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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time I didn’t know what to write about? I assume not, because the time I’m talking about is right now. I’m sitting in my bed, computer on my lap wondering where should I turn my focus? It’s not that I can’t think of anything to share with you it’s a matter of what to share with you. Usually when I write, I already have the silver lining of the story. I already have the gold within a lesson to pass on to you, hoping it will help in some way, but not today. I don’t have it all figured out today. I’m typing myself into a problem in this blog, hoping by the end, I’ll by typing myself out of one.

I could tell you about the time my son fell off a stationary bike with a foot still stuck in the strap as the wheel kept turning. How he screamed bloody murder and walked with a limp that prompted my husband and I to get him seen by a doctor. The initial exam showed no signs of a tear but the x-ray indicated the possibility of a small fracture, only time would tell. He wasn’t put on bed rest but leg rest you could say. No physical activity beyond light walking for a minimum of two weeks for our seven year old boy. My kid was found guilty of “playing on shit he wasn’t supposed to,” and given a sentence of middle-childhood solitary confinement. The doctor was asking us to limit the activity of a kid who can’t stand still for longer than two seconds. Suddenly his injury seemed like a much bigger deal to me. He may not have had a clear crack in his knee but I had a clear fracture of the brain. My catastrophizing kicked into high gear. What if my son never played soccer again? What if he walked with a limp the rest of his life and blew any chance of him playing another sport period? What if it stunted his growth? How will I teach him not to have short man complex? Is that even a thing you can teach? None of those questions actually made it out of my mouth. No. After I Fosse-ed, Martha Graham-ed, Twyla-ed, and Madonna-ed my way through each apocalyptic ending, I did what Robin Williams’ character in “The Birdcage” delicately suggested to the dance partner of Nathan Lane, “I kept it all inside.” Meanwhile my husband just told people our son had straight up fractured his knee and went on about his life. Not exactly true but a clean break from uncertainty (pun intended). Yesterday we were given the news that my son did not have a fracture after all. Based on his follow-up exam and x-ray he was cleared to go back to being a kid those Disney monsters harvest for energy. Moments like these remind me of the terrible parent equation. Having children is essentially you dividing yourself by how many kids you have. Your goal then becomes to try and keep all those pieces of you together so you can remain whole. Because if the bigger and older piece of you gives way first, you will still be whole somehow but if the opposite happens then you’re shattered forever (no pun intended).

Maybe I could tell you how rehearsals for the show are going. We are producing my play for the second time and it does feel a little different. In some ways it’s a lived-in experience. It’s a story I wrote. It’s a story about aspects of my relationship with grief but it’s sitting in my bones a little differently. I’m discovering new things and settling deeper into the moments at the same time. The show is visceral and purposeful. I’m so happy to get another chance at bringing people together and offering a different way of looking at the grief in their life, all while trying to convince myself that doing it now is a good thing. It is extremely hard to justify art when the world is on fire, when it’s under blizzard conditions, when it’s targeting marginalized people, when it’s at fucking war even though, as an artist, we know that’s precisely when art is at it’s best! What I’ve created isn’t going to combat big world problems, (that’s the trap, my thinking that I have to make this huge contribution to the masses in order to have an impact). I’m learning that grief is constantly coming at us in tiny particles and like the common cold, there’s no real cure for it. I’m not in the business of trying to eradicate it. My play is more of a vaccine. It’s not one of those high-priced stock market vaccines that stands to make me a gajillionaire, but it’s a way to lessen the impact grief has on a person’s way of being; on their life, which is equally rewarding. Who knows, maybe if enough people see the show and become more immune to the burden of loss perhaps we will experience a rise in mental well-being. I’d be okay with that.

I suppose I could tell you all the things I’ve learned watching the television screens at my gym. That’s right, I said screens. With my ears I’m listening to an audio book on my headphones while running on the treadmill, but my eyes are darting between multiple TV’s trying to figure out what’s safe to let in. In the past week I took in Chuck Norris dying (he still had a fan base and they were sad), there was a fatality crash on the highway here in LA, the weather is unseasonably hot in the west, March madness is happening, the bullshit war that the US has butted their way into is still going strong, Timothy Chalamet was yesterday’s news..no wait today’s news…no yesterday’s news..the supreme court may uphold their decision to remain assholes, America’s president spits on people’s graves when they die and is an asshole, Israel’s being an asshole, Iran’s being an asshole…oh no..wait, I think it’s just guys with small penises being assholes, a plane crashed and people died because not enough chef’s in the kitchen due to the government not paying them, ICE is still “HERE -TO-BE-FEARED” so get used to it, a penguin was released back into the wild, Michael B. Jordan and Ryan Coogler are still having their moment, Shaw-nae’s House on Staten Island is apparently the best Soul Food Restaurant according to Good Morning America. She’s putting our ancestors legacy on the pedestal they deserve. Airport lines now start forming from airport parking garages, so that’s fun, Chef Alex Guarnaschelli won her show again, Chef Bobby Flay won his show again, I wanted to try a recipe on Girl Meets Farm, Jay-Z was on the cover of GQ, I could get a great deal on a steam mop. I could go on but I’m only in the gym an hour before I have to come home, shower, take kids to school, empty the dishwasher, make breakfast, run errands with the husband, run lines, work on my website, posts some shit on my socials, check in on a friend or two, maybe call my mom, pet my cats, fold some laundry, cook dinner, help kids with homework, watch a show with the husband, and sleep.

I feel like through the lens of social media and constant news sources, life looks like a series of tiny fractures in different places that need tending to in various ways. Some things we need to wrap and leave alone for a while. Some things need examining further to see how big the crack may be depending on the force involved. Sometimes it’s not a crack at all and we’re cleared to resume loving, laughing, jumping, playing and, in my case, writing.

The word fracture means: a broken or cracked bone. Occurring when physical force, stress, or bone disease causes a partial or complete break in the bone, resulting in pain, swelling, and reduced mobility. These days it’s hard to get through a week without a little pain or stress; not knowing what to give my attention to. A little discomfort lets me know I’m alive and if i’m alive then I’m not broken. I might have an occasional limp, but I’m not broken. And there’s the gold.

The first layer starts with, “You worry too much.” That phrase has been said to me from the time I started forming memories. I was known as the worrier in my family. I was sometimes the last to know about any crisis or potential problem in my family for fear that I would become too emotional. It’s not like no one else in my family had anxiety, I was just the one living it out loud.

I grew up with love and care but not stability. I could count on my parents to make sure I was taken care of. I could count on my brothers to make sure no one harmed me. I could not count on whether or not we would have to stretch out already thin groceries for another week or more. I could not count on whether I would walk up to our apartment door barren or with an eviction notice on it. I could not count on whether my parents would be happily reunited after days of my dad trucking on the road, or if they would be fighting over the inability to make ends meet. I could not count on whether I would get to go on field trips at school if there was a fee involved. Dentist appointments were available for cleanings and fillings but something like braces were out of the question. When you have to choose between food on the table or straightening teeth, crooked teeth that could just as easily eat said food…you leave them crooked. Wasn’t great for my self-esteem but definitely easy on the pocketbook. Thank God for elixirs, home remedies and good ol’ Chris Rock’s comedy worthy “Tussin,” because doctor appointments were for vaccines and serious ailments. There was no” It’s probably nothing but let’s take you in just in case” type of appointments. I think you get the picture.

I would live for the days when my mom would say, “Get dressed and get in the car,” and we would end up at some place like the movies, the state fair or the zoo! These trips were sacred to me because I knew the value of what it cost my mom to take my brothers and I there. I knew the road hours it cost my dad to contribute to these outings. In fact, it may be why I love movies, fairs and zoos to this day.

On paper, that time in my life may look typical for a lower middle-class-two-paycheck home but we weren’t a typical lower middle-class family. We were a black middle-class family. At some point I went from a talkative, social, crooked-toothed girl to a “you talk like a white person” buck-toothed black girl and boy does that add a lot of flavor to layer two. This is the time where differences go from being explorative to weapons of caste racial construction. The texture of my hair and products to tame it (products to hide it, rather) became a frequent topic of conversation amongst my white peers. The casual jokes about black people avoiding swimming and water activities related to fear and once again…hair. The stares during American history anytime slavery was mentioned as if to say, “We’re talking about your people now. Does this make you feel uncomfortable?” When all I really wanted to say was, “We’re actually talking about YOUR people now and I don’t think you’re uncomfortable enough!” But by then I had learned all the black rules of safety: just walk away from racial ignorance, be the bigger person, always be polite and respectful, stand up for yourself but not in an aggressive way, watch what you say and how you say it. Pepper in some realities of having to work harder to be taken seriously and to be treated fairly because you’re a girl, with a heavy dose of saltiness when those facts triple because you’re a black one. So I had to learn to work my ass off, be damn near perfect at everything, not to be competitive or get ahead, just to be factored in at all, under the societal constraints of : Be bold and big but not in a way that draws attention, be proud of who you are but keep it to yourself. In other words, “Walk quietly but with a loud burden.”

Both of my parents were pro college, especially my father. Being a truck driver and seeing the world through his lens, higher education was the key to getting somewhere in life. What a complicated third layer that turned out to be. By this time I was a full on theatre nerd and proud of it. I walked in nervous but excited to step into an environment that touted itself to be diverse, rigorous, a stepping stone to the career of my dreams. Turns out it was the same shit with an added bonus of a personal deficit….and it cost a lot too (ba-domp-bomp). In addition to grasping higher math concepts, dissecting poetry, creating stage designs, discovering actual African history, I learned that black actors were only lead worthy if the show was written by a black author. Every single character in the show had to be black, otherwise we were more fillers of quotas. Let me not leave out the discovery that though I wasn’t lead material, I was perfect if you were fighting a cause. Oh, if you wanted to bring attention to a problem or inequities, I was your girl. Everyone loved my, “not afraid to call out bullshit” attitude or my willingness to protect other people who were being mistreated. It was not well received if I stood up for myself. Turns out that’s kind of the case for black women (see recent Texas vote for definition). This layer also had a bit more spice to it with the due diligence of preventing rape and pregnancy, all the responsibility of the female, obviously. By the time I left college, I was more deflated and anxious.

Now i’m in adulthood, the juiciest layer of them all. I have added wife and mom to my anxiety ridden body. I’m trying to raise a daughter without as much constraints as I had yet trying to navigate the ones she will have no matter what. The minute my son came out of my body both my husband and I experienced tremendous joy and immediate caution. It matters not that my children are equally black/white because the melanin in their skin takes precedence. Even the complexities of their particular color of melanin is a bonus layer that requires its own blog. On one hand it affords them ways of moving that I will never know and on the other hand leaves them unprotected by shady laws and shadier adults with unchecked anger and rights to bare arms. My husband wants so desperately to take my anxiety away. As a white male, he is coming to the realization that he never will be able to. He can only try his best not to contribute to it and not to dismiss or trivialize it.

I used to think there was something inherently wrong with me. I wanted so desperately to be care-free; to even carry a little rebellion with me but I’ve never been able to do it. It didn’t help having people constantly gaslighting me about my experience as a minority, acting like America’s dystopian past isn’t right here with us in the present. The George Floyds, the Trayvons, the Breonnas, and the now countless others who begat others are “flukes.” When really they are reasons I meditate, I dive into books like, “Stamped from the Beginning,” I dance, I exercise constantly, I perform, I take Gamma-amminobutyric acid, all to quiet the noise and constant hyper-viligance it takes to just be. If you think that sounds exhausting, it is.

No matter how much I’ve tried to keep it in check both of my kids are grappling with anxiety in their own ways. There are days where I make myself wrong for that. But I think about something one of my bonus brothers said to my daughter last year. He said, “It’s okay that you have a little anxiety. We all do over one thing or another. Sure, you may have inherited some from your mom but you have to understand it’s not her fault. We will never understand the weight she carries to be a black woman particularly in this country. What she has to do to protect you and herself, my God. If she didn’t have anxiety, it would be a miracle.” I can’t tell you what that tiny bit of recognition did for me.

I have to extend grace to myself. We talk openly and freely about anxiety in our house to strip away any shame or heaviness around it. I haven’t reached the level of taking up huge amounts of space yet but at least I’m no longer apologetic for the space I do occupy. That is still a defiance. I know my body and mind deserve a break but for now I’ll keep building these interesting layers of life. If I don’t and 2026 continues on its rageful path, I’ll be cooked.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time my body thought it was going to be super tall? I even have a few tiny stretch marks around my hips to prove it. Alas it stopped short of about 12 inches from being 6’. The growing pains didn’t stop though, well at least not the emotional ones.

I noticed how quiet she was in the car ride to the party, but I thought her cramps had just kicked in and maybe her stomach was still a little upset from dinner. Meanwhile I was enjoying myself. I was rocking out to the music she’d been curating for us via my playlist. It was Friday. Fridays consist of homemade pizzas, watching movies, eating dessert and sometimes a glass of wine for me. I was over the fact that I had to make dinner a little early for my daughter before she went to hang with her friends. I was past the part where the gluten free pizza crust I always make, decided to stick to the pizza peel, requiring me to re-roll it out before I could get it on the stone. Gone was the moment where I took it out of the oven and realized I had forgotten to add the pepperoni my daughter requested. C’est la vie.

Let it be known, I think it’s damn near impossible not to move your body and sing full out to Zak Abel’s “Be Kind,” and yet she was quiet as a mouse. My mom spidey senses started to tingle. “What’s up? Is your stomach still hurting?” I inquired. “Yeah. I mean the medicine is helping a little bit, I think. But it’s not great.” She responds through obvious discomfort. “Well, do you think you’re going to be okay? Should you go to the party? I don’t want to drop you off just to have you text me in 30 minutes to come back and get you.” She nods in agreement and says, “Yeah, I know. I think I’ll be okay though.” You can probably guess what happened next.

On my car ride back to get her, (great guess by the way), I was desperately trying to let go of the fact that my gluten-free pizza had also stuck to the peel. Did I put corn meal down to keep it from sticking? Yes. Did I use my usual peel? Yes! Was my kitchen warmer than usual? Not to my knowledge. Can we move on, cause you’re missing the point. Anyway, I was trying to let that go. I was trying to dismiss the fact that my fresh pizza would be nice and cold by the time I got back. Meanwhile my husband was in the throws of contending with his delicious homemade glutenous maximus pizza and getting our son started on his movie. Instead of jamming out to music, I spent the car ride listening to two voices arguing in my head, “You could have stayed behind and made him go pick her up. He would have done it. You could have taken a little pressure off of yourself.” “Yeah, but then I would have had to contend with his pizza. Put it in the oven. Bake it for a bit. Rotate it. Bake it for a bit. Take it out. Slide it off the pizza pan and directly on to the rack. Bake it for a bit. Does it look right? Is there a bubble in the crust? All for him to come back and complain that I didn’t quite cook it long enough? No thank you.” The conversation ended with me side-eying both voices.

The car ride back to the house was pretty quiet. My daughter holding her belly in discomfort and feeling miserable, me super annoyed and put out. When we got home I gave my daughter marching orders to get into pajamas and into bed. I set her up with a remedy to try and ease her digestive issues and told her I would check on her later. Hubby and son were enjoying their time eating food and watching tv. I headed to the kitchen in a pissy mood to grab slices of cold non cooperative pizza. At first I asked myself, “Why are you upset? It’s not like she had control over her intestinal track. She got an upset stomach. It’s not her fault.” I took a breath and responded gently, “Well of course it’s not her fault. It’s mine. Duh! Did I know she didn’t feel well before we left our house? Yes! Did I know she didn’t feel well on the way to her friend’s house? Yes! Did I know to turn that car around and take her home? Yes! Did I do any of that? Nope!” Why didn’t I?

One of the many side-effects left over from the Pandemic, is my daughter wanting to do things with people outside of our family. She has really great friends and is adored by many yet most weekends her social calendar is filled with things we’re doing as a family: soccer games for her brother, hanging out, game night maybe. It doesn’t occur to her to make plans with friends because her Covid “Pod” comes first. So when she makes plans outside of us, my husband and I will give her the keys to the kingdom to see her act like an average teenager. She and I wanted to the same thing. We wanted her to go and have a good time with people she loves. She and I also ignored the same thing…ourselves. She ignored her body and what it was telling her it needed and I ignored my body and what it was telling me to do. What did this cause? Chaos. Haven’t I been trying to break up with chaos for some time now? Mmm-hm. Here starteth the lesson.

In between bites of cold pizza on the couch, I got this ping of disappointment in myself. Why was I stuck in this Brokeback Mountain loop of not being able to quit chaos? I had done so much work around listening to myself; not ignoring my instincts. I meditated on it. I practiced it in my breath work and in my acting classes. When was I going to be done with this shit? I glanced over at my son smacking his lips on his perfect pizza and for a second I pictured him with his Xbox controller in his hand. During his tech time I often hear him laughing and shouting at his games. There are times where I hear his frustrated and defeatist moans. It is then he usually quits playing and takes a break. Actually I’m usually the one who requires him to take a break and just take a breather. Sometimes he does but most times he just switches the game and moves on until he’s ready to come back to face the challenge. Through it all, he has never once come to me or my husband and said, “I’m done with this thing. You can give it away now.” His playing it outweighs all the disappointments.

I get into these ruts where I just want to master all my stuff. I want to beat the game instead of playing it. That visual of the Xbox made me think about all the other shit I’m constantly trying to conquer: body dysmorphia, fighting the feeling of being unattractive, acceptance of Alopecia, fear of rejection, fear of failing. I’ll look in the mirror with the confidence of a CEO one day and the next day doing everything I can to avoid mirrors all together. If I only hit the gym 4 instead of 5 times a week, maybe my husband may lose his attraction to me. I must work hard to stay fit; to be as attractive as someone like me can be, especially now that I’m BALD, right? If I don’t constantly do stuff for people and put myself last, they won’t see me as valuable and they will throw me away. Who do I think I am? I’m just an actor, and a no name one at that. No one is going to care about my blog, so I shouldn’t write. No one is going to care about the Podcast I have with my husband, so I shouldn’t speak.

Wait a minute. Now that I know I have body dysmorphia, I can look at my insecurities as false. I can pick clothes that feel pleasing to me. I can accessorize for expression and connect to myself from the inside out. Beauty is far beyond aesthetics. I know that to my core. I choose to wear my hair bald rather than wear a wig because it’s better for me and I’ve got a great head anyway. Also, I feel no less unattractive without hair as I did with, so it’s not about the hair. Those are just lies my inner critic is telling me. I don’t have to say “yes” to everything. Saying “no” is also a form of self-love. I am worthy because I am alive. Yes I get scared that I’m going to fail miserably at whatever endeavor I’m up to, but there’s a chance I can succeed and so I can do it anyway.

To win the game means it’s over. If it’s over, I’m dead. To win is to beat the level. Each year I’m alive is a different level. I can’t expect to win 2026 with just the things I learned in 2025. I’m going to need all the skills and discoveries of last year plus some additional tools and bonuses to get through the level I’m on now. We all have a relationship to something that we came here with or developed out of our life experience, and maybe it’s designed to stay with us so we can continue to get better at playing the game. Chaos was with me last year to highlight where I was refusing to say “no” to things, where I was overdoing it, ignoring my needs. Maybe this year it’s going to highlight where I’m gas lighting my own instincts. What would it look like if I took it as a sign of awareness? Maybe I shouldn’t break up with it but go to couples therapy instead?

By the end of Friday night my girl was ten times better. I was able to enjoy a slice of gluten free cake and some hot tea while watching the latest episode of “The Pitt” with my husband, (side note. holy crow I hope to get on that show one day. My god is it good). When I crawled into bed that night all was right again. The growing pains of adulthood had once again dissipated. I used to say, “I just want to be the butterfly without the metamorphosis.” Which is just a form of me resisting the pain, truth and growth it takes to evolve. I think I’ll lean more into being the reptile. I don’t have the capacity yet to shed my skin all at once, like the snake. Instead I can learn to shed a little bit at a time and hopefully admire the growth along the way..and “…here endeth the lesson..”

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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time my little brother got married? Technically he’s my best friend’s baby brother but I’ve known him for 32 years, so he’s mine too at this point. When he called to personally invite me to the wedding, I felt two intense emotions. Number one, was a sort of delicious squeal. My baby was getting hitched! I wanted to immediately squeeze and squish his grown-up face. Number two, was a deep reverence for what he was asking me to come and witness.

Say what you want about marriage being a mere contract or another way for the government to make money or a flat-out scam, love isn’t. Oh, people can certainly use the concept of love to control and manipulate others for nefarious reasons. I’m referring to good love; love in its highest and purest form. I’m talking about that “…stuff, that funk, that sweet, that funky stuff.” You know what I mean? When someone asks you to come to their wedding, they are asking you to be a willing participant and contributor to the foundation they are building upon with another human being. I don’t think we really get how special that is.

Yes, some couples come to that sacred space with many cracks in their foundation. I’m not naïve to that. I think we’ve all been to a wedding or two where none of us felt like the marriage was going to last very long. Which kind of beckons the question, “Why do we still choose to go and bare witness to that?” Are an open bar, dancing and cake more important somehow? No judgement, just curious. I’ll save that mess for another day.

What struck me about this wedding is that most of the people in attendance, all incredibly close friends/family of the couple, were each on the same level of love. We were years into finding that person and still treasured them. These relationships were not taken for granted. They were old but not tattered or torn. They were tended to. They were cultivated. It made sense to me why we were the lucky ones to be invited to this rite of passage. These are not perfect relationships, mind you. They are just good ones. They are full of people who are not afraid to grow and learn from each other. They are willing to do their own work, take responsibility for their actions and don’t mind having a therapist on speed dial. I don’t think speed dial is a thing anymore. I should say they don’t mind having a therapist as a favorite in their contact list.

You know that I’m not a sappy person, but I cried at the ceremony. These were not kids getting married, these were grown ass adults and I cried. The look on my baby brother’s face, was proof he had found his person and my new baby sister had found hers. Holy hell was that sweet.

If I’m being honest, that tenderness triggered me into remembering my own “aha” moments of deep affection for both Peter and Brad and I wasn’t the only one. At the reception dinner, several of us were prompted into telling the story of when they knew they had found the one to walk towards. For some it was by the encouragement from other people, others an unexpected encounter at a grocery store; all the stories involving humor in some way. What I found interesting was that even if an obstacle prolonged a relationship from blossoming right away, every person knew instantly that it was a relationship they were going to say “yes” to.

There’s no guarantee my brother’s relationship will stand the test of time. Everyone in attendance last weekend certainly wants it to but life be out here lifen, as they say. I mean there’s a reason why my company is called A Beautiful Mess. However given the state of American culture and many places around the world, I wanted to share a little more beauty with you this week.

Even amongst all the chaotic nose and hatred being spewed, there are still people out there saying ‘I choose you.” As my friend Amy said during my brother’s ceremony, “I just love love.”

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Speaking of “Love,” my husband Peter and I are cooking up a podcast that’s a little sweet a little savory and a whole lotta honest. It stands to reason that it too will be beautiful and messy. So stay tuned.

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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time I took a pretty big hiatus from writing to you to get a grip on my anxiety? The last post I wrote to you was about me really stepping into myself in a way I had never allowed before. What it didn’t say was how the political climate of our then newly elected 47^th president was getting to me. It wasn’t the racist, homophobic, transphobic, immigrant hating, narcissistic gruel that he spewed that frightened me, because that was typical of him. It was the racist, homophobic, transphobic, immigrant hating, narcissistic gruel that he spewed, being JUSTIFIED and EXCUSED by people I knew and loved. That scared the shit out of me. All those years of thinking we just had different opinions on fiscal responsibility and government programs, when apparently what we’d really been debating about was their thinly veiled support of Jim Crow Laws making a comeback. Holy, 1950’s struggles, Batman!

So fast forward to why I am writing to you now. I ran across an old diary entry drawing a line in the sand for me tamping down my feelings, opinions, and worth, which up until now I had not fully embodied. Rereading that entry reinforced how important it is for me to stop being mindful to people who are not mindful to me. If this changes the dynamic of my relationships, subscribers and the likes, then so be it. I am not here for everyone; I’m here for you. The journey this year might read a bit more raw and vulnerable than before but you can bet that I will still find the beauty in all the mess that is my life and the craziness out there in the world right now.

Here is the entry that drew me back to purpose:

July 2025

As we prepared to go, there came a point where I convinced myself that bracing ourselves for constricted thinking and ideals was just silly. If we went fully prepared to have a good time, a good visit, all would be well. That’s the rub though, right? Nothing right now is remotely the same, in fact I wake up every day wondering if I’m living the “Truman Show” version of “The Help.’

My husband and I knew the score. Discussing shit like politics, even with family, would be futile. Yet, he was the first to be held hostage by political ammo. “You couldn’t possibly have voted for Harris?,” they said. Let’s break that down. I had to give it to them for not making assumptions but the intent behind the question wasn’t really to know the answer. The intent was to get into a heated debate allowing them to use cult-like buzz words and their..ah hem…intelligent wisdom to try and get my husband to justify and approve their presidential decision. Now why would I say that? My husband is married to a black woman and has bi-racial children. Asking him if he voted for the racist pedophile candidate with racist ignorant constituents, pimping out a 2025 agenda that included regulating interracial marriage, was bullshit. They knew the deal. My husband told me he politely declined the bait and walked away. However, for me, the seed of anxiety had been sown.

I knew that much of our trip would be filled with similar conversations. I felt more visible and invisible than I ever had before. I had the pleasure of getting roped into a seemingly harmless conversation that took a Bug’s Bunny left at Alburquerque and ended in “What do you think about this immigrant thing?” town. Boy were they ready to pounce on my response. Strange how both sides of the political spectrum can pull upon the Founding Fathers to conveniently suit their needs, which proves that our forefathers didn’t know shit. They were flying by the seat of their little racist, misogynistic pantaloons. I mean yes with this part of my family we had always been on opposing sides none of which were blatantly centered around destroying people because of who they love, the color of their skin or their desire at a shot of a taste of freedom they’ve never known. The straw was hearing someone say, “I’d rather take care of a home-less person than an immigrant.” Ah, so it’s an either-or situation, huh? Me and my bleeding heart had had enough. I abandoned the noise, went to bed early and cried myself to awake.

I get that they can never truly understand my experience of things right now (or ever really) but the fact that they’ve never even tried to in all the years we’ve been in relationship, is deeply disappointing. It’s their world and I’m just a guest in it. I’m a good guest. A well-spoken guest. A guest they welcome back, but a guest none the less.

Before we headed home, I was asked, “Would you ever want to go into politics?” Ladies and Gents, in some ways I am a politician every day of my life, particularly when my children and I are the only “spots” in the room. The delicate dance of holding space for everyone else’s experience, fears, reservations and opinions while having mine diminished, dismissed or ignored all together. Suppressing constant anxiety. “Did what I say sound too angry black woman? Are my kids behaving? Are they using their manners?” How do I explain the difference between being able to speak on what it’s like being a minority in this country but not being able to explain the thoughts and motivations of ALL black people because we are fucking individuals? Let me tell you something, I am the queen of diplomacy. I am a queen who is exhausted from ruling in a world which chooses not to understand me and it’s designed that way. We are all a part of the same system created to keep us in fear so that one side can continue benefiting from oppression and the other side can continue fighting their way out of it.

What I know about myself is that I can’t turn off the part of me that loves people. I can’t turn off what it means to be me. I think Viola Davis’ Aibileen Clark said it best, “God says we need to love our enemies. It hard to do. But I can start by telling the truth. No one had ever asked me what it feel like to be me. Once I told the truth about that, I felt free.”

Yeah, Aibileen, whether it’s through my acting or writing, “…I guess that gonna be me” too.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

Hey, you. Did I ever tell you how much I love music, singing and acting but often times not all three together? Which is to say, I pretty much loathe musicals. I guess, in a way, I like my art like a charcuterie board. I like all of these lovely choices butted up against each other where I can pick and choose what to enjoy a little at a time. If you throw it all into one pot like a soup, I’m out, (which is funny because I do like soup). If i’ve thoroughly confused you, congratulations. Now you know how I feel when I watch musicals. Almost nothing ruins a perfect moment like bursting into song and dance….almost. Every, I don’t know, jillion years or so a musical will wow me or blow my mind. You can probably guess what happened when I went to the movies to see Wicked. Yep. I HATED it.

I hated it because I LOVED it. Let me be very clear. I can’t stand the Wizard of Oz. I’m talking heavy-sighs-stick-needles-in-my-eyes-kind of can’t stand. There’s not one single character I give a damn about. Okay, I guess I like To-To but not enough to give a shit about an origin story.

This isn’t a review about Wicked though. This is about how I felt watching a character, who was written and portrayed in such a way that made me instantly relate to her from the moment she was surrounded by people putting her differences on blast. Then Cynthia Erivo had the nerve to start singing and I was like, “Well, I’m officially fucked.” My sweet daughter was sitting next to me giggling, also shocked at her own enjoyment of the film, whilst I was busy skipping down the trauma brick road. Remembering what it was like to be made to feel inadequate though you knew you weren’t. Second guessing your worth. Having tremendous empathy for other people who are marginalized and doing everything in your power to help them. Trying to keep your head down so you don’t stand out. Being used. Being laughed at. Being underestimated until one day you decide that you’re not going to hide or be denied any longer.

Half-way through the final song of the movie, the past few weeks flashed before my eyes like a person at the end of their life. I recalled the Patience card I pulled from my “Wisdom of Hafiz” oracle deck. The card read, “It will happen. Perhaps not exactly as you imagined it. Perhaps far better. But it will happen….” I recalled the deck itself. How in a sea of oracle card boxes I just made out the tip of a bird’s beak and knew it was the deck for me. How when the box was handed to me, the bird on the cover was a hummingbird (a nod from Roger no doubt, for those of you who read or listened to blog post 5). How the artwork reminded me of Klimt. The fact that Klimt’s “The Kiss” is my favorite painting. I thought about the book I was currently reading, “The Misadventures of an Awkward Black Girl,” by Issa Rae. My husband picked it out for me because he knew I liked her and heard the book was good, not knowing it would become a love song to me. Again, this theme of an awkward creature fumbling through life only to blossom into a powerhouse. Then there was the poem. The poem I ran across by *Chela Davison that I’ve been holding in my throat so I could read it to you:

Once the movie ended, so to ended a version of me that I couldn’t take into the new year if I wanted to, and I don’t. I felt my young self say to me, ‘Dear one, the Universe has given us everything we need to be untethered: From the shade of our skin, to the baldness of our head and to our very name. Our parents didn’t choose it because it means “Messenger.” They chose it because it’s synonymous with having wings.

So, my friend, “..I’m through accepting limits, cause someone says they’re so. Some things I cannot change but ‘till I try, I’ll never know….if you care to find me, look to the western sky. As someone told me lately, everyone deserves the chance to fly.”

*Thank you sweet, Chela for letting me share your beautiful words. Follow her here or on Instagram @cheladavison

Chela Davison

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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about my seasonal depression? I feel like cold weather changes the molecular structure of my entire being. It’s a constant fight to stay motivated. I turn to foods, drinks, low brow entertainment to keep me distracted from the uncomfortable exposure to chilly air. I get exhausted easily. I cry more often at things that normally wouldn’t bother me. I am quick to anger trying to defend myself against the bleakness winter brings. This.Is.Not.That. It is almost 70 degrees here in southern California and yet last Tuesday seemed to change the molecular structure of my entire being. I am fighting to stay motivated. I find myself turning to foods, drinks, low brow entertainment to keep me distracted from the uncomfortable exposure to bigotry, racism and privilege that is in the air. I exhaust easily. I cry at things that normally wouldn’t bother me. I am quick to anger trying to defend myself against the bitter truth that hate brings.

This morning I told my husband about the panic attack I almost had driving to my acting class the night before. I explained how difficult it was to care about class or anything really, because it all seemed pointless. He gently rubbed my back and as he stood up said, “Yeah, but what’s the alternative?” Now in no way was my husband trying to be flippant about our conversation. What he said was an attempt at consoling me, however I couldn’t help but think to myself, “That’s an easy statement to make when you have always been able to move around freely without question.”

You have no idea the energy it takes to move around in this body. Well, I suppose if you’re a woman, you might have an idea but when you add a darker layer of skin it’s a very different experience. An experience largely ignored because acknowledging it would make other people feel responsible for it….which they wholeheartedly are.

So I put on my best non-threatening smile while attempting to advocate for myself. I counter the micro-aggressions and gas lighting with gentle facts from personal encounters in order to be seen, heard (and most importantly understood), as more than just a black person in America but as a fucking human being. Period. Everyday, aiming to make some kind of impact. Striving to make headway. Creating the possibility of hope, something I’m fresh out of at the moment.

After the conversation with my husband, I went to the gym. I’m afraid I faired no better. I did my best to stay present and disregard the fight between Fox News and CNN on who could spout fear the loudest. I’m not sure if were the other tv’s with scattered programming full of sports, cooking and general nonsense or just watching people move about without a concern in the world, that did me in. Either way I ended my workout crying in my car desperate to drown out the noise, when I had a flashback to something that happened to me over the weekend.

Peter, the kids and I were in Oklahoma for my bonus dad’s memorial service. One of my bestie’s drove up from Texas to spend time with us. While we were there, she took me to a metaphysical shop called Craig’s Emporium. The place was crawling with all kinds of crazy things from wall to wall. It’s not a place you can just rush through. I purchased some lovely things to add to my meditation space. When we got back to my friend’s car, I realized that my sunglasses were missing. I immediately went back into the store to find them but could tell pretty quickly there was no way I was going to find this needle in a haystack. The staff were so kind to try and help but to no avail. Before I left the store one of the sales associates took down my phone number and said they would call me if they found them. About an hour later I received a phone call. The manager asked me if I was still in town and if so, would I like to hear a story? I replied, “Yes and yes.” He proceeded to tell me that he went through his cameras to find when my best friend and I entered the store and saw me with my sunglasses. It just so happened that while we were in the store, they caught a shoplifter. She was in the store with several family members. Apparently I had set my sunglasses down and unbeknownst to me, her father picked them up and handed them to her and she pocketed them. They retrieved my glasses from her and called me immediately! I’m telling you right now, if the manager would not have looked back at the cameras, there’s no way I would have found my sunglasses in that store. There’s so much merchandise. When I went to pick them up the manager had thrown in a free pack of incense for my troubles. When I got in the car, I smelled the incense. The smell seemed familiar but not at the same time. I let my bestie smell it and asked her if she knew what it was, she didn’t. I then discovered it had a tag attached. The name of the scent was, “Angel’s breath.”

I never told the manager, or any staff member at Craig’s Emporium, my name. That whole scenario seemed kismet at the time but it meant more to me when I was sitting in my car this morning. Last Tuesday hope was taken from me and maybe last weekend’s encounter was the Universe softly reminding me that as long as there’s breath in this body of mine…I will get it back.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in anyway that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you that in every bad situation, I’m hard wired to look for the lesson; find the good? I’ve been doing this since I was a little girl. I think I’m better at finding it for other people but by some sheer will (or stubbornness or desperation, quite frankly) I uncover it for myself too. At times it’s a “light-bulb” moment and shines brightly over a situation, at times it’s a slow burn and turns into a maze of thoughts that eventually gets me there. I can find it instantly. I can find it days, weeks or years later. I think the takeaway here is that I find it. It’s often an exhausting search and always worth it. Two weeks ago it took me 7 hours to locate the good and in this case it’s ongoing.

I was in the middle of a Zoom callback with a director and the lead of a project, when he gut punched me. To be fair, I don’t think his intentions were to be a prick. He struck me as someone who shits all over everything and somehow doesn’t notice the smell. I was feeling really good about this opportunity. I liked the character I was reading for. I made her my own. Before I uttered a single word, the actor/producer I was reading with said, “Are you going to get one of your wiggy things, or do we have to see you do the thing bald?” I was hard pressed to utter anything after that.

I’m not opposed to wearing a wig for a character. I have a few headshots with wigs in case a director needs help imagining me with hair. If there is no specific character description, then they get me in all my bald glory. I had a couple of email interactions with the director prior to my callback. Had he requested a particular wig look, I would have obliged, but he didn’t.

So there I was stewing in embarrassment and anger; stuffing down my emotions. I called that man every name in the book. I called him out for being disrespectful. I highlighted the irony of a man who was balding himself, dictating what I should do to my head. I said all of that….in my mind. In reality, I froze. Eventually I went to another room, grabbed the wig he preferred and came back to the video call. What I really wanted to do was hide; instead I stuck it out and did my job. The place where actors spend most of their time performing is in the audition room. I wasn’t going to let him rob me of that. I felt good about my performance. They thanked me for my time and ended the call. I took off my wig, placed it back in its box and stared at myself in the mirror for a while.

For three days my body dysmorphia was front and center, as I knew it would be. It’s not like my body dysmorphia ever really goes away but there is a scale so I didn’t fight it for fear of tipping it. I made sure to meditate and exercise to give the good hormones some fuel. Sometimes I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. I talked about it to a few close friends but it lingered. My mind was doing everything it could to try and talk me out of my feelings.

Here’s the funny thing, the day before that shit-show of a callback, I had completed an interview for a magazine about being an actor with alopecia and body dysmorphia. I answered questions about what it took to remain empowered in the face of those odds, and less than 24 hours later…boom!

I know the hype out there is, “Never let anyone diminish your light.” Can we get honest for a second and admit that’s exactly what some people do? They turn off your fucking light. There you are standing in a room, someone comes along and turns off the switch leaving you in complete darkness because they either didn’t care or forgot you were even there. I feel like it’s a fairly normal reaction to want to yell at them to turn it back on again. It’s not a matter of “letting someone diminish your light” and more acknowledging that sometimes it happens and hopefully your eyes eventually adjust for you to find the switch and turn it back on again.

Eventually I figured out why I couldn’t cry over what happened. Why talking it about it didn’t make it go away and why my mind was reeling. I was angry. I was angry because I am not ashamed of being bald. I got, that I am challenged by the way other people view my baldness but not by the way I view it. That was a distinction unrecognizable up until then and there’s the fucking silver lining.

This new awareness means that hopefully I can shift the narrative on the standards of beauty, even through the lens of body dysmorphia. Even as I sit here rubbing my stubbly head, I believe there’s an end game to this strange affliction of mine. I bet there will be a million good things to find along the way, as long as I keep searching for the light so I can see them.

**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in anyway that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you that I have a trauma response to late night phone calls? In fact I believe nothing good comes from them. I’ve never received a drunken call or a wrong number during those strange hours. No, for me, when I hear that deafening sound cry out in a pitch black room during the wee hours, it can only mean one thing….someone died. That is exactly what happened a week ago today.

I startled when I heard my husband’s phone ring. I tapped my phone hoping to see I had missed some silly text or call from my daughter. She too has an insect phobia and is not above sending out an SOS if there is a spider nearby that she needs help with stat. If I don’t answer, she tries dad. I wanted it to be that simple. I said silently to myself what Peter said out loud when he finally came to, “This can’t be good.” The call was from the nursing facility our father was in. I checked out for a moment when he first answered the call. I noticed my heart was racing, my adrenaline pumping and I felt sick to my stomach. My body was reliving an all too familiar feeling of something you never really get used to. I heard the tone in his voice shift and I knew. His father, (my bonus dad) was gone.

I can’t say we didn’t expect it to happen, we just didn’t expect it to happen that soon. That’s the thing with mosts deaths though, aren’t they always too soon? To be honest, there was a part of me that thought maybe he would outlive us all, only his dementia acted like it had something to prove. Perhaps all dementia is that way. It is quite the masterful thief. First, you lose someone and then you lose them again, permanently.

The first time I met my bonus dad, John, was New Year’s Eve 2015. He and my bonus mother, Susan, were hosting a party that Peter invited me to. My late husband, Brad, had been gone for 5 months by then. I wasn’t exactly in a “party” mood but I went for two reasons: 1). There would be another widow there. She was one of John and Susan’s best friends. 2). Besides Peter, no one there would know me or Brad. There would be no one there to trigger me into a heartbreak spiral. I could just be a quiet observer. I could instantly see how close these individuals were to each other. I remember thinking that I hoped my friends and I stayed connected like these lovely people. They were so engaging and John and Susan were so charming and warm. John had a way of smiling at you that made you feel important. Who knew I would become his daughter-in-law two years later.

In the nine years I knew him, I learned nothing about who he was. Oh, I heard stories from Peter and other people, but never from him. He was reserved and yet never stand-offish. I’m sure his military experience and career in law added to his stoic demeanor but he had the sweetest heart. He was revered amongst friends and colleagues, was recognized as an amazing lawyer many times nationally, and humble until the day he died.

I will never forget his kindness and generous personality or the deep conversations we had after Susan died. It’s truly the only time I ever saw him get emotional. I will treasure those talks forever, not because he was vulnerable with me but because he felt safe to do so in front of me. It was more than a widower and an a widow shooting the shit about grief. We got the chance to be honest with each other (side note: It really irritates me that we need to define spousal loss by gender. Is it really that confusing otherwise? Why is it necessary to differentiate between male or female when someone loses a spouse? I feel like one word can get the job done. Like the word “parent” for example. We get it). There are tender things etched in my memories. The day of Susan’s funeral, my daughter expressed wanting to wear a bow tie, so “Grandpa John” grabbed one of his and tied it for her. The day he held his newborn grandson. The day he got remarried. You could see the pure joy in his face. He would often say to me, “We are both lucky. Lucky in love twice.”

Dad was right. We were lucky in love. Unfortunately he was not lucky enough to hold onto it because at some point, for him, that love never existed. It became nothing more than a fleeting thought and then it became nothing. The saddest part of all, Dad kept his illness from us until he could no longer hide it, which robbed us of the opportunity to fully prepare. He was diagnosed during the years Susan was sick and I wonder if he didn’t want to detract from that. It doesn’t really matter because only Dad knows why he chose not to tell anyone. As you can imagine, his decision to hold on to it has caused so much turmoil. The time he had with his new beloved felt more like mere moments to her rather than years. This will undoubtedly impact our family forever.

The last time I saw John, he didn’t remember me and he didn’t remember Peter, but if you could have seen his eyes when he saw our children. His brain didn’t know them but his soul did. Throughout his decline, Dad never got angry or scared. That generous and kind nature was still in there somewhere. So, I can forgive Dad because I think his intentions were pure. Yes, he made a mess of things, but haven’t we all at some point in our lives? Regardless, it can never change the fact that, as Peter so sweetly put it, he was a titan of a man.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in anyway that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

Listen to Audio Version Here

Hey, you. I thought about you today as I was walking my son to school. The path we usually take means we pass most of the sweet homes on our street with the backdrop of the mountains being hugged by the sun. There are flowers everywhere and porches are now kissed by Fall decor. There are days that require driving him to school, but if we get to choose, we always walk. We wave to neighbors along the way. We giggle about silly stuff. This morning was no different, until I smelled the air. It’s still a bit warm for this time of year, but you can smell the season changing. It’s a sweeter, crisper kind of scent. I realized that living here is a dream 30 years in the making. It’s an adventure bookended by two husbands and my biggest fan…my mom. So, did I ever tell you the story of how I ended up in California?

I feel like there are two types of actors, those who want to go East and those who want to go West, I was the latter (yes, of course there are probably actors that desire to go elsewhere, we call them strange?). The iconic pictures of palm trees, actors on red carpets, academy award tear-filled speeches all made my heart sing. Now, I was no fool. I didn’t believe I was going to walk down the street or be hanging out at a mall and suddenly be approached by Steven Spielberg, and poof be an instant sensation. I did believe I would go to a SoCal school, hone my craft and take a shot at having a respectable career. I would probably get homesick from time to time and it would be a lot to navigate on my own but people do it, right? Meanwhile by the time I reached 18, my poor mother was trying to figure out how to serve me a dose of reality without crushing my dreams. My parents divorced and were navigating all that comes with that. I definitely did well in school but not enough to get a full ride in “playing pretend.” We also lived paycheck to paycheck or more like paycheck to “can we borrow some money from someone somewhere,” to even get by to the next paycheck. I held on to my California schools brochures until I was offered a scholarship to an in state university, (well the in state university because we shall not speak of the other one).

College life was…let’s just say..interesting. I don’t need to dwell on this part of the story much. There were things I enjoyed and a lot of things I disliked greatly which worked in my favor, really. It made me double down on getting the hell out of there so I could figure out a way to get to the West.

Once I graduated there were a hosts of new issues. Mostly, how to survive on my own. Most of my close friends got married, moved away and were either making a go at being an actor full time or pivoted to something completely different. I got a job, moved back in with my mom and tried to get my bearings. I did theatre at night which did scratch the ol’ creative itch. I met some great people doing community theatre but was still feeling a little stuck. At this point my eldest brother, Bryon, had chosen the East. He was a triple threat and was living in New York. I had been to New York a couple of times to visit him. I admit I did enjoy the energy. Knowing how I felt about being caught in the middle, the middle of America that is, he invited me to live with him in the big apple. Could I deal with the brutal winters? Could I handle myself amongst all those people? Could I as Alicia Keys put it, “…See my face in lights or my name on marquees found down on Broadway?” Before I could answer any of those questions, the most cliched thing happen to me. It’s the stuff a lot of Hollywood tales are made of. I met a boy or “The Boy”, as I liked to call him. Well…shit.

Was I crazy? My brother was handing me New York on a Bronx platter. Sure there were no palm trees, the weather was iffy and it was known for musicals (which I rarely liked) but there had to be a Law and Order episode just waiting for me, right? The plan was to get through the winter and once New York thawed out, I would head there. In the meantime, I’d continue to do theatre locally when I could, have a fling with the boy and count the days until I got out of there.

It seemed like a solid plan until I realized that I am a mater not a dater. The Boy, or Brad as you’ve read in previous blogs, was not interested in big states like New York or California. He loved being an actor in a smaller community, that was the speed he enjoyed. He encouraged me to go. He didn’t want to be the one to hold me back. I kept to the plan. I started losing sleep. The more we hung out together, the worse I felt. My friend anxiety was also becoming a pain in the ass. It got to the point where I broke down in front of my mother. She listened to me. She held me while I cried and then dropped a bombshell, “I’ve never thought New York was the place for you.” I remember sitting up and looking at her like, “What’s that now?” She said so matter of factly, “You’ve never wanted to go to New York. So many of your friends left and are doing their own thing and you feel stuck. I’m not saying you can’t go to New York, but that’s where Bryon wanted to be. I think you’re running in the wrong direction. I think you need to get still and really think about what you want to do.” Now up until this point my mother had never said anything contrary to my plan. She just supported me and gave me space to make my own decisions, which is what is so great about her. What’s even better is her wisdom and how clearly she’s always seen her children.

Stillness is exactly what I needed to do. I chose Brad. We didn’t move to a coastal state but we did move to a bigger one. We moved to Texas (everything is bigger in Texas). We had a full life together. We enjoyed each other’s families. We had the best group of friends. We had a daughter together. We fought dark times together. I made the right choice. I was content. Once he got sick, we made the choice to move back to Oklahoma. It’s where he wanted to be if he should die from the disease he had, which is eventually what happened. We loved each other fully. I never expected to know love like that. I was heartbroken but I was incredibly grateful. Then another cliched thing happened to me, “Enter the dame..er the sir, I guess.”

Peter, my current husband, came along (yes, there is stuff that happened in between obviously, but that part of the story is being told in a different way to be explained at a later date). He didn’t really come along. Brad, Peter and I had all known each other for years. Peter was a native Oklahoman as well but left shortly after Brad and I moved to Texas. We all stayed connected though. Peter was still living elsewhere when we started dating. You guessed it, he was living in California. We knew we couldn’t remain in a long distance relationship forever. We had to decide where to live. Should I go there when so much of my life was cultivated around Oklahoma and Texas? After all, this time the decision didn’t just involve me. I had a four year old to now think about. I had a bit of an internal meltdown, again, and who was there to drop words of wisdom (and the mic)? Yep, my momma. She said to me, “Of course it’s California. You’ve always wanted to live on the West Coast. That’s where you wanted to go to college. That’s where you’ve always wanted to perform. That’s where you should go.”

I know this will sound weird to you, but by that point in my life I had forgotten about California. Not in the sense that I didn’t fantasize about the Oscar speech or doing movies and TV, but that was just daydream stuff. I forgot I wanted to go to college there. When my mom said that, it was if she snapped her fingers and suddenly I remembered the era BB (before Brad).

I chose California. That swell in my heart this morning was remembering how I got here. Bradley wasn’t just a stepping stone. At my acting studio, when we analyze a script our teacher always asks us, “what would be missing if this scene wasn’t here?” If that chapter of my life was taken out, everything would be missing. It had to occur at that time because he didn’t have a lot of time.

It was as if when the three of us met, the Universe came to me and said, “Listen, you can go where you want to go now, or experience love in two ways that will change you forever.” So, I chose love. What the Universe didn’t tell me is that in doing so, I’d end up in the place of my dreams anyway.

Ain’t life grand?

Brad and Peter in the early years.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in anyway that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.