destinylaharris

Tag: healing

  • Between the Lines #8: Little Star

    Some poems start with an idea.

    Others start with a line you’ve known so long that you almost don’t hear the words anymore.

    “Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”

    It’s one of the first songs a lot of us learn as children. We sing it before we know what stars actually are. Before we understand distance. Before we understand that the light reaching us might have been traveling for years.

    And before we learn that sometimes, the thing we’re looking at may already be gone.

    That thought stuck with me.

    Because there’s something strangely human about that.

    So I followed it.

    And it got darker than the nursery rhyme. 😅

    Little Star

    Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

    I used to wonder
    what you are.

    Before I learned
    that some lights

    are already dead.

    That sometimes
    we spend our whole lives

    looking at something

    that disappeared
    centuries ago.

    No one tells children that.

    We point toward the sky
    and call it beautiful.

    Make wishes
    on burning things.

    Teach them
    to close their eyes

    and ask the universe

    for whatever
    their tiny hearts desire.

    I wonder

    how many wishes

    were sent

    to something

    that wasn’t there

    to receive them.

    Maybe that’s why
    mine never came true.

    I used to lie
    beneath my blankets

    and watch the stars
    through my window.

    I thought

    they were watching back.

    Guardians.

    Tiny holes in heaven

    letting the light through.

    I didn’t know yet

    that darkness

    was the natural state
    of things.

    That light

    had to fight

    just to reach us.

    Sometimes,

    I still look up.

    Not to wish.

    I stopped doing that
    a long time ago.

    Now I count

    the dead things

    still shining.

    One.

    Two.

    Three.

    There are too many.

    And I wonder

    how long

    a person can disappear

    before everyone else

    notices

    their light

    is only a memory.

    How many times

    have I smiled

    after something inside me

    had already gone dark?

    How many people

    have looked at me

    and thought,

    She’s doing so well.

    Because they were seeing

    light

    that left me

    years ago?

    Maybe we are all

    a little like stars.

    Carrying old versions
    of ourselves

    across impossible distances.

    Letting people

    make wishes

    on pieces of us

    that no longer exist.

    Twinkle, twinkle,

    little star.

    I finally know

    what you are.

    Proof

    that something

    doesn’t have to be alive

    for its absence

    to take years

    to reach us.

    Between the Lines

    What got me about the idea behind this poem wasn’t really the stars.

    It was the delay.

    The idea that light can keep traveling after its source has changed—or disappeared entirely.

    And I started thinking about how often people do that, too.

    There are versions of ourselves that other people continue to see long after we’ve stopped being them.

    Maybe they remember the version of you who tolerated things you don’t tolerate anymore.

    The version who trusted more easily.

    The version who was louder.

    Softer.

    Happier.

    More naive.

    Maybe they’re looking at who you were five years ago and assuming that person is still standing in front of them.

    And sometimes, it happens in reverse.

    Sometimes we’re the ones sending out old light.

    We smile.

    We go to work.

    We answer messages.

    We make jokes.

    We tell people we’re fine.

    And from where everyone else is standing, we might genuinely look fine.

    They aren’t necessarily ignoring what’s happening inside us.

    They may simply be seeing the light that reached them.

    That’s where the line—

    How many people
    have looked at me
    and thought,

    She’s doing so well.

    —came from.

    There’s something sad about realizing that someone can look directly at you and still be seeing an older version of you.

    But I don’t think Little Star is entirely about sadness.

    I think it’s also about change.

    We spend our lives leaving versions of ourselves behind.

    Some disappear quietly.

    Some take years to let go of.

    Some probably still exist in somebody else’s memory exactly as we were when they last knew us.

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Because the person I was isn’t necessarily gone just because I’m not her anymore.

    Some of her light made it here.

    I carry pieces of her.

    Other people carry pieces of her.

    And someday, the person I am right now will probably become another one of those distant versions too.

    Still visible.

    Still affecting something.

    Just no longer the whole story.

    Maybe that’s what I like most about the stars.

    We look up and think we’re seeing what is.

    Sometimes we’re actually seeing what was.

    And unless we look a little closer, we may never know the difference.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. Some things keep shining long after they’ve changed. Maybe people do, too.

  • Between the Lines #7

    The Dark

    I write about darkness a lot.

    Night.

    Shadows.

    Moonlight.

    Ghosts.

    The things that hide in corners and the things we carry where no one else can see them.

    If you’ve read much of my writing, you could probably assume I find some kind of comfort in the dark.

    And maybe sometimes I do.

    But then I wrote a poem that started with:

    I hate the dark.

    And I meant it.

    The Dark

    I hate the dark.

    It reminds me of myself.

    Not because I am cruel.

    Not because I was born
    wanting to swallow light.

    But because I’ve spent
    so much of my life
    learning how to survive
    where the sun
    couldn’t reach.

    People romanticize darkness.

    They give it stars.

    They give it moons.

    They write poems
    about how beautiful
    the night can be.

    They forget

    how cold it is.

    How quiet.

    How easy it is
    to mistake loneliness
    for peace.

    I know darkness intimately.

    I know the way
    it settles into a room
    before anyone notices.

    The way it convinces you
    that silence
    is the same thing
    as healing.

    The way it teaches you
    to become invisible
    just to make it
    through another day.

    I hate the dark.

    Because every time
    I walk into it,

    I meet another version
    of myself.

    The little girl
    who kept waiting
    for someone
    to come looking.

    The teenager
    who mistook hurting
    for relief.

    The woman
    who kept shrinking
    so other people
    could feel taller.

    They are all there.

    Patient.

    Waiting for me
    like ghosts
    that never learned
    how to leave home.

    Sometimes I wonder
    if Nyx recognizes me.

    If the goddess of night
    looks at me
    with something
    that almost resembles pity.

    Or maybe recognition.

    Maybe she knows
    that not everyone
    who carries darkness

    belongs to it.

    Maybe she knows
    there is a difference
    between becoming familiar
    with the night

    and calling it home.

    I hate the dark.

    Not because it reminds me
    of what I’ve survived.

    But because for so many years,

    I couldn’t tell

    where it ended—

    and where I began.

    Now,

    I’m learning
    the hardest thing
    I’ve ever had to learn:

    Darkness
    can shape you

    without defining you.

    And maybe

    that’s the first light

    I’ve ever trusted.

    I think sometimes we become so familiar with something that we stop realizing it isn’t supposed to feel like home.

    That can happen with sadness.

    With loneliness.

    With survival mode.

    With the parts of ourselves we built because, at the time, we needed them.

    Stay quiet.

    Don’t take up too much space.

    Don’t need too much.

    Don’t trust too easily.

    Keep going.

    Survive first.

    Feel it later.

    You do something long enough and eventually it stops feeling like something you do.

    It starts feeling like who you are.

    That’s the darkness in this poem.

    Not evil.

    Not something lurking beneath the bed.

    Not even necessarily sadness.

    Familiarity.

    That’s why I wrote:

    How easy it is
    to mistake loneliness
    for peace.

    There is a difference between being at peace and simply becoming accustomed to being alone with something.

    There is a difference between healing and going quiet.

    There is a difference between no longer talking about what hurt you and no longer being hurt by it.

    I think I’ve confused those things before.

    Maybe that’s why all those different versions of me are still standing in the darkness of this poem.

    The little girl.

    The teenager.

    The woman.

    None of them disappeared when the next one arrived.

    And I don’t think healing requires them to.

    They aren’t monsters that need to be defeated.

    They’re evidence.

    They existed.

    They survived.

    They became part of me.

    But being part of me isn’t the same thing as being all of me.

    That distinction became the most important part of this poem.

    And then there’s Nyx.

    The goddess of night herself.

    I didn’t want her to appear as something frightening. I didn’t even want her to save me.

    I wanted her to recognize me.

    Because who better to understand that carrying darkness doesn’t mean you belong to it than the night itself?

    Maybe she could look at someone who has spent years walking through darkness and understand something that person is only beginning to understand:

    there is a difference
    between becoming familiar
    with the night

    and calling it home.

    I think that might be my favorite idea in the poem.

    Because for a long time, I thought healing meant becoming someone untouched by the things that happened before.

    Someone lighter.

    Someone different.

    Someone who didn’t carry any of it anymore.

    I don’t think that now.

    Some things shape us permanently.

    There are things we survive that change the way we love, trust, react, protect ourselves, and move through the world.

    But being shaped by something doesn’t mean surrendering your identity to it.

    You can carry darkness without being dark.

    You can remember pain without living inside it.

    You can know the night intimately and still choose to walk toward morning.

    Maybe that’s why the poem doesn’t end with the darkness disappearing.

    It ends with light.

    Not sunlight.

    Not some enormous, blinding revelation.

    Just the smallest realization:

    Darkness
    can shape you

    without defining you.

    And maybe

    that’s the first light

    I’ve ever trusted.

    The darkness is still there.

    The difference is that now—

    I know where it ends and I begin.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. Maybe we don’t have to hate every version of ourselves that learned how to survive in the dark. Some of them are the reason we lived long enough to find the light. 🖤

  • Between the Lines #6

    When the Night Whispers Your Name

    There’s something unsettling about hearing your name when no one said it.

    Maybe you’re lying in bed.

    Maybe the house is completely quiet.

    And for half a second, you could swear someone called you.

    Not loudly.

    Just enough to make you stop.

    Listen.

    Maybe even look over your shoulder.

    That was the thought behind When the Night Whispers Your Name.

    At least, that’s where it started.

    Because somewhere while writing it, the person whispering stopped being a ghost.

    And started becoming me.

    When the Night Whispers Your Name

    When the night whispers your name,

    I pretend

    I didn’t hear it.

    I’ve learned

    that some voices

    don’t belong

    to the living.

    Not because they’re ghosts.

    Because memory

    has a remarkable way

    of learning

    how to breathe.

    The daylight

    is kinder.

    It fills empty rooms

    with enough noise

    that I can almost believe

    I’ve become someone else.

    But night—

    night has always

    known the truth.

    It remembers

    every version of me

    I’ve tried

    to outgrow.

    The child

    who mistook silence

    for safety.

    The teenager

    who carried storms

    inside her ribs.

    The woman

    who still apologizes

    before she takes up space.

    They all answer

    when the darkness calls.

    I don’t.

    At least,

    I tell myself

    I don’t.

    But there are evenings

    when I catch myself

    looking over my shoulder

    because I could have sworn

    someone

    just said my name.

    Softly.

    The way people do

    when they love you.

    Or miss you.

    Or mourn you

    before you’re gone.

    Maybe that’s what

    the night has been

    trying to tell me.

    Not that I’m haunted.

    That I have spent

    so many years

    running from myself

    that even my own name

    sounds unfamiliar

    when spoken

    with kindness.

    When the night

    whispers your name,

    listen carefully.

    It may not be

    calling you backward.

    It may be asking

    whether you’ve finally

    become brave enough

    to turn around

    and meet

    the person

    who has been searching

    for you

    all along.

    I think there are certain versions of ourselves we spend years trying to leave behind.

    Not necessarily because we hate who we were.

    Sometimes we just don’t want to remember what that version of us had to carry.

    So we grow.

    We change.

    We get older.

    We build lives around everything that happened afterward.

    And eventually, we start telling ourselves that person doesn’t exist anymore.

    But I don’t think it works like that.

    I think every version of us leaves something behind.

    The child.

    The teenager.

    The person who was scared.

    The person who was angry.

    The person who survived something they didn’t have words for yet.

    They don’t disappear just because we become someone else.

    And sometimes, when everything gets quiet enough, we hear them.

    That’s why I wrote:

    Because memory
    has a remarkable way
    of learning
    how to breathe.

    Memory can feel incredibly alive.

    A smell can bring back a room you haven’t stood in for years.

    A song can bring back a person.

    A sentence can bring back a feeling you thought you’d forgotten.

    And sometimes you can be sitting perfectly still in the present while some part of you is somewhere else entirely.

    That’s its own kind of haunting.

    But I didn’t want this poem to end there.

    Because When the Night Whispers Your Name isn’t really a poem about being haunted by who you used to be.

    It’s about finally turning around.

    There’s a line toward the end that I think holds the entire poem:

    That I have spent
    so many years
    running from myself
    that even my own name
    sounds unfamiliar
    when spoken
    with kindness.

    Sometimes we become so accustomed to criticizing ourselves that kindness feels suspicious.

    Sometimes we’re much better at extending grace to the people we used to be than the person we are right now.

    And sometimes the version of ourselves we’ve been trying so hard to escape isn’t chasing us at all.

    Maybe she’s just waiting to be acknowledged.

    Maybe she wants someone to finally look at her without shame.

    Maybe she wants to hear her own name spoken gently.

    So perhaps when the night whispers your name, you don’t always have to run from it.

    Sometimes you can turn around.

    Sometimes you can listen.

    Sometimes you might discover that the thing you thought was haunting you…

    was simply a piece of yourself waiting for you to come back.

    Until next time,

    — Destiny

    P.S. If you could sit down with one past version of yourself for five minutes, which version would you choose—and what would you tell them?

  • Between the Lines #5: Monsters

    I used to think growing up meant learning that monsters weren’t real.

    Monsters

    As we got older,
    the monsters crept from under our beds
    to inside our heads.

    We stopped checking closets.

    Stopped leaving
    the hallway light on.

    Stopped pulling blankets
    over our faces
    because someone told us

    there was nothing there.

    And we believed them.

    For a while.

    We laughed
    at the children we used to be.

    Afraid of shadows.

    Afraid of footsteps.

    Afraid of something
    reaching from beneath the bed
    and grabbing our ankles.

    We didn’t know yet

    that monsters grow up too.

    They stop hiding
    beneath mattresses

    and start answering
    to ordinary names.

    Anxiety.

    Grief.

    Shame.

    Trauma.

    Loneliness.

    The voice that says
    everyone you love
    will eventually leave.

    The memory
    that waits until 2 a.m.
    to remind you
    it never really went anywhere.

    The fear
    that maybe you are difficult to love.

    The thought
    that everyone else
    was given instructions
    for being alive

    and somehow
    yours got lost.

    As children,

    we could run
    to another room.

    Climb into someone’s bed.

    Whisper,

    “I’m scared.”

    And sometimes
    that was enough.

    Someone would check the closet.

    Look beneath the bed.

    Turn on the light.

    Promise us

    nothing was there.

    God,

    I miss when fear
    could be proven wrong
    with a flashlight.

    Because now

    the monster knows my name.

    It knows my history.

    It knows exactly
    which memories
    to pull from the shelf

    when I am finally
    having a good day.

    It knows
    which insecurities
    still have teeth.

    It knows how to sound
    exactly like me.

    That’s the cruelest part.

    Eventually,

    you stop knowing

    which thoughts
    belong to you

    and which ones
    belong to the monster.

    So I became
    my own night-light.

    My own open door.

    My own voice
    in the darkness saying,

    “There’s nothing there.”

    Even when
    I wasn’t sure.

    Especially when
    I wasn’t sure.

    As we got older,

    the monsters crept
    from under our beds

    to inside our heads.

    And maybe growing up

    was never about
    discovering

    that monsters
    aren’t real.

    Maybe it was realizing

    no one else

    can check beneath the bed

    for us anymore.

    So now,

    when the darkness comes,

    I sit beside
    the frightened child
    still living inside me.

    I take her hand.

    I turn on the light.

    And together,

    we remind the monsters

    that this time—

    they’re the ones

    who should be afraid of us.

    Between the Lines

    When I was little, monsters were easy.

    Not necessarily less scary—but easier.

    They lived under beds.

    Inside closets.

    In dark hallways.

    Behind doors that looked completely harmless during the day but somehow became suspicious as hell once the lights went out.

    And when you were scared, you could call for someone.

    Someone bigger would come into the room, turn on the light, open the closet, look underneath the bed, and show you there was nothing there.

    Fear could be proven wrong.

    I think that’s what sits underneath this poem more than anything else.

    God, I miss when fear could be proven wrong with a flashlight.

    Because somewhere along the way, the monsters changed.

    They stopped having claws and shadows and glowing eyes.

    They became things like anxiety.

    Grief.

    Shame.

    Trauma.

    Loneliness.

    Memories.

    The things we tell ourselves when it’s late and everything feels heavier than it did during the day.

    And nobody can walk into the room and prove those things aren’t there.

    Nobody can shine a flashlight underneath your thoughts.

    That might be one of the cruelest parts of growing up.

    But while writing this poem, I realized something else.

    When I was a child, I needed someone else to turn on the light.

    Now I can do it myself.

    Not always.

    Not perfectly.

    And sometimes I turn it on with shaking hands.

    But I can sit beside the younger versions of myself who are still scared. I can remind them that we survived the things we once thought we wouldn’t. I can question the voice that tells me every fear is a fact simply because it sounds like my own.

    Maybe that’s part of growing up, too.

    Not becoming fearless.

    Not finally reaching some magical age where the monsters disappear.

    Just learning that when they come back, you don’t have to hide beneath the blankets anymore.

    You can turn on the light yourself.

    And maybe, eventually, the monsters learn to be afraid of you.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. What was the thing you were most afraid of in the dark when you were a kid?

  • Between the Lines #4: When the Wind Carries Secrets

    Some things are easier to say when you don’t know who’s listening.

    When the wind carries secrets,
    I wonder if mine
    are still looking for me.

    I have whispered so many things
    into the open air—
    names I no longer say aloud,
    prayers that never reached heaven,
    apologies that belonged
    to someone else.

    I imagine the wind
    keeping them all.

    Tucking them beneath its ribs,
    carrying them over oceans,
    through forests,
    past houses where little girls
    still believe their mothers
    will always protect them.

    Maybe that’s why
    it never stops moving.

    Maybe grief
    has made it too heavy
    to rest.

    I have secrets
    that still wake before I do.

    Secrets that smell like hospitals
    and old bedrooms.

    Secrets that remember
    what my body spent years
    trying to forget.

    I don’t think silence
    buries anything.

    I think it teaches memories
    how to echo.

    Sometimes the wind
    finds me again.

    It slips through cracked windows.
    Lifts my hair from my shoulders.
    Whispers my own voice
    back to me—

    only older.

    Softer.

    Like someone
    who survived the telling.

    I wonder
    how many of us
    are breathing
    the same air.

    How many confessions
    have passed through my lungs.

    How many mothers
    never heard the words
    their children carried.

    How many lovers
    mistook silence
    for peace.

    The wind knows.

    It has listened
    to every goodbye
    spoken too late.

    Every I’m sorry
    that arrived
    after the damage.

    Every I love you
    that died
    on the tip of a tongue.

    When the wind carries secrets,

    I hope it carries this one gently—

    I survived.

    Not gracefully.

    Not without breaking.

    But enough

    that I can finally say it

    without whispering.

    And maybe,

    just maybe,

    the wind isn’t carrying my secrets away.

    Maybe

    it’s carrying them

    to someone

    who thought

    they were the only one.

    I think some things become harder to say the longer we carry them.

    Eventually, they stop feeling like words and start feeling like weight.

    That’s where this poem came from.

    I liked the idea of the wind as something that has heard everything—the things we whispered when nobody was around, the apologies we never received, the words we never managed to say, and the stories we spent years keeping quiet.

    But somewhere while writing it, the wind stopped feeling like something that was taking secrets away.

    It started feeling like something connecting us.

    Because maybe the things we’re convinced we have to carry quietly aren’t as uniquely ours as we think.

    Maybe somewhere, someone else has whispered the same thing.

    And maybe surviving something doesn’t always mean being able to talk about it loudly.

    Sometimes being able to finally say, “I survived,” without whispering is enough.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. If the wind could carry away one thing you’ve never been able to say out loud, would you let it?

    Fediverse Reactions

  • Sunday Things #5

    Apparently, the second I started feeling better, I forgot I had surgery.

    Not completely.

    Just enough to become a problem. 😂

    Last week, I was talking about how strange it felt to finally start feeling like myself again.

    This week?

    I apparently took that as a challenge.

    I went out to dinner.

    I picked up kids.

    I had sleepovers.

    I baked cupcakes.

    I got my nails done.

    I went swimming.

    I went to a birthday party.

    I stayed up half the night with a sick kid.

    And somewhere in there, I apparently decided recovery was over because I could finally move around without immediately regretting my existence.

    It is not.

    For the record.

    I’m definitely feeling better, but if I do too much, I still feel it in my hips and lower back.

    Apparently feeling better and actually being completely recovered are two different things.

    Okay, everybody calm the fuck down.

    I said BETTER, not BRAND NEW. 😂

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    Honestly?

    People.

    Which feels weird to say after spending the last few weeks wanting nothing more than my bed, my recliner, and everybody to leave me alone. 😂

    Monday night, my best friend picked me up and took me to BDUBS.

    Afterward, we sat in her car for about an hour listening to music and talking.

    Then somehow we spent another two hours sitting on the porch saying random words just to see how thick our accents were.

    I don’t know.

    Apparently this is what friendship looks like in your thirties. 😂

    There were also lunches out.

    King of the Hill in the recliner.

    A very necessary nail appointment.

    And beef and noodles.

    Oh, the beef and noodles.

    I had been craving something and couldn’t figure out what it was.

    Then I got out of the shower Friday and it hit me:

    BEEF AND NOODLES.

    I got on DoorDash and ordered everything before I even dried off.

    There are moments in life when you have to have priorities.

    That was one of them.

    📸 Through My Lens

    There were a lot of little moments worth keeping this week.

    Monday, I picked my niece up from school and helped her wrap her girlfriend’s birthday gifts for Thursday.

    Then Tuesday, my younger niece turned four.

    Four.

    I genuinely don’t understand how that happened.

    She was born three months early and was once small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.

    Now she’s more than half my height. 🥲

    I made her birthday outfit, and I gave her a little toy piano for her birthday.

    She—and both of the boys—absolutely love it.

    Unfortunately, the piano later betrayed her.

    She managed to get her finger stuck between the keys and started going:

    “Ow. Ow. Ow. NeeNee!”

    I got her finger out and asked why she put it in there in the first place.

    She said:

    “I don’t know!”

    Then she looked at me.

    Looked at the piano.

    Looked back at me.

    And said:

    “That mother fucker.”

    😭😂

    I couldn’t help it.

    I laughed.

    Her birthday party was Saturday. My sister made the cutest cake, she loved all of her presents, and we went swimming.

    It was fun.

    And overstimulating.

    But mostly, I kept looking at this little girl who used to fit in the palm of my hand and wondering how the hell four years went by that fast.

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    Wednesday was my follow-up appointment.

    And I finally heard the words I have been waiting to hear:

    I CAN PICK THE KIDDOS UP AGAIN.

    😭

    Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for that?!

    Naturally, my niece called afterward to ask how my appointment went—and, more importantly, whether I was allowed to pick her and the boys up yet.

    Priorities. 😂

    So I picked them up early from the sitter.

    Because obviously.

    But the appointment also gave me the next part of this whole weird journey.

    For the next three to six months, I’ll be getting a monthly injection that will put me into a medically induced menopause.

    At 33.

    Because apparently I am an overachiever.

    The goal is to help treat what remains of my endometriosis and shrink my fibroid. And at the end of all of this, my doctor believes I’ll have a better chance of getting pregnant.

    Which is strange to think about.

    I’m about to temporarily shut down the very system I’m hoping will eventually help me have a baby.

    There’s something almost absurd about that.

    But hopeful, too.

    This whole process has been one weird contradiction after another.

    Surgery so I can heal.

    Menopause because I want a baby.

    Feeling better while still recovering.

    Being excited and absolutely terrified at the same time.

    Apparently, two things can be true at once.

    I’m learning that a lot lately.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    This one belongs to the little moments.

    My niece staying the night when she almost never wants to.

    Making clay keychains together.

    Baking chocolate cupcakes and decorating them with pink and purple icing, pink glitter, and unicorn toppers.

    Her doing my makeup.

    Watching KPop Demon Hunters.

    Random dancing.

    Doing a Facebook Live for absolutely no reason.

    And eventually having her curled up asleep in my lap.

    There was also a conversation with my boyfriend this week about babies.

    And proposals.

    Apparently his current proposal plan involves taking me somewhere near a cliff so that if I say no, I can “accidentally” fall off.

    So.

    That’s comforting.

    😂

    I can’t stand him sometimes.

    But underneath the jokes, there are conversations happening now that once felt really far away.

    Marriage.

    A baby.

    Our future.

    And after everything my body has been through lately, there is something really nice about talking about what might come next instead of only thinking about what hurts right now.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    Oh, Sunday.

    Sweet, innocent Sunday.

    On Saturday, I wrote this:

    Please, I’m begging you, please let me just relax today, and do nothing. At all. I’m begging you.

    —Destiny
    Written on Saturday.

    Apparently Sunday took that personally.

    It technically started at 12:23 a.m.

    I hadn’t even been to sleep yet because every time I started dozing off, my nephew would toss, turn, whine, or cough.

    Then he puked.

    On me.

    And the bed.

    So there I was, shortly after midnight, cleaning vomit and trying to get a sick kid settled back down.

    Eventually, he fell asleep lying on my stomach.

    Poor DooDoos. 😩

    He was up and down for most of the night, so sleep was basically a rumor.

    By morning, I was on the couch watching CaRtOoNz with one nephew coughing, snotting, and crying while the other was growling like a demon baby.

    If you’ve ever seen Baby Jack-Jack from The Incredibles?

    That.

    It wasn’t even 10 a.m.

    Eventually, Demon Baby left for a visit with his mom and dad, and I developed a craving.

    Texas Roadhouse.

    And when I say craving, I mean mission.

    So yes.

    I took the sick nephew with us.

    Judge me. 🤷🏻‍♀️

    We came home.

    I took a nap.

    My nephew eventually got picked up.

    And I planted myself in the recliner, turned on King of the Hill, and have barely moved since.

    I’m on the final season now.

    And remember that laundry I was supposed to do today?

    Yeah.

    I didn’t do laundry. 😂

    You know what?

    It’ll still be dirty tomorrow.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. What’s something you absolutely should have done this weekend…but decided could become Monday’s problem instead?

  • If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?

    If I had a time machine and could send one message to my past self, I think I’d tell her:

    You make it.

    I know you don’t believe me.

    Actually, I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at me right now because you’ve already decided you won’t.

    You’ve spent so much of your life fighting with yourself. With food. With your body. With your own reflection. You’ve hurt yourself because sometimes physical pain felt easier to understand than whatever was happening inside your head.

    And there will come a point when you don’t just think about dying.

    You’ll make a plan.

    You’ll decide you’re not going to make it to 30.

    But you do.

    You’re 33 now.

    And, because apparently we like to overachieve, you’re about to spend the next several months in medically induced menopause. 😂☠️

    I know. I KNOW.

    Thirty-three and menopause was definitely not on the bingo card.

    But here’s the part I really wish you could see:

    You’re doing it because you’re trying to give yourself a better chance at having a baby.

    You.

    The girl who couldn’t picture herself making it to 30 is 33 years old and planning for a child.

    You’re planning a future.

    And there’s something else you’re definitely not going to believe.

    Remember that 18-year-old who walked out in the middle of his shift on a busy night?

    The one who, for some reason, you just knew was going to leave an impression on your life?

    Yeah.

    Him. 😂

    You’re both living completely different lives right now. You’re married. He’s engaged. And no, before your brain goes there, absolutely nothing is happening between the two of you.

    But you were right about one thing.

    He does leave an impression on your life.

    You just have absolutely no idea how big of one yet.

    Years from now, he’ll come back into your life permanently.

    He’ll become your best friend.

    And somewhere along the way, without either of you really realizing when it happened, that friendship will turn into something neither of you saw coming.

    And this is the part you’re really going to have trouble believing:

    You’re going to fall completely in love with him.

    Yes.

    A man. 😂

    I know.

    You’re still bisexual. You’re still ridiculously attracted to women. Apparently men, on the other hand, are going to have exactly one exception.

    Him.

    Turns out, you don’t fall in love with him because he’s a man.

    You fall in love with him because he’s him.

    And one day, that 18-year-old who walked out in the middle of his shift on a busy night—the one you somehow knew you weren’t going to forget—is going to be sitting beside you while you plan a life together.

    A home.

    A family.

    Even a child.

    And the craziest part?

    He’ll change your life without ever setting out to.

    He won’t rescue you.

    I need you to understand that part.

    Nobody swoops in and magically fixes everything that happened to you. The things you’ve survived don’t disappear. Some of them will follow you longer than you think they should.

    Even years later, you’ll occasionally see a woman in public who looks just enough like someone from your past that your body reacts before your brain can remind it that you’re safe.

    Healing doesn’t erase the past.

    But your life gets bigger than it.

    And that boy won’t save you.

    He’ll just be there.

    He’ll become your best friend. Your safe place. The person you laugh with, annoy, cuddle, build ridiculous little memories with, and eventually start imagining an entire future beside.

    And somewhere along the way, without either of you realizing it was happening, you’ll stop counting down the years you have left.

    You’ll start thinking about all the years you still want.

    You’ll start thinking about a baby.

    You’ll start thinking about growing older.

    You’ll start making plans that stretch years into the future.

    And someday you’re going to realize something that would probably make you cry if I told you right now:

    You didn’t just make it past 30.

    You built a life you actually want to stay for.

    So if I could tell you only one thing, I guess it wouldn’t actually be some profound piece of advice.

    I’d just tell you to stick around.

    Because I know you can’t see her yet—

    but 33-year-old you is waiting.

    And she has plans.

  • Sunday Things #4

    It’s strange how quickly your definition of a good day can change.

    A couple of weeks ago, a good day probably wouldn’t have been defined by taking a shower without immediately needing to lie down afterward.

    Or being able to leave the house for a few hours.

    Or waking up and realizing the cramps that had been trying to kill me for three straight days were finally gone.

    But apparently, this is where we are now. 😂

    This week was my first full week of recovery, and I am learning that healing has absolutely no interest in being consistent.

    One day, I feel almost normal.

    The next, standing in the shower for a little too long makes me feel like I’ve run a marathon.

    And somewhere in the middle of all of that, my period decided this was the perfect time to show up and make everything approximately 700 times worse.

    My body has been through enough.

    She could’ve sat this month out. 😒

    Still, by the end of the week, things started feeling a little more normal.

    I left the house.

    I saw family.

    My nephews stayed the night.

    I went to a baby shower.

    I picked up my camera again.

    And for a few hours today, I wasn’t sitting around thinking about recovering from surgery.

    I was just…out.

    Doing something.

    Being around people.

    Feeling a little bit like myself again.

    Turns out, I missed her.

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    Movies in bed.

    My boyfriend renting the new Backrooms movie so we could watch it at home.

    Cuddling in the recliner while watching him play video games.

    My heating pad, even though it completely betrayed me when I actually needed it.

    Naps.

    Clean clothes.

    A long shower.

    And finally reaching the point where getting comfortable doesn’t require rearranging seventeen pillows and negotiating with my abdomen first.

    There is something deeply underrated about the first few days after surgery when ordinary things start feeling ordinary again.

    📷 Through My Lens

    I picked up my camera again this week.

    Not for long.

    Not for some planned photography adventure.

    I took it with me to my friend’s baby shower, and I ended up getting some really good pictures of her.

    And I think I needed that more than I realized.

    After spending so much time in bed or in the recliner, watching the world happen from one spot, it felt really good to look through my camera again.

    To notice light.

    Expressions.

    Little moments worth keeping.

    I’m still healing.

    I’m still limited.

    But apparently my creativity didn’t go anywhere.

    It was just waiting for me to get off the couch. 😂

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    There’s a weird point in recovery where you start feeling better before you’re actually better.

    And I think I’ve reached it.

    Friday, I had very little pain. After the week I’d had, I felt damn near fully recovered.

    Then I move around too much and my body very quickly reminds me:

    Ma’am.

    You literally just had surgery.

    I’m ready to do things again.

    I’m ready to go places.

    I’m ready to stop thinking about whether something is too heavy for me to lift.

    More than anything, I’m ready to be able to pick up my nephews again. 😭

    But feeling better and being healed aren’t the same thing.

    Unfortunately, my body seems to understand that better than my brain does.

    So, for now, I’m trying to listen when it tells me I’ve done enough.

    Even when I really, really don’t want to.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    My sister.

    Without question.

    This period hit me like a fucking freight train.

    Norco didn’t touch the cramps.

    Ibuprofen didn’t touch them.

    My heating pad basically looked at me and said, good luck though.

    Then my sister showed up with Midol and more disposable period panties because she knew I was miserable.

    I could have cried. 🥹

    There are grand gestures of love, and then there is somebody showing up with exactly what you need when you feel like absolute shit.

    I’ll take the second one every time.

    I’m also grateful for my boyfriend, who has spent another week taking care of me, keeping me company, watching movies with me, and generally making being stuck at home suck a little less.

    For my nephews coming over.

    For getting to see friends today.

    For being able to go to my friend’s baby shower, even if I did have to leave a little early when I started getting sore.

    And for my body.

    Even though I have complained about her approximately 4,762 times this week, she’s healing.

    I should probably give her a little credit for that.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    Where do I even begin?

    First:

    Today’s poop was easier.

    Listen.

    Post-surgery, you celebrate different milestones. 😂

    Second, I got my period immediately after abdominal surgery because apparently my uterus saw everything else happening down there and said,

    You know what this situation needs? More blood.

    And because I can’t use tampons right now, I have been introduced to the wonderful world of disposable period panties.

    I support free bleeding.

    I really do.

    But I prefer my free bleeding to happen while I am sitting on the toilet like God and plumbing intended.

    Feeling blood slowly leave your body while you’re wearing what is essentially a socially acceptable diaper?

    Absolutely fucking not.

    0/10.

    Hated the experience.

    And finally…

    Today at my friend’s baby shower, we played the game where you guess how big around the pregnant belly is.

    I won.

    I was only off by two inches.

    How did I estimate the measurement so accurately?

    Did I carefully study her belly?

    Use some sort of spatial reasoning?

    Possess an unexplained talent for estimating circumference?

    No.

    I measured my boobs. ☠️☠️☠️

    And apparently my boobs are an excellent unit of measurement.

    I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information now that I have it.

    But I won.

    So.

    Science. 😂

    Until next time.

    -Destiny

    P.s.- What’s one little thing that made you feel like yourself again this week?

  • Between the Lines #3

    Dinner With My Fears

    Tonight,

    I sat at a table
    with all of my fears.

    There wasn’t enough room.

    Failure arrived first,
    still wearing my face.

    She smiled politely,
    asked if I’d finally accepted
    that I’ll never become
    everything I dreamed of.

    Before I could answer,

    Grief pulled out a chair.

    She didn’t say much.

    She never does.

    She just looked at me
    like we’d known each other
    for years.

    We have.

    Self-doubt
    wouldn’t stop talking.

    Every sentence
    ended with a question mark.

    Are you sure?

    What if you’re wrong?

    What if they leave
when they finally know you?

    Loneliness laughed.

    Not because anything was funny.

    Because she’d already heard
    this conversation before.

    Fear of failure
    ordered another drink.

    Fear of being forgotten
    kept checking the door
    to see if anyone else
    was coming.

    No one did.

    Then…

    Abandonment arrived.

    The room changed.

    Every fear went quiet.

    Even Grief
    looked away.

    She sat across from me
    like she’d always owned
    that chair.

    She didn’t have to introduce herself.

    I’ve known her
    since I was little.

    She folded her hands
    and asked,

    “How much of yourself
did you give away today
just to make someone stay?”

    I didn’t answer.

    She smiled.

    She already knew.

    She reminded me
    of every apology
    I never owed.

    Every boundary
    I called selfish.

    Every version of myself
    I buried alive
    so someone else
    wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.

    She spoke the longest.

    The others
    hardly interrupted.

    Because every fear
    at that table

    had learned its language
    from her.

    Failure said,

    “You’ll disappoint them.”

    Self-doubt whispered,

    “You’re too much.”

    Loneliness added,

    “No one stays forever.”

    Even Grief nodded.

    They were all saying
    the same thing.

    Just with different mouths.

    I sat there

    listening.

    Until something strange happened.

    A chair scraped the floor.

    Hope.

    Late as always.

    She looked exhausted.

    Like she’d fought traffic
    just to get here.

    She sat beside me,

    not across from me.

    She didn’t argue
    with my fears.

    She simply reached
    for my hand.

    And for the first time
    all evening—

    Abandonment

    stopped talking.

    Because maybe

    the loudest voice
    at the table

    was never the truest one.

    Maybe it was just

    the oldest.

    — Destiny

    A little between the lines…

    I think fear has a way of disguising itself.

    Sometimes it calls itself failure.

    Sometimes loneliness.

    Sometimes self-doubt.

    Sometimes it convinces us that making ourselves smaller is easier than risking someone walking away.

    But if you listen long enough, sometimes you realize all those voices learned how to speak from the same place.

    I wanted this poem to give those voices bodies.

    To sit them around a table.

    To let them talk.

    And then, eventually, to let Hope pull up a chair.

    Not because Hope magically makes fear disappear.

    She doesn’t even argue with it.

    She just sits beside you.

    Sometimes that’s enough to make the oldest voice in the room a little quieter.

    Until next time,
    — Destiny

    P.S. If your fears had a seat at the table, which one would talk the most? 🖤

    Fediverse Reactions

  • Sunday Things #3

    There’s something about Sundays that makes me look back at the week a little differently.

    The little moments start connecting.

    The uncomfortable ones.

    The funny ones.

    The ones that seemed insignificant at the time but somehow became the story.

    This week wasn’t productive.

    It wasn’t exciting.

    It was slow.

    And maybe that’s exactly what I needed.

    For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have the option to keep moving.

    My body made that decision for me.

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    A heating pad.

    King of the Hill playing in the background.

    Naps that happened whenever they happened.

    And finally being able to shower after surgery.

    Sometimes comfort isn’t exciting.

    Sometimes it’s simply finding one position that doesn’t hurt.

    📷 Through My Lens

    I didn’t pick up my camera this week.

    Instead, I spent a lot of time noticing things from the recliner.

    How quickly the days blurred together.

    How different every hour of recovery felt.

    And how healing can somehow feel painfully slow and surprisingly fast at the same time.

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    This week reminded me that healing isn’t passive.

    It feels like you’re doing nothing…

    but your body is doing everything.

    I’ve spent so much of my life feeling guilty whenever I slowed down.

    This week, I didn’t have a choice.

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe resting is still moving forward.

    Just in a different direction.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    I’m grateful the surgery went well.

    I’m grateful they finally found answers.

    I’m grateful for heating pads.

    For nurses who don’t wait for you to ask if you’re hurting.

    For pain medicine that worked faster than I thought was possible.

    For everyone who checked in on me.

    And especially for my boyfriend, who has spent the week making sure I haven’t had to worry about much of anything except getting better.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    I have become painfully aware of just how many things require your abdominal muscles.

    Shifting positions?

    Sore.

    Walking?

    Sore.

    Coughing?

    Absolutely not.

    Yawning?

    Apparently that’s an abdominal activity now, too.

    Even getting comfortable requires getting uncomfortable first.

    I knew I was going to be sore after surgery.

    I just didn’t realize my stomach was involved in approximately 97% of existing.

    And then, of course, there’s pooping after surgery.

    That’s an entire adventure of its own.

    I’ll leave it at that.

    🌱 This Week’s Small Joy

    My peanut butter pie finally arrived. 😅

    I knew it was coming.

    I’ve been waiting for it.

    And after spending several days snacking more than actually eating, I was VERY happy to finally see that pie.

    There were other little things, too.

    Video calls with my sister that kept me sane.

    My heating pad practically becoming another appendage.

    King of the Hill playing while I drifted in and out of naps.

    And noticing the bloating and gas finally starting to ease up.

    Nothing huge.

    But this wasn’t really a week for huge things.

    This was a week for finding something good in the small ones.

    Until next time.

    -Destiny

    P.S. What’s one small thing that made a hard day feel a little easier this week? I’d love to hear about it. 🖤