I Met My Younger Self for Coffee

She was 15 min early. 
I was 15 min late. 

She ordered a hot caramel macchiato.
I ordered a hot soy chai latte.

She asked if I married someone who liked the same things we do.
I told her sort of - he likes our childhood memories. 

She asked if we lived within 2 blocks from our parents.
I told her we moved about 30 min away.

She asked how it was to have 1 baby girl.
I told her that we have been blessed with 2 amazing daughters.

She asked what it was like being a psychologist.
I told her that we never did that, but we found an incredibly flexible job where I work from home and can be present with our children like how we've always wanted. 

I missed her so much. 

I cried. 

I desperately want her to know and accept that she is so loved by God and that she is enough. 

I hope we have coffee again soon.

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God has a plan. He has you in His hands. 

"For I know the plans that I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you, not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." - Jeremiah 29:4 

~ 2/12/2025 

High school me and 35 year old me 

Mommy, You Don't Have to be Sorry

Disclaimer: Not written by me

Dear Mommy,

You don’t have to be sorry.

The other day, I heard you crying in the bathroom. That was the day that you just couldn’t take it anymore. My brother spilled a gallon of organic milk, which apparently “costs more than college,” and I had an accident on the floor. We both had been screaming and crying all day, and we wouldn’t leave you alone even though you asked for just five minutes. You locked yourself in the bathroom, and you cried. When you came out, you hugged both of us, and you said you were sorry.

Mommy, you don’t have to be sorry.

Then there was that day that you were on your phone. A lot.
You said there were some things you wanted to read and pictures you wanted to see. When you tucked me in at night, you told me you were sorry you were on the phone so much.

Mommy, you don’t have to be sorry.

I remember the day that I was following you around the house crying because I wanted to be held, but you had so much cleaning to do because Grandma was coming. Once all the cleaning was done, you picked me up and cuddled with me on the couch for a minute before I jumped off your lap. That one minute was all I needed, but I saw the look on your face.

It’s the same look you make when you tell Daddy, “One day soon, they won’t want to be held at all.”

Mommy, you don’t have to be sorry.

Remember the day you yelled really loudly at me? So loud that it scared me and I started crying? And I was confused because I was scared and I usually want you when I’m scared, but you were the person who scared me, and I didn’t know what to do? Your face softened right away, and you picked me up and promised never to make that sound again.

Mommy, you don’t have to be sorry.

You don’t have to be sorry that you have bad days. I have bad days, too, and you always tell me that it’s OK to have a bad day.

You don’t have to be sorry that you didn’t make dinner. I love when you tell us that dinner is a picnic and we snack off a cheese plate that you put on a blanket on the floor.

You don’t have to be sorry that I didn’t get a bath last night because you were too tired, or that you didn’t want to read a third story, or that you got frustrated because I kept crawling out of bed.

Mommy, I see you. I may not always thank you, or tell you I love you, or do what you want me to do, but I do see you.

On the days when you feel sorry, please remember the way my face lights up when you walk in the door, or how your kisses are somehow magic when I’m hurt.

You don’t have to be sorry.

When no one else understands what I’m saying, you do.

When no one else can comfort me, you can.

When no one else could put up with my bad days, you do.

You may not be perfect, but you are the perfect mommy for me.

Love,

Your baby

The Woes of a Man

Fat man sees small door,
He knows he cannot fit through,
Tears flow freely.

Fat man hears laughter,
Tears run steadily down face,
The girl laughs harder.

Laughter travels far,
Fat man cries even louder,
Sounds of happiness.

Fat man has no hope,
Literally drowns in tears,
Laughter heard on land.

Trapped behind the door,
Nowhere to go, run, or hide,
Woes of a fat man.

The story of a man expressed in Haiku verses - a joint production with a dear friend.

~ October 23, 2011

I Have

I have a peach on the table.

I have a hat sitting on a rack.

I have a spoon buried in my bag of chips.

I have a roll of tissue to help me through the day.

I have a pair of hands my mother desires.

I have a mind that my father wanted.

I have the flaws that my imaginary sister will never have.

I have legs that do not want to run on the streets.

I have the fears that my make-believe brother does not fear.

I have a candle sinking in a bowl of water.

I have a penguin that does not waddle.

I have a circle with no center, like a doughnut with no filling.

I have a pair of jeans that cannot be worn.

I have skin too tan to see the sun.

I have a snail that is burning from the salt.

I have a stone waiting for the waves,

waiting for the waves to tear its parts away and to lose them in the violent seas.

I have a pile of money buried underground.

I have road signs placed on every corner.

I have a list of people I’m dying to meet.

I have a rocket ready to fly into space.

I have

nothing.

~ February 6, 2010

To Be Unheard, Isolated, & Discarded

"Cassandra"
To me, one silly task is like another.
I bare the shambling tricks of lust and pride.
This flesh will never give a child its mother,—
Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side,
And madness chooses out my voice again,
Again. I am the chosen no hand saves:
The shrieking heaven lifted over men,
Not the dumb earth, wherein they set their graves.
- Louise Bogan
Such a simple poem, but its feelings are so intense! The anguish and the torment within oneself prove to be extremely difficult to bear that they threaten to rip from the inside out .

Bogan uses Cassandra, a Trojan prophetess, to illustrate the isolation and burdens felt by women. Cassandra is blessed with the gift of vision, but she is cursed so that no one will believe her words. She “bares the shambling tricks of lust and pride.” Despite the irony of her cursed blessing, there is a conflicted pride on having a power that everyone yearns after. Such is her burden to bear.

It is for the world to see, but the world will not listen to her. Hence, her gift cannot bear fruit. Her flesh “will never give a child its mother.” What can she claim to be her own when she cannot do anything with her powers? “Song, like a wing, tears through [her] breast, [her] side, and madness chooses out [her] voice again.” She wants to bold and different, yet she cannot be. The conflict tears her body and soul apart. She is mad, not only in the eyes of others, but also to herself.

For some reason, Louise Bogan’s poem “Cassandra” really spoke to me when I first came across it. The parallelism amazed me. I love her use of the character, Cassandra, to represent the female sex. Cassandra had such great powers, but no one recognizes or acknowledges her strengths. No one will listen to her. Females, much like Cassandra, hold much potential, but because it is foreign to our male dominated society; their strengths are overlooked and discarded. Again, similar to Cassandra, they wish to be bold and remain different, but no one will accept such distinctions.

By taking in the Louise Bogan and her identity into consideration, I believe that I felt an even greater connection to the contents and it gave me further passageway to the poem’s intended meaning. Cassandra is a parallel to Bogan’s life. She, much like the prophetess, holds a great deal of potential, but it is because of her identity, the foreignness of her work, and its difference compared to the rest of the world’s influence that she is pushed aside. She shares a voice with Cassandra’s isolation.

I really cannot place why I feel such a great connection to her poem. I do not think that I go through the same type of torment described. I doubt that I can correctly imagine what it would be like to be in either Cassandra’s or Bogan’s shoes. However, I assume that sense of disappointment and feeling of loneliness when one’s skill is disregarded resonates with many.

Who wants to be forgotten? Who wants their gifts to be ignored? Who wants to be cursed by loneliness, with no one to understand or willing to listen to your cries?

Do you share a voice with Cassandra?