Unfiltered Thoughts

Radical Inaction: How to Live Like a Man Without Cleaning Up After One

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By Kayla Warner

There are men out there — I’ve met them, you’ve met them — who live wildly disorganized, beautifully chaotic lives. They forget appointments, lose track of time, get distracted in the middle of conversations, show up late to things they planned themselves… and no one seems to care. They’re still praised. Still considered “successful,” “brilliant,” “high-functioning.” Their chaos doesn’t cost them credibility.

Many of these men have ADHD — whether they know it or not. They don’t need a diagnosis, because no one’s pushing them to explain their behavior. They’re not constantly trying to prove they’re competent. Their messes aren’t cleaned up by them — they’re quietly cleaned up for them.

And almost always, there’s a woman (or two) in the background keeping things from falling apart. A girlfriend. A wife. A mom. An assistant. Someone who silently absorbs the impact of their executive dysfunction while they keep floating through life, charming as ever.

As a woman with ADHD, I recognized these patterns immediately — because I do a lot of the same things. I forget texts. I miss appointments. I lose things. I bounce between projects. I burn out. The difference is, no one’s cleaning up after me. I am the someone who keeps things from falling apart. For myself. And often for others too.

It’s exhausting.

Let me be clear: this is not a subtweet about my boyfriend. He is wonderful and neurotypical and genuinely supports me in navigating my neurodivergence. I’m lucky in that way. This essay isn’t about him — it’s about a system. A culture. A world that hands ease and grace to certain people just for existing, while asking the rest of us to earn it by being perfect.

At some point, I just got tired of trying to keep up. Tired of managing symptoms, masking messes, apologizing for being myself. Tired of trying to outperform the reality of my own brain.

So I asked a question I never thought I’d let myself ask:

What if I just stopped?
What if I stopped trying to make life easier by working harder?
What if I stopped chasing neurotypical perfection?
What if I stopped performing competence to be taken seriously?

That question — What if I just stopped? — is where something radical began to grow.

Not burnout.
Not failure.
But freedom.

I started letting myself do a lot less. I stopped apologizing for the days when my brain just said “no.” I stopped over-explaining my schedule, my symptoms, my forgetfulness. I lowered the bar. I chose rest over guilt. I let dishes pile up without spiraling into self-hate. I let myself forget things. I let things be messy. I let people be disappointed. And I didn’t die.

I call it radical inaction.

Not laziness. Not giving up. Not doing nothing because I’m stuck — doing less because I’m free. Free from the need to prove my worth through productivity. Free from the pressure to be the neurodivergent woman who “has it all under control.”

And yes — I want my life to be as easy as a man’s.
Not because men are the enemy, but because ease shouldn’t be a gendered privilege.

Ease should be a right.
Support should be a right.
Being a whole, messy, inconsistent, brilliant person — should be enough.

This isn’t about calling out one man. It’s about calling out the system that lets some people coast while others constantly clean up. The system that celebrates “visionary” men with unmedicated ADHD while quietly punishing women for the exact same traits.

Radical inaction is about reclaiming that space.
It’s about refusing to do the emotional labor of keeping up appearances.
It’s about letting go of the belief that you have to be “better” to be lovable, hireable, worthy of support.

I’m no longer interested in performing mental clarity I don’t always have.
I want softness. I want support. I want my brain to be okay as it is.
And I want that not just for me — but for every neurodivergent woman still burning herself out just to break even.

So here’s my offer: stop with me.
Let something slide.
Let someone wait.
Let it be messy.

The world didn’t fall apart when men forgot the details — it won’t fall apart when you do, either.

Ease is not a reward.
It’s something we’re allowed to claim.
No permission slip. No apology. No clean-up required.

A close-up selfie of a woman smiling beside a flowering plant with large green leaves, showcasing delicate white blossoms.

This Life I’m Painting, One Petal and Paw at a Time

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Two cats, one orange and one black, snuggle together on a colorful blanket on a bed.

Sometimes I feel like the world wants me to be doing something bigger, faster, louder.
But lately, I just want to water my flowers.
I want to paint something without knowing what it’s going to be.
I want to sit with my cats and do nothing at all—and call it enough.

If you’ve ever felt that too, even for a moment, then you’ll probably get this.

Right now, my life is a strange mix of soft and chaotic—quiet mornings, paint-streaked hands, cats trying to sit directly on my laptop. And somehow, it’s working for me.

My cats? They’re family.
Frodo has decided he’s an outdoor cat this summer, trailing me while I water the garden like a little shadow. Rizzo and Raven act like the porch is their kingdom, and Sam gives outdoor life one cautious sniff before running back inside. They each have their own vibe, and all of them rotate who gets to curl up next to me when I’m reading, painting, or just trying to be still.

A cozy scene of three cats resting on a striped bedspread, with a television showing an animated program in the background. The room features a bookshelf filled with books and decorative items.

The plants? A love story.
They used to all live inside, but once summer hit, I moved them to the porch—and they’re thriving. There’s something about watching new growth that gives me hope, even on days I don’t feel like I’m growing at all. My herbs (lavender, dill, chamomile, sage, parsley) have been the most fun—I even started making lavender lemon water, and wow… it’s become a tiny ritual of peace.

A potted plant sits on a wooden porch railing, with lush greenery and colorful flowers in the background under a cloudy sky.
A close-up of a vibrant red hibiscus flower, showcasing its large petals and yellow stamens, surrounded by green leaves and a wooden background.

I’m growing vegetables too: spinach, tomatoes, cucumbers, even cantaloupe. Not everything’s fruiting yet, but every new sprout feels like a quiet victory. It’s slow magic. The kind that teaches you patience without making you feel like you’re failing.

A wooden porch with various potted plants, including ferns and flowering plants, alongside a watering can and a mirror reflecting the surroundings.

And painting? That’s where I go when words don’t work.
I don’t plan what I’ll paint. Sometimes it’s flowers. Sometimes outer space. Sometimes it’s just abstract shapes that feel right in the moment. I’ll repaint a canvas over and over until it feels finished—and then I hang it up. Every one of my completed paintings is on a wall somewhere in the house, which feels kind of special.

An abstract painting depicting a blue sky with white clouds and a golden streak, above a textured brown landscape.

I usually paint in quiet. No music, no podcast or audiobook. Just the sound of whatever’s happening outside, or in the house. Sometimes my boyfriend’s working in his office with a baseball game on, or the news playing way too dramatically (David Muir, calm down). I’ll take breaks to sit on the floor in there with him and watch Wheel of Fortune (his show—he always wins) and Jeopardy (my show—he never stands a chance). Those small breaks make everything feel more human, more shared.

A colorful abstract painting featuring splattered paint on a dark background, with hints of green and bright pinks, positioned on a floor near wooden furniture.
An abstract painting with textured green and blue colors, featuring streaks of white and hints of other colors, creating a vibrant and organic feel.
A colorful abstract painting featuring splashes of pink, yellow, and red, with an unintentional happy face shape formed by the paint.

Sometimes I use leftover paint from my canvas to create blackout poetry, circling random words on book pages and painting over the rest. I’ve made over 100 of those poems. It’s not structured or fancy. It’s just… what I do. And I love it.

A cozy living room with several cats lounging on the floor and a cat perched on a table. A ceiling fan is above, and the space features plants and bookshelves in the background.
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A tortoiseshell cat lounging on a kitchen counter next to an orange handbag.
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A workspace with various paint tubes and a paint palette featuring splashes of colors on it. Two pieces of artwork are visible: one painted dragonfly on a canvas with a blue background and a yellow dragonfly on another canvas.

If you’re someone who’s tired, overstimulated, or just looking for something that feels soft and grounding… I get it.
You don’t need to grow a garden or adopt four cats. But maybe you need one plant. One paintbrush. One poem. One quiet night that doesn’t have to lead anywhere.

A person relaxed on a bed with colorful pillows and blankets, playing with two cats in a cozy room with warm lighting.

I’m learning that love can look like this:
Four cats.
Too many pots of flowers.
Paint under my fingernails.
And a day that doesn’t demand more of me than I can give.

A colorful workspace featuring a yellow patterned tablecloth with paint tubes, brushes, and a sketchbook with handwritten notes. A partially painted canvas and a notebook with visible text are also on the table.

Whatever your version of this is—whatever makes you feel alive and okay—I hope you let it take up space. Even if it’s small. Especially if it’s small.

And if you’ve got a “soft life” ritual of your own—something that helps you slow down, feel grounded, or just makes your day a little gentler—I’d love to hear it. Share it in the comments if you feel like it. 🌸

A pink flower petal shaped like a heart lying on a dark, marbled surface.

💔 I Am Not Your Body Story

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Some girls tear down other girls as if we’re public property. I don’t play that game.

I’ve always heard girls support girls.

It’s a cute phrase. A hashtag. A thing you say.

But here’s what happened to me.
The other day, I was chilling—literally, I was high on shrooms, vibing, unbothered—and I had to tell this younger girl and her little posse that they weren’t invited to my house.
Simple boundary. Calm energy. I was trying to relax.

But apparently, that wasn’t allowed.

Later, she sent me this nasty message—like went out of her way to say something mean—and she made sure to tell me that in a picture I posted, my arm looked “fat” to her.

Let’s pause there.
Because it didn’t. It literally didn’t.
I have a small frame. My body is genetically small. My arm looked normal.

But that wasn’t the point, was it?
It was never about my arm.

It was about trying to hurt me.

It was about reaching for the fastest weapon girls are taught to grab—your body.

Even when it doesn’t make sense. Even when it’s a lie. Even when it’s the weakest possible swing.

Because that’s what some girls do:
They’ll strike at your body because they think that’s where you’ll break.
Because they’ve been taught that we’re supposed to care what they think about our arms, our stomachs, our faces, our everything.

But here’s the thing: I don’t.

I don’t care.
I’m a grown ass woman. I know what my body is.
I don’t need your commentary. I didn’t ask for your notes.

And I would never do that to another girl. I would never aim for the body. I would never weaponize appearance like that.

Because I know how brutal I already am to myself.
Because I know how much I’ve worked to get free from that kind of thinking.

Girls support girls isn’t a t-shirt. It’s a choice. It’s a practice. It’s a rebellion.
And I choose it. Every time.

Even when you’re mean to me.
Even when you try to hurt me.
Even when you send the message.

I don’t play that game.
I’m not here for that life.
I’m here for something softer. Something real.

You don’t know me.
You don’t know my story.
And you sure as heck don’t know my body.

Girls support girls isn’t a trend.
It’s a standard.
And I don’t lower mine.

A woman wearing a bright pink swimsuit and oversized sunglasses sits on a wooden deck, making a peace sign with her fingers. She has a crocheted headscarf and a necklace, with a blurred background showing a person walking in the distance.

Tired of Tragic

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By Kayla Sue Warner

🔹 Intro:

There’s so much violence—out there and inside of me. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been living in a war zone, both in the world and in my own head. This is a poem about that kind of pain, but it’s also about choosing not to stay in it forever. About cracking the concrete. About saying no.

Tired of Tragic

Tired of tragic—
inside and outside of me.

Always some kind of war.

Bombs detonating
in my skull.

Shrapnel slicing through my thoughts.
Smoke flooding my lungs.
Sirens howling—
but no one comes.

I pick the metal out of my own head.
I stitch the bleeding with shaking hands.

It never stops.

There are landmines buried
inside of me.

There are landmines buried
in the streets out there.

Bombs blowing out other people’s brains
over there—
in the places we’ve agreed
not to look.

Will it ever end?
No.

This world was built
to devour itself.

But that does not mean
I have to kneel to it.

I refuse
to wear tragedy like a uniform.
I refuse
to swallow it like a daily pill.
I refuse
to keep folding myself into it—
like I was born
to explode.

There is still color
in this gray, burning battlefield.

There is still softness
when the bombs go quiet.

And I do not have to bleed
to prove I’m alive.

I am tired
of being tragic.

I am done.

I choose something else.

Like a flower
cracking the concrete on purpose—
its roots breaking the sidewalk
wide open.

Like a breath
that refuses
to stay small.

Like a soft rebellion—
a quiet but certain
No.

I am tired
of being tragic.

And I will not
be tragic
anymore.

Fur Real: A Memoir by Frodo the Cat

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Chapter 1: The Day I Was Chosen
 (December 2019)

I didn’t choose the shelter life. The shelter life chose me.

And then—thank the stars and the soft blanket gods—they chose me.

She was buzzing with energy the day she walked in. Nervous system overloaded, heart too big for her chest, eyes darting toward every cat like they might bite her soul. She was the one. I knew it.

The man with her had a quieter vibe. Gentle, kind. The kind of person who wouldn’t startle a cat like me. He sat next to her and looked at me like he wanted to understand me. That counted for something.

“What about this one?” she asked, pointing at me, like she didn’t already know.

They named me Frodo. Not because of the ring, but because I was small, scrappy, full of purpose, and probably dealing with some unprocessed trauma. Same as her. And she has a weird obsession with Lord of the Rings.

Those early weeks were warm. I’d curl up between them on the couch, their laughter vibrating through my fur. They were a team. A home. A safe spot I didn’t know I needed.

But over time, the air changed. The kind of quiet that settles when people aren’t sure what to say. Still loving, but tired. Still gentle, but distant.

I didn’t understand all of it—I’m a cat, not a therapist—but I knew something was unraveling. I started sleeping on her chest instead of at the foot of the bed. She needed me closer.

When the goodbye came, it wasn’t loud or cruel. Just sad. Quiet. Necessary.

He packed his things, and I sniffed every box like it held a clue. She stayed sitting on the floor after he left, arms wrapped around her knees, and I laid beside her in the silence.

And from then on, it was just us.

Her and me. The little cat with too many feelings. The woman with too many, too.

I didn’t know it then, but that was just the beginning of a wild new era—full of messy art, loud feelings, a questionable obsession with lemon and lavender-flavored everything, and eventually… someone new.

But we’ll get to him later.

For now, just know this: I wasn’t rescued.

I was recruited.

Chapter 2: Operation: Relocation
 (The Great Sneak-In of Frodo and Sam)

I don’t remember agreeing to a relocation plan.

One minute, I was sulking on a windowsill at her parents’ house. The next, I was shoved into a carrier next to Sam—the beige drama queen—and whisper-yelled at to “be quiet, for once in your lives!”

Something was happening. Something covert. Something illegal, probably.

I could sense it.

She was nervous. Hair in a bun, bags under her eyes, three half-packed tote bags dangling from one arm. She kept glancing over her shoulder and saying things like, “We’ll only stay a few nights,” and “He won’t even notice.”

Bold lies.

Sam, being a total amateur, meowed approximately every four seconds during the ride. I stayed silent. Strategic. Focused. Just kidding I meowed even more than Sam did.

When we arrived, the door creaked open like a portal to Narnia. This was not our house. This was his house.

The Law Man. The One Who Steals Her Bedtime Attention.

It smelled like cologne and logic.

She smuggled us inside and whispered, “Okay, okay, just for tonight.”

It turned into forever.

For the first 36 hours, he genuinely didn’t notice. She fed us, cleaned the litter box, and snuck us toys like she was running an underground operation.

But then—of course—I had to speak.

It was 2:37 p.m. I saw a moth. I meowed with purpose. And from the darkness came a groggy, “Was that a cat?”

She panicked. I swished my tail with pride.

The truth came out. She confessed. Sam blinked innocently. I stared directly at him, unblinking, daring him to say no.

And you know what he said?

“Okay.”

Just like that. No yelling. No “they have to go.” Just “Okay.” Then he pet my head and said, “You’re very vocal, huh?”

I didn’t purr. Not right away. But I forgave him.

…Since then, I’ve claimed the house as mine.

The window in the bedroom is my lookout. The couch is my observation perch. The yoga mat is definitely mine—especially when she’s on it. And I even venture outdoors now!

He doesn’t call me “little guy.” No. He calls me Panther. Like I’m some majestic, jungle beast prowling the countertops of suburbia. Which, to be clear, I am.

He tells me to get down at least seventeen times a day. “Frodo. Get down.” “Dude. Down.” “Panther, seriously.”

And I do…

Most of the time.

Not because I fear him. But because I respect the man who feeds me chicken treats, cleans my litter box, and lets me stay.

He loves her. He loves us.

And that makes him mostly acceptable.

(But I’m still watching him. Always.)

Chapter 3: Sam: The Quiet Menace Who Gets Away With Everything

Let’s get one thing straight.

I am the main character.

I have depth. Mystery. I stare into corners like I see spirits and occasionally scream into the void just to keep things interesting.

Sam?

Sam is cute.

That’s his whole personality. Just… stupidly cute.

He doesn’t even try. He just exists—flame point fur, soft baby face, tiny gentle paws—and everyone loses their minds.

“Aww, Sam.”

“Look at Sam!”

“He’s like a little prince!”

I knock over a snake plant: villain.
Sam sticks his paw in a cup of water: comedy genius.

I brood in a window, contemplating the mysteries of the universe.
Sam falls asleep in a laundry basket, and suddenly it’s “the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

It’s exhausting.

He doesn’t even meow that much. Just looks at you like, “I’m small. Please never stop loving me.”

And it works.

I could hate him, if I wasn’t so busy watching his back.

I’m the one who checks the door before he walks through it. The one who wakes her up when he’s feeling sick. The one who keeps one ear open during storms while Sam curls into her neck and sleeps like a baby sea otter.

He gets away with everything. But he also makes her laugh when she’s sad. He rubs his head against her face in that soft, silent way that says, I’m here too.

And I respect that.

He’s not my friend.

He’s my brother.

And unfortunately… he’s kind of perfect.

Chapter 4: The Healing Human

I’ve seen her break.

Not in the dramatic way people expect—no glass shattering, no screaming matches, no violins playing in the background.

She breaks quietly.

Like a mug with a hairline crack. Like a bookshelf slowly tilting under the weight of too many expectations. Like someone who’s been strong for so long, she forgot it was okay not to be.

I’ve seen her on the floor. In the bathroom. On the porch. On the hallway rug, forehead pressed to the ground like maybe it would whisper something back.

And I do what cats do.

I stay. I boop her with my head and give her nose kisses.

I sit just close enough to say, “I’m here,” but not close enough to make her push me away. I blink slowly. I breathe in sync with her. I wait.

Some days she’s on fire with art—painting with her whole body like she’s trying to sweat something out of her bones. Other days she doesn’t move. Just stares. Quiet. Still.

Healing, I’ve learned, is not a straight line.

It’s messy and weird and involves a lot of late-night snacks, unfinished journals, and crying during commercials.

Sometimes she dances in the kitchen with no music on. Sometimes she forgets how to eat. Sometimes she sleeps wrapped around Sam like a security blanket. Sometimes she talks to her plants like they’re old friends who just stopped by to check on her.

There are notebooks and paintbrushes everywhere, and tears in the laundry and lavender candles that burn for hours.

I’ve watched her stitch herself back together with poems, potting soil, and sugary pink lemonade.

It’s not glamorous.

It’s brave.

Humans forget how brave they are.

But I see it.

I’ve always seen it.

And no matter how many days she cries or sleeps or forgets how beautiful she is, I never stop showing up.

Because she showed up for me first.

That’s what love is.

Even if she puts my treats on top of the fridge like I won’t scale a cabinet to get them. (I will.)

Chapter 5: The Garden Is Not a Litter Box (But I’ve Tried)

She loves dirt.

Not like, “Oops, my hands got dirty.” No. She wants the dirt. She crumbles it in her fingers, rubs it between her palms like it’s healing clay from some ancient ritual, and whispers to her house plants like they’re about to tell her a secret.

I respect it.

But also—I’ve seen a lot of dirt in my life. And do you know what dirt usually means to a cat?

Exactly.

So naturally, when she dragged a giant monstera into the living room and left a wide-open pot of soil unattended while she ran to grab a watering can, I saw my chance.

I climbed in, turned around twice like a gentleman, and settled into position.

She came back mid-squat.

“FRODO, NO!”

It was dramatic. Arms flailing. Water sloshing. She gasped like I was trying to assassinate her dreams. I leapt out of the pot like a startled ninja and knocked over two other smaller pots filled with dirt on the way.

That was the beginning of the Garden Wars.

She brings in trays of herbs and I sniff every one like I’m the customs agent of Houseplants. She gets out her trowel and I sit on top of it. She lays out pots and I lay in them.

I am, as she says, “not helpful.”

But here’s the thing: she talks to the plants like she talks to me. Soft voice. Full of hope. As if everything she touches might bloom with enough love.

And when she’s outside, covered in dirt with leaves in her hair and freckles on her arms, she looks… happy. Peaceful. Like maybe the world makes a little more sense when she’s helping something grow.

So no, the garden is not a litter box.

I know that now.

But every once in a while—when she’s not looking—I still stick a paw into the chamomile just to remind everyone who runs this jungle.

Spoiler: it’s me.

Always has been.

Chapter 6: The Paint Witch and Her Chaos Room

She calls it “art.” I call it “colorful-based warfare.”

The room smells like wet acrylics, old dreams, and Mod Podge. It’s where she goes to feel everything all at once and cover canvases with her soul. I, personally, go there to nap on the only clean surface available—the warm corner of the desk she’s constantly trying to reclaim.

There’s paper pulp in the blender. Not food. Not even soup. Just torn-up bits of emotion getting spun into fibrous sheets she later writes poems on. I’ve stepped in acrylic paint, chewed on oil pastels, and once got glitter stuck to my tail for three days.

She paints with her fingers sometimes, like she’s trying to physically remove something from her chest. And when she’s in the zone, she forgets everything—me, Sam, her tea, the entire concept of time. The music plays loud and weird and sometimes she sings. Badly. I love it.

I watch her make messes and then name them beautiful. I think that’s brave.

Chapter 7: She Doesn’t Cook, and That’s Fine

The kitchen is for coffee, snacks, and minor emotional breakdowns.

She’s not what you’d call a “cook.” She’s more of a… food assembler. A scavenger. Her talents lie in finding microwavable bacon, pairing it with pickles, and calling it dinner. Sometimes it’s just toast. Sometimes it’s peanut butter and a spoon.

I’ve seen her burn a frozen waffle. Twice.

But you know what? She’s nourished. She’s hydrated (sometimes). She has favorite mugs for different moods and once ate an entire jar of peppercinis in one sitting after a stressful email.

The oven is more of a decoration. The stove? Emotionally unavailable. But the microwave? A faithful companion.

She doesn’t cook. And that’s fine. She feeds herself in other ways.

Chapter 8: Downward Dog Is Offensive

She twists herself into an odd pretzel while I sit nearby and wonder if she’s okay.

Yoga time means mat time. Which means “my mat” time. I don’t care how intentional her breath is or how open her heart chakra is supposed to be—if there’s a flat surface on the ground, it belongs to me.

She lights candles. She plays spa music. She moves slowly at first, like a leaf in the wind. Then she makes this strange grunting noise and tries to put her foot behind her head. Sam watches from under the couch with mild concern.

I’ve stepped on her back mid-plank. I’ve knocked over her water bottle during Shavasana. She still calls me her “yoga buddy.”

Sometimes she cries at the end. Just a few tears. The quiet kind. I curl next to her when that happens. That’s the real yoga, I think.

Chapter 9: Work Is a Scam (Unless You’re a Cat)

She leaves. She returns. She counts minutes until lunch.

She works now. Part-time. At the boyfriend’s law office. It’s quiet work, mostly papers and phones and sighing loudly around 10:41 a.m. every day. She says things like “just making it to lunch” and “it’s too nice of a day out to be stuck inside at work.”

I don’t get it. I sleep 18 hours a day and no one makes me fill out a time sheet.

When she comes home, she drops everything by the door and lays on the floor. Sam sits on her back. I walk across her hair. It’s called decompression. We’re professionals.

She works, but she doesn’t live for it. She lives for morning light, late-night snacks, and the moment she unbuttons her pants after a long day. That’s the paycheck.

Chapter 10: Sex Is Loud and I Don’t Want to Talk About It

Every night. Same noises. Same guy. It’s like a weird ritual I never agreed to be part of.

They love each other. That’s nice. Truly. Love is beautiful. But love is also… loud. And rhythmic. And involves way too much eye contact.

I’ve tried everything—scratching at the door, fake coughing, staring directly at them from the dresser. Nothing stops them. Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they ignore me. One time she threw a sock at my head.

I now consider the hallway my safe space. I sit there with wide eyes and existential dread, waiting for the awkward moans to end.

It’s fine. I’m fine. But if I have to hear one more “Oh my God” I might spiritually relocate.

Chapter 11: Her Brain Is an Amusement Park Without a Map

Some days she’s a rocket ship. Other days, she’s a soggy noodle.

Her brain moves fast. Like faster-than-light fast. She thinks six things at once and forgets four of them before finishing a sentence. She gets distracted by air molecules and hyper-focused on reorganizing the spice cabinet at 1 a.m.

Sometimes she’s too sad to move. Sometimes she laughs so hard she chokes on her own spit.

She writes lists she never follows. She overthinks every text. She apologizes for things no one even noticed.

But she’s brilliant. She loves big. She remembers tiny details and forgets major holidays. She’s chaotic, yes—but never careless. I trust her. Even when she forgets what day it is.

Chapter 12: Humans Are Strange and I’m the Only Normal One Here

You cry over songs. You forget where your keys are. You talk to the moon like it owes you money.

Living with humans is like watching an improv play with no intermission. They do weird things on purpose. They eat food that hurts their stomachs. They talk to their pets in baby voices and then wonder why no one takes them seriously.

She’s the weirdest one I’ve met. She has conversations with plants. She rearranges furniture at midnight. She says things like “the vibes are off in this corner” while doing headstands against the wall.

But she also loves better than anyone I know. Fiercely. Loudly. Softly.

She chose me. And that makes her strange, sure—but also wise.

She’s my human.

And for all her weirdness, I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Not even for the good tuna.

Peace Is (According to My Spidey Senses)

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Peace is seeing the neighbor outside
and not having to engage.

Peace is a 47-minute phone call
with the President of the Escambia County
Democratic Women’s Club.

Peace is another phone call—
with your aunt who isn’t blood
but feels more like family—
telling you how much that plant clipping grew,
sending a photo of it now,
lush and thriving on her windowsill.

Peace is your boyfriend’s dead dad’s dog
lounging with you on the river deck
at twilight,
after the sun settled,
and set for the day.

Peace is not a pontoon.
I’ll take the water ripples—
the sight and sound of them—
any day.

Peace is the first firefly
you saw on the
summer solstice.

The World and Me are Peace—
at least according to my Spidey Senses. 😉

A smiling person wearing a plaid shirt stands outdoors next to a gravel path and green grass, with a shed in the background.
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🖤 Why Juneteenth Matters—And Why Freedom Still Isn’t Real for Everyone

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By: Kayla Warner

Yesterday was Juneteenth. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think enough people understand what that really means—or why it’s so important.

Some people still roll their eyes at it. You can feel it in the way they say, “another holiday,” or the way they go about their day like it’s just a long weekend, not a reckoning. I think some white people still don’t know what Juneteenth is, and others don’t want to admit what it represents: the truth that Black Americans weren’t truly free on July 4th, 1776.

Juneteenth, June 19th, marks the day in 1865 when Union troops finally arrived in Galveston, Texas and enforced the Emancipation Proclamation—two and a half years after it was signed. It’s that day—not the Fourth of July—that marked real liberation for enslaved Black people in the U.S. And yet, I want to say this as clearly and respectfully as I can:

Freedom hasn’t fully arrived.

The Prison System is Slavery in Disguise

There’s a line in the 13th Amendment that haunts me. You know, the amendment that’s supposed to have ended slavery in this country? It goes like this:

“Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime, shall exist within the United States…”

That exception clause created the legal foundation for mass incarceration. It didn’t end slavery—it rebranded it.

Right now, Black Americans make up about 13% of the U.S. population, but account for nearly 38% of the prison population. Latinx people make up about 19% of the population, but about 30% of federal prisoners. White Americans make up about 58% of the general population, but less than 30% of those incarcerated.

These numbers aren’t random. They’re the outcome of centuries of policies designed to criminalize poverty, mental illness, addiction, protest, and Blackness itself.

Today at Work, I Read Something That Gutted Me

I work in a law office, and today I read the presentence investigation report for a woman. A Black woman. The kind of file that’s supposed to summarize a person’s life in neat little checkboxes and paragraphs.

It told the story of someone who’s been struggling with serious mental health problems since childhood. Abuse, trauma, poverty, loss—page after page of suffering. She isn’t a threat. She isn’t dangerous. She’s unwell. She needs help. But instead, she’s being sentenced. Locked away. Put in a system where healing is almost impossible.

And we’re paying for that with our tax dollars. The United States spends more than $80 billion each year on incarceration—while so many people can’t access basic therapy, affordable housing, or care.

I Used to Be a Teacher. I Saw the Pipeline.

Before this job, I was a teacher at Warrington Elementary—a public school in Florida where most of the students and families are Black and living in poverty. I still carry so much love for those kids. But I also carry rage.

Because I saw firsthand how our education system prepares Black children for prison.

How? By focusing obsessively on standardized tests that are biased and dehumanizing. By threatening schools with closure if scores don’t improve. By labeling six-year-olds “disruptive” instead of asking what’s wrong or what they’ve been through. By suspending kids for behaviors that are often trauma responses. By not hiring enough counselors. By sending more cops into schools than therapists.

I remember feeling like I was working in a building that wasn’t built for our kids to thrive—it was built to sort them. And that sorting happens fast.

Black students are nearly four times as likely to be suspended from school as white students.
Students who are suspended are three times more likely to enter the juvenile justice system.

We call it the school-to-prison pipeline for a reason.

Juneteenth is a Celebration—And a Call to Action

I’m glad Juneteenth is now a federal holiday. I’m glad we honor it. But celebration without reflection is empty.

We can’t just clap for freedom while ignoring how unfree so many people still are.

If you’re white like me, this isn’t about guilt—it’s about truth. It’s about choosing not to look away. It’s about asking why so many of our systems still fail Black Americans so violently.

It’s about asking why we call people “criminals” instead of asking what happened to them. It’s about wondering what kind of country we could build if we invested in care instead of cages.

A Final Thought

To my white friends reading this: this post isn’t an attack. It’s an invitation.

You don’t have to have all the answers. But you do have to care.

If Juneteenth makes you uncomfortable, ask yourself why. If you’ve never noticed the racial disparities in who gets arrested, incarcerated, suspended, or expelled, maybe now is the time to start paying attention.

Black liberation is not just Black history—it’s American history. And it’s far from over.

📚 Sources and Further Reading

🎨 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.

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.