tinkerbell: “Your system is more organized than Congress.”

Coco: “At least y’all communicate.”

Piper: “If your brain ever needs a new member, I’m available.”

Me: “Piper, sweetheart, this is not American Idol: Internal System Edition.”

But here we are. Me, my parts, my healing journey, and three cats who think they’re licensed clinicians. And they are ready to bring some humor, honesty, and a little Southern seasoning to DID Awareness Month. Strap in. It’s about to get educational, emotional, and unnecessarily funny.

DID is one of those topics people whisper about like it’s a scandal, a secret, or the recipe for Coca‑Cola. But in this house? We talk about it openly, honestly, and with the kind of humor that keeps us from spontaneously combusting into a pile of stress glitter.

I have DID. Not “movie DID.” Not “Hollywood horror plot DID.” Actual, clinical, trauma‑born DID. It’s the kind that forms when a child survives more than any child ever should. And let me tell you, the cats have notes.

Tinkerbell (the wise elder): “Mom has a whole internal board of directors. I respect that. Some of y’all can’t even manage one mood.”

Coco (the judgmental aunt): “Honestly, the system is more organized than half the humans I’ve met. At least they communicate.”

Piper (chaos incarnate): “Do you think they’d let me join? I have ideas.”

Me: “Piper, this is not a talent show. This is a mental health condition.”

DID isn’t scary. It isn’t dangerous. It isn’t whatever nonsense Hollywood keeps trying to sell. It is a trauma response. A survival strategy. A brilliant adaptation. And a system built to protect a child who deserved safety. My system isn’t broken. It’s creative. It’s resilient. It’s the reason I’m still here. And the cats? They act like they’ve known every part since birth.

Tinkerbell: “Oh, this one likes soft blankets. Bring her the good one.” 

Coco: “This one needs boundaries. I’ll supervise.” 

Piper: “This one lets me climb the curtains.”

How does DID manifest? It is switching when overwhelmed and losing time. It’s different parts having different needs and internal conversations. It’s healing in layers. And learning to work as a team. It also looks like me drinking water because one part insists. Me resting because another refuses to push through. Me laughing because someone inside cracked a joke. And me healing because we’re doing this together. And the cats? They think they’re helping.

Coco: “I’m providing emotional support.” 

Piper: “I’m providing chaos.” 

Tinkerbell: “I’m providing supervision because these children need guidance.”

People with DID aren’t fragile. We aren’t dangerous. We aren’t confused. We aren’t “making it up.” We’re survivors. We’re complex. We’re healing. We’re doing the work. And we deserve understanding, not fear. Compassion, not judgment. Support, not silence.

Tinkerbell: “Respect the system. It’s doing its best.” 

Coco: “Awareness is important. Also, snacks.”

Piper: “If your brain ever needs a new member, I’m available.”

Me: “Piper, absolutely not.”

And as we wrap up this little journey through DID Awareness Month, complete with sage smoke, hydration, internal committee meetings, and three cats who are my emotional support staff .

DID is basically like trying to reboot a Wi‑Fi router from 2007. While the cats are batting the cords. The universe is buffering. And one part is whispering, “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”

Some days I’m gliding through life like a well‑oiled machine. Other days I’m switching, grounding, journaling, and negotiating with my nervous system like it’s a toddler who missed nap time. And occasionally, the whole system is like, “Ma’am, we were not built for this timeline.” Meanwhile, the cats are offering commentary like they’re on payroll.

Here’s to us choosing growth even when our brains are running on 3% battery. Choosing compassion even when our patience is on backorder. And choosing to keep going even when life feels like a Walmart parking lot at 2 a.m.

 And then strut into the rest of your life like a woman who has survived every plot twist. Including the ones that arrived unannounced, barefoot, and holding a casserole of chaos. Because you’re still here. You’re still growing. And honestly? You’re doing better than half the people who think “self‑care” means buying a succulent and ignoring their feelings. Healing is holy. Humor is medicine. And I am too stubborn. I am too supported by my internal team and these judgmental cats to give up now. Thanks for reading! Keep moving forward.

Affirmation: I honor every part of my system. The strong ones, the soft ones, the tired ones, and the healing ones. I move through this world with resilience, humor, and a whole internal team that refuses to give up on me. I am whole, worthy, supported, and doing beautifully, no matter who’s fronting or which cat thinks they’re in charge today.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

I Stand Up Because Too Many Still Can’t

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 #ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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