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JustLj in May Part III

The Blog About My Name

May feels like a strange month to write about a name. Not because names are small things, but because they’re so easy to overlook. They’re among the first gifts we’re given and one of the first things we offer to the world. We introduce ourselves with them. We sign them on forms. We answer to them.

We carry them for years, sometimes our entire lives. And yet, I’ve been thinking about names a lot lately. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about my name. Lj.

Not as a username. Not as a brand. Not as a website title. Just Lj. If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you’ve probably seen that phrase everywhere.

JustLj. It sits at the top of the page. It’s part of the website. It’s become shorthand for who I am.

But lately I’ve found myself reflecting on why those two letters matter so much to me. And the answer isn’t really about the letters. It’s about identity.

The last two blogs have been about depression, anxiety, awareness, acceptance, and the slow process of moving forward. They were difficult blogs to write because they required honesty. They required me to look directly at things I would rather avoid. This month feels like a continuation of that honesty. Because identity deserves honesty, too. Names carry significance far beyond simple identification. Across cultures and throughout history, names have carried meaning, stories, hopes, responsibilities, family connections, and expectations. They help shape how we are perceived and how we connect to the world around us. A name is often the first story someone learns about us. And sometimes it becomes a story we eventually need to rewrite.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, identity is “the fact of being who or what a person is.” Simple enough. But living inside an identity is rarely simple. Especially when you’re trying to understand yourself. Especially when you’re changing. Especially when you’re discovering pieces of yourself that took years to recognize.

For me, “Lj” represents something intentional. It represents a choice. A choice to be closer to myself than I used to be. Growing up, I often struggled to speak up for myself.

Sometimes literally. Sometimes emotionally. Sometimes socially. I spent a lot of years being whoever seemed easiest to be.

Whoever caused the least friction. Whoever required the least explanation. But identity has a way of eventually demanding acknowledgment. And once you become aware of yourself, it becomes harder to ignore.

As a genderqueer and nonbinary person, my relationship with identity has not always been straightforward. There wasn’t a single dramatic moment where everything suddenly made sense. It was slower than that.

More reflective. More gradual.Like most meaningful journeys are. Some people think changing how you introduce yourself is a small thing. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes choosing a name is an act of self-authorship. Sometimes it’s a fresh start. Sometimes it’s healing. Sometimes it’s the quiet declaration that the person you are becoming deserves to be acknowledged. I once read a quote by Erica Jong that has stayed with me:

“To name oneself is the first act of both poetry and revolution.”

The older I get, the more I understand what she meant. Naming yourself is not only about language. It’s about recognition. It’s about claiming ownership of your own story. And maybe that’s why it hurts when that recognition isn’t given. Because if I’m being honest, part of what inspired this blog wasn’t just reflection. It was frustration. Being called by a name that is not your preferred name can be deeply exhausting. Not always because of malice.

Often, because of habit. Most people are simply operating from familiarity. I know that. But understanding something intellectually does not always remove its emotional impact. There is a difference between knowing someone means well and feeling unseen.

There is a difference between habit and acknowledgment. And when it happens repeatedly, it can begin to feel like a kind of erasure. A small one. A passive one.But an erasure all the same.

It creates a strange kind of exhaustion because each moment asks the same question:

Do I correct it again?

Do I explain it again?

Do I let it go this time?

Most people only experience that decision occasionally. Some of us make it constantly. And that weight accumulates.

Not because a name is everything. But because identity matters. Recognition matters.

Respect matters. The Vietnamese monk and writer Thich Nhat Hanh once wrote:

“Call me by my true name, so that I may wake up.”

I’ve been thinking about that quote a lot lately. Because I don’t think he’s only talking about names. I think he’s talking about acknowledgment. The human need to be seen as we actually are. Not as we once were.Not as others expect us to be. Not as a convenient version of ourselves.

But as ourselves. Fully. Honestly. And maybe that’s what JustLj has always been about. Not branding. Not marketing.

Not creating a persona. The opposite, actually. The goal has always been authenticity. To be Just Lj.

Nothing added. Nothing hidden. Nothing performed. Just the person behind the words. I’m still figuring that person out. I suspect I always will be.

But May has reminded me that identity is not a destination you arrive at once and forever. It’s an ongoing conversation. An ongoing act of awareness. An ongoing act of acceptance.

An ongoing act of becoming. And maybe that’s why names matter so much. So this month, I’m thinking about names. About identity. About respect.

About being seen. About becoming. And most of all, about the quiet power contained in introducing yourself and saying:

This is who I am.

This is my name.

I’m Lj.

And that feels worth saying.

Here is a poem of mine I am going to reshare here because it relates to this blog and the significance of my preferred name to me:

JustLj in April Part III

The Blog About Moving Again

Last month, I wrote The Blog I Didn’t Want To Write. And I meant that literally. It wasn’t a clever title or a dramatic framing device. I genuinely did not want to write it. I was tired. Mentally tired in the kind of way where even opening a blank document feels exhausting.

The kind of tired where your thoughts feel heavy before the day even starts. But I wrote it anyway. And strangely, it ended up being one of the most viewed posts I’ve had in a while. More likes too.

I noticed it in the analytics afterward and sat with that for a bit. I think people can tell when something is honest. Even messy honesty. Because March wasn’t really about solutions. It was just me admitting where I was at.

And I think April is the conversation that comes after that. Not a recovery arc. Not a motivational speech. Just…the next step.

Moving again. Slowly. I’ve spent enough years living with Major Anxiety and Depression Disorder to know that awareness changes everything.

Not fixes everything. Just changes it. There’s a difference between feeling awful and understanding why you feel awful. There’s a difference between spiraling blindly and recognizing the spiral as it happens. It doesn’t make it disappear. But it gives you something to hold onto. And acceptance is part of that too, even though I used to hate that word. Acceptance sounded too much like surrender to me. Like giving up. Like saying, “This is just how I am.” But I don’t think that’s what acceptance actually is anymore.

I think it’s being honest enough to stop fighting reality long enough to actually address it. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, acceptance is defined as “the action of consenting to receive or undertake something offered.” But emotionally, I think acceptance is less about agreeing with your circumstances and more about acknowledging them honestly enough to stop pretending they aren’t there. To accept yourself is not to stop growing. It’s to stop abandoning yourself while you grow. For a long time, I thought awareness would automatically fix things.

That once once I understood my anxiety and depression well enough, I would somehow outthink them. But awareness without acceptance can become its own form of exhaustion. You become hyperaware of every flaw, every spiral, every bad habit, while still treating yourself like a problem instead of a person. Carl Rogers once wrote, “The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.”

I think I’m finally starting to understand what that means. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But enough to begin moving again. To say:

Yeah, I’m struggling right now. Yeah, I’m anxious. Yeah, I’m depressed. Yeah, I’m overwhelmed.

Okay. Now what? That “now what” feels important to me lately.

Because I don’t want to stay frozen forever. And I think that’s where this month finds me. Not magically better. Not cured. Not suddenly transformed into someone disciplined, healed, and thriving. Just aware enough now to start trying again without lying to myself about where I’m starting from. There’s still stuff weighing on me. Still uncertainty about the future.Still days where I wake up already mentally exhausted. Still moments where everything feels like too much at once. But I’m noticing something different too.

I’m starting to want things again. Not huge things. Just small human things. Stability. Structure.Enjoyment. Rest without guilt. Excitement without anxiety attached to it. I want to take care of myself better. I want to stop treating myself like a problem I have to solve before I’m allowed to live my life.

I think part of getting older is realizing you cannot hate yourself into becoming healthier. You cannot shame yourself into peace. Eventually, you have to decide you are worth helping. “And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” John Steinbeck

John Steinbeck: “And now that you don't have to be perfect,...”

Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days. And honestly, sometimes “moving again” just means really basic things. Getting out of bed. Cleaning your room.

Answering emails you’ve been avoiding. Applying for jobs. Drinking water. Taking your medication consistently.

Letting yourself rest when your body is clearly asking for it. None of it feels dramatic while it’s happening. Most healing doesn’t.

Its repetive. Uneven. Quiet. But it matters. I think last month was about acknowledging the weight. This month is about acknowledging that I’m still carrying it and moving anyway. Not perfectly.Not quickly. But intentionally.

And maybe that’s enough right now. Maybe movement doesn’t have to look impressive to count. Maybe survival itself deserves more credit than we give it. Maybe being aware of yourself, accepting yourself, and still choosing to keep going is already a kind of progress. I still feel uncertain a lot of the time. Still tired.

Still worried. Still trying to figure things out. But Im here. And that feels worth saying.

JustLj in March Part III

The Blog I Didn’t Want To Write

March arrived, and for the first time in a while, I didn’t have a word ready. No theme waiting in the wings. No clean entry point that made everything make sense. Just a quiet resistance. A heaviness. A feeling I couldn’t quite name in a single word.

So this is not Te Blog of ___. This is The Blog I Didn’t Want To Write. Because if I’m honest, this month didn’t feel like something I wanted to examine. It felt like something I wanted to get through.

There’s a particular kind of tired that doesn’t come from doing too much, but from feeling like you can’t do enough. A kind of stillness that isn’t restful, but stuck. Where even small things feel heavier than they should. Where motivation doesn’t disappear entirely, but becomes distant. Faint.

Harder to reach. And the strange part is, it doesn’t always look like anything is wrong. Life can still be moving. You can still be functioning.

Still showing up, still talking, still laughing in the right places. From the outside, everything might seem…fine. Maybe even good.

But internally, something is off. It’s quieter than a crisis. Less visible than a breakdown.But heavier than it should be. That’s the space March lived in for me. And it’s a hard thing to write about, because there isn’t a clean narrative to follow. No clear beginning, middle, and end. Just moments. Days that blur together. Effort that feels inconsistent. Progress that feels invisible.

Treating Depression Through Cognitive-Behavioural Therapy (CBT) - Sullivan + Associates

According to the American Psychological Association, depression is described as “a common and serious medical illness that negatively affects how you feel, the way you think, and how you act.” But definitions only go so far. They explain the structure, not the experience. The experience is quieter. It’s the alarm going off and feeling like getting up is a negotiation. It’s knowing what you should do, but feeling a gap between knowing and doing.

It’s starting something and stopping. Or not starting at all. It’s the weight of existing when nothing is technically wrong. And maybe the hardest part is the confusion of it.

Because I’ve had months where things were objectively harder, busier, more chaotic, more uncertain, and I moved through them with clarity. With energy. With purpose. And then there are months like this one, where things are…stable. And still, I feel lost.

There’s no obvious reason. No single moment to point to say, “That’s why.”Just a general sense of disconnection. Like I’m slightly out of sync with my own life.

Like I’m present, but not fully here. That’s what I didn’t want to write about. Because it feels easier to write when there’s resolution.

When there’s growth neatly packaged. When I can point to something and say, “This is what I learned.” But this month isn’t about resolution. It’s about continuation. Because even in this space, this stuck, tired, uncertain space, life doesn’t pause. You still wake up. Still move through the day. Still exist inside it. And somewhere in that, there is a quieter kind of effort happening. Getting up anyway.Doing something small anyway.

Responding, showing up, trying even if it feels incomplete. There’s a quote often attributed to Winston Churchill: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” It’s simple, almost blunt. But there’s something grounding in it.

Not inspiring in the grand sense, but steady. Practical. Keep going. Not perfectly.Not quickly. Not even confidently.

Just…going. March reminded me that movement doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes it looks like survival. Like persistence in its smallest form.

Like choosing not to stop, even when stopping feels easier. And maybe that counts for more than we give it credit for. Because life isn’t only lived in the high moments. The clear ones. The productive ones.

It’s also lived here in the in-between. In the fog. In the days that don’t feel like they belong to anything meaningful. And still, they are part of it.

Still, they matter. So this is the blog I didn’t want to write. The one without a clean word.

The one without a polished lesson. Just honesty. Just the acknowledgment that sometimes you can feel lost even when you’re okay. That you can feel stuck even while moving. That you can be tired in a way that rest doesn’t fully fix. And still, you are here. Still, you are living. Still, you are moving, even if it’s slow, even if it’s quiet, even if it doesn’t feel like enough. And maybe, for now, that is enough.

JustLj in February Part III

FLEETING pronunciation • How to pronounce FLEETING

The Blog of Fleeting

February has always felt different from the other months. Shorter, yes. But not smaller. If anything, it feels condensed. Concentrated. As if the calendar itself decided to speak more quickly and mean more.

There is something about a month that knows it will not last long. So, for this month, the theme felt obvious: Fleeting. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, fleeting means “lasting for a very short time.” But beyond the formal definition, fleeting is not simply about brevity.

It is about intensity. It is about something arriving fully formed, burning brightly, and leaving before you have time to prepare for its absence. February embodies that. It is the month most associated with love. With Valentine’s Day.

With pink and red and heart-shaped reminders to pause and feel something. And yet, it is also the month that disappears first. Twenty-eight days. Occasionally twenty-nine.

A built-in reminder that time does not distribute itself evenly. There is something almost poetic about love being housed inside the shortest month. Love rarely asks permission to arrive.

It does not check calendars. It does not wait for readiness. It comes the way winter sunlight does. Sudden, slanted, and startlingly warm against the cold. And just as quickly, it shifts. Not always in loss. Not always in heartbreak. Sometimes simply in transformation. In evolution. In the quiet way feelings deepen or soften or change shape. Fleeting does not always mean gone forever.

Sometimes it means passing through. February carries that tension beautifully. It begins in the heart of winter. Stark, bare, cold. And yet it is often where we first sense the coming shift toward spring. It is the hinge.

The breath between. And then there is the leap. Every four years, February quietly adds a day. A single extra offering.

A small defiance of its own limitation. A reminder that even what is brief can expand. That what seems fixed can surprise us. That feels like love too. Brief, bold, beautifully timed.

Borrowing hours. Borrowing heartbeats. Leaving its imprint even when it cannot stay. What strikes me most about fleeting things is how deeply they mark us.

A short conversation that changes direction. A moment of clarity that rearranges perspective. A relationship that lasted months but altered years.

Length has never been the sole measure of impact. Sometimes the shortest months hold the most concentrated meaning. Sometimes what lasts only briefly strengthens us in ways the longer seasons never could. February does not apologize for being short. It does not try to stretch itself thin to match the others. It arrives. It gives what it gives. And it leaves. And then, eventually, it returns. There is comfort in that rhythm. In knowing that even what disappears can reappear in new form.

That love, like the month, has a way of stepping back from behind its winter curtain. Brief. Bold. And beautifully fleeting.

Poem of the Month

by me

A Leap like A Month

Fleeting the way that love comes in unbidden,

arriving with frost still caught in its hair,

the shortest of gifts, half-given half-hidden,

gone before you could say it was there.

It does not ask permission to enter,

it counts out its days on uncertain hands,

it burns at its brightest in the coldest of winter,

then melts before anyone quite understands.

Fleeting, the way it first touched without warning,

a breath between two longer and emptier years,

fleeting like light on a pale winter morning,

fleeting like laughter that surfaces through tears.

Love leaps the way a short month leaps

not asking the calendar’s blessing or leave,

it borrows the hours it borrows the sleeps,

it gives you just enough to make you believe.

Fleeting, yet fuller than anything longer,

the way that a flicker outshines a dull flame,

what lasts only briefly can still make you

stronger,

can still make the world feel entirely changed.

Twenty-eight heartbeats and then it is over,

or maybe this once it is given one more,

a leap of pure grace, like a hand on your

shoulder,

a single day extra, unlocked like a door.

Fleeting but true. Fleeting but certain.

Fleeting like everything worth keeping near.

Love steps from behind its own cold winter

curtain,

and just like the month disappears, then

appears.

Love as the month brief, bold, and beautifully fleeting.

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.

JustLj in January Part III

The Blog of Speed

January has a way of arriving already in motion. There’s no easing into it, no soft landing after December. It opens with momentum, expectation, and the quiet assumption that you should already know what comes next. This January felt especially fast. Not busy, exactly. Just quick.

Like events happened before I had time to give them proper weight. So for this month, the theme felt obvious: Speed. According to Webster, speed is defined as “the rate at which something moves or operates.” But beyond the definition, speed is a feeling.

It’s that sensation of time slipping ahead while you’re still orienting yourself. It’s the realization that moments don’t ask permission before becoming memory. Two things marked this month for me. I turned 31. And I was let go from a job.

Neither moment arrived dramatically. There was no buildup, no soundtrack. Just a quiet shift in circumstance. And yet both carried the same underlying truth: time is moving, whether or not we feel ready for it to.

Birthdays compress years into a single day. They invite reflection, whether you ask for it or not. Thirty-one didn’t feel heavy, but it felt clear.

Clear in the way numbers sometimes are. A reminder that days stack quickly. That two months become two years without ceremony. That life doesn’t slow itself, so we can keep up. Losing a job does something similar. It forces an ending you didn’t schedule. One moment you’re spending time on something, investing energy, imagining continuation. The next, that time is gone. Not reassigned. Just complete. That tension between “too fast” and “too late” is where this month’s poem came from.

Poem of the Month

by me

Speed

Too fast. Too soon. Too late.

Too gone. To move on.

To spend time on.

Too much. Too vast.

Too complex.

Two days.

Two months.

Two years.

One life.

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.

JustLj in December Part III

The Blog of Christmas Eve

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.

JustLj in November : 2 Year Anniversery

The Blog of Two Years

November has always held a quiet magic for me, but this one feels especially full. Today marks two years since I posted my very first JustLj blog on November 30,2023, and somehow, this is already my third November writing here. It’s strange and grounding all at once, like standing in a doorway where the past and present overlap. Anniversaries have a way of making you pause. To look back. To look around.

To look inward. So, for this November, the theme seemed obvious: Two Years. A celebration. A reflection.

A thank you. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, an anniversary is “the yearly recurrence of a date marking a notable event.” But beyond the formal definition, anniversaries are markers of becoming. They show us who we’ve been and hint at who we’re becoming. And two years feels like its own important milestone: not quite new, not quite old, but rooted.

These past two years of blogging have been exactly that for me. An ongoing practice of rooting myself. Of returning here every month and being honest. Of letting this space grow with me, shift with me, wobble with me, and strengthen me.

It hasn’t always been easy, but it has always been real. And woven through November, as always, is the theme of thanks. But this November, gratitude feels deeper, not performative, not seasonal, not obligatory.

It feels earned. Because this year held a lot. Career turns and unexpected opportunities. Rejections that stung more than I admitted. Moments of alignment that reminded me of possibility. Loneliness, clarity, hope, rebuilding. And through it all, writing remained my constant. As JFK once said,

So I’m taking a moment to thank the version of me from two years ago who started this. The version who didn’t know this would go, but trusted themself enough to begin. The version that showed up again the next month, and the next. And the version of me today, still here, still writing, still learning how to be soft and strong at the same time. And to you, whoever is reading this, whether for the first time or the fifteenth. Thank you. Your presence, quiet or enthusiastic, is part of the meaning of this space. You are part of the longevity.

Part of the reason I keep coming back. Brene Brown said,

This blog has helped me understand who I am a little better every month. That is something worth celebrating. So here’s to two years. My second anniversary, my third November, my ongoing becoming. Here’s to gratitude that stays.

Here’s to stories that continue.

Here’s to year three on the horizon. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being part of JustLj. And thank you, November, for marking it all.

Poem of the Month

by me

November Again

November

I hold close every warming ember

Turning the year over toward November

November

The past and future meet where I remember

Breathing in gratitude for another November

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.

JustLj in September PART II

The Blog Post of Alignment

September arrived like a test of patience and clarity. It felt like the month wanted to ask me, Do you know what you’re really after? Opportunities came and went, some lifting me, others cutting a little deep. In the swirl of it all, I kept circling back to one word: Alignment.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, alignment is

“an arrangement in a straight line, or in correct relative positions; a position of agreement or alliance.”

It’s about things fitting together, whether in geometry, in groups, or in life. But alignment is not always about perfection. It’s about honesty. It asks us to notice when something resonates and when something doesn’t, even if rejection or loss is part of the process.

This month, I felt both ends of that spectrum. A job in New Jersey that I had quietly hoped for slipped away. I didn’t have the experience they were looking for. Rejection has a way of echoing louder than acceptance, and I’ll admit it stung. It raised doubts, making me wonder if I had misjudged my skills or if I would ever be seen as enough. However, almost as if it were a balancing act, another offer soon appeared. A position closer to home. On paper, it looked promising, and the fact that they wanted me felt like an ego boost. Proof that someone out there saw my potential. Yet when I sat with it, I realized it didn’t align with the life I’m building right now. Saying no was difficult, but it also reminded me that belonging somewhere doesn’t mean I should belong everywhere. Alignment requires discernment, not just acceptance.

Now I find myself waiting, hopeful, for another opportunity, one that actually feels aligned. The position aligns with my career path, academic studies, and personal values. It’s a waiting game, and waiting is never easy. But this month has taught me that being in alignment doesn’t mean rushing to fill the gaps; it means trusting that the right pieces will meet you halfway. Here are some famous voices that echo this truth:

Key Realizing Dream Focus Success Significance Small Steps Victories Path Greater Meaning Oprah Winfrey Walk Show Host

Im learning that alignment doesn’t guarantee smooth sailing. It doesn’t mean rejection won’t sting or decisions won’t feel heavy. Instead, it gives me a compass. A way to measure if I am moving in step with the person I am becoming. And as September closes, that compass points to patience, self-trust, and the reminder that alignment is not about saying yes to every door that opens, but about knowing which ones are truly mine to walk through.

Poem of the Month

by me

In Line With Myself

I used to chase every spark,

hands raw from holding flames

never meant to keep me warm.

Now I pause at the threshold,

listening

does the floor echo my name?

Does the air carry my breath back whole/

rejection cuts, yes,

but it also carves a path,

a sharper edge of knowing.

Alignment is not applause,

not every nod of approval

it is the quiet click

of self and circumstances meeting

without force.

And if the right door waits,

I will know it not by chance,

but by the steadiness in my chest,

the soft alignment of who I am

with where I’m called to be.

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.

JustLj in August PART II

The Blog Post of Belonging

August slipped away before I could catch it. Perhaps that’s how months pass when your life is in a state of transition. You look up and realize whole weeks have vanished into something new. This month, the rhythm of my summer gave way to syllabi, assignments, and log-in screens. I officially began graduate school at the University of North Texas, pursuing a degree in Library Science with a focus on Children’s and Young Adult Librarianship. It’s still strange to write that out. Me, a grad student. Because if I’m being honest, I never really saw myself as “academic.” My path hasn’t always followed the neat, linear lines of a textbook.

And yet here I am, with discussion boards and readings stacked up next to piles of ready notebooks, stepping into a space that demands more of me than I expected. It’s exhilarating, yes, but it’s also a bit terrifying. Some days, imposter syndrome finds its way into the room before I do, whispering that maybe I don’t belong here. Which is why this month’s word feels so important. Belonging. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, belonging is:

“an affinity for a place or situation; the feeling of being comfortable and accepted.”

It sounds simple, almost effortless, as if belonging just happens the moment you arrive somewhere. But what I’ve learned is that belonging is rarely instant. More often, it’s something you grow into. Or something you create for yourself when the soil feels foreign. That tension is where I’ve been living for the past month.

One thing is certain: to say an unconditional yes to the mutual belonging of all beings will make this a more joyful world". - David Steindl-Rast Let's bring in February! 🥰🙌🌞

On one hand, there’s the thrill of grad school: new knowledge, new goals, the possibility of building a life rooted in the things I love most. On the other hand, there’s the ache of dislocation. I miss New Jersey: the friendships, the little routines that grounded me, the confidence I found in navigating a place that once felt strange and then became familiar. I carry those streets and people like a second skin. And yet, I had longed to return to Texas. I wanted the closeness of family, the comfort of being near the people who know me from the ground up.

Coming home felt like it should be the cure to longing. But Texas has greeted me with complexity. Beyond family, the culture doesn’t quite click for me; the energy feels different, sometimes even unwelcoming. So I am caught between two landscapes: one that holds my history and one that holds my heart. Neither feels like a perfect fit, and maybe that’s what belonging really is. The constant negotiation between where you are and who you are becoming.

Maya Angelou once wrote, “You are only free when you realize you belong no place. You belong every. No place at all. The price is high. The reward is great.” I think about that often as I walk through my new routines. Perhaps belonging is less about perfect alignment and more about realizing that no place will ever feel complete without the courage to show up authentically. Brene Brown echoes this: “True belonging doesn’t require you to change who you are; it requires you to be who you are.” That’s hard for me as someone who is still learning to stand fully in myself.

It’s easier to shrink or to question if I’ve earned the right to sit in the spaces I’ve found myself in. But Brown reminds me that belonging doesn’t come from fitting into the mold. It comes from refusing to mold myself into something Im not. And Rainer Maria Rilke offers a softer wisdom: “The only journey is the one within.” Which makes me wonder if belonging is less about the external. City, state, campus, or community. And more about the internal. If I cultivate belonging within myself, perhaps every place I live and every role I take on becomes another layer of that belonging, not the definition of it. So here’s what I know as August closes:

I may not fully belong to Texas, and I may not be as deeply rooted in grad school as I hope to be one day. But I belong to myself, to my values, and to the journey I’ve chosen to take. And maybe, for now, that is enough.

Poem of the Month

by me

I Belong to Me

I am the house I return to,

the key always waiting in my palm.

No city can lock me out,

no classroom can shrink my frame.

I carry my own doorway,

step through, and I am home.

The streets I’ve loved will fade into dream,

their voices stored in my marrow,

but they do not define me.

Even here, where the air feels strange,

my breath makes the map.

I mark the ground with presence,

not permission.

Belonging is not borrowed,

not granted, not earned.

It is grown like a flame in the ribcage,

a quiet fire that refuses to dim.

And when doubt comes knocking,

I light every window,

answer the door with my whole name.

I belong to me,

and in that,

I belong everywhere.

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.

JustLj in July PART II

The Patient Blog Post

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.