This post is late. It’s early January as I write this, which feels both ironic and fitting because December, for me, has always lingered. Christmas especially doesn’t end neatly on the 25th. It echoes. It settles.
It asks to be reflected on after the fact, once the noise quiets and what mattered most rises to the surface. So I’m allowing this December post to arrive when it needed to. Not on time, but honestly. When I think about December, about Christmas specifically, my mind doesn’t go to Christmas morning first.
It goes to Christmas Eve. It always has. That night holds a different kind of magic. Quieter, steadier, deeper. It’s the night where time slows just enough for people to find each other again.
According to tradition, Christmas Eve has long been a night of preparation and gathering. Historically, it marked fasting before feasting, waiting before celebration, darkness before light. In many cultures, it’s the night families come together. Sometimes more intentionally than on Christmas Day itself.
It is anticipation embodied. But beyond tradition, Christmas Eve is personal. It’s the night where everyone is there.
Where travel pauses. Where obligations soften. Where family, however defined, occupies the same physical space and, for a few hours, the same emotional one. It’s not about gifts, really. It’s about presence. For me, Christmas Eve evolved over the years, but its importance hasn’t diminished. The faces around the table have changed. The houses have changed. I’ve changed. But the feeling, that collective pause, that sense of this matters has stayed remarkably intact. There’s something sacred about a night that asks nothing of you except to show up. Charles Dickens once wrote, “I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.” I think Christmas Eve is the doorway to that practice.
It’s where intention is set. Where gratitude is felt before it’s expressed. Where love is made visible not through grand gestures, but through proximity. And maybe that’s why Christmas Eve often feels heavier with emotion. It carries memory. It carries absence. It carries hope.
It’s the night where those we miss are felt most strongly and where those we still have feel more precious.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand that Christmas Eve isn’t about recreating a perfect tradition. It’s about honoring continuity while allowing evolution. It’s about recognizing that togetherness itself is the gift that the act of gathering, of choosing each other for one intentional event, is enough. That realization inspired the story attached below.
I wanted to give Christmas Eve the spotlight she rarely receives. To personify her. To honor the quiet labor she performs year after year. Bringing people home to each other, creating space for connection, doing the unseen work that makes celebration possible.
This story is not about Santa or spectacle. It’s about service. About anticipation. About the sacred power of preparation and presence. About the night that holds us before the morning arrives.
So this December, late as it is, I offer gratitude for Christmas Eve. For family, however imperfect. For togetherness, however brief. For traditions that adapt instead of break.
And for the nights that ask us only to be.
Story of the Month
by me
The Visit of Christmas Eve
A Tale for the Season
I must tell you of Christmas Eve, though you think you know her already. You have marked her on your calendars, circled her in red, anticipated her arrival with the eagerness of children awaiting gifts. But I tell you truly, you do not know her at all.
She is not what you imagine.
While the great Santa Claus receives all the world’s attention, all its songs and stories, all its wonder and belief, Christmas Eve moves through the darkness like a whisper, like a held breath, like the space between heartbeats. She is discreet where he is jolly. She is mysterious where he is known. She is unsung, and perhaps just perhaps that is precisely as it should be.
For Christmas Eve does not come with fanfare.
She arrives in the afternoon’s fading light, when shadows grow long, and the world begins to slow its frantic pace. She slips through doorways left slightly ajar, moves along streets where lights begin to twinkle, touches the frost on windows with fingers gentle as prayer. She brings with her no bag of toys, no reindeer bells, no Ho-ho-ho to announce her presence.
What does she bring, you ask?
Preparation. Anticipation. The subtle magic of becoming.
Where she walks, hearts begin to open. Old grievances seem suddenly small. Family members traveling from distant places find their journeys smoothed, their impatience transformed to eagerness. In kitchens, hands that have been hurried all day slow their work, finding rhythm and even joy in the rolling of dough, the stirring of pots, the setting of tables with care.
This is her doing, though none credit her for it.
Christmas Eve touches the child who cannot sleep and whispers, “Rest will make tomorrow sweeter.” She steadies the father’s hand as he assembles the bicycle in the garage at midnight. She guides the mother who wraps the last gift with tears in her eyes, remembering her own mother who did the same. She settles over households like a blanket, bringing with her a peculiar peace, not the peace of silence, but the peace of rightness, of things falling into their proper places.
She is the curator of togetherness, the architect of gathering.
Watch her work, if you can catch sight of her at all. See how she moves through the grandmother’s house where three generations will soon arrive, adjusting a picture frame here, straightening a wreath there, her presence ensuring that every detail speaks of welcome. Observe her in the humble apartment where a single parent has done their best with little, how she makes the simple decorations glow with worthiness, with enough-ness.
Christmas Eve knows a secret that Santa, for all his magic, does not: the gift is not in the giving alone, but in the space created for giving to occur. She is that space. She is the pause before the celebration, the breath before the song, the darkness that makes the morning light so precious.
And yet, and here is the peculiar sadness of her station, the night does not belong to her.
It belongs to the families she has prepared. It belongs to the children she has helped to settle. It belongs to the lovers who walk hand-in-hand through snow-dusted streets, to the friends who gather for cocoa and carols, to all the souls she has gently guided toward each other. She creates the conditions for bonding, for feasting, for festivities and games and laughter, for the spreading of that particular fullness that only this night can bring.
Then she withdraws.
She is too humble to remain where she is not the center, too wise to intrude upon what she has helped to create. Unlike Santa, who arrives with spectacle and departs with legend, Christmas Eve simply…fades. She becomes the background hum, the atmospheric blessing, the forgotten architect of the very magic others will remember.
By morning, all will speak of Christmas. Of Santa’s visit, of gifts exchanged, of the meal shared. But who will remember Christmas Eve? Who will credit her patient work, her subtle preparations, her quiet transformation of ordinary hours into sacred time?
Very few. Perhaps none at all.
And yet she returns, year after year, faithful as the turning of the calendar, constant as the winter dark. She asks for no songs, no cookies left out, no tracking of her progress across the globe. She requires no belief to do her work; she simply does it, for the work itself, for the love of what comes after.
So tonight, when the sun sets, and that particular hush begins to fall, when you feel the air change and something inexplicable stir in your chest that is her. That is Christmas Eve, making her rounds, weaving her gentle enchantments, preparing the way for all that is to come.
She is the guiding star of anticipation itself.
She is real, though unheralded. She is present, though unseen. She is the living embodiment of service without recognition, of giving without receiving, of magic worked for its own pure sake.
And if you listen very carefully, in that space between afternoon and night, between the ordinary day and the extraordinary one to come, you might just hear her not speaking, for she is too discreet for that, but breathing. Hoping. Blessing.
Working her quiet wonders while the world waits for someone else entirely.
That is Christmas Eve. That is her story.
And now you know her, just a little better than before.
What I’m Currently Working on
To stay updated on my journey and what I’ll be working on next, feel free to visit the Works in Progress Page or follow the Facebook Page, where I share daily updates and fun tidbits.
October crept in with a chill that wasn’t just in the air. It was in the atmosphere. The kind that makes you think about what you show, what you hide, and what lingers underneath it all. Maybe it’s the Halloween of it, or maybe it’s something deeper. Either way, this month asked me to think about masks. Not the kind made of cloth or plastic, but the kind we wear without realizing it.
We all wear them, don’t we? The “I’m fine” mask. The “I’ve got it together” mask. The “don’t worry about me, I’m strong” mask.
They start out as small protections. Tiny performances to make the world easier to face. However, if you wear them for too long, they stop being costumes and start becoming a part of your skin. That’s what I wanted to explore this month with my story at the end of this blog. It’s a horror story on the surface, but underneath, it’s about something hauntingly human: what happens when we lose ourselves trying to please everyone else.
According to Merriam-Webster, a mask is “a covering for the face used for disguise or protection.” And that definition says it all. Disguise or protection. Sometimes both.
We use masks to hide our pain, to shield our vulnerability, and to curate how others perceive us. They make us feel safe, seen, or sometimes invisible, depending on what we need at the time. But like any good disguise, the danger lies in forgetting there’s a real face underneath.
This month, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own masks. The parts of me that shift depending on where I am or who I’m with. The teacher mask. The artist mask. The “I’m fine” mask when I’m not. There’s a strange comfort in them: they help us survive, adapt, and connect. But they can also silence us. They can make us forget that authenticity isn’t a performance, it’s a practice.
And that practice takes courage. Because taking off a mask isn’t as simple as removing it. Sometimes, it’s peeling it. Layer by layer. Sometimes, it’s realizing you’ve worn it so long that your reflection looks wrong without it. Sometimes, it’s looking in the mirror and not knowing who’s underneath. But here’s the truth I’m holding onto this October: Your real face, the one that’s messy, tired, unsure, imperfect, is worth showing.
Even when it feels risky. Even when the world prefers the mask. In my story for the month, “Losing Face,” Maya, the protagonist, learns that hiding behind versions of herself only leads to disappearance. It’s a chilling metaphor, but it’s also a mirror for so many of us. We think we’re protecting ourselves by performing, but over time, we erode our own edges. This month reminded me how important it is to check in with myself and ask: Am I being real, or am I just being who I think they want me to be?
The great poet Oscar Wilde once said,
Maybe he was right in a way. That masks can reveal things that honesty alone can’t. But they can also hide us from the people who deserve to see us most. As October fades and the masks of Halloween get boxed away, I’m trying to take that metaphor to heart. To practice showing up as myself always. To let my real face be enough, even when it feels vulnerable. Especially then. Because the scariest thing about masks isn’t putting them on. It’s forgetting to take them off.
Story of the Month
by me
Losing Face
The mirror knows what Maya tries to hide—
That girl who shifts like water, side to side,
Who shapes herself to fit each watching eye,
Who wears a different face for every lie.
She stood before her glass that Friday eve,
And counted all the masks she’d learned to
weave:
The smile that made her mother sigh relief,
The laugh that buried all her secret grief,
The girl who never cracked, who never bent,
The perfect, pretty, polished one they meant
To see when Maya walked into a room.
She tried them on like choosing her costume
—
First one, then two, then three stacked on her
face,
Each mask a different role, a different place
She’d learned to occupy when people
watched.
And underneath them all, her real self:
botched,
Forgotten, buried deep beneath the weight
Of all these faces she’d learned to create.
Which one tonight? she wondered, standing
there.
But as she reached to smooth her tangled
hair,
Her fingers brushed her cheek and felt—not
skin—
But smoothness, coldness, something hard
and thin.
She looked again and felt her stomach drop.
Her face—her actual face—had seemed to
stop
Existing. In its place: a blank of white,
A smooth expanse like snow, like bone, like
fright
Made manifest in porcelain and air.
She clawed at it, but nothing waited there—
No seam, no edge, no place where mask
would end
And Maya’s face begin. They couldn’t blend
Because her face was gone. Just—gone.
Erased.
The blankness where her features had been
placed
Stared back at her: no eyes, no nose, no
mouth,
Just white, white, white, expanding north to
south.
She tried to scream but had no mouth to
scream with.
Tried to cry but had no eyes to dream with.
Tried to breathe but—could she? Was she
breathing?
She couldn’t tell. Her whole self felt like
leaving,
Slipping through her fingers, through the
floor,
Dissolving into nothing anymore.
Her phone buzzed on the dresser. Twenty
texts.
From Jordan: Where are you? We’re all
preplexed.
From Alex: Party’s starting, please don’t
flake!
From Mom, downstairs: Are you okay, for
heaven’s sake?
And standing there, faceless, voiceless, gone,
Maya understood what she had done—
The years of being different for each friend,
Of twisting, changing, shifting, making her
blend
Into whatever shape they needed most.
She’d worn so many faces like a ghost
Wears different sheets, that underneath the
masks
There was no face at all to do the tasks
Of being Maya, being real, being true.
She’d given all her faces out to you—
To Jordan, Alex, Mom, to teachers, strangers,
Boys she’d kissed, to friends and all the
dangers
That came from wanting desperately to
please,
From bending herself into what would ease
Their comfort, their approval, their demand
—
Until her real face couldn’t understand
How to exist when no one else was watching.
And so it left. Her face. It went. Now mocking
Her from the void where faces go to die
When worn too thin by every different lie.
She stumbled down the stairs, the house a
blur
Of walls and sounds that didn’t comfort her.
Her mother stood there, spatula in hand,
And looked at Maya—tried to understand
The thing before her: daughter-shaped but
wrong,
A body with no face, nothing to belong
To any name or category known.
Her mother screamed. The sound cut to the
bone—
Or would have, if Maya had bones to feel.
But was she Maya still? Was she real?
Without a face to call her own, to mark
Her as distinct, unique, not just some dark
And formless nothing wearing Maya’s
clothes?
Her mother backed away. The kitchen froze
Around them both—time-stopping, breaking,
caught
Between the girl her mother knew and
thought
She’d raised, and this blank creature,
faceless, strange.
Mom, it’s me! she tried to say. No change
Occurred. No sound emerged. No voice
existed
Where her mouth had been. She’d been
enlisted
In an army of the lost, the disappeared,
The girls who wore so many masks they’ve
smeared
Away their real selves underneath the
weight.
Her mother called the police. “Please, don’t be
late,
There’s something in my house, it’s not my
daughter,
It’s—I don’t know—please send someone—”
The water
In Maya’s eyes—except she had no eyes—
Felt hot and thick. A sob without the cries.
Her mother couldn’t see her anymore.
She’d worn too many masks and now the
door
To her real self had closed, had locked, had
sealed
Her out. Her face would not be revealed
Because she’d given it away in pieces,
A little bit to each friend, until it ceases
To be whole, to be hers, to exist at all.
She ran—or did the faceless run or fall?
She moved through streets like wind, like
smoke, like fear,
And everywhere she went, people would
veer
Away from her, would scream or gasp or stare
At the blank horror of her face, the bare
Nothingness where Maya used to be.
At Jordan’s house the party raged with glee
—
Costumes and music, laughter, dancing, light.
Maya stood outside, alone, the night
Pressing around her like a living thing.
She watched through windows, saw them all:
the ring
Of friends she’d built by being who they
wanted,
By suppressing what her own heart haunted,
By swallowing her truths and speaking
theirs.
She saw the girl—was that Samira?—wearing
A mask that looked familiar: Maya’s smile,
The one she used with athletes. And
meanwhile,
Jordan wore a diffrent Maya mask—
The party girl, the wild one. Every task
Maya’d done, each role that she had played,
Was being worn by others, a parade
Of Maya faces that were not her own
Because she’d given them away. She’d sown
Her face in pieces across all her friends
Until there was no Maya. It ends
Like this: a faceless girl outside a party
Where everyone’s wearing the face she used
to be.
She pressed her hands—at least she still had
those—
Against the window glass. In rows and rows,
The party-goers danced with Maya’s faces,
Each one performing, filling in the spaces
She’d occupied with carefully crafted lies.
And none of them could see her. No surprise.
How could they recognize her when they’d
never
Seen her real face? She’d been so clever,
So careful to show each of them a version
Of herself they’d like—a careful immersion
In whoever they needed her to be.
But who was Maya when there was no
“they”?
Who was she when no one watched or
waited?
Who was she before she’d abdicated
Her own face for the faces she could wear?
She couldn’t remember. Standing there,
Faceless, voiceless, disappearing fast,
She tried to reach back to her past
And find a moment when she’d just been her
—
Not performing, not trying to defer
To someone else’s comfort or desire,
Not dampening her own internal fire
To make room for the people around her.
But every memory felt like a blur
Of different Mayas, none of them quite true.
The girl who laughed too loud. The girl who
knew
To stay quiet. The girl who played dumb.
The girl who acted smart. They’d all become
So tangled up together that she’d lost
The thread of who she was beneath the cost
Of being everything to everyone.
And now her face—her real face—was gone.
Erased. Deleted. Lost to the void
Of all the masks she’d carefully deployed.
The glass beneath her hands began to crack.
Not breaking, but responding—fighting back
Against the weight of what stood pressing
there:
A girl-shaped nothing, empty, blank, unfair
In its erasure, in its warning, in
Its horrible reminder that your skin,
Your face, your self—they’re not infinite
resources
To be divided up. There are courses
Of consequence for giving yourself away
In pieces, bit by bit, day after day,
Until there’s nothing left that’s yours alone.
The window shattered. Maya stood,
unknown
And unknowable, in Jordan’s living room.
The music stopped. The party met its doom
As everyone turned, stared, began to scream
At the faceless figure from a nightmare
dream.
Jordan ripped off Maya’s borrowed face—
The mask she’d worn—and it fell into place
On Maya’s blank expanse. But it didn’t stick.
It slid right off, like oil, slippery, slick,
Because it wasn’t hers. It was a copy,
A performance, a mask, and masks are sloppy
Imitations of the truth beneath.
Maya felt something rising like a wreath
Of thorns around her throat—a desperate
sound,
A wordless howl of grief for what she’d
drowned
In years of people-pleasing, of performing.
Of waking every day and transforming
Into whoever everyone else needed,
Until her own needs went completely
unheeded
Even by herself. Especially by herself.
The sound that came was unlike anything
else—
A shriek, a wail, a cry of pure despair
That had no mouth to shape it, only air
And anguish, emptiness and loss and rage
At what she’d done, at what the final page
Of her story might be: a blank space,
A cautionary tale of losing face.
The party guests fled screaming out the door.
But Jordan stayed—perhaps she’d seen
before
The signs that Maya’d struggled, maybe
knew
The weight her friend had carried, pushed on
through.
She picked up all the Maya masks that lay
Scattered on the floor, the ones they’d played
At being, and she held them to the light.
“Is this what you’ve been doing? Every night,
Every day, with all of us? Pretending?
Maya, this” — She gestured to the bending,
Breaking girl-shape standing blank before
her.
“This is what happens when you ignore her—
When you ignore yourself. You’ve given us
So many faces, made such a fuss
About being what we wanted, that you’ve
lost
Your real face. Maya, what’s the cost
Been like? Carrying all these different
versions?
Playing all these roles, these immersions
In whoever we needed you to be?”
The faceless Maya sank down to her knee,
Then both knees, then collapsed there on the
floor,
And Jordan sat beside her. “I wish you’d told
me more.
I wish I’d seen you—really seen you. Not
The masks. But I was comfortable with what
You showed me. It was easy. It was nice.
I didn’t ask for more. I didn’t think the price
You paid was this. I’m sorry, Maya. I’m
So sorry.” Jordan cried, and for a time
They sat there in the wreckage of the party,
Surrounded by the masks—the false, the
artsy,
The carefully constructed lies that Maya
Had worn until she’d made herself a player
With no true character, no solid core.
I don’t know how to be me anymore,
Maya tried to say. And this time, words—
Faint, fragile, quiet as the flight of birds—
Emerged from where her mouth should be. “I
lost
Myself. I gave away too much. The cost
Was everything. My face. My voice. My truth.
I spent so long performing since my youth
That I forgot that I was supposed to be
Someone underneath. There’s no more me.”
Jordan took her hand. “Then we’ll start from
scratch.
We’ll sit here, and you’ll tell me—try to catch
Whatever’s left of Maya, the real girl
Beneath the masks. Let her voice unfurl
Even if it’s small, even if it’s scared.
Tell me something true. Something you’ve
never shared
Because it didn’t fit the mask you wore
With me. Tell me something from your core.”
The faceless girl sat silent for a while.
Then, faint and small, without a mouth to
smile
Or lips to form the words, she spoke a truth:
“I’m tired. I’ve been tired since my youth.
Of smiling when I’m not happy. Of
pretending
That I’m fine when I’m not. Of bending
Myself into shapes I don’t fit. Of being
Strong when I’m breaking. Of freeing
Everyone else to be themselves while I
Stayed silent. Jordan, I don’t want to lie
Anymore. But I don’t know how to stop.
I don’t know who I am without the prop
Of all these masks, these faces, these
personas.
I’m scared that without them, I’m just a loner,
That nobody will like me if I’m real,
That my true self isn’t good enough to feel
Worthy of love or friendship or belonging.”
And as she spoke, she felt it—something
longing,
Something stirring in the blank expanse
Of where her face had been. A second
chance?
Or just the faintest outline, barely there,
Of features forming slowly in the air—
A hint of eyes, uncertain and afriad,
A shadow where a mouth might be,
half-made,
A sketch of nose, of cheeks, of chin, of brow.
“Keep going,” Jordan whispered. “Tell me now
More truths. Tell me things you’ve hidden,
buried,
Swallowed down because you were worried
They’d make you seem less perfect, less ideal.”
And Maya spoke. And speaking what was
real—
However small, however scared, however
Imperfect—seemed to tether her together,
To pull her back from the void she’d fallen in.
“I’m jealous sometimes. I’ve told lies. My skin
Breaks out and I feel ugly. I don’t always
Want to go to parties. Some days
I want to scream at my mother. I’m not sure
What I want to do with my life. The pure
Truth is I’m confused and I’m scared
And I’m lonely even when I’m surrounded.
I’ve dared
Myself to be perfect for so long
That I don’t know how to just be wrong.
Or messy, or imperfect, or just me.”
And with each truth, more of her face would
be
Restored—still faint, still fragile, barely there,
But forming, slowly, in the darkened air.
It took all night. It took confession, tears,
It took admitting all her secret fears,
Her doubts, her anger, all the parts she’d
hidden
To be acceptable, to seem unbidden
By darkness or complexity or pain.
And slowly, slowly, like the gentlest rain,
Her features came back, piece by trembling
piece—
Though changed, somehow. A if the release
Of truth had altered how her face would
form.
This face was softer, less concerned with
norm
And expectation. This face could frown
Or cry or show confusion, could be down
Without apology. This face was real.
And Maya touched it, tried to learn to feel
The angles of her cheekbones, her own nose,
The way her mouth curved, the way it chose
To sit when no one else was watching her.
“It’s strange,” she whispered. “I’m not even sure
This is what I looked like before. It feels
Different. New.” She ran her fingers, peels
Away the tears. “But it’s mine. It’s really mine.
Not borrowed, not performed. I think I’ll find
It’s harder, wearing just my own true face.
People won’t always like it. Some will chase
The other Mayas, the masks I used to wear.
But I can’t do that anymore. I swear
I’ll never wear a mask again. I’ll be
Uncomfortable. Imperfect. I’ll just be me.”
Jordan smiled. “You’ll lose some friends.
Maybe
Some of us can’t handle that. But maybe
Some of us have been waiting all along
For the real you. Maybe we were wrong
To let you hide. Maybe we should have asked
Why you kept your self so carefully
masked.”
The sun rose slowly over Jordan’s house,
And Maya stood before the mirror, doused
In morning light, and looked upon her face—
Her real face, earned back through truth and
grace,
Through painful honesty, through letting
down
The walls, the masks, the performance, the
renown
That came from being everything to all
This face was hers. And if some friends would
call
It strange, or diffrent, or too much, too real,
Then they weren’t friends who’d help her
heal.
She touched her cheek—warm skin, real skin,
no mask—
And thought about the monumental task
Ahead of her: to live each day as herself,
To take her authentic self off the shelf
Where she’d hidden her away for years.
It wouldn’t be easy. There would be tears
And moments when the old urge to perform
Would rise up like a siren, like a swarm
Of voices telling her to shape-shift, hide,
To tuck her real self back away inside
And wear the masks that made life easier,
smooth.
But Maya’d learned the terrible, hard truth:
That masks might ease the moment, ease the
day,
But worn too long, too much, they’d take
away
Not just your face—your actrual, real face—
But all of you. They’d strip you, leave no trace
Of who you were beneath. They’d eat you
whole.
And so she’d carry foward with her soul
Laid bare, her face her own, her voice her true
Voice, even when it shook. She’d muddle
through
With imperfection, mess, and raw humanity.
Better to be real—to just be me—
Than lose yourself to masks you wear for
others.
Better to find the friends who’ll be your
brothers
And sisters in truth, who’ll love you as you
are.
Maya walked home as the morning star
Faded into daylight, and her face—
Her own, true,
earned-back-through-confession face—
Felt strange and new and terrifying and right.
She’d lost her face that one October night.
But in the losing, in the horror, in the void,
She’d learned what mattered: not to be
deployed
In service of others’ comfort, not to wear
A different face for every person there.
The lesson cost her everything to learn:
That masks will take and take, they’ll burn
Away your face, your voice, yourself, your
core,
Until there’s nothing of you anymore.
Be yourself. Your real, imperfect, messy self.
Don’t leave your true face sitting on a shelf
While you perform for others. It’s not worth
The cost. You only get one face from birth—
Wear it. Own it. Let it be enough.
The world may say that you should be more
tough,
More pretty, more compliant, more like this
Or that. Resist. Remember Maya’s kiss
With horror, her encounter with the void.
Your face is yours. Don’t let it be destroyed
By wearing masks for others. Just be true.
The greatest gift you’ll ever give is you.
What I’m Currently Working on
To stay updated on my journey and what I’ll be working on next, feel free to visit the Works in Progress Page or follow the Facebook Page, where I share daily updates and fun tidbits.
Patience. I want to sit with that word for a second. Not rush into defining it or dressing it up. Just let it breathe on the page the way I’ve had to let it breathe in my life this month. Patience. It’s not my favorite virtue, and yet it’s the one I keep getting handed. Like an unwanted gift that turns out to be exactly what you needed, even if it didn’t come wrapped in joy or ease or immediacy. Not dramatically. But definitely. What is Patience, anyway?
The word comes from the Latin patiēntia, meaning “the quality of suffering”—which makes it make a lot more sense, actually. Patience isn’t waiting quietly with a smile on your face. It’s enduring. It’s staying when you want to leave. It’s breathing when everything tightens.It’s loving something, or someone, or yourself…even when you don’t have the proof yet that it’ll all be okay. There’s a quote I found that resonated with me:
“Patience is not the ability to wait, but the ability to keep a good attitude while waiting.”—Joyce Meyer
However, I’d like to push that a little further. Because sometimes a “good attitude” is just not lashing out. I didn’t give up. I let it hurt and didn’t make it worse. That counts too.
This month, I have been sitting with uncertainty. Big things. Personal shifts. And maybe most meaningfully, I embraced my genderqueerness more boldly than ever before. People I miss.Conversations unfinished. Doors that wouldn’t open, no matter how I knocked.
And you know what? I didn’t kick them down this time. I sat. I sat with the silence and the non-answer. I chose slowness even when I wanted to sprint. I let space exist between me and resolution.
I told myself: “Let it unfold. You don’t need to hold the ending yet.” And that wasn’t always peaceful. But it was patient. I think that counts too. Patience isn’t passive. It’s trust wearing sweatpants. It’s saying, “I still believe in the garden, even when all I see is dirt.” It’s choosing not to scream at the seed.
Poem of the Month
by me
How to Be Patient
Step one: sit with the ache.
don’t ice it.
don’t explain it.
let it be sore, let it breathe.
even if it bruises your pride.
Step two: stop refreshing the page.
the message will come when it comes.
the moment will move when it’s ready.
no amount of checking will make the clock hurry.
Step three: whisper kindness to yourself.
not promises. not platitudes. just
“I’m still here.”
“I’m still learning.”
“I’m still worth it.”
Step four: let life take the long way.
the shortcut never sees the view.
and you are here to witness
not just to arrive.
Story of the Month
by me
The Waiting Place
There was once a boy who was always rushing ahead, certain that life was hiding something better just around the corner. One day, he met an old woman sitting beside a still pond. She told him this was the Waiting Place.
“How do I get out?” he asked.
“You don’t,” she said. “Not until you learn to love the pause.”
He sat beside her, angry and aching and anxious, but she didn’t say another word. Just smiled softly, her hands in her lap like she had all the time in the world.
Eventually, he stopped asking.
Eventually, he started listening.
Eventually, the wind changed, the water moved, and he stood—lighter, slower. somewhere wiser.
He turned to thank her, but she was gone. Only her seat remained, still warm.
Im heading into August with the same warmth in my chest. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m staying close to the quiet. Close to the process. Close to myself. Patience isn’t easy, but it’s powerful. And I’m practicing it like a spell.
See you next month.
—Lj
What I’m Currently Working on
These days, my schedule feels like a careful balancing act as I shift from teaching to focusing on writing and refining my craft. I returned to Texas around June 20th, having completed my year of service in New Jersey. I’m no longer tutoring, as that was part of my program at the time. With middle school testing behind me, I find myself eagerly awaiting the start of my graduate school classes at UNT on August 18th. This past year has been quite transformative, and I’m excited to share my plans and the progress I’ve made during this time. To stay updated on my journey and what I’ll be working on next, feel free to visit the Works in Progress Page or follow the Facebook Page, where I share daily updates and fun tidbits.
This week, my final week of my final term online with SNHU, has been one full of reflection. Not only do my last two classes that end tomorrow call for reflection in all the final assignments but I personally have just found myself in the state as this journey comes to an end and the next begins. Reflection is an important process of both the beginning and start of anything; we can not move on to the next thing until we reflect on how we have grown and changed due to whatever just ended. Lao Tzu says, “The greatest journey is the one of self-discovery.”
My college journey started in 2019. First, I studied hard and got my GED that same year and followed the momentum without a second thought, and enrolled in college. I chose SNHU because it had online courses and an English and creative writing program. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with a degree but I knew I wanted to get one to prove to myself I could. As for the chosen major and program, I had been writing poetry for myself since I was 18 to cope with my depression and anxiety, so I thought it was a good start reference to study. If Im being honest, though, in those early days, I really doubted myself because I hadn’t stayed with a full commitment to something for too long in my adulthood at that point. So, the fact that I have now completed the process is unbelievable and overwhelming to me. I apologize now because I have a feeling this won’t be the last time I write on this, and yes, Im aware most of my blog posts have been about my impending graduation, but that’s because it is such a monumental deal for me. Reflecting back on the start of this journey and how it started spontaneously on a hopeful whim to how its ending is a journey in itself.
I went into my first year still doubting, soft-spoken, and completely and utterly scared. The change in me and how quick it came within just that first year of courses online is still outstanding to me. I found myself doing and speaking out about stuff that I had wanted to for years from going by Lj at long last, even though I had wanted to since at least pre-K, and playing D&D (Dungeons & Dragons) for the first time and becoming completely enamored, shout out to Critical Role for educating me during the pandemic. Though these things may seem small, they showcase the confidence and personal growth I went through during not just that first year but continued still today.
This website and this blog are also a huge reflection of my growth, as this is not something I would have been confident enough to do, sadly, without SNHU. My time, though brief, as a freelance writer with multiple websites back in 2020 and 2021, such as ScreenRant.com, wouldn’t have been fathomable either, and further the decision and acknowledgment of myself that I am not that type of writer to write articles and news. I also have a huge opportunity coming up that could be life-changing that I would have never sought out or thought attainable for me without the confidence and self-awareness I built with my time at SNHU. More than that, though, my skills and identity as a writer/who I want to be as a writer would not have happened without SNHU. Self-identifying as a poet/author of the YA contemporary and fantasy audiences of those voiceless individuals looking for themselves would not have been found without the countless times of reflection made throughout the various courses I had with SNHU.
See, as a writer, I know how important reflection is because reflection is a necessary process during revision. I story in any format can not be told before you understand why it is YOU are telling. Similarly, so, a story can not be fully finished before you reflect on it to see how that beginning sentiment changed and if that change is good. As of right now, this chapter of my life, which is my college career, does seem like it changed me for the better, but only time will tell. Recently, I made a Spotify playlistreflecting on my time with SNHU if you want to check that out. I already posted it on the official JustLj Facebook page, which you should follow for updates, which there will likely be a lot of soon.
What I’m Currently Working on
Currently, I am one day away(as of April 27th) from the last day of my last two courses at SNHU, Advanced Creative Writing and Popular Culture, instructed by Professor Molly Sutton Kiefer and Phillip Wagner. As always, to follow my progression or what I am doing, you can head over to the Works in Progress Page or follow the Facebook Page where I post updates and share fun tidbits daily.
Author Recommendation
This month, keeping the theme of reflection, I am going to share my own work in this section. One piece is from the start of my college journey, and another represents the end of my college journey.
All The Blue Things
Tonight, Dani was finally going to put an end to the constant object of his maddening mind. Blue, blue, nothing but blue in a continual loop in his head for over ten years ever since he first saw it.
It was one of his earliest memories as he was startled awake one night by an intruder like the world had never seen. Dani himself first thought himself to be having a nightmare. What he saw stumbling and fumbling around his room looked like an exaggerated character from one of his favorite TV shows.
The creature had to hunch over to fit in Dani’s small bedroom; however, it was thin enough it didn’t seem to be too uncomfortable. With its giant hands and feet, it crawled around in search of something, which Dani found odd since it was in his room.
Suddenly the Monster roared, only it wasn’t a furious noise, more like a boisterous chuckle. At a closer vantage point, Dani could see the creature was extremely hairy with untamable blue fur all over it except for its hands and feet, as well as three sections on its face for its large bulbous eyes and a small green buttoned nose.
An outstretched mouth began to salivate as the Monster stared at Dani’s favorite teddy bear. As if the moment couldn’t get even more unbelievable, the beast spoke.
“Blue,”
it mumbled out through the gross amount of fur and saliva. Referencing the color of the teddy bear, it began to open its mouth wider as it slowly leaned towards the stuffed animal as if it was going to eat it.
“No! That’s mine!” the young Dani loudly muttered out.
The Monster stopped what it was doing and turned its attention to Dani.
“Give it!”
Dani proclaimed, to which the Monster tilted its head then said,
“Mo Monster love blue.”
Then just like that, he tossed the blue teddy bear in his mouth, letting out a disgusting loud burp afterward to show its satisfaction.
“Yummy blue!” Mo announced before escaping away out of Dani’s bedroom window.
Now fifteen years old, Dani was an odd young man due to his obsession with Mo Monster. Gone were the days of having friends. Most of the kids who grew up with him had given up on him. His parents had even given up on trying to have him be an ‘ordinary’ kid. At one point, they had him go to a therapist, but after a while, even the professional gave up.
Dani could care less about his well-being and what people thought. He would focus on all of that after he captured Mo Monster.
Dani learned a little more about the bizarre blue beast throughout the years each time it came lurking. After the first couple of times, Dani realized Mo would leave only after consuming a blue object, much like his once blue teddy bear. Dani would use all of it to finally trap the Monster as his prize.
Knowing tonight was the night Mo always visited ever since that fateful night so long ago now. He waited till his parents left for their date night, so the house was all his, so he used every inch to his exposure of entrapping his mischievous enemy.
Piling various blue things right in the middle of the largest area in the house, the family room. He had acquired a snare trap that was discretely hidden near the alluring pile that would string him up by his ginormous feet so he could not run.
Of course, Mo wouldn’t just come while Dani was obviously waiting for him, so he would need to go about the night as if it was any other and wait till the Monster arrived. While pretending to be asleep, he heard a loud ruckus he hoped was a tied-up monster.
Dangling by his feet, trying to get out of the snare, was the enormous blue and fuzzy wide-eyed Monster known as Mo.
The moment should’ve been the crowning achievement of Danis’ life, but looking at his rival now, he couldn’t help to see a metaphorical representation of what his own life had become.
Mo Monsters’ whole life was chasing one thing over and over with no real purpose. Seeing that he was doing the same, Dani released the Monster, who was never seen again.
Whispers in the Wind
The city buzzes around me, a whirlwind of noise and chaos. In the midst of it all, I feel like a ghost wandering through a world that no longer reconizes me. My name is Maya Dawson, a poet by passion, a lost soul by circumstance. The words that used to flow so effortlessly from my pen have dried up, leaving me hollow and adrift.
On this particularly bleak afternoon, I find myself in a rundown cafe on the outskirts of the city. The smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the atmosphere as I sit alone at a table, staring blankly at the empty pages of my poetry notebook.
Just then a voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts—a voice belonging to an old man with the kindest eyes and gentleness of smiles.
“I’ve been watching you, Maya,” the old man says, his voice soft in tone but filled with the utmost certainty. “I can see the storm raging within you, the words trapped in your heart, desperate to be set free.” His words echo throughout me, stirring something long dormant deep inside.
Eli, as the old man introduces himself soon, thereafter, becomes a rather steadfast presence in my life over time. He leads me to a hidden garden tucked away from the rest of the world, a sanctuary of silence and solitude. It is there, surrounded by lush greenery and the sweet scent of flowers, I feel a whisper of something—something greater than myself.
As the days turn into weeks, Eli becomes a mentor of sorts to me, guiding me through the labyrinth of my own soul. He encourages me to confront my greatest fears, to embrace all of my doubts, and to ultimately give voice against the shadows that haunt me. Through his patient wisdom, I begin to see a glimmer of light at the end of my voiceless tunnel.
One night, under a canopy of stars, I find myself alone in the hidden garden, the weight of the world heavy on my shoulders. With a trembling hand, I pick up my trusty old pen and begin to write at long last in my wordless book for poems. They come slowly at first, like a hesitant whisper, but then the words finally flow like a torrent of emotion and truth.
In this moment of complete vulnerability, I close my eyes and whisper out my deepest sorrows as well as my happiest joys to the wind, letting my written word become spoken to perhaps the heavens above.
“ I do not want to go to war
with myself
with my identity
but I have always struggled
with the sense of self
the sense
of me
The fear is to unlock the cage to let it be free to only know what not to do
The uncertainty that the decision would be a guaranteed benefit to me
But what if the long turn of hide and seek is the real regret
and only thing that will come with guilt once
I come face to face with death
Is the fight worth standing up for
or should I fall and start anew
What really am I fighting
if
I am constantly questioning
Am I afraid that these thoughts aren’t me
or am I actually terrified to truly come out of my shell
and be the butterfly
I was always meant to be.”
I feel a sense real release—of true peace—washing over me like a cleansing rain.
And then, to my utter surprise, and amazement, I hear my very words echoing back to me through the gentle breeze as the wind rustles through the nearby leaves causing me to weep.
As the first light of dawn breaks over the horizon of the garden that following morning, Eli appears beside me as I calmly awake my pen and notebook still clutched and open in my hands and dry tears adorned down my cheeks. His eyes are filled with a quite knowing as he says with that gentle caress of his old smile to me, “You have found your voice, Maya. You have spoken to God, and He has heard you.”
In that moment, surrounded by the beauty of the garden and the warmth of Eli’s kind presence, I realize that the key to finding myself was hidden within me all along.
Poem for the Month
Following the same sentiments as above in the theme of this month’s theme of reflection, I will share a poem from the beginning of my college journey and a more recent one.
JustLj.com 