I stared at the ceiling, the hospital room humming with that stale, sterile stillness only fluorescent lighting can create. Machines beeped like passive-aggressive reminders that I was still here.

You’re too weak, the voice whispered. You’ll never get better.

I closed my eyes. Not to rest—just to shut it all out. It had been weeks. Months, maybe. The days were a fog of doctors, drug cocktails, and sleep I couldn’t stay in. Every hour felt like a slow negotiation between body and will.

But then—

My oldest. Fourteen going on forty. Bright eyes. Laughter that bounced off the walls like wind chimes.

The twins, Jack and Lily—ten, chaotic, always in motion. The kind of energy that made your body ache just watching them.

And Noah. Just two. Still baby enough to smell like baby. Tiny fingers. Sticky kisses. Giggles that cracked through pain like sun through fog.

They needed me.

And I wasn’t done being their mother.

---

This wasn’t my first relapse. But it was by far the worst.

Getting pregnant with Noah had been a surprise. A miracle, really. His birth had felt like a reset button—proof that life could still push up through broken places.

My sister had stepped in again to help, even though she was already drowning in the hormonal hell of raising three teenage girls. We didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but she showed up when it mattered. That counted.

I had been on my own since sixteen. Parents gone. Sister gone—to Europe, to marriage, to a life that didn’t include me. We weren’t close. Still aren’t. But here she was.

Just a year before this relapse, I lost my husband. An accident. Quick. Unfair. The kind of pain that doesn’t howl, just hangs heavy.

I hated that I was forgetting him. The sound of his voice. The smell of his cologne. The exact blue of his eyes.

They steal your memories while convincing you you’re the one slipping away.

---

The door creaked open.

“How are we feeling today?” the nurse asked. Her voice was gentle, her smile trying too hard not to be pity.

“Better,” I lied.

She adjusted the IV like it mattered.

“One step at a time.”

And just like that, I made myself promise:

Not for some inspirational Pinterest quote.

Just for them.

---

The progress was microscopic.

One day I shuffled to the window.

The next, I sat upright for longer than ten minutes.

You can do this, I whispered. You’re not done yet.

But there were still nights I wanted to disappear.

Nights I counted ceiling tiles and let the dark convince me I’d always be this tired.

Then one morning, something changed.

Not much. Just a flicker.

But it was real.

Was that strength?

I took a breath. Deep and slow. And it didn’t hurt.

Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s ugly.

---

I caught a glimpse of myself in a hallway window.

Same face.

But something in the eyes had shifted.

Less ghost. More fight.

And just when it felt like I was crawling back...

Everything went black.

A coma.

Just like that.

Time unraveled. My body stayed. But I was somewhere else.

Floating. Suspended. Nowhere.

Until—

A hand. A squeeze. A voice.

Emma.

Oh god.

My babies.

Jack’s voice cracked through the dark next.

Lily:

Noah:

Emma again:

Jack:

Lily:

Each voice was a rope.

Each memory, a map.

---

When I woke, the light was blinding.

Everything too loud.

Too sterile.

Too real.

Then—

Emma’s face. Tears. A cracked smile.

“Mom!”

Jack, a foot taller than I remembered.

“You’re awake!”

Lily, quiet but glowing.

Noah, fingers clutching my gown, saying only:

I was here. I made it.

Not whole. But here.

“I heard you all,” I whispered. “And Jack—I’m calling your teacher about that A.”

He groaned, but smiled.

Emma giggled.

Lily’s face fell.

“I don’t have the drawing here.”

So she described it instead.

The beach.

A sandcastle.

Dad holding Noah.

The sun. The waves. A dolphin. Maybe.

The last summer we had him.

I squeezed her hand.

“That was the best day.”

---

After that, we stopped waiting for life to happen.

Emma’s first concert—just me and her, screaming lyrics like we were the only ones there.

Solo dates with each of them.

Noah chasing butterflies.

Jack splashing in the same waves Lily had drawn.

Movie nights. Popcorn. Couch piles.

Laughter that made the house feel full again.

We even camped.

In the backyard, sure—but it counted.

We told stories by firelight.

Talked about their dad.

About the good stuff.

The soft stuff.

“Make a wish!”

I did.

Just more.

---

I tucked them in that night—blankets tangled, cheeks warm.

And I knew.

I’m still tired.

Still healing.

And that’s enough.

...... and other empty performances we need to retire.

Sometimes love isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about the quiet moments when you’re allowed to come undone and still be seen as whole. This poetic back-and-forth is for anyone who’s ever searched how to be vulnerable with your partner, emotional intimacy in relationships, or poetry about love and respect. It’s the conversation between two people who understand that storms don’t scare away the sky, that sometimes the fix is a blanket burrito and trash TV, and that real strength is found in holding space for each other without breaking the crown.

_____

sometimes I want to be the one

and sighing like the world owes me something—

not for drama,

but because I’m exhausted

from being the one who always knows what to do.

and I let you.

not because I’m scared—

because I know the storm’s got nothing on the sky

once the clouds clear.

I can wait out the noise.

---

I want to unravel.

cry over the dumb thing,

rage over the real thing,

then throw you in the passenger seat

of my emotional rollercoaster

and I’ll buckle up,

snack in hand,

already knowing this ride ends with your head

pressed to my chest

pretending I don’t feel your tears

so you can still keep your street cred.

---

you don’t even need to understand it—

just fix it.

even if fixing it means

wrapping me in a blanket burrito

and letting me make you watch trash TV

while I call you names like sir baby angel boo.

I’ll paint your toes,

pretend to care about the plot,

rub your back while you roast the characters

like they’re real and listening.

but understand this—

you’re not winning.

I’m just restoring order

---

I want to rage

and still be the prize.

to fall apart

without losing your respect.

I want to pout

while knowing you still see me

as powerful.

you can do all that.

just know—

when I say “you done?”

it’s not a question.

it’s a soft warning

that the grown-up’s back on the mic

and it’s time to exhale.

---

I’ll sit my radiant self down,

cross my legs,

sip my tea with a glare

and mumble...

---

---

It begins with curiosity.

Eyes wide. Fingers sticky.

and how come leaves fall but don’t cry.

That part was pure.

But then we shove them into rows

and tell them: sit still, speak less, know more.

We take their wonder and give them worksheets.

We call it progress.

And then comes the sorting.

The scaling.

The slicing of dreams into measurable outcomes.

---

You tell a child,

As if they weren’t already.

As if joy isn’t worthy.

As if the boy who welds metal

or the girl who braids hair

hasn’t mastered a craft with their bare hands.

---

In China, they call it Gaokao.

So they study until the color drains from their faces.

In America, it’s college brochures and debt chains.

Resumés stuffed with unpaid internships

and LinkedIn lies.

---

Tell me,

---

At what point does the pursuit of education

become a socially sanctioned form of human suffering?

---

I’ve never smelled a degree on someone.

But I’ve inhaled the scent of presence.

Of kindness.

Of calm curiosity that doesn’t need to flex.

So don’t ask me what school you went to.

Ask me what makes you feel alive.

And let’s start from there.

🔍 For the search bar warriors:

---

Was it hiding in the nine-year silence?

Folded into the voicemails you never played back?

Tucked behind the half-hearted apologies

and “been busy” excuses

you recycled like old receipts?

Because I looked.

I looked in every birthday you missed.

Every emergency you didn’t return a call for.

Every simple request

you shrugged off like a coat you didn’t like the color of.

I looked for it—

in the mailbox

on Fridays,

under the stairs

when I cried without reason,

in the shape of clouds

on field trip days

when I had no lunch.

I searched my birthday cake

to see if maybe it was hiding

between the layers.

I listened for it

in the dial tone after every ring

you didn’t answer.

I checked my report cards

thinking maybe if I got enough A’s,

it would show up in the margins.

I opened every cheap toy

hoping it would whisper

I even looked for it

in the mirror—

trying to find which part of my face

was too hard to love.

I checked my shoes,

maybe love had run off

with the laces.

I dug through the couch cushions,

where everything else we lost

seemed to end up.

I looked inside books

you never read to me,

under the Band-Aids

I learned to apply on my own.

On the day I graduated,

you actually showed up.

You said you were proud.

But I didn’t see it—

not in your face,

not in your eyes.

I even searched

the faces of other parents,

trying to find

what you must have meant.

So I checked the sky—

but all I saw

were clouds,

trying their best

not to rain.

But love doesn’t vanish on Tuesdays

and reappear on Christmas with nothing to give

but a worn-out story

and a wallet full of impulse buys for people

who don’t even know your middle name.

---

Let’s be honest.

You loved the idea of being a father.

You just didn’t want to do it.

You wanted the title, not the tasks.

The fantasy, not the follow-through.

The “you look just like me,”

but not the “do you need anything today?”

---

Not a voicemail you ignore.

Not a check you write too late.

Not a memory you romanticize

to make yourself feel like you showed up.

Because the rent was due.

My stomach was empty.

And your name was not on the emergency contact list

because I knew better

than to expect a ghost

to hold my hand.

🧠 For the Search Bar Warriors

Absent father poems. Spoken word about deadbeat dads. Emotional letter to an absent parent. When fathers say they loved you but never showed up. Poetic essay on fatherhood and neglect. Child's perspective on inconsistent love. Graduation without a parent. Healing from father wounds. Black daughter father issues. Searching for love that never came. Father’s love and abandonment. Generational trauma and forgiveness. Spoken word about parental absence. Emotional accountability in families. Disappearing dads and hollow apologies.

Spoken word about father absence

Healing from father wound

Emotional letter to absent parent

Father’s love and abandonment

Generation trauma and absent dads

Child’s perspective on absent father

Coping with father neglect

🔍 For the search bar warriors:

Ever searched “how to stop comparing myself on Instagram” or “why don’t I feel beautiful even after losing weight?” Yeah. This post is for you.

If you’ve ever wondered how to embrace your body hair, felt weird about having a deep female voice, or spiraled after watching yet another perfect influencer eat one almond for lunch—welcome.

This isn’t a “fix yourself” post. It’s a “burn the shame and keep the leg hair” kind of moment.

We talk:

Recovering from toxic beauty standards

Body image struggles triggered by social media

What to do when your voice or vibe doesn’t fit the mold

How to feel confident in a body that doesn’t always feel accepted

Basically: how to be a person again after the internet made you forget.

Not like nothing, but not quite like something either.

And I was tired… so tired.

I closed my eyes, and that’s when I heard the voice—

First, a whisper:

Then a roar:

And I got up.

I was always resilient before…

But that was the lowest point.

And now, every time I get up—it’s because of that moment.

That voice.

Sometimes I have to shout it—“GET UP!”

Sometimes it’s a quiet grunt—just “Up.”

Like a strongman psyching himself before the lift.

That moment became this poem.

A piece titled Get Up, from my book Whispers of Healing.

I wrote it for myself.

But today, I’m hoping it lifts you, too.

You just want to rest.

You want to let go of the pain.

You want to let go of the suffering.

You want to let go of the injustice.

You want to let go of the oppression.

You want to let go of the FEAR.

But it's ALWAYS too soon to give up.

You CAN.

"Can't" is an illusion.

"Can't" is the weapon of the enemy.

When it hurts to even just breathe.

Keep your eyes, not on the things seen, but on the things unseen. For the things seen are temporary, but the things unseen are everlasting - 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

God gives you the power beyond what is normal - 2 Corinthians 4:7-9

When the world feels heavy

When the shadows whisper lies

When your heart is breaking and your spirit is aching

Because you are worthy

Because you are strong

Because you are unstoppable

Because you are YOU.

🔎 For the search bar warriors: