In my young adult years, I had a hard time being seen for who I was.
I was always identified by where I grew up, whose sister I was or who I hung out with. Although I loved those aspects of myself, I was more.
As years went on, I had to make choices for my happiness. Choices often opposite of what I thought was expected of me. That meant becoming vulnerable to change and criticism.
That shift came with a yearning to experience more of what life had to offer. I began to look outside the walls put in place by others and myself to live a life God wanted me to live.
I began to capture these experiences in my writing. This became a way for me to purge, process and heal.
This blog is that journey and it continues. A journey full of love, tears, pride and lots of laughs.
Thanks for joining me.
A Symbol of a Family’s Place in American Culture
Recently, my aunt and mother’s youngest sister handed me a bag of aprons she’d been storing in her attic and wanted me to have them. I returned home with the bag and put it on the shelf in my bedroom closet. Weeks later when I saw her, I asked her about them. “I don’t want these aprons to carry ghosts of unknown dead people in my house.” I joked. “No, all those aprons belonged to someone in the family,” she said.