On April 25, 2020, I didn’t know my phone would save these messages or that they’d still mean so much to me years later. But today they popped up in my photo memories—and I remembered the love, the grief, the trying, the tenderness. These weren’t grand moments. They were just human ones. Small threads in the fabric of that strange, heartbreaking, beautiful time.
1. A Text From My Dad
“When I first saw you I knew I wanted to do my best.”
I cried rereading that. I probably cried when he sent it too. My dad has always been steady, loving, present. I was trying to get back into running then, and he was trying to get healthier. We were both finding motivation in each other.
I said I never wanted to disappoint him.
I still don’t.
2. A Message From a Student’s Parent
“You’re all she ever talks about.”
This one split my heart wide open when I first read it. That year, I had an incredible group of kids—smart, wild, kind, messy, magical. We were sent home early because of the pandemic, and I never got to say a proper goodbye.
But this message reminded me that the goodbye didn’t erase the impact.
They remembered. I did too.
3. A Dream I Was Afraid to Ask For
I had this idea: what if I could loop with my class to 5th grade?
I knew them. I loved them. I believed I could help them in ways that a brand-new teacher might not be able to right away. I wrote out my case in a long green text, half-apologizing for even thinking out loud.
But my assistant principal (a badass motherfuckin’ woman who I deeply admire and respect btw) replied with warmth and support:
“I love that you are thinking outside the box!!”
Maybe I didn’t feel so silly for wanting something bold after all. And soon after texting her about it I went ahead and sent a text and a screenshot to my principal. Anyways, I got to loop with my kids from 4th to 5th grade. One of the hardest but also most beautiful years of my life and I will never forget it.
4. A Small Offer That Mattered
Even during COVID lockdowns, I was trying to help however I could. One of my student’s family needed hand sanitizer and tissues, and I said yes.
Simple. Small. Kind.
It reminded me that even when the world feels overwhelming, I still have the ability to make someone’s day a little easier.
April 25, 2020, wasn’t a milestone day. But it was a human one. A day full of care, connection, hope, and longing. A day where I was a daughter, a teacher, a friend, a helper.
And I think that’s worth remembering.
Here are some more random photos from around that time. This first one was the last day of school before we never came back because of the covid19 pandemic in 2020. This is a 4th grade student of mine at the time, whom I loved so much, and his little 1st grade sister.
This is video #2 that I’m posting. I’m not sure if I’ll keep track of the number of videos forever, but for now it feels right.
This is just me being me — on video — even though I’ve never really been a “video of myself talking” kind of person. (I had to do it for a couple of college assignments and I hated it. That’s pretty much the only time I remember having to video myself.)
This one’s a little messy. I say “um” and “like” a lot — I know. Honestly, I do use “like” way too much in real life, but it’s just a word I love and it’s part of how I talk. I’m not usually much of an “um-er,” though.
I only recorded this once and watched it once, because I’m trying not to overanalyze or turn it into something it’s not. I just want to show up as the realest version of myself that I can.
I blink too much, and to me, it’s obvious I’m still not totally comfortable doing this yet. But that’s just how it is when you’re doing something new and vulnerable — and I know it’ll get easier with time.
For the next few videos, I might try writing myself a little script so I can get my points across more clearly. But for this one, I wanted it to be 100% natural.
Also, after I watched it back, I noticed the black paint on my fingers. But I’m not going to go wash my hands and re-record just because my hands are messy. Honestly, having paint on me (and usually some dirt under my nails) is pretty much my natural state.
I’ve shared a lot of words on this blog. But this time, I wanted to share my voice. My face. Me.
This video is the start of something new for me. It’s a little messy, a little scripty (I won’t lie), but it’s mine.
I’m not here to perform or perfect. I’m here to connect. To talk honestly about the things that matter—neurodivergence, burnout, healing, identity, feminism, softness, survival, joy.
If any of that resonates with you, welcome. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
When was the last time you let yourself show up imperfectly—and still called it brave?
I’d love to hear your answer in the comments, or just let it sit with you quietly.
“My Brain on Fire: ADHD Edition” 🧠An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry Four
Some days, my brain feels like a wildfire. Everything is urgent. Everything is now. And somehow… I still forget to respond to that one text I opened three hours ago.
Living with ADHD means living inside a mind that’s constantly running laps. Thoughts sprinting. Emotions bursting. Ideas bouncing like pinballs while I’m just trying to find my keys, which are in the fridge. Again.
I have:
About 16 unfinished art projects (actually there’s too many to count I just made up the number 16 lol)
Three cups of half-drunk tea, 2 cans of half-drunk diet coke, and the glass of water I forgot to sip on
74 tabs open (but I know exactly what’s in each one)
A to-do list I rewrote four times and then lost every single one of them
Big dreams
No concept of time
And a habit of spiraling into research rabbit holes that end with me crying over a documentary about deep sea coral
I forget things constantly—but I remember things deeply. I can’t start tasks sometimes—but once I do, you might not hear from me for six hours because I’ve hyperfocused myself into a parallel universe.
It’s not just distractibility. It’s intensity. Of thought. Of feeling. Of motion.
People say ADHD is “just being hyper” or “bad at paying attention.” But no one talks about:
The guilt of always being behind
The panic of missing a deadline you meant to meet
The shame of being called lazy when your brain is actually sprinting at full speed toward everything except what you were supposed to do
The frustration of knowing what you need to do, but not being able to start
No one talks about how isolating it is to feel like you’re failing at basic tasks while also being brilliant in ways no one measures.
And it’s not all bad. There’s so much magic in the ADHD brain, too.
I can come up with ideas that make people pause and go, “Wait… that’s actually brilliant.” I can connect seemingly unrelated things like I’m weaving a constellation. I can love fiercely, create spontaneously, and dive into things with my whole heart. I can notice beauty in overlooked places. I can feel things big.
But none of that means it’s easy. And most days, I don’t want praise or pity. I just want understanding.
If my brain is on fire, I’m trying to learn how to stop yelling at the flames and start dancing with them. Some days I get burned. Some days I glow. But either way, it’s me. It’s all me.
And I’m not lazy. I’m just wired differently. And honestly? That fire fuels some beautiful things.
Some places raise you. Some places catch you when you fall. And if you’re lucky, you get to carry both in your heart forever.
Dear Northern Indiana and Northwest Pensacola,
I’ve lived between your breaths—one crisp and cornfield-sweet, the other warm and briny with salt and pine. I know your moods like my own. I’ve memorized the way the sky folds down at dusk in both places, different colors, same comfort.
Northern Indiana, You raised me in quiet meadows and long stretches of farmland. Your trees stood like sentinels, and your silence taught me how to listen. I still dream of the way snow falls here—thick, hushed, and holy—and how the wind cuts so clean it feels like starting over. Your fields are empty but never lonely. Your sunsets stretch for miles, soft and slow, like they’re in no rush to leave.
You were my first lesson in stillness. In patience. In how beauty can look plain at first—until you stay long enough to notice the wildflowers on the roadside, the frost patterns on a February window, the way the stars show off on clear nights. You taught me how to pay attention.
I’m back here now—home again in the place that built me. And I love it more than I ever did before. Maybe I had to leave to see you clearly. Maybe I had to grow up to realize you were never as small or quiet as I thought. You are rich with memory and meaning. You are peace and place.
And then there’s you, Northwest Pensacola. You who welcomed me later, when my heart was tired and hungry for warmth. You gave me open skies and Spanish moss, sandy trails and birds that sound like laughter. You gave me Gulf breezes that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could exhale again.
Your live oaks wrapped me in their long arms. Your wetlands whispered secrets I’d forgotten how to hear. Your thunderstorms rolled in like a mood, quick and loud and then gone, like my own grief.
You’ve held me in hard seasons, offered me orchids blooming from trees and herons tiptoeing through water. You showed me how wildness and softness can live in the same breath.
I long for you often. I miss the air, the light, the sound of frogs after dark. I can’t wait to come back—to walk your trails, breathe you in, let you remind me of who I was when you held me. Pensacola, I’ll visit as many times as I can. Always.
I carry you both in me— Indiana’s steady hush and Pensacola’s lush chaos. You are my anchors and my wings. My deep roots and my soft landings. My before and my becoming.
Thank you for the way you’ve healed me without needing words. For the spaces you gave me to walk, to cry, to breathe, to begin again.
With all my love, A grateful wanderer between two worlds
People tell me I’m honest like it’s a surprise. Like I’ve just blurted out a confession or a truth they weren’t expecting — and they either nod with admiration or laugh like I’ve just told the world’s driest joke.
And I guess the truth is: I don’t know how to be any other way.
I’ve never had the energy for pretending. Not for long, anyway. It’s like my brain doesn’t know how to hold two versions of the truth at once — the real one and the one people might want to hear. So, I say the real one. Gently, if I can. But still, I say it.
And sometimes, I’m too honest — especially about myself. I’ll share something raw or vulnerable, thinking I’m just being open, and then I’ll get that awkward silence or a half-smile followed by, “Maybe you shouldn’t have said that.” People have told me it wasn’t the right time or place. That it made them uncomfortable. And I get it — kind of. But also, I don’t.
Because I wasn’t trying to make anyone uncomfortable. I was just telling the truth. I didn’t know better. I wasn’t trying to shock or overshare. I just don’t feel like I have much to hide. So it’s hard when other people act like I should. Like honesty about yourself is something to be rationed or kept behind glass.
When that happens, I feel this particular type of shame — like I broke some invisible social rule I didn’t know existed. And I hate that feeling. It makes me want to disappear and never say anything again. But I always do say something again. Because that’s how I process the world — honestly, openly, and usually without a filter.
One moment about honesty that has really stuck with me happened during one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. I was teaching at St. Paul’s Catholic School in Pensacola, and I knew I wasn’t mentally well enough to keep doing my job at the capacity my students deserved. I brought that truth to my principal — a wonderful, wonderful woman whom I deeply admire — and one thing she said to me was: “It’s good that you’re being honest with yourself.”
And that really stayed with me. It reminded me how powerful self-honesty can be — how freeing it is to speak the truth out loud, especially when it hurts.
But I’m still not sure what level of honesty is appropriate around other people. Is there a line? Or is it okay to just be honest, period — and let other people sit with the discomfort of the truth? Because otherwise, I’m the one sitting there, uncomfortable, holding it in. And I don’t think that’s fair either.
What’s especially wild is that usually, it’s the people who are big “MAGA” Trump supporters who’ve told me I should tone it down. To watch what I say. To keep certain things to myself. And those same people are the first to say, “I just love how honest Trump is,” like that somehow makes the things he says okay.
They’re not okay. Not even close. Not even a little. In fact, a lot of what he says is freaky — like in a scary, very very scary way. But sure, let’s police honesty when it’s soft and vulnerable and real… and praise it when it’s cruel and loud and dangerous. Makes total sense.
Sometimes I wonder if “honesty is the best policy” actually means anything. People usually say it when they’re not being honest at all — or when they’re about to say something that is true but also kind of mean. I try not to do that.
I really believe in gentle honesty. Telling the truth with care. Being real without being reckless. Being warm even when the words are hard.
Still, people laugh. They say I’m funny — usually right after I’ve said something deeply true without meaning it to be a punchline. I’ve decided I’m okay with that. If my honesty makes people laugh and think at the same time, that’s not the worst thing.
So yeah. I’m honest. Not because it’s a strategy. Not because it’s brave. Just because it’s me.
“Resume of A Soft Person” An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Four
2–3 minutes
Objective To continue being human in systems that confuse urgency with value. To create warmth, clarity, and connection—even when it’s not on the job description. To survive with integrity intact.
Experience
Human First, Everything Else Second All Workplaces, All the Time 2008–Present
De-escalated adults and children without ever raising my voice.
Built trust with people in distress, over the phone and across classrooms.
Learned how to stay calm when everything else was unraveling.
Treated coworkers, clients, and students like people, not tasks.
Earned the kind of compliments that don’t go on performance reviews, but stick with you for life.
Intake Whisperer Law Firm #1 & #2 2021–2023
First voice people heard when their life had just cracked open.
Listened without judgment, and translated chaos into coherent facts.
Created space for people to tell hard truths without flinching.
Balanced compassion with boundaries in every conversation.
Helped students feel seen, even when the system didn’t.
Co-regulated through meltdowns and Monday mornings.
Built community, even when support was hard to come by.
Knew when a kid needed a break, not a punishment.
Skills
Reading a room faster than reading an email.
Leading with kindness while holding firm boundaries.
Keeping it together when nobody else is.
Writing messages that say what people need to hear, not just what they expect.
Making people feel safe enough to be real.
Education
Bachelor of Soft Power, Minor in Burnout Informal but Intensive Training 2006–Present
Graduated with honors in giving a damn.
Capstone Project: “How to Be the Strong One Without Going Numb.”
Thesis in progress: “How to Keep Showing Up Without Disappearing.”
References
People who remember how I made them feel.
Students who still check in years later.
Coworkers who could breathe easier knowing I was on the clock.
My nervous system, now learning that rest is allowed.
Me, finally starting to believe that I am enough.
Narrative Outro In the end, this resume isn’t a list of jobs or titles—it’s a testament to a way of being that refuses to let the world define my worth. It’s a quiet declaration that softness and strength can coexist, that caring deeply isn’t a flaw but a form of resilience. Every line here is a reminder that even amidst systems built to drain us, the simple act of showing up with openness and authenticity can rewrite the rules. I’m not chasing accolades—I’m cultivating a life that values being human over endless productivity.
Note to Readers: This post is both a love letter to Easter and a reckoning with what we choose to forget. I say it all with love—and a little laughter.
There’s something undeniably beautiful about Easter. The spring light. The pastel dresses. The kids wobbling through the grass with baskets bigger than their bodies. And the tables—full of ham, deviled eggs, that one jello salad someone insists on bringing every year.
I grew up Catholic, going to church every Sunday, no questions asked. And even though I don’t really go to mass anymore, I still consider myself mostly Catholic. The kind that still whispers Hail Marys when I’m anxious, still tears up when I hear “Be Not Afraid,” still feels something ancient and grounding during Easter.
And also—the kind of Catholic who remembers the year my younger cousin Emily farted out loud during Easter mass and everyone around us (except the very serious usher) started shaking with silent laughter. I swear that memory is burned into my soul more than any homily. And honestly? That might be my favorite Easter moment ever.
But this year, between bites of chocolate eggs and the smell of baked ham, I found myself thinking about the real reason for Easter: Jesus.
Not the white-robed, blue-eyed version from American paintings. But the real Jesus. The historical man. A Middle Eastern Jewish man born in Bethlehem, raised in Nazareth—modern-day Palestine. A brown-skinned refugee who practiced Judaism and fled violence with his family when he was just a child. An outsider. A radical.
And it hit me: If Jesus lived today, would he even be allowed into this country?
Would he be stopped at the border? Flagged by TSA? Labeled a threat because of where he’s from or what his name sounds like? Would he be deported under Trump’s immigration policies?
Would the very people who say his name the loudest slam the door in his face?
It’s not a question of politics. It’s a question of truth.
Jesus would likely be on the wrong side of every system built to exclude. He wasn’t a Roman citizen. He didn’t hold power. He challenged authority. He flipped tables. He wept for the suffering. He welcomed the ones no one else would. He hung out with the poor, the sick, the criminalized, the outcast. If we really look at his story, it’s a story of resistance—and of radical love.
And that makes me wonder: Have we forgotten who we’re celebrating?
This isn’t about guilt. It’s about remembrance. About asking ourselves how we treat the strangers, refugees, and the marginalized today. About how we worship a man who was once all of those things—and whether we’re living like we actually believe him.
So yeah. I still love Easter. I still laugh thinking about Emily’s legendary church fart. And I still believe in resurrection.
But resurrection isn’t just about what happened to Jesus. It’s also about what we allow to happen through us.
And I hope that as we celebrate Easter, we don’t just sit comfortably in our churches and our family dinners—but ask ourselves who Jesus would be today, and whether we’d make room at the table for him.
“Burnout as a Lifestyle” An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Three
Things That Have Burned Me Out, In No Particular Order:
Student teaching. And then actual teaching. And then quitting. And then going back. And then quitting again.
Staying late at school to make the classroom feel like a home, only to be told by administration that I needed to improve my “time management.”
Getting COVID and teaching through it. Teaching during BLM. Teaching after Hurricane Sally. Teaching during everything and nothing.
Working in schools where we were told to make magic out of trauma. Where we were told to teach kids how to regulate before they’d even been given enough food or safety or sleep.
Helping other people regulate their nervous systems while mine was on fire.
Every single professional development session about “self-care” while being given fewer resources and more students.
Learning to love my students deeply and having to say goodbye over and over again.
Law firms that said “we’re like a family” and then made me talk to 90 people a day while smiling through panic attacks.
Being autistic and masking for so long I forgot what I actually wanted and who I was doing all this for.
Pretending to be okay so convincingly that no one noticed when I wasn’t.
Burnout doesn’t always look like collapse. Sometimes it looks like showing up every day with a smile you carved out of your own skin. Sometimes it looks like organizing the fridge while dissociating. Sometimes it looks like daydreaming about an illness just bad enough to force a pause.
You don’t just have burnout. You become it. You become the shell that keeps moving. The autopilot. The expert in pretending.
The Aftermath
The emptiness after quitting. The way silence hums louder when you’re no longer useful to someone else.
Staring at walls, wondering who I am without a job to orbit around. Without a crisis to manage. Without a fire to throw myself into.
People asking, “So what’s next?” like I didn’t just crawl out of a burning building.
The shame spiral of rest. Of stillness. Of needing time and not being able to earn it.
Trying to “get better” fast enough to make the burnout worth it. To justify the collapse.
Grieving the person I had to be to survive. And also grieving the people who still expect me to be her.
Losing access to joy because everything feels like it could become a job again if I’m not careful.
Forgetting what it feels like to want something. Not just tolerate it. Not just endure it. Want it.
The aftermath is quiet, but it isn’t peaceful. It’s disorienting. Like waking up in a stranger’s house with no memory of how you got there. Like realizing you’ve been surviving on emergency mode for years, and now you can’t remember your own favorite color.
Recovery isn’t a glow-up. It’s crying because you finally feel safe enough to feel anything. It’s staring at a blank calendar and feeling your nervous system twitch with withdrawal. It’s learning to rest without bargaining. It’s mourning all the years you pushed through instead of pausing.
But here’s what I know now:
Burnout is not a personal failure. It’s not a weakness. It’s not proof that you weren’t strong enough.
It’s the body’s last attempt at protection. It’s your spirit throwing a wrench into the machine. It’s your soul saying: This is not sustainable. This is not love. This is not life.
So no, I don’t have a five-year plan. I don’t know what my next job title will be. But I do know I don’t want to live a life that requires me to be exhausted in order to feel valuable.
I want to live slowly. I want to rest without guilt. I want softness without scarcity. I want joy that isn’t mined from pain.
Maybe I won’t have a resume that makes sense. Maybe I’ll never climb a ladder. But I’m learning that surviving isn’t the same as living. And I’m tired of surviving.
I want to build a life where I don’t have to burn out to belong. Where I am allowed to be whole, even if I’m not productive. Where warmth isn’t a job requirement—it’s just who I am, freely given, finally kept.
