Life Stuff

🎨 He Does the Law, I Do the Art

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On Love, Contrast, and Parallel Lives That Still Fit

A couple embracing on a sunlit deck by the water, surrounded by greenery and boats, capturing a moment of affection.

My boyfriend drafts contracts. I paint frogs in cowboy hats.
He files motions. I press flowers in old poetry books.
He thinks in straight lines; I think in messy constellations that loop back and overlap and then forget where they started.

And somehow, it works. Like, really works.

We live together, and yet we live very different lives inside the same house. He’s on the phone with clients while I’m making a mess with dirt all over the living room floor or porch—potting and repotting houseplants like it’s my job. He types in silence, focused and steady, while I blend torn-up bits of old mail and grocery lists in the blender to make homemade paper that I may or may not ever use. He has a degree in law. I have a degree in being a little feral and very emotional.

We’re not opposites. Just…different types of intense.

A close-up of a person holding a spatula covered in soil, next to a potted plant, with a dark pot and text overlay about using the spatula for repotting plants and art.

I Used to Think Love Had to Be Same-Same

I used to think relationships were supposed to be built on shared interests, matching vibes, synchronized energies. I thought I’d end up with someone just like me—artsy, talkative, neurodivergent, maybe a little chaotic in a charming way.

But what I’ve learned is that being deeply different doesn’t mean being incompatible. It means learning each other’s rhythms. It means saying “I don’t totally get it, but I love that you do.” It means making space for the other person’s world—even when it doesn’t mirror your own.

A sketch of a couple is placed on a stack of books, with a laptop displaying their black and white selfie in the background. Art supplies are scattered around, including colored pencils and an eraser.

What I’ve Learned From Him

He’s steady. Focused. Kind. Dry-humored in a way that makes me snort-laugh when I least expect it. He can spend hours reading legal documents and still have brainpower left to argue about football or correct punctuation.

Being around him has reminded me what it’s like to work in a space where the rules are actually followed. The law may be rigid, but it’s oddly comforting in its structure—and I can see why he likes it. It has answers. It has procedures. It makes sense, most of the time.

And he works hard. He really, really works hard. That kind of discipline is something I admire, even if I don’t always understand it.

A man in business attire sitting on a leather couch, looking at his phone, with potted plants hanging above him and a colorful cushion beside him.

What He’s Learned From Me (I Think)

I think I’ve taught him that not everything has to have a system. That you can live life a little sideways and still have a point. That not everything needs to be optimized or outlined or scheduled to have value.

He doesn’t always understand why I need to paint at 11:47 p.m. or why I keep a box of dried flower petals like it’s treasure. But he doesn’t try to talk me out of it either. He just lets it exist. Sometimes he looks confused, but mostly he just lets it be mine.

We don’t always explain ourselves. And that’s become part of the love, too.

A person sitting on the floor surrounded by painting supplies and artwork, smiling while wearing a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans.

Why It Works

We don’t need to “get” every part of each other’s worlds. We just need to respect them. Support them. Let them exist without trying to change them.

He doesn’t need to love oil pastels or matcha lattes. I don’t need to love tort law. But we love each other. And we love the space we’ve built where both can exist side by side.

He does the law. I do the art.
And when we meet in the middle—in the quiet moments, in the shared jokes, in the brush of a hand or a late-night snack run—it’s more than enough.

A couple smiling together, with the man wearing a light shirt that says 'LEDGER LAW' and the woman playfully resting her hand on his shoulder.

On the Clock Again (But Only When I’m Actually Getting Paid)

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I started working again for the first time since October—this time in a chill, part-time job. And wow, it really puts into perspective just how wrong it is that teachers are expected to work endless unpaid hours.

After eight months of not working, I started a part-time job as a receptionist/assistant at my boyfriend’s office. It’s a gentle return to work—low stress, nice environment, no emotional baggage or kids climbing the walls. Honestly, it’s been a pretty smooth transition considering how brutal burnout had me down bad last fall.

But still… I count the minutes until lunch. (One full hour. Non-negotiable. I made that very clear during my “interview” aka casual couch conversation with my boyfriend.) And I definitely count the minutes until the end of the workday too.

Even though I like working here, I’ve realized how fiercely I now guard my time. Like when my boyfriend tries to bring up work stuff at home and I’m immediately like:

“Circle back when I’m on the clock tomorrow. I’m not salaried. I’m not doing unpaid overtime.”

It’s not personal. It’s about boundaries.

And it’s also about reflection—because when I was a teacher, I didn’t even have a clock to punch.

The Job That Followed Me Home (and Into My Dreams, and My Body, and My Burnout)

As a teacher, I spent thousands of hours working outside my contract. Nights. Weekends. Breaks. Summers. All unpaid. All expected. All “just part of the job.”

I stayed up all night working on lesson plans, behavior systems, bulletin boards, PD assignments, data reports, emails, and IEPs. I’d grocery shop while mentally mapping out small group rotations. I’d scroll Pinterest for anchor chart ideas during dinner. I’d dream in read-aloud voices.

Even thinking about it now makes my stomach turn a little. Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared so much and the system took advantage of it. Because no one talks about how teaching seeps into every corner of your life until there’s nothing left but the job and a shell of yourself holding a stack of ungraded spelling tests.

Now That I’m Not a Teacher, I See It Even Clearer

Working this job—calm, structured, low-stakes—makes me realize just how outrageous the teaching workload really was. The fact that unpaid labor wasn’t just normalized but necessary to be “effective”? That’s exploitation.

And I didn’t just pay with my time. I paid with my health.

Burnout took a wrecking ball to my nervous system. Years later, I’m still rebuilding. Still trying to sleep through the night. Still trying to not flinch when I hear a printer jam.

I Work Now. But Only When I’m Being Paid.

So yeah, I work now. I’m easing back in. I’m contributing. But the second I clock out? I’m done. I’m not discussing spreadsheets over spaghetti. I’m not responding to texts at 8 PM. I’m not doing anything work-related unless I’m actively being paid.

Because I’ve been there.
Because I’ve learned the hard way.
Because my time—and my healing—is worth more than that.

When Your Body Feels Everything: Autism, ADHD, and the Pain No One Sees

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This post was hard to write because it’s hard to explain—but I need to try.

A person walking on a sidewalk, wearing a gray sweatshirt, gray shorts, and sneakers, with a smile on their face. In the background, there are trees, a power line, and a residential area.

People often ask if I’m okay.

Usually, the answer is no—but not in the way they think. I’m not sick, not injured, not recovering from surgery or fighting off a cold. My body just… hurts. All the time. Not in a dramatic or even easily explainable way. Just in this persistent, buzzing, exhausting way that lives in my shoulders, my jaw, my stomach, my spine.

And no, it’s not “just anxiety.”
(Though sure, anxiety shows up too. It’s got VIP access at this point.)

What I’m trying to say is: I’m autistic. I have ADHD. And I carry pain—literal, physical pain—in my body almost every single day. It builds up in places I can’t always stretch out or rest away. I hold tension in my neck like I’m bracing for a crash that never happens. I clench my jaw until it aches. My back is a battlefield. And don’t even get me started on my digestive system.

But here’s the thing:
I didn’t get into a car accident. I didn’t pull something.
I didn’t do anything to deserve this pain.
I just am—sensitive.

Too Much, All the Time

Autistic and ADHD bodies often feel like they’re tuned to a different frequency. The world that others experience as background noise can feel like a full-blown rock concert in my nervous system.

Loud sounds? Tension.
Bright lights? Tension.
An unexpected comment, a small conflict, a passive-aggressive email? Yep, tension.

Even when something good happens—something exciting or beautiful—my body reacts. Because emotion, for me, is physical. Joy floods my chest. Grief sinks into my hips. Shame slithers into my stomach. I don’t just think or feel emotions—I store them. I wear them.

And that would be fine if my body were some kind of emotional Tupperware container. But it’s not. It leaks. It overflows. It breaks down.

My 20s Were a Blur of Pain

Through most of my 20s, I had terrible, unexplained pain—especially in my neck, shoulders, and traps. No injury, no diagnosis. Just a kind of constant body-scream no one else could hear.

Every time I brought it up to a doctor, they seemed confused. My nurse practitioner once offered me muscle relaxers, but I declined. I was already managing enough meds—ADHD, depression, anxiety—and didn’t want to add another layer.

I tried getting massages. They felt great in the moment, but the pain always came back. Same with chiropractors. I saw a couple, even committed to a full treatment plan. Each time, they’d say something like, “Have you been in a car accident recently?”
Nope. Never.

They couldn’t understand how my neck could carry that much stored trauma unless something had physically happened to me. But something had happened—just not in the way they expected. I’ve been living in a body that reacts to the world like it’s too much, too fast, too loud. Because for me, it is.

Yoga, stretching, and meditation help. They really do. But the relief is temporary, because the world doesn’t pause. The moment I reenter it—back into the bright lights, clashing sounds, sudden emotions, and social expectations—the pain starts crawling back in.

My ex-husband used to give me back massages, trying to help. He’d say it felt like bubble wrap back there—except not the kind you can pop. Just these crunchy, stuck little knots of tension. That’s what I carried. Still do.

Hypersensitivity Isn’t a Metaphor—It’s Neurological

There’s research out there that explains this better than I can. Studies show that autistic individuals often have increased sensitivity to pain, altered pain thresholds, and heightened interoception—meaning we feel internal sensations (like heartbeat, muscle tension, or digestive discomfort) more intensely.¹ ADHD adds its own chaos: constant scanning, restlessness, hyperawareness, and the never-ending effort to regulate.

And then there’s emotional pain, which doesn’t stay in my mind—it lives in my body. Especially when I’ve masked all day, ignored my own needs, or absorbed the feelings of everyone around me like a walking sponge.

When It’s Invisible, It’s Dismissed

This is what people don’t see when they ask if I’m okay.
They don’t see the full-body effort it takes to not fidget or cry or shut down in public. They don’t see the internal screaming when a light flickers or someone interrupts me four times in a row. They don’t see the pain that comes from trying to seem “normal.”

Because it’s not just the sensory overload—it’s the masking. It’s the people-pleasing. It’s the emotional labor of trying to be less “too much.”

I’m not saying all autistic or ADHD people experience pain like this—but I am saying many of us do. And I’m one of them.

So If You’re Reading This…

Maybe you’re one of those people who never understood why I cancel plans last-minute. Or why I seem so tired all the time. Or why I talk like I’m on fire, but move like I’m underwater. Maybe you’ve never realized how much pain a body can hold when the world keeps pushing too hard, too fast, too loud.

Or maybe you do know what I mean. Maybe your body hurts too, for reasons no one else sees or believes.

To you, I say: you’re not imagining it.
And you’re not alone.

We are bodies that feel too much in a world that demands we feel nothing. But our pain is real. And it matters.

A graphic summarizing the relationship between neurodivergence and chronic pain, highlighting how autistic individuals experience altered pain sensitivity and ADHD can increase physical tension and restlessness.

🧠 Research & Footnotes

  1. Autistic People and Pain Perception
    • Research shows altered pain thresholds and heightened pain responses in autistic individuals. Some report being more sensitive to certain types of pain, while others may under-report it due to interoception difficulties or alexithymia.
    • Source: Failla, M. D., et al. (2020). “Pain Perception in Autism Spectrum Disorder: A Review.” Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders.
  2. ADHD and Somatic Complaints
    • Individuals with ADHD are more likely to report chronic pain, headaches, and somatic symptoms, likely tied to nervous system dysregulation.
    • Source: Mikita, N., et al. (2015). “Somatic symptoms and their association with anxiety and depression in children and adolescents with ADHD.” European Child & Adolescent Psychiatry.
  3. Interoception and Emotional Pain
    • Neurodivergent individuals often experience interoception differently, which can lead to heightened awareness of internal pain and discomfort, and difficulty identifying or verbalizing these sensations.
    • Source: Quattrocki, E., & Friston, K. (2014). “Autism, oxytocin and interoception.” Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews.

Baseball Is the Sexiest Sport, and I’ll Die on This Hill

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An Essay by a Very Enthusiastic Heterosexual Woman

Let me start by saying I’m not here to argue. I’m here to declare. Baseball is the sexiest sport on Earth — especially to watch men play — and if you disagree, you’re wrong (but welcome to come sit by me so we can discuss in great detail over a hot dog and peanuts).

As a heterosexual woman who’s spent a fair amount of time admiring athletes in various uniforms, I can say with full confidence: nothing compares to baseball. I’m not talking about the rules or the stats — though if you’re into that, great — I’m talking about the vibe. The aesthetic. The simmer. Baseball is a slow burn. A stare across the bar. A deep exhale before a kiss. It’s forearms and eye contact and a uniform that does exactly what it needs to do.

Exhibit A: The Pants

Let’s just get this out of the way. Baseball pants are objectively perfect. Tight without being desperate. Fitted, but functional. Somehow both modest and revealing — they leave just enough to the imagination while still making their case loud and clear. You know what I mean. Baseball pants are poetry.

Exhibit B: The Rituals

Baseball is all about ritual. The stretches. The swings. The way they spit sunflower seeds with complete concentration. There’s something hypnotic about the rhythm of it all. The slow pace gives you time to really notice things. The way they adjust their gloves. The way they tap the bat. The way they nod to each other like, yeah, I got this. It’s a ballet of quiet confidence, and it’s magnetic.

Exhibit C: The Intensity

Baseball players have this brooding, smoldering energy. Not loud like football. Not flashy like basketball. It’s contained fire. That moment when a pitcher stares down a batter — the whole stadium holding its breath — that’s tension. That’s cinematic. That’s erotic. And don’t even get me started on the catcher crouching behind home plate like some kind of tactical prince.

Exhibit D: The Dugout

There’s nothing like watching men cheer each other on while covered in dirt and pine tar. The dugout is the sports version of a locker room, but it’s public. You get to see the inside jokes, the helmet hair, the slow-mo high-fives. The energy is intimate, primal, and weirdly tender. These are men who are very in touch with their bodies and their bro-love, and I, for one, am here for it.

Exhibit E: The Timeless Swagger

Baseball players carry themselves like they know they’re hot but they’re not trying too hard. They don’t need to. The game is slow. Strategic. There’s swagger in the walk-up to the plate. In the way they toss their bat like it’s an extension of their body. In the way they lean against the dugout railing like a Calvin Klein model who just hit a double.

I imagine this energy might also appeal to gay men — there’s something almost theatrical about baseball. The drama. The costumes. The campy confidence. But I’ll let the gay men speak for themselves. I’m just a woman watching the game with her eyes wide open and her priorities in place.

So the next time someone tells you baseball is boring, you tell them this:
You’re just not watching it right.

Author’s Note:
Listen, I know this essay is a little ridiculous. But it’s also not. Because I meant every word. Sometimes we overthink everything, and I just wanted to write something that made me laugh, made me feel something, and maybe made you feel something too (hopefully something baseball-related, but no judgment).

This was written with love, humor, and a genuine appreciation for the art of baseball — and yes, I do believe it’s an art. If you’re a fellow baseball admirer (or skeptic), I’d love to hear your thoughts. Let’s talk players, pants, or post-game snacks. I’m all ears — as long as they’re not covered by a batting helmet.

Not Gone, Just Spinning Plates

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It’s been a little quiet on the blog lately, and I wanted to check in—not because I feel like I have to, but because writing still feels like home, even when life pulls me in twelve directions at once.

The past week has been… a whirlwind. I just got back from vacation (which was lovely), and basically the second I got home, real life looked at me and said, “Welcome back, hope you’re ready to sprint.” Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.

First came the Indy 500—a sacred tradition in my family and honestly one of the most emotionally charged, beautiful, overstimulating events I’ve ever been to. Between the roar of the engines, the crowds, the beer, the goosebumps during TAPS, and maybe a little weed, I’ve needed a few days to mentally and physically recover. (Sensory overload is real, y’all.)

The night before the race? Oh, just me staying up until 2 a.m. helping my boyfriend assemble what can only be described as The World’s Most Evil DIY Desk. Like, this desk might be haunted. It came with 200 pieces and emotional damage. But we did it. Kind of. I think.

Also, I still haven’t unpacked from vacation. At this point, I’m just pulling clean-ish things from it like it’s a makeshift dresser with commitment issues.

Speaking of sorority things—I’ve got some catching up to do. While I was away, I tried to unplug a bit, which means now I’m re-plugging with a vengeance and going through AAC emails like I’m Indiana Jones dodging boulders.

Oh—and I start a part-time job tomorrow. Just something low-key to help out at my boyfriend’s law office. It feels aligned, supportive, and chill… which is the exact opposite of how my nervous system is reacting, but we’re breathing through it.

Also, the Pacers are in the playoffs, which means there’s been a lot of yelling at the TV, celebratory pacing, and emotional investment in players I didn’t know the names of three months ago. Worth it.

All of this is just to say: I’ve been busy. Not in the hustle-culture, rise-and-grind kind of way—but in the messy, human, “how do I do all of this and still be myself?” kind of way.

And while I haven’t had much time to paint, read, or write… I’ve been living. Which counts for something. Maybe even everything.

So if you’ve been feeling behind or out of sorts or like your creative self has been hiding under a pile of responsibilities—I see you. I am you.

New posts are coming soon. I just needed a second to catch my breath—and maybe find a clean pair of socks.

A smiling couple takes a selfie, with the man on the left wearing a light-colored shirt with 'Ledger Law' printed on it, and the woman on the right showing a joyful expression, seated close together in a warm-toned room.
Smiling through building the desk together! #TeamWork

🛠️ Who Needs Peace and Quiet When You Can Have a Home Reno Meltdown?Coffee is Sacred, Dust is Inevitable, and My Dad Just Wanted to Retire in Peace

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Let’s talk about home renovations.
Or as I like to call them: emotional rollercoasters with a hammer.

Back when I lived in Pensacola, I had this adorable old house—like 1950s adorable. The kind of house with charm, potential, and just enough issues to be cute until you actually try to live in it in the 2020s. That house needed real updates, but let’s be honest—I was never rich enough and never had my shit together enough to tackle a full-on renovation.

Because renovating? Oh, it’s not for the weak.
It takes more money than you budgeted, more time than you planned, and more patience than the average human is capable of. And worst of all? It messes with your routine. Your peace. Your sacred coffee rituals.

One minute you’re sipping your morning brew in your favorite mug, and the next minute someone’s knocked out a wall and turned your kitchen into a construction site. Coffee maker? Missing. Countertop? Gone. Emotional stability? Hanging by a thread.

My boyfriend has lived through it. He was young enough that it still felt exciting—like a rite of passage with drywall dust. But even now, when he tells stories, I can feel the lingering trauma.

Plumbing disasters. Paint disasters. Budget disasters.
Basically: all the disasters.

Now? It’s my parents’ turn.
They’ve lived in the same house for over 20 years. It’s the house that raised five kids (and later, a handful of granddogs, grandcats, and some extremely loved flowers). It’s been solid. Predictable. Familiar.

And now it looks like it got hit by a tornado made of contractors.

My dad, who just retired from the post office after what might have been 37 or 137 years of hard work, was supposed to be living the quiet life. Watching his favorite shows. Watering the lawn. Napping in his chair. Instead? He’s navigating a maze of ladders, extension cords, and paint buckets like a contestant on Survivor: Suburban Edition.

Meanwhile, my mom is holding it down like a champ, trying to stay calm while everything she’s used to is being moved, ripped out, or “updated.” Which—yes—is exciting in theory. But when it’s your house? It’s chaos.

And I say all of this with love. I just got back from vacation, where my parents watched Sprinter (our tiny dog), the cats, and remembered to water the plants like the elite grandparents they are. But when I stopped by today to pick up the dog, I saw the war zone for myself.

Their house is mid open-heart surgery.
And no one is not stressed.

So here’s to everyone currently in the thick of a renovation:

– To the people whose coffee station has been tragically disassembled
– To the dads just trying to enjoy retirement in peace
– To the moms managing chaos like it’s just another Tuesday
– And to the pets wondering why the couch smells like sawdust now

One day, this will all be worth it.
You’ll have new floors. Maybe a dream kitchen. A fresh paint color you won’t regret (hopefully).

But until then?
May your outlets be grounded, your contractors show up on time, and your coffee setup remain sacred.

No Boots, Just Bars

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Truth in the Beat, Silence in the South
Unmasking, One Post at a Time

A person smiling and leaning over a balcony at night, with palm trees and a road visible below.
Hanging out the window during HANG OUT weekend

Let me start by saying this: I’m not here to shame people for what they enjoy. If you love country music, that’s cool. I’m not taking that away from you. But I am going to talk about why I don’t—and why hip hop and rap music have earned a permanent, sacred place in my heart.

Because for me, it’s not just about sound. It’s about story.
It’s about substance.
It’s about soul.

Rap and hip hop—at their best—are poetry in motion. They’re grit and survival and resistance wrapped in rhythm. They’re vulnerability and swagger and genius all rolled into one. There’s something electrifying about how an emcee can weave pain, power, humor, and truth into a single verse and still make you dance through it. The best hip hop artists don’t just perform—they testify. And I respect the hell out of that.

I didn’t grow up in a world that gave me hip hop. I had to find it. And when I did, it cracked something open in me. It gave voice to anger I didn’t know how to name. It let me feel things I was always taught to swallow. It made me curious. Made me bold. Made me think.

I know I come to this music as an outsider in some ways—as a white girl raised far from the culture and history that birthed it. But maybe that’s part of why I appreciate it so deeply. Because I know it was never made for me, and yet it still moves me, teaches me, and invites me in when I’m willing to listen.

When I watch a rap show—like I did this weekend with Wiz Khalifa, 2 Chainz, and Three 6 Mafia—I feel like I’m witnessing work. Real work. Artists who show up and give everything. Not just lyrics and beats but presence. Intention. Energy that fills the air and makes you feel alive. And that matters. That matters so much.

Now country music…
Sigh.

Country, to me, has always felt like the opposite. And yes—I’m generalizing. I know there are talented country artists out there with something real to say. But the overwhelming vibe of country music today? It’s sanitized. It’s cliché. It’s beer trucks, flag-waving, backroads, and girls in cutoff jeans. It’s often willfully ignorant of anything outside its comfort zone—and honestly, that’s what I find so off-putting.

Where hip hop confronts the world, country music too often retreats from it.
Where hip hop says “this is what I’ve lived through,” country says “let’s pretend none of that exists.”

And that doesn’t work for me.
Because I’ve seen too much.
I’ve felt too much.
I don’t want escapism that erases reality—I want music that wrestles with it.

Also, let’s be real: country music has long had a race problem. It’s a genre that has profited off the aesthetics of southern Black culture while erasing Black artists from its history. And don’t get me started on bro-country. (Actually, I already did get started in this post about Morgan Wallen, so feel free to catch up.)

And yet somehow, hip hop—a genre that’s constantly criticized, policed, and misunderstood—continues to evolve, continues to challenge, continues to show up for its people.

That’s why I love it. That’s why I respect it.
That’s why it moves me in ways no other genre does.

So yeah, you can keep your country radio. I’ll be over here, blasting Kendrick, Megan, Missy, J. Cole, Biggie, Nicki, and whoever else is telling the truth loud enough to wake the dead.

Back Down South: Sand, Segregation, and the Sounds That Stay With You

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Selfie of a woman in a bathroom mirror, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a tan tank top, and striped shorts, accessorized with a small red bag and a white scarf around her neck.

Unmasking, One Post at a Time

This weekend, I found myself back down in the Deep South—Pensacola, Florida to Gulf Shores, Alabama. Back in my old stomping grounds. The air was thick with salt and humidity, the kind that settles in your lungs and reminds you where you are. It was Hangout Weekend—aka the Sand in My Boots Festival—thanks to Morgan Wallen, who basically made Gulf Shores his little yeehaw kingdom for the week.

Now, I’m not sure if I’ve said this before (I’m sure I have said this before), but I hate Morgan Wallen. Hate might even be too soft. It’s a full-body, sensory-based rejection. Like opening a trash can that someone left raw shrimp in. Like finding a crusty plate someone abandoned in the sink days ago. He’s that kind of bad. My nervous system physically reacts. It’s just not safe for me to be exposed.

Of course, my boyfriend loves him. Go figure. White boy who loves bro country. (Not to be bitchy. Okay, maybe a little bitchy. But also, honest.) I do respect his right to like what he likes… in theory. It’s just hard to respect things that aren’t exactly deserving of respect. I’m working on it.

Despite the unfortunate headliner (Morgan Wallen himself), I did not go to that show. My boyfriend and his friend went—he’s a fan, and that’s his thing. I dipped out, respectfully and with grace (and with permission—not that I needed it, but I still like to be considerate). I knew I wouldn’t have a good time, and honestly, I’m glad I trusted my gut on that one. It just wasn’t for me—and that’s okay. We like different things sometimes. That’s part of life and relationships.

BUT, we did get to see something really incredible: Wiz Khalifa, 2 Chainz, and Three 6 Mafia. And let me just say—they delivered. I mean delivered. They didn’t coast, they didn’t half-ass it, they gave full energy, presence, and artistry in their sets. Honestly? I was proud of them. Not because I expected anything less, but because they exceeded everything. They made me feel joy. And gratitude. And awe.

And also, something else.

During every single one of those shows—surrounded by lights and beats and sweat—I kept looking around. And I couldn’t help but notice:
There were no Black people around me.
Not in the crowd.
Not enjoying the show.
Not vibing alongside me.

Except—of course—for the staff. The people scanning wristbands, wearing “Event Crew” t-shirts, working security. There were Black people working the festival. But not celebrating. Not dancing. Not being part of the crowd.

The audience? White. Nearly entirely.
The performers? Black. Legendary.
The power dynamic? Glaring.

And it hit me—again, because this is not new—that this is segregation. Not by law, but by design. By cost. By culture. By centuries of gatekeeping and coded messaging about who belongs where. This isn’t just a southern thing. But it’s especially sharp down here.

If I were Black, I wouldn’t want to go to this festival either. It’s expensive. It’s overwhelmingly country-coded. It probably doesn’t feel safe or welcoming. That’s not paranoia. That’s lived experience.

But damn, it’s wild to see some of the most talented Black artists pour their hearts into performances, giving everything, while standing in a sea of almost exclusively white faces. It’s a gut punch. It’s an unspoken truth humming underneath every bass drop and light show:
We love the music, but we’re still failing the people who created it.

This weekend was fun, yeah. It was sweaty and chaotic and full of that Southern mix of fried food, beach salt, and bad decisions. But it was also real.
It was complicated.
And it reminded me—again—how far we still have to go.

A group of three friends sitting together outdoors, smiling at the camera. Two men are in casual summer attire, one with a shirtless look and colorful shorts, while the woman on the right is wearing sunglasses and a white top. The background features a turquoise wall and wooden deck furniture.

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.