I wrote this in April 2020. I wrote this with so much hope that I had finally gotten to acceptance. Two years later, I was diagnosed with Depression and Complicated Grief. To be fair, I went through another significant loss in 2021 that I am still navigating. Today, on the anniversary of one of the worst days of my life, I will bring it back because it’s still as relevant today as it was then. Grief changes you on a fundamental level.
The one thing that humans do so well is, create. What distinguishes us from the other species in the animal kingdom is our ability to create stories with whatever medium we choose. As human beings evolved so did their art forms. From cave paintings to Leonardo De Vinci’s Mona Lisa and books. From stories told by the fireplace to theater to movies.
Dear Me. Happy Birthday.
Dear me I love to write. I also hate to write. I want to write. I also don’t want to write. This is the life of a writer.
I’m a millennial. That generation the straddles the pre and post-internet explosion. I like to believe we are that magical generation that had the best of both worlds.
March 8th. Today. Women’s Day.
There is a fine line between sanity and insanity. The two are apparently distinct entities. At least that’s what they said.
I still remember a time when the new year was a beacon of hope.
She is the smart reader-writer with the most radiant smile.