Healing

Between Two Homes: A Love Letter to Pensacola

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A couple taking a selfie in a cozy kitchen setting, smiling and enjoying their time together.
Ready for the roadtrip!
A woman wearing sunglasses and a colorful striped sweater smiles at the camera, standing outside in Gulf Shores, Alabama, with trees and a parked car in the background.
We’re here!

I’m from Logansport, Indiana. But at 24—fresh out of college—I packed up my life and moved to Pensacola, Florida. What was supposed to be just the next chapter ended up becoming a whole damn book.

I lived there for eight years. Eight years of becoming, unraveling, rebuilding, and becoming again.

Pensacola is where I worked my first real “adult” job as an elementary school teacher (an adventure in every possible definition). It’s where I burned out, quit, went back, burned out again. It’s where I started thinking seriously about law school and studied for the LSAT while working at a few different law firms that showed me what life could look like on the other side of a classroom.

It’s where I made my second family. Lifelong friends. People who changed my life and kept me going. I lived so much life there.

And now, I’m back in Indiana. I’ve been home for a year—close to family, grounded in ways I didn’t know I needed. And I’m happy. Truly.

But I miss Pensacola.
Like, ache-in-my-chest miss it.

A group of three friends taking a selfie inside a car, smiling at the camera with sunglasses on. The car interior is visible, along with drinks in cup holders. A caption reads '30 minutes out!!'.
Almost there with my travel buddies, Mike and my boyfriend, Brooks

This week I’m on a short vacation in Gulf Shores, Alabama. It’s only 30 minutes from Pensacola, and the second I stepped out into the warm, humid air, it hit me. That Gulf breeze, the smell of saltwater—it’s like my soul recognized it before I did.

I’m planning to go back to Pensacola at least once—probably twice—while I’m here. The first trip is already set. I have a 3:30 hair appointment with Tasha, the only person I’ve let touch my hair since right before the pandemic. Even after moving away, I haven’t let anyone else near it. I saw her last summer when I came down to pack up my house on Main and E Street—a house I deeply loved.

So yeah. I’m making a whole day of it.
No alarm. Just vibes.

I’ll probably hit up one (or two, let’s be real) of my favorite downtown coffee shops. I might grab an açaí bowl from Bodacious Brew, go on long walks, maybe even walk by my old house at 615 South E Street. It’ll be bittersweet, no doubt.

Especially because—I kid you not—I accidentally had a bunch of packages shipped there recently. (Oops.)

A laptop and a sketchbook are placed on a grassy surface, accompanied by a striped blanket and a pen, with a flower pressed inside the sketchbook.
Clovers are my favorite flower

Two telescopes.
Some Anthropologie clothes I’d been so excited to wear on this trip.
All sent to my old address. But then something beautiful happened…

The woman who lives there now found me on Facebook.

She’s from Cuba, and we’ve been communicating using a translator app. She’s so kind. She told me her family is new to the U.S. and they’ve just moved in. We’ve made a plan for me to come pick up my things, and honestly, I’m really looking forward to meeting her. It feels like a full-circle moment in some strange, magical way.

The kicker? She messaged me the same day I left for this trip. The timing? Wild.

Close-up of a knee with two small stones placed on it, one heart-shaped and the other oval, next to an open sketchbook with pens lying on top and a painted background featuring sun and abstract designs.
A moment of my entertainment/technology for the trip down

And while Gulf Shores is nice, it’s not quite Pensacola. It’s more touristy, less diverse, a little too polished around the edges. But the air? The air still feels like home. It wraps around me like a memory.

I’ve cried a little already, not gonna lie. I miss Pensacola so much.
But I’m also grateful—for both places. For everything they gave me.

I wish I could live in both at once.
But for now, I’ll settle for a visit, some sunshine, and a fresh haircut.

Pensacola, I’ll see you soon. I still love you.

A woman and a man sitting on a red wooden bench, both smiling at the camera. The woman is wearing a multicolored striped sweater and the man is dressed in a white shirt and beige shorts. There are palm trees in the background.
A woman smiling while perched on a tree branch, wearing a colorful striped sweater and shorts, with a waterway and a house visible in the background.

Tags: Pensacola, Homecoming, Travel, Reflections, Moving, Life After Teaching, Gratitude, Friendship, Second Home, Hairdresser Loyalty, Small Moments, Big Feelings

If you’ve ever felt caught between two places you love, I’d love to hear your story. Drop a comment or send me a message. 💛

🧠 What ADHD Actually Is (and Isn’t)

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Unmasking, One Post at a Time
By Kayla Sue Warner

Let’s just say this up front: the name “Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder” is wrong. Like, offensively wrong. There’s not actually a “deficit” of attention, and there’s nothing “disordered” about the way our brains work. ADHD is a neurotype—a naturally occurring variation in how human brains process time, emotion, focus, and executive functioning. It’s not something broken. It’s just something different.

Illustration depicting a brain with an exclamation mark, symbolizing attention and cognitive focus.

❗Wait, Why Is It Still Called a “Disorder”?

Let’s talk about the name: Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. It’s outdated. And honestly, inaccurate.

  • We don’t actually have a deficit of attention—we have too much of it in too many places at once, or we hyperfocus intensely on one thing and tune everything else out.
  • And the word disorder makes it sound like something’s broken or wrong with us. It’s not.
  • Our brains are just wired differently—and that’s okay.

ADHD is a brain difference, not a disease. The name hasn’t caught up with the science yet, and many people in the neurodivergent community are pushing for a change. But until the “official” terminology catches up, we’re stuck with a label that doesn’t reflect our actual lived experience.

So if you hear me use “ADHD,” just know: I’m talking about a neurotype, not something that needs to be “fixed.”

A colorful abstract painting featuring a quirky character with large eyes, a yellow face, and an orange outline, holding a pink flower against a textured blue-green background.

⚡ ADHD Is a Brain-Based Executive Function Difference

ADHD isn’t a character flaw, a lack of willpower, or a moral failure. It’s a difference in how the brain is wired—especially in areas related to executive functioning. That includes things like:

  • initiating tasks
  • following through on plans
  • regulating emotions
  • managing time and transitions
  • remembering what you were doing in the first place (before you got up and completely forgot)

And while the medical world still calls it a “disorder,” many of us know better. There’s nothing wrong with how our brains work—we just live in a world that isn’t designed for us. (CHADD, 2023)

Dr. Russell Barkley, who has studied ADHD for decades, once said:

“ADHD is not a deficit of knowing what to do. It’s a deficit of doing what you know.”

And let me tell you—that quote is my whole life.

A person standing on a beach wearing a black crop top and bright yellow high-waisted bikini bottoms, holding a drink and posing confidently under a cloudy sky.

🧬 It’s Not Your Fault. It’s How Your Brain Works.

ADHD isn’t caused by bad parenting, screens, sugar, or any of the other ridiculous myths floating around. It’s a neurodevelopmental difference—a variation in brain wiring, often linked to genetics, and especially connected to dopamine regulation (NIMH, 2021).

We don’t lack attention—we have inconsistent attention. And we don’t need to be “fixed.” We need understanding, support, and systems that work with our brains instead of against them.

A cluttered room featuring a white cabinet with glass doors showcasing books, alongside a pile of scattered books on the floor.

🌱 Final Thoughts

ADHD isn’t a disorder. It’s not a disease. It’s not something to be cured or controlled.

It’s a different brain. A different way of experiencing the world. A neurotype.

And even if the name hasn’t caught up yet, we can speak about it differently. We can unlearn the shame and rebuild our self-trust. We can stop viewing ourselves as “failures” for struggling in a world that was never built with us in mind.

A close-up of a small, vibrant flower with purple tips, set against a colorful, textured background.

Being a Democrat (But I Might Not Always Be One)By Kayla Sue Warner

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A woman wearing a red Alabama cap and sunglasses, smiling in the Cass County Courthouse, Logansport, IN, with a caption that says 'Time to vote!' and American flags.

Let me be clear: I call myself a Democrat. Right now. That doesn’t mean I always will.

Because honestly? I don’t pledge allegiance to a political party. I pledge allegiance to people. To truth. To what’s good and honest and actually makes life better for all of us. Let me say that again—ALL PEOPLE. Not just the wealthy. Not just straight white men. Not just whoever screams the loudest or fundraises the most. All people.

Right now, the Democratic Party lines up more with my values than the Republican Party does—by a mile. But I’m not a blind loyalist. I believe in calling out the hypocrisy, corruption, or cowardice wherever it shows up. And yes, that includes the left.

A close-up of a wrist wearing a bracelet that spells 'VOTE' with colorful beads, against a background of a green sweater.

The Republican Party Today: A Cult of Trump

Let’s not dance around it. The modern-day GOP has become less of a political party and more of a personality cult. They follow Donald Trump with such blind loyalty it’s terrifying. The man has been indicted on 88 criminal counts [NYT, April 2024], including trying to overturn a democratic election. He was recorded bragging about sexually assaulting women. He mocked a disabled reporter on national television. And somehow, that’s still not a dealbreaker for his base.

Republicans in Congress regularly echo his lies, deny election results, and block legislation that would help real people. They’ve fought against reproductive rights, LGBTQ+ protections, gun reform, climate action, education funding, and fair voting access. In some states, they’re banning books and threatening teachers. It’s giving fascism.

And yet, the GOP base follows. Not because it makes sense. But because it’s about loyalty to the leader, not loyalty to truth.

A man speaks into a microphone at an outdoor event, with a banner behind him that reads 'A New Voice for Florida's First.' Another person stands nearby, and tables are set up in the foreground.

Why I Identify with Democrats (For Now)

Democrats aren’t perfect. Far from it. But they’re the ones generally pushing for:

  • LGBTQ+ equality
  • Reproductive freedom
  • Racial justice
  • Climate action
  • Gun safety laws
  • Expanding health care access (affordable, available, and fair health care for all people)
  • Protecting voting rights (affordable, available, and fair education for all people)
  • Investing in public education
Two children in a classroom setting, one wearing a historical costume with a shimmering gold gown and the other dressed as a historical figure in a blue and white outfit, both posing for the camera.

Those are human rights issues. And I care deeply about them.

That said, the Democratic Party is not immune to criticism. Corporate money still influences too much. Messaging is often weak or out of touch. And at times, they act more interested in being “civil” than being brave. I get frustrated when they don’t fight harder. When they compromise too soon. When they forget who they’re supposed to be fighting for. The party has a long history of letting down marginalized groups too, including how they handled (or didn’t handle) mass incarceration and welfare reform in the 90s.

A group of children playing together on a playground, smiling and enjoying their time outdoors.
Some of the people who I fight for <3

What I Really Am: A Person Who Gives a Shit

At the end of the day, I’m not here for parties. I’m here for people. I want leaders who are honest, principled, and committed to building a more just, compassionate world. If the Republican Party actually did that someday, I’d consider switching. If a new major party emerged and fought for everyone with integrity, I’d be on board.

But let’s be real: we’re stuck in a two-party system. And one of those parties is openly trying to dismantle democracy.

So for now, I vote Democrat. I support policies that uplift communities, protect freedoms, and push for equity. But I will never be a party loyalist. I’ll always be someone who asks, “Is this making the world better for all people?”

Let me repeat that one more time. ALL PEOPLE.

Because I’m an American. I love this country—its people, its messy beauty, its potential. I believe we can do better. But only if we stop worshipping parties and start demanding better from them.

Country first. People first. Always.

A woman wearing a maroon Alabama visor and athletic attire is sipping from an iced drink through a blue straw while seated outside the Cass County Courthouse in Logansport, Indiana.
It should be federally legal and everyone agrees on that!
An elderly woman wearing sunglasses and a red jacket sits at a table outdoors, looking thoughtfully into the distance, with trees and other people in the background.

What Autism Actually Is (and Isn’t) By Kayla Sue Warner

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A smiling person wearing a yellow jacket sits by a river, with a laptop in front of them, surrounded by green trees and grass.
An abstract artwork featuring various shades of blue, green, and yellow paint with cut-out text elements that read 'owe it to our' and 'heart.'

Let’s clear some things up.

There is so much misinformation about autism out there, it could fill a book. Actually, probably a library. And I’m tired of watching people learn about autism from Facebook memes, RFK Jr. conspiracy theories, or the cringiest portrayals on TV. (Please, for the love of god, stop referencing Rain Man.) So here it is. A real, honest look at what autism actually is—and isn’t—from someone who lives it every single day.

What Autism Isn’t:

  • It’s not a disease.
  • It’s not a tragedy.
  • It’s not a childhood-only thing.
  • It’s not caused by vaccines. (RFK Jr., please sit down.)
  • It’s not something you can always “see.”
  • It’s not bad parenting.
  • It’s not the same for every person.
  • It’s not a phase.
  • It’s not just a male thing.
  • It’s not something you can “fix” with a diet, discipline, or detox.

What Autism Actually Is:

It’s a neurodevelopmental difference. A way of experiencing the world that’s wired differently, not wrongly. It affects how I communicate, feel things, process sensory input, interact socially, and just… exist.

For me, autism means:

  • I take a long time to tell a story because I include every detail. That’s not rambling—it’s how my brain works.
  • I can feel deep physical pain when certain sounds happen (like modern country music. No offense, but if someone puts on Morgan Wallen, I might scream). Thank goodness for my noise-cancelling Beats and guided meditations.
  • I’m hypersensitive and hyper-empathetic to other people. I literally feel their emotions in my body. But I also have alexithymia, which makes it really hard to identify or explain my own feelings. So I absorb others’ pain and get lost in my own.
  • I have a nonstop internal monologue. My brain is either narrating, imagining, or spiraling 24/7.
  • I have a high-pitched, fast-talking voice and tons of energy. People have called me sunshine. That’s nice. Until I feel like I’m “too much.”
  • I have a strong sense of justice. Which is pretty typical for neurodivergent folks.

And while we’re talking about justice, let me say this loud: Today’s Republican Party has done so much damage to my nervous system. Trump’s cruelty—especially when he mocked a disabled reporter, or bragged about grabbing women by the pussy—was deeply traumatic to me as a rape survivor. That is not just gross. It is illegal. But women still get shamed or disbelieved for calling it what it is: assault.

A colorful painting of a black and white cow with a concerned expression, beneath a dark sky with a yellow lightning bolt striking down.
A colorful painting featuring a cow with a lightning bolt emanating from its head, set against a blue and green background with swirls of dark clouds.

Autism and Mental Health

I’ve been through deep depressions. I’ve battled suicidal ideation. I’ve even attempted. Why? Because masking who I am—pretending to be “normal”—is exhausting. It made me hate myself. I’d apologize constantly for being “too weird.”

I’ve self-medicated with alcohol, weed, and even taken more Adderall than prescribed, just trying to numb out the emotional overwhelm. That’s called self-sabotage, and it’s not unique to me. It’s what happens when people aren’t given the support they need to process hard emotions.

I’ve struggled with disordered eating too—either not eating at all because I forgot or hyperfocused, or bingeing on entire boxes of cookies or mini Snickers. My nutrition tanked. My mental health tanked harder.

A handwritten note expressing feelings of confusion and the struggle to engage socially, with phrases about overwhelming thoughts and the desire for connection.

And Still—I’m Here

I love art and nature. I collect plants like they’re treasure and try to make my space more beautiful wherever I go. I feel joy like it’s electric when I’m allowed to be fully, freely myself.

But just as often, I crash. I burn out. I dissociate. I question everything about myself. That’s what living in a neurotypical world can do to a neurodivergent brain.

The worst is when I feel like I’m not enough and too much at the same time. That combo? That’s a killer.

And yet, here I am. Writing this. Painting. Healing. Unmasking.

Shout out to my neurodivergent therapist Sharla (you’re amazing), my mom for getting me autism workbooks, and all the voices out there helping me understand myself. It’s been work. But it’s working.

One More Thing

Just because I’m different doesn’t mean I’m broken.

Think of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Or Einstein. Or Emily Dickinson. Or any of the brilliant, sensitive, creative minds that shaped this world. Many of them were autistic.

I’m not trying to be one of them. I’m trying to be me.

When people understand me, I light up. I feel it in my nervous system—the calm, the connection, the joy. It’s electric.

So please, make space. Ask questions. Show compassion.

And don’t call me broken.

I’m just different. And honestly? That’s a good thing.

A computer screen displaying the ASPIE Quiz results, indicating a score of 154 out of 200, with a 100% probability of being atypical (autistic/neurodiverse). The screen includes a radar chart depicting various skills related to perception, relationships, and social interactions.
CjYKMlNuYXBjaGF0LzEzLjMzLjAuNTEgKGlQaG9uZTE0LDU7IGlPUyAxOC4zLjI7IGd6aXApIAI=

**If this resonated with you, I’d love for you to share it. Whether you’re neurodivergent yourself, love someone who is, or you’re just here to learn—thank you. Leave a comment, start a conversation, or simply carry this perspective with you into your next interaction. Every small moment of understanding makes a difference.

This post is part of my blog’s Understanding Neurodivergence series—where I write openly about autism, ADHD, masking, unmasking, and everything in between. If you want to read more about what it’s like to live in a neurodivergent brain (the hard, the beautiful, the misunderstood), head to the full section on my blog and stay awhile. There’s so much more to explore.**

A person smiling, holding a flower close to their nose, standing outdoors with sunlight filtering through trees. The image has a caption about getting wet grass on their shoes to pick the flower.

💭 Unmasking: The Struggle of Being Myself

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Unmasking, One Post at a Time

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Specifically about unmasking my autism. And while I’ve had some positive experiences with it, I’ve come to realize that the negative experiences still outweigh the positive ones. And that makes me really sad. It’s hard, honestly, because I don’t know what else to do or who else to be. I can’t be anything but myself, and sometimes it feels like that’s just too much for people to handle.

I know I’ve gotten some positive responses—people have been understanding, kind, and validating—but still, the negativity lingers. And that’s tough. It’s like a heavy weight in my chest. When my mom was sharing her experiences with unmasking, I couldn’t really respond in the way I wanted to. I wasn’t sure how to say it, but I’ve been feeling like my own experience of unmasking has been harder.

A person sitting on a bathroom toilet, holding a small white dog and a bundle of flowers, with a smile on their face. The bathroom features green walls and a vanity with toiletries in the background.

For me, it’s not just about letting go of the mask. It’s about trying to explain the way I move through the world. I feel like I need to explain why I do certain things, like singing loudly to myself or having the song “Jingle Bells” stuck in my head 24/7. Or why I sometimes talk out loud to myself, the animals, or even inanimate objects around me. These are stims. If you don’t know what stimming is, I suggest you look it up. It’s a way of self-regulating, a form of expression. It’s something that helps me feel grounded. But it’s also something that makes me feel like I have to explain myself to others.

A person smiling while posing next to vibrant green leaves and clusters of white flowers in a natural setting.
Mmmmmm smells so good.

Here’s the thing: I can talk to animals or inanimate objects with ease, but when it comes to talking to people? That’s when I freeze. That’s when it gets too weird. It’s like my brain can’t quite make the connection, and then the pressure of social expectations just hits me. So, I just keep it inside. I don’t feel free to express myself the way I want to. And that’s painful—not just mentally, but physically too. Holding in stims isn’t just hard emotionally; it hurts in my body, and it’s depressing. It’s exhausting to try to be something I’m not.

A close-up view of a flowering strawberry plant with a white bloom and green leaves emerging from dark soil in a pot.

I’ve spent so much of my life masking my true self because I thought it would make things easier. But it hasn’t. Not really. And now, as I’m unmasking, I’m faced with all these conflicting feelings. The sadness of wanting to be myself, but also feeling like I have to explain why I am the way I am. It’s like trying to explain the air I breathe or the way my heart beats. It’s me. It’s who I am. It’s autism. It’s ADHD. It’s my brain. It’s my body. Take it or leave it.

A smiling person holding a dandelion flower in a backyard with cloudy skies and a white fence in the background.

But sometimes, when I’m still caught in the moments of doubt, I wonder: what would it be like to just be free? Free from the expectations, the need for explanations, the weight of others’ judgment. It feels so far out of reach some days. But I hold on to the hope that one day, the world will be a little more understanding and a lot less demanding of conformity.

Smiling person in a yellow jacket sitting by a riverbank, with a laptop in front, surrounded by lush greenery and a cloudy sky.

So yeah, I’m unmasking. And it’s a process. A painful, raw, beautiful process. And I’m doing it for me.

A close-up selfie of a person with long hair, wearing a bright yellow jacket and a colorful striped sweater, standing outdoors with a wooden structure in the background under a cloudy sky.

Title: Hyperfocused on Gardening: A Neurodivergent Spin on a Joyful Day of Planting

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A black cat sitting inside a gardening planter on a patio, with additional empty pots nearby.

Today was one of those days where everything just clicked, and I got completely lost in something. I mean, I was hyperfocused—like, buzzing with excitement. My whole body was practically tingling with joy as I worked my way through this gardening project. If you’ve ever felt so into something that your entire body is just lit up, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

A person potting new plants on a wooden deck, with a black cat nearby. The individual is wearing a red floral top and white shorts, holding a gardening tool. A container for planting is visible in the foreground.
Me & Frodo during the potting process (which I’ll have to redo, but that’s OK!)

For a while now, I’ve wanted to grow a garden—not just flowers in pots, but something I could eat. Something I could snack on, something healthy. My first thought was strawberries. I’d love to grow them and just pop them in my mouth right from the garden. But, as it turns out, they were a little too expensive for my budget today (they were $30, which is way out of my price range). I’ll definitely be getting them eventually, but today wasn’t the day for strawberries.

Person taking a selfie in a mirror wearing a white shirt with paint splatters and a visor, sticking out their tongue and showing a playful expression.

As I walked through the garden center, I started thinking about what I could grow within my budget. That’s when I spotted cucumber plants, and it was like a lightbulb went off in my head. Cucumbers! They’re perfect for snacking, and I could totally make pickles someday. And at $4.56, they were a great fit for my budget. So, I grabbed one.

Then I saw it. Lavender. Oh, lavender. It was $5.37, and I had to have it. I debated for a second but knew I couldn’t leave without it. I was about to stop there, but THEN, when the cashier rang me up, I found out both the cucumber and lavender were on sale for $3.33 each. I couldn’t resist—so I ran back and grabbed a cantaloupe plant I had also been eyeing. It was my third choice, but at that price, it was totally meant to be!

A person sitting on a patio with potted plants, a black cat nearby, and a dog lying on the grass in a backyard setting.
HEY! 😀

I was so stoked, I couldn’t wait to get home and start planting. Now, I’m not a pro, but I had enough of an idea of what I was doing. I potted the plants into the containers I had on hand, but here’s the thing—after a little more research, I realized that I’ll definitely need bigger pots. So, that fun repotting session? That’s coming either tonight or tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, though, because I’m excited to give them the space they need to grow.

Overgrown catnip plant and soil in a backyard with a white fence in the background.
A rustic wooden planter box sitting on grass, with a plain background.

And, of course, I also found out that cucumbers and cantaloupe need trellises, which sent me into another hyperfocused spin. I started Googling how to make trellises, and then I was texting my dad about any random pieces of wood he has in his garage (he has a ton, believe me). The idea of building my own trellis has me pretty hyped, and I can’t wait to see how that turns out.

The other part of my day that really lit me up was working with my hands to clear out the overgrown catnip plant in the backyard. I grabbed my cutters, started pulling out weeds, and getting all dirty in the soil was just so satisfying. I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoy using a hoe until today. It kind of felt like swinging a softball bat, but in a really productive way. So, I got a little workout in too (no complaints there). My muscles are definitely feeling it, and I think I’ll be sore tomorrow, but it was totally worth it.

By the end of the day, I had cucumber, cantaloupe, and lavender plants sitting in their new pots (for now). The backyard looks a million times better with the catnip cleared out. And honestly? It was so much fun. I was so into it that I forgot time even existed. This whole gardening thing? It’s turned into one of my “special interests,” and I think it’s a perfect example of how my neurodivergent mind works. When something captures my attention, it grabs hold of me fully. And today, gardening was that thing.

If you’re wondering what “special interests” are, they’re basically things that autistic people get really into. It’s not just a passing fascination, either. Special interests can bring so much joy and motivation. For me, gardening (and my house plants) has become a major part of that. It’s one of those things that makes me feel energized and alive in a way that’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

Anyway, today was a reminder that it’s okay to get lost in something that excites you, even if you don’t have everything figured out. Sometimes, it’s about the joy of doing something right then and there, just because. And hey, if you haven’t tried gardening yet, I highly recommend it. It’s grounding, it’s thrilling, and it’s incredibly satisfying.

Thanks for reading! Drop a comment if you’ve had any hyperfocused moments (or gardening wins). I’d love to hear about it!

🧷 Closet Full of Stories: Styled Like Me

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🪡 The Art of Dressing Myself: Fashion as My First Form of Art

Before the canvases, before the poetry, before the essays—I was already making art.
I just didn’t realize it yet.

It started with an outfit.

Putting together clothes has always been my way of expressing who I am—without needing to explain it. To me, curating the right look is like painting a picture: color, shape, mood, contrast, comfort, boldness, softness. And the canvas is me.

Over the years, so many people—friends, strangers, even my therapist and a woman in HR at a law firm—told me I had a unique, interesting, stylish fashion sense. That I should be a fashion curator, or an influencer. I always shrugged it off. I didn’t think of it as a talent. I just thought I liked what I liked.

But now I realize—that is the talent.
Having a personal sense of beauty. Knowing what makes you feel like you.
Not just following trends, but trusting your eye, your body, your voice.

And so, I’m finally honoring that.

This new section of my blog is for the artists who don’t always call themselves artists. The ones who express themselves through textures, layers, thrifted magic, oversized jackets, statement boots, a favorite pair of pants that feel like home. It’s for anyone who’s ever felt more like themselves just by wearing the right thing. It’s for anyone who’s ever been told they “have a look” and didn’t know how to take it.

It’s for the neurodivergent kids who communicate through aesthetics before words.
It’s for the adults still rediscovering their reflection.

This isn’t about being trendy (although sometimes trend and truth collide).
This is about style. Your style. The kind that makes you feel real, alive, and a little bit braver.

Yes, I still wear outfits that flop sometimes. And honestly? I kind of love that too.

Welcome to my fashion fling. Let’s dress like we mean it.

💔 Laughing Until It Hurts: Why Being One of the Guys Isn’t What It Seems

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This one’s been sitting heavy on my chest for a while. For most of my life, I’ve found myself in rooms full of guys—joking with them, laughing with them, feeling like I belonged. But lately, I’ve started noticing the cracks in that comfort. This essay is about what it’s like being the only girl in the group, how easy that role can feel… until it doesn’t. It’s about misogyny hiding under the surface, the cost of calling it out, and the strange grief that comes with realizing not every friendship was what you thought it was. If you’ve ever been “the cool girl,” I hope this resonates.

I’ve been the only girl in a group of guys more times than I can count.

It’s not always intentional. It just… happens. It’s like wherever I go, I gravitate toward guys. And for most of my life, especially as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found that easier in a lot of ways. Simpler, sometimes. Less socially exhausting. More straightforward. There’s a kind of casualness in guy groups that can feel like a relief—especially when you’ve spent your life being hyper-aware of every social cue, every shift in tone, every invisible expectation in a room.

That doesn’t mean I don’t love my girlfriends. I do. Fiercely. The bonds I share with the women in my life are sacred—layered with honesty, softness, truth-telling, deep care. They hold space for things that guys often… don’t. Or can’t. Or won’t.

But still, I keep finding myself surrounded by guys. And until recently, I didn’t question that much.

Now, I do.

Because the ease I used to feel? It’s started to morph into something heavier. I’ve started to notice what I didn’t before—because I didn’t have the language or maybe the clarity to name it. I didn’t notice how much I was tolerating. How much I was excusing. How much I was shrinking myself to keep the peace or stay “cool” or not make things awkward.

When you’re the only girl, and the guys feel safe enough to really talk around you, you start to hear it all. The jokes. The comments. The assumptions. The way they talk about women when they think no one is holding them accountable. And sometimes it’s subtle—like a breeze that leaves a bruise you don’t notice until later. Other times it’s just blatant. Disrespectful. Gross. Dehumanizing.

But you laugh.
Or you don’t say anything.
Or you say it softly, with a little “haha” at the end so it doesn’t feel like you’re that girl—you know, the buzzkill feminist.

And here’s the thing: lately, I have been that girl. I’ve started calling them out. Naming it. Saying, “Hey, that’s not okay,” or “You don’t get to talk about women like that,” or “This isn’t funny.” And the backlash? It’s real. The pushback is intense. I get told to stop. They flat out deny it. Or laugh louder. Or say I’m ruining the vibe. They hate you for breaking the illusion. They hate you for not playing along.

And here’s the real gut punch: even when they respect you, you’re not exempt from the way they treat women. Because that’s the system. That’s patriarchy. You might be the “cool girl” to them, the one who’s “not like other girls,” but you’re still a girl. And eventually, you’ll feel it.

It also wasn’t until just this past year—after several people finally said it out loud to me, and I finally let myself believe it—that I realized something else: most of these guys wouldn’t have even tried to be friends with me if they didn’t find me attractive. And that truth? That wrecked me. Because it’s like, wait—so we’re not even really friends? You’re just sticking around because I’m pretty enough to look at?

It makes me question everything.

It makes me question every friendship I thought was real.
It makes me scared to just be myself—bubbly, kind, open, warm—around new guys, because what if they’re not seeing me, they’re just seeing someone they want something from?
What if they’re not even listening, they’re just waiting for a moment to turn friendship into something else?

That fear lives in me now. And I hate it. Because that warmth and friendliness? That’s just who I am. I like people. I love making new friends. I believe in being real and showing up fully. But now it feels dangerous.

I think I used to believe that if I could just be one of them—blend in, adapt, understand their world—I’d be safer. Or maybe even more powerful. I didn’t realize that sometimes, being the only girl in the group just means being the only one absorbing the full emotional weight of everything said and unsaid.

I’m tired of laughing things off. Of translating misogyny into banter. Of pretending it doesn’t hurt when they talk about women like objects and then look at me like I should be grateful they “respect me.”

There’s a toxicity that builds up—not always loud, not always cruel, but heavy. Quiet. Constant. And I’ve finally started to feel it in my bones.

I don’t have all the answers. I’m not saying I’m done having guy friends. But I’m also not going to keep pretending that being surrounded by men doesn’t come with its own kind of cost. I want my friendships to be honest. Accountable. Kind. And that includes calling shit out, not just keeping the peace.Because I deserve to be seen.
Not just accepted.
Not just “tolerated because I’m hot.”
Seen. For real.

friendship, gender dynamics, feminism, emotional labor, patriarchy, neurodivergence, authenticity

The Holy Spirit Wore White Pants

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A sacred little snapshot of sunshine, cats, and casual prayer

The Holy Spirit Wore White Pants

a poem about joy, memory, and the holiness of everyday moments

Singing Sun

Singing sun skipping—
seriously, happily—while I sing
along with birds who chirp my song.
Not a single cloud in the sky.

Wearing white,
multi-pocketed pants,
striking random yoga poses
when it feels good to—
hopefully, no grass stains!

Kids laugh, play, live, love.
Cats chase bugs and pee outside.
My number one sidekick,
black kitty-cat Frodo,
has never smiled so wide.

Baby Sprinter lies
beside me
on this pink and gold sparkly blanket.
He helps me read and write
every wild thing I wonder.

The Pacers play soon.
It’s Friday.
66°, 7:38 PM—
so savory, so soft…
mind, hold this memory
forever and ever—
Amen.

In the name of the mother’s (day),
daughters,
and the holy spirit—
amen, amen, amen.

A woman smiles at the camera with a black cat beside her, sitting on a blanket in a grassy area during sunny weather.
A black cat walking on green grass in a backyard, with a blurred laptop in the foreground and a white fence in the background.

💬 Closing Note:

Some days don’t ask to be remembered—they demand it. This was one of those. Thanks for reading.

From Storytelling to Stereotypes: Why Modern Country Music Feels Like a Crime Against the Art of Music

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No offense (really), but today’s country music? It’s painful.

Not just “not my taste” kind of painful — I’m talking ear-splitting, soul-numbing, makes-me-want-to-crawl-out-of-my-skin kind of painful. It doesn’t just put me in a bad mood. It makes me feel dumber, sadder, overstimulated and undernourished all at once. As someone who deeply loves music — who feels music in my bones when it’s good — the current state of country feels like a betrayal. A betrayal to storytelling. To artistry. To intelligence. To feeling anything real.

Let me be clear: this isn’t about people who genuinely enjoy the genre. I don’t want to yuck anyone’s yum. But it is about calling out the ways the genre has devolved into a cartoon version of itself — one truck, one six-pack, one painfully auto-tuned Southern accent at a time.

The Rise of Bro-Country and the Fall of Substance

You want to know when things started going off the rails? Sometime in the early 2000s, country music got hijacked by what’s now lovingly (read: sarcastically) referred to as “bro-country.” Suddenly, country songs weren’t about complex characters, working-class struggles, heartache, or even the land itself. They were about tailgates, Daisy Dukes, solo cups, and bland male vocalists who all sounded like they were imitating each other doing bad karaoke at a frat party.

“Bro-country” isn’t just boring — it’s formulaic, repetitive, and soulless. It’s like the musical equivalent of microwaving the same frozen dinner every night and calling yourself a chef. These songs often feel like they were written by algorithm: insert truck, beer, girl, river, boots, repeat. And hey — that might sell. But it sure as hell doesn’t move me.

Where Did the Storytelling Go?

Country music used to be poetry.
Johnny Cash told you who he was in a single line.
Dolly Parton could bring you to tears with a single verse.
Loretta Lynn wrote the feminist anthems before the world even had language for it.

These weren’t just songs — they were stories. And now? We get rhyming slogans written by ten dudes in a Nashville boardroom. It’s not even bad in an interesting way. It’s lazy. It’s safe. It’s watered down.

And I can’t help but feel that when music doesn’t ask you to think — when it’s designed to bypass your brain and feed you clichés — that’s not just bad songwriting. That’s disrespectful. To the craft. To the audience. To the entire concept of music as emotional language.

A Sound That’s All the Same

I swear if I hear one more song with that exact same snare drum loop and fake twangy vocal fry, I might actually implode.

Country music today doesn’t just lack lyrical depth — it sounds monotonous. Gone are the banjos, the fiddles, the steel guitars that once made country sound like its own world. Instead, the genre’s been dipped in the overproduced sheen of pop radio. Everything polished, nothing raw.

It’s like musical gentrification: all the rough edges that made it interesting have been sanded down to sell to a broader audience that might not actually care about country — they just want a good beat and something vaguely Southern-sounding to play on a boat.

The Sad Songs Aren’t Even Good at Being Sad

Now let’s talk about the “emotional” side of modern country — the slow, “heartfelt” ballads that are supposed to tug at your soul. Spoiler: they don’t. Not only are the lyrics often just as shallow and predictable as the party songs, but the music behind them feels emotionally manipulative without any real artistry.

You know the ones: soft acoustic strumming, some forced gravel in the voice, vague lines about heartbreak, and maybe a reference to heaven or mama thrown in for good measure.

I don’t even get sad listening to them — I just feel rage. Because it’s like watching someone try to fake cry in a movie and doing it badly. These songs try so hard to be “deep,” but they’re phoned in and formulaic, which somehow makes them even more infuriating than the party tracks. It’s not cathartic. It’s just draining.

And yet, I’ve noticed something: they do affect people. Not in a healing way, but in a subtle, erosive way. You put on one of these slow country songs and suddenly the energy in the room shifts — everyone slumps a little. It’s like emotional fog.

Even if the lyrics aren’t strong, the somber tone has this nervous system-dulling effect that can quietly drag people down. It’s low-vibration, low-creativity sadness — not the kind that helps you cry it out and move forward, but the kind that just leaves you feeling heavy, blank, stuck. And when people listen to this kind of music constantly? I honestly think it wears on them. It’s like a background drone of mediocrity and melancholy that starts shaping their mood, their energy, even their worldview. That’s not just bad music. That’s dangerous.

The Gatekeeping of Mediocrity

Part of what makes this all even more frustrating is who gets pushed to the top. The country charts are still overwhelmingly white, overwhelmingly male, and overwhelmingly bland. Women like Mickey Guyton or Brittney Spencer, or queer artists like Orville Peck, get ignored or sidelined while mediocre bros with three first names and zero lyrical imagination climb to number one.

Why? Because the mainstream machine doesn’t want country music that challenges. It wants songs that reassure listeners their small-town worldview is the only one worth singing about. And that’s not just boring — it’s dangerous. It breeds cultural isolation and rewards mediocrity, while actively pushing away innovation.

There’s Hope — But You Have to Dig for It

Here’s the thing: I know there’s still good country music out there. I’ve heard it. Sometimes it’s buried deep in the indie scene. Sometimes it comes from artists reclaiming the genre — like Beyoncé just did with Cowboy Carter, unapologetically Black and country as hell. Sometimes it sneaks through in the cracks, in a heartbreak song that slipped past the system.

But that’s not what gets played at the gas station, or blasted from trucks at red lights, or shoved down your throat at every public event. No, what we get is the same four songs recycled endlessly until your brain feels like wallpaper paste.

In Conclusion (and with Love): Do Better, Country Music

I don’t hate country music.
I hate what it’s become.

I want to be moved. I want to be challenged. I want songs that feel like real people wrote them — not marketing teams. Music should be an art form — not background noise made for beer commercials.

So if you love country, I’m happy for you — truly. But if you, like me, hear it and want to scream into the nearest bale of hay, just know: you’re not alone. And maybe, just maybe, if we get loud enough, we can demand better music from a genre that used to mean something.