I’m gonna be pissed…

Have you ever started something off this way? I’m gonna be pissed if I sleep outside and am eaten by Bigfoot.

I’m gonna be pissed if I…get my fish roommates and they all die.

Don’t judge a Carnie fish, and don’t be sad when they die.

We started with one Carnie Fish from our daughter’s school’s winter carnival. He moved up from one small tank to survive the weekend to a larger tank with two roommates because Carnies aren’t used to being alone.

Right? A lonely carnie is just a sad clown.

A few weeks ago, we moved Alpine, Salt, and Pepper into a new tank equipped with a Saloon and a Whiskey barrel – you know because they live in our bathroom, and when Jessica and I think about the nightmare of our mid-renovation master bathroom, we start to drink.

Or something like that. I don’t know. Maybe they were just cute sound stage sets we found at the pet store.

Wait – it’s coming back to me now. I wanted a pineapple under the sea, and Jessica said no. I don’t know why I wanted that. I’m not a SpongeBob fan. I just saw a pineapple and wanted to place it under the sea.

Jessica is so much more rational than me, so she won. Which means we compromised. With a barrel and a bar.

Anyway, their new condo – under the sea – was large compared to that little one room place near the train tracks our fish had at first. (No, there are no train tracks in my bathroom.)

Know what that means?

Yep – our fish couldn’t afford the rent.

Look. It’s being remodeled, but our bathroom is huge. And it has a view of the mountains and our palm trees. And if one (not a fish) is tall enough, they could look into the pool too. Poolside condos with mountain views are not cheap.

Our fish needed roommates. They needed a bartender in the saloon and someone to mop up the barrel.

I was so excited. And really, after starting with a Carnie fish, we could only move up, right?

So off we go…to Fish Hell. Or Walmart.

I was like a little girl…at the fish tank…in WalMart.

I want this one and this one and that one, and can we take the whole tank home? Don’t all the fish need a good home? Is that a crab? Look, these glow in the dark.

We have three goldfish – well, we have carnival fish. Their scales could be tattooed on. We don’t really know. Navin R. Johnson may have had these fish before us. They were between the pencils and the…well, between here and here… Nevermind, I just lost half of you as you Google Navin R. Johnson. Don’t bother, he’s only in the phone book.

I picked three fish. Another way of wording that is Jessica allowed me to take three fish home. Or we saved three fish from the confinements of WalHell.

One roommate for each of our little guys who had moved on up three times since that winter carnival evening.

Pete, Repeat (they looked exactly alike except Pete was huge and Repeat was a smaller replica), and Jack Jack who was tiny, a fish morsel, if you will, made of fire and brimstone. With the name Jack Jack, he was going to do well behind the saloon bar. Right?

Except Jack Jack didn’t make it through the night.

And Pete is an asshole.

Three weeks later, our group of six is down to two. And I want to cry. Except… I can’t. I don’t have time to mourn fish.

Shhh… we’ll pretend this never happened. And we’ll save more fish… from pet stores this time.

And I’m gonna be pissed if they all die.

Thirty Years

Life moves fast in my house. Then there are days it moves slow. Almost too slow. There is often an imbalance between the two.

This article has been sitting on my desktop since it was released almost three weeks ago. https://www.stereogum.com/2033408/closer-to-fine-at-30-the-legacy-of-indigo-girls-spellbinding-singalong/franchises/sounding-board/

I thought I’d take a day and ponder the last thirty years. That day turned into twenty or so, and I can only hope for another thirty or more to truly understand what the last thirty have meant to me.

We all have the remember when stories, right?

What were you doing when Kennedy was shot? I wasn’t born yet.

Remember when Nixon said he wasn’t a crook? I don’t, but I’ve seen the footage.

Reagan’s fitness program crammed into every American elementary school via Arnold? Yes, now memories are pooling. I remember sitting on little red round stools attached to a lunch table singing Pink Floyd waiting for our table to be called for jump rope time trials.

‘Tear down this wall!’ Yes, memories are even more clear.

That year I worked in a grocery store with a young woman I admired. She was funny. She was cool. But cool in a way others didn’t see. Cool in a way that attracted me. I could listen to her talk all day. At the end of her shift, her girlfriend would come get her and off they’d go. But when she was with me working together, we fit. It took another two years for this woman to take me to my first gay bar. I was underage. She knew the owners. I promised I wouldn’t drink, and she promised to keep me safe.

Safe.

Safe?

   Safe from all the lesbians she said would want me. Fresh meat. She wasn’t selling the lifestyle very well at that point, and I didn’t know if I wanted to be a part of it anyway, so safe was good.

That was the year – thirty years ago – when I heard Land of Canaan.

The year I fell in love.

       With Amy Ray.

Amy had the same thing my friend Kris had.

I had the same attraction to them both.

It was the year I saw Amy and Emily open for my favorite band at the time, R.E.M.

Amy Ray was life changing for me.

Ready to dive right in after listening to the Closer to Fine cassette single from side to side – Land of Canaan was the B-Side – over and over for days on end, Kris and I were at a softball game -surprise, right – and I pushed her up against a wall and kissed her. Classy, yes?

Amy and Emily, this album and the indie before this, later released on Epic, Strange Fire, still my favorite album, helped me find myself. I found me.

It’s hard to sum up thirty years in one blog post.

It’s hard to believe it’s been thirty years.

It’s hard to think of the twists and turns I took. The disappointments, the broken hearts, the people I walked from, the women…

I’m a mother now. Kris died twenty-six year ago.

I’ve had broken hearts.

I’ve cried into my guitar.

I’ve written songs filled with love and loss.

I’ve written books.

I’ve loved.

I’ve lost.

I’ve given.

I’ve taken.

Every moment of every one of those thirty years I’ve kept Amy and Emily in my world. No matter the changes, no matter the miles, I’ve kept them.

And I’ll keep them my constant in all the years to come. I could write something about what happened every year with every release of theirs, but for now, I’ll remember falling for Amy first. Always first. Always here.

My God! Amy Ray – Thirty years is a long time.

Reading Cures The Flu

There are no real scientific studies that say reading cures the flu, but I have the flu, and after spending several days at Children’s Hospital with my daughter who graciously gifted me the flu, I’ve spent some time reading. I’m not cured yet, but it’s not stopping me from trying.

One of my clients just released her new memoir and decided to give it some free download time on Amazon! Grab your copy now and don’t get the flu. Ok, the two aren’t related, but I know lying in bed with a book cures a lot of things – just not the flu.

IR Wright’s Dating Memoir

Ever looked at a clearly intelligent person and wondered how they were so stupid with love? Just bad decision after bad decision. Ever been that person? Setting and achieving every goal in your life except for how to choose the right person? 

I. R. Wright reflects on more than a decade of falling in lust with men while thinking it was love. She chronicles her struggles from the bad romances linked back to a rocky relationship with her father. Wright finally begins a love evolution after meeting ‘The Husband Whisperer’ and gets help with her bad boy addiction. This personal account documents real-life dating as exciting as reality television. 

Young, Dumb & Full of hmm… is the compelling story of a truly smart girl who went plumb dumb around the guys she dated. You’ll laugh, scream, cry and cringe reading her tales of drama and mistakes while also finding inspiration in her struggles through regret refusing to let any one bad decision be the end of her. The worst things can happen in a relationship when good judgment is swapped for sex. Find out how I.R. Wright found a silver lining in each terrible situation. Be inspired to find yours too.

Best of 2018

One of my pieces was selected for Nailpolish Stories Best of 2018 edition.

This task seems easy at first, but it’s not easy to give a whole story with an exact low word count based on a color of nail polish.

I’d appreciate it if you gave this edition a read. My pieces are from April 2018, so read the other pieces as you scroll down.

https://nailpolishstories.wordpress.com/2019/01/04/best-of-2018/

As always, thank you for being here.

~Stella

Happy New Year

Happy New Year to you all.

I hope you had the best of holidays leading to this new year. I woke this morning to a newsfeed filled with sadness. A young girl I do not know but belongs to a family I sort of know through this word of writing is fighting for her life after a terrible car accident which also injured her sisters. A woman whose name I know and maybe whose face I’ve smiled or nodded at in local events states away from another lifetime has spent the past two weeks, including Christmas, praying for her husband’s survival after a widow maker heart attack. Their children celebrated the joys of the season wondering if their father will ever come home. If you’re interested, in my slight Facebook stalking, it looks like he’s doing much better than expected and will hopefully make a full recovery. This news appears to come after the family prepared to say goodbye altogether, so it’s amazing news. Another woman I don’t know outside of this digital world of writing within groups where connections are made like sparks from a power line gifting the world with light lost her son two days after Christmas. My eyes teared reading the strength he gave her. Oddly enough, I know more about him and the lifetime bond they shared than I know about her writing. Maybe it was how I was supposed to know about her over the few years I’ve gotten to know her. I looked forward to seeing photos of her son’s smile as they journeyed this world together. His passing was peaceful, and she appears to have her own peace with this new chapter for her life, but I cannot imagine the ache left in her heart. I have one in my own, and I don’t know either of them. Not in real life, that is. We know a family in our neighborhood whose daughter, who just turned a year old this last weekend of the year, was diagnosed with leukemia just before the season started. They’ve spent close to every day and night in the hospital with their daughter since early November. I have a friend I know and love dearly who lost her beloved dog on Christmas day. They were about 3,000 miles apart. There were no goodbyes, just distant tears through the obligations of celebrating the season from far away. Another dear friend I know well and love sent me a text yesterday telling me she was okay and had the goal to try not to be sad as she rang in the new year alone starting a new path without her wife.

You see, this season, the holidays starting in late fall and heading into an early winter’s chill every year is filled with joy. Happiness. Celebrating. Giving. Loving. Kindness. I’ve grown to accept this is the time of year we pause to celebrate all the year has given us. Some of us spend this time reflecting on what we may have lost over the year and resolve to carry on either because we’ve been given the gift to do so or because we’ve spent the year knowing we deserve it. Often our resolutions are resigning to a need for change or acceptance. No matter what we’ve survived on our own throughout the year, the holiday season has always been reserved for celebration. A time protected in a bubble of elves, fake snow, greens and reds, flickering lights, hot chocolate leaving whipped cream on the tips of our noses, and the laughter which follows. Sure, there is always the stress of the season too. The end of fourth quarter for businesses, finals for academics, endless shopping lists and budgets sitting on the shoulders of giants. But all of those things are fodder for a guarded season. A time of year where pain and hurt, all the things in life we deal with all year, are not welcome.

This year, like every other year for many, the season hit, then rolled through just like any other season of the year. A heart attack here. A funeral there. A medical diagnosis. It isn’t a protected time. The tiny dreamer in me wonders if I’ve always lived in this magic bubble high on pumpkin spice until my true inner cynic popped the layer of protection still hiding me in all the glitter of wrapping paper and ornaments until these past few years. Maybe in years past, I recognized life happening to others during the season but pulled my fleece blanket over myself sending out positive thoughts while pushing it all away.

This year I am reminded each day, no matter which week nor month it falls, is a new start. There are no rules for play here. We don’t get days off because it’s our birthday. Life doesn’t stop and protect us during a time of reflection. We push through and make the best of each day as long as we are given the gift to do so. To top it all, we are connecting. The stories I shared are of lives not within my personal world. In this age of social media and digital invasions, all too often we hear how we are not connecting as a society. We don’t meet and speak one on one anymore. My life has been touched by lives I don’t know. If we believe in a higher power or energy covered the world from pole to pole and pyramid to pyramid, this is an age connecting us more than ever.

At the start of this new year, I hope you all see each new day as a fresh start. Life will hit. Some will be gentle taps while others will be blows knocking us down weak and afraid. It might hit on a holiday. It might hit before a season of joy and wonder with pain management crossing into protected days. But we can handle each day. We can live through those times with the gift of life. Don’t wait for the joyous season for reflection. Don’t wait for the end of the year to make goals for the next you. Don’t wait to become. Live each day this year with renewed purpose. Hope, pray, meditate…do you. Do what brings you strength in times of weakness and in times of strength.

There are no sacred days. No protected seasons. Take each sunrise as an awakening. Spend the light of each day reaching for that light. It comes every day. Reach for it, and when you find you haven’t touched it just yet, give it another go the next time it rises.

This is a new year.

Take it by the reins, smile for something – even if your story is not at its peak. Instead of waiting for the end of this year to celebrate all the year brought, do it every day. We don’t know what awaits us before the sun sets.

All the best for today and all the days to follow.

~Stella

Don’t Judge a Carnie Fish

So you know Donner and Dancer…oh wait. I don’t have reindeer. I have dogs. I have cats. I have children. And now, I have fish again. But not just any fish. We have carnival fish. 

Years ago, we had a fish who lived for eight years. He molted a lot. He got smaller at times instead of bigger. For eight years. There is a point when it’s just too late to say we had sixteen fish – really, I have no idea how many we had. Maybe it was nine. Maybe it was twenty three. But, just know we had a fish for eight years. Once my daughter, whose first or third word – no, I don’t remember, it’s a toss-up between shoes, cat, and fish – was fish, I got her a fish. She promptly named him Fish. When she was nine years old, Fish died. He may have molted again into a new beautiful Phoenix fish, but I was busted. She saw him floating before I could call onto the magic of Phoenix fish. All three of my kids missed a day of school and begged me for more fish. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let them go through the pain and trauma of the truth. Frankly, I was tired of cleaning the bowl. So, Fish was no more. 

About two weeks ago, my beautiful middle child won a goldfish at her school’s Winter Carnival. 

Oh no…

Here we go again. I don’t know where the fishbowl is inside my halfway packed mid-renovation home, my youngest is now my oldest daughter’s age when Phoenix Fish passed on to the River Styx, and I’m certain carnie fish won’t live long. 

My amazing, gorgeous girlfriend is so full of hope and love. I admire her and adore her. She brings Carnie Fish home with hope. A new pet. New life inside our home. It will be beautiful. Her smile says it all.

I’m a bit more cynical than she. We are a perfect balance of love and war, realism and impracticality, cynicism and imperfect blind faith. I say to her, “This is a Carnie fish. He’s been on the road. In a bag. In the cold Arizona winter air. He won’t live through the night.” Suddenly I am a fish trauma surgeon. I’ve done all I can do.

Beautiful puts her hand on my arm calming my cynicism and says, “This isn’t just any carnival fish. He wasn’t on the road. It was cold out there. But it is Arizona. And I had him wrapped in a hoodie because the kids got warm. Because as much as you hate winter, Arizona winters aren’t harsh. And this isn’t a traveling carnival. A PTO mom got this fish from a pet store today, probably just moments before rushing to the school to set up on time. He’ll live.” After she filled me with hope and comfort, she prepared our daughter for the potential of her new pet fish, who my daughter named Alpine, to not make it through the weekend. 

Well, make it he did. While I was on fish death watch, walking in waiting for a greeting in the form of a float and flush, Alpine lived. But he wasn’t the happiest fish on the block. On day three, I said, “Alpine is lonely. I haven’t seen him eat. And he’s psycho too. Each time I walk up to the bowl, he bounces off the sides to get away from me.”

Miss Hope and Positivity goes out and comes home with two new fish who she promptly named Salt and Pepper. 

We are now starting week three with three fish, three dogs, three kids, and two cats. Alpine, Salt, and Pepper have an upgraded condo with a filter and disco lights. And they are happy. They eat. They dance under the light. And they sleep. All in our bathroom. One day, if they survive winter, we’ll take them to the kitchen to live. But for now, my daughter is happy to have a carnie fish and his two friends, and my girlfriend loves the night light in our bathroom. 

There’s always room for more love in a house. And it might be best not to judge a fish based on his carnie life. He’s pretty domesticated. But I still quote Navin R Johnson around him often – you know, so he doesn’t forget where he started his little fish life. 

Stand Up to Cancer- Or Sit Down to Read

Hey, readers, writers, and fabulous people. I don’t often ask for things around here. The dirt piles up because I don’t ask you all to wipe your shoes before coming in. Dishes are sometimes stacked because I live on wine and coffee (grapes and beans = good balance) while writing, and well…anyway… I’m sharing a GoFundMe, but it’s not about me.

It’s for Baby Willow.

She belongs to friends of ours. Her big sister is my daughter’s person – or one of them because when you’re in middle school, your tribe is larger than it might be at my age. Baby Willow is ten months old and was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia just last week. I know I connect with people around the world, so I thought I’d share her story.

Willow’s Journey

They (don’t ask me who they is, they just go by ‘They’) say that prayers and positive energy travel across the globe. If you happen to have any glitter in your pocket, grab a pinch and toss it out there for Willow. If you have a few bucks, it’ll help. If you can click the share button, that might help as well. See? Multiple ways to help.

What I don’t know is just how hard this is though I’d like to say I do. What I don’t know is what it’s like to live in a hospital for five weeks with your family coming and going while trying to carry on with day to day life. What I don’t know is how hard these two years of chemotherapy will be. What I don’t know is how many colds fevers will occur over the years to come when Willow’s parents will wonder if cancer has struck again.

But I know this: I know this is a beautiful little girl. I know her smile is contagious. I know she is strong. Probably stronger than the rest of us. And I know when the mail starts coming in, it might look like a scene from a movie. Stacks upon stacks of bills from cardiologists, neurologists, oncologists, anesthesia, bloodwork, pediatricians, tests, the five-week use of the institutional crib…all the stacks and still the worry over Willow.

Look, GoFundMe campaigns aren’t perfect. But they help. Sharing helps. So today, as you go about your day, maybe you can think of Baby Willow.

Baby Willow – GoFundMe

And I was serious about that glitter. Sprinkle that shit all over – glitter is forever. I know this because I have two teen daughters and glitter almost as old.

Take care of one another and keep smiling.

~Stella

It’s November – NaNoWriMo18

‘Tis the season and all…though I don’t allow that until mid-December in my house. Usually, November for me means NaNoWriMo. Thirty days, nine of them with my children home from school – though not this year, 1667 words each day for an end result of a novel finished in a month. Or at least, for those of us who write longer novels, 50,000 words complete.

Here’s why I love NaNoWriMo:

It fits months of effort into one small period where accountability matters most and editing matters least. For those of us who like to write on an annual schedule, we write in the fall, finish in the winter, and edit in the spring for a summer or fall release.

It’s perfect.

Here’s why I’m not doing NaNoWriMo18:

I’m a little sad. It’s my second year deciding not to do it.

I have to say that again, and as I type, I’m going to say it out loud because that makes it real.

       I’m a little sad. It’s my second year deciding not to do it.

Sad or not, I have to know where to best spend my time.

I have three novels I’ve written in various November months which are not released. These past two years have been hell. Absolute hell. But, as I wiggle my way back one slip and fall and twist and turn at a time, I know it’s important to get these novels back on the market.

They are not just in editing…they are complete rewrites. My readers may remember when I said I was going to copyedit 34 Seconds one more time before releasing it. I did. But if I had the time and the will to do it, I would have rewritten the whole thing. And I probably would have deleted about 20,000 words. Nikki would have been stronger. There would be less of Chris and their failing marriage and more of her personal struggle back and forth to find her place within her own world. And as much as I may have hated it, the last 36 hours with Will may have been edited down. But that would have been hard for me to do, so a rewrite may have focused more on the first half and less on the second.

But the three NaNoWriMo novels I have, are in a rewriting process. This means a lot of things for those few who’ve read Just Jules and it means everything to me for Finding Her and What May Come (which is still a working title).

So this year, and maybe even next, I am skipping NaNoWriMo. I’ve even said out loud I may have outgrown NaNoWriMo. It’s a community like no other. It’s an honor to have a halo over my photo. It’s amazing to know so many others are doing the same thing at the same time. And the cheerleaders are filled with pep.

But, more than anything, it’s fun. It’s a challenge at times and not at challenging other times. For this year, at least, I am not doing it.

So, here’s to you. All of you who are setting daily goals and sticking to them. Be sure to set your support and tell your friends and family what you need to get through this month.

If this is your first time doing NaNoWriMo, remember to leave yourself some room, give yourself some love, and be realistic. Here are some great things to remember:

• Send your inner editor on vacation until December 15th. I say that because, by the time December 1st comes around, you’ll want a break. Take it! Walk away and come back to your work before you forget where you left off.
• Take notes within your manuscript. Don’t make changes, make notes. I can’t tell you how many times I renamed a character in the middle of NaNoWriMo but didn’t remember until I went to edit in the spring. Who’s Riley? Landon? Who is that? All the same guy…I just changed his name.
• Drink – a lot! Water, juice, wine, vodka, bourbon, and are coffee are all acceptable. Just be sure to add more water than vodka or bourbon throughout your day.
• Eat – not as much. Halloween candy is readily available for the at least the first half of November. That last week might bring you Thanksgiving leftovers.
• Write. Just write.
• Daily count. You’ll need 1667 words each day. This means weekends too. And days when bills are due. And work days. And days you don’t feel well. Days you need to vote, days people are playing sports, and any day that ends in a Y or the word day.
• Accountability – NaNoWriMo has a fabulous site where you can enter your daily word counts and see how you are doing compared to your goals as well as within your local NaNo community.
• Community – join your local NaNoWriMo group. They have done this before. They are amazing support, and they will get you out of your house and into a bar or coffee shop or library for reserved writing time. Go do it!
• Leave your space – write somewhere you don’t usually write. Try not to write this month in front of the TV while watching the latest with your family. You’ll be sad but probably not surprised when you fail.
• Keep going – if you know you are falling behind or if you have the big thing coming and know you won’t be writing one or two days, get ahead. This blog is almost 1,000 words, so 1667 is easy peasy!
• Celebrate – throughout the month and at the end. Celebrate! A lot!
• Do it again. If you fail or succeed, keep doing it. It’s fun, it’s supportive, and it’s something you can schedule every calendar year.

 

Enjoy your month.

~Stella

Stop. Slow Down. Stop.

This morning, Halloween morning, a mother wakes possibly looking at the costumes her children were excited to wear, has ingredients sitting on her counter for the class party treats she may have helped to plan. She might not watch for the bus, maybe she’ll be sedated, but she’ll hear it. She’ll know when it arrives. Or if it passes her house because it no longer needs to stop for her children.

This morning. Halloween morning, just another Wednesday for some of us, a mother wonders how to move on. A father catches tears with his thumb and first finger wiping his eyes clear of the canceled plans of the day. He won’t need to worry about that project due at work. Somehow all the stress that led him here, to this Halloween day, will end because just as easily as he may have hoped before, someone else will come in and pick up the pieces in his career so he won’t need to fill his mind with his job.

This morning, Halloween morning, classrooms will miss three beautiful young children. The air will lack their laughter. The streets, filled with monsters, goblins, and princesses, won’t be the same without them.

“Trick or Treat,” one may have said.

“Smell my feet,” the other may have replied, probably his twin brother.

“I can’t wait for tonight. Mommy, have you finished my costume yet?” the boys’ older sister may have asked before walking out the door to meet their Tuesday bus.

 

I cannot imagine what today looks like in this new world. A world without a family. But I will ask that everyone today, tomorrow, and every day after, pause, slow down, and remember. Tonight as your goblins walk streets trying to scare, giggle, and gather candy so heavy they cannot carry home, pay attention. If you’re in your car, look for them. And when you see a bus or a school zone or a neighborhood speed limit sign, pay attention.

Three young lives are gone today because in one of the safest places in their minds, the simple walk to the school bus, they were bowled over by a woman driving a truck. I can’t imagine being this mother, this father, this teacher, this bus driver. I don’t want to go there in my mind. But I can take this time to ask everyone to come together and think of them all in the course of your busy day ahead – and pause when you are in the car. They will be in my thoughts for a long time.

Put the phone down.

Deal with your baby crying.

Slow down.

Pay attention.

Stop for school buses.

Wait.

Be patient.

Lives are on the line.

Stay safe.

~Stella

It’s Monday–again

I’m sitting here listening to the clock tick. Then tock. Then tick again.

Do we still have clocks that actually tick and tock anymore? I grew up with clocks all over my house, and after living in a renovation home for the past two years with anything labeled decor still packed in boxes, I can say with all certainty, I do not hear a clock ticking in my home.

What I hear might be the rumbling of my stomach. It’s 9:30am. I’ve been awake since 5:30am. And I have bloodwork in just over an hour. I can’t eat until after the bloodwork. So tick-tock. If I start to hallucinate the cow jumping over the moon or a dish running away with the spoon — well, nevermind. That might actually happen here in my tick-tock-less home because I loaded the dishwasher only to have a sink full of Monday morning dishes, so if my dishes and spoons just ran away to another home, let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised.

Since I have time with rumbling noises that lack a tick and a tock, I thought I would reflect. I’m hungry and severely lacking morning coffee on top of it being Monday, so reflection time might not be the absolute best way to spend my time. However, it is what I will do.

We’ve been through a really difficult month. A month ago, I relived the day my father passed away six years before. It’s still painful, but I will share if you are lucky enough to still take a breath or feel the rumbling of an empty tummy, it will get easier. The day after, we celebrated my daughter’s birthday with a big party. Ironically enough, six years before, I missed her birthday party. She turned six years old and my father passed away. Not on the same day, mind you. But I wasn’t in the state where my daughter was celebrating life because I was half a country away listening to the clock of life unwind one slow breath at a time.

That year, my daughter wanted a zebra cake. So I did what all moms of soon to be six-year-olds do, and I consulted my favorite intern, Pinterest. With directions on how to make the perfect zebra cake and dreams of nailing it, I planned a party. In the end, I missed the party, didn’t make the cake, and may never have even said happy birthday to my daughter. Well, maybe I did, but for full effect of grief, I don’t remember saying it or being a part of a big event, so if the words came out, they only did so naturally.

A friend of mine made her zebra cake, and she had a party all the same – just without her mother. We all know what matters most and what tasks we can delegate or give up altogether when something else arises. It wasn’t that anything was more important than my daughter at that time, but rather that the time to truly say goodbye occurs once. And if you’ve ever been on the phone with me you’ll understand what I mean. I have a tough time with a simple phone goodbye, so I end up saying the words about three times before I hang up or I hear the dead air left from the other person who had the power to disconnect. Truly saying goodbye only happens when we can’t ever say it and be heard again.

That zebra cake was beautiful. Well, the pictures were. Six years later, I decided to make the zebra cake I never got a chance to make. And I know my daughter at age twelve much better than I did at age six. At age six, she wanted a zebra with a touch of pink. At age twelve, she thought about just a black and white zebra but ultimately, I decided she was too colorful for that, so I made her a rainbow zebra cake and let her decorate the outside.

I think we did okay. And we laughed. And we had fun. And the cake was delicious. And after six years, she got her zebra cake, and I got to make it just for her.

Moments before cutting into this cake, we got news that rocked our world and spun not only us but our community into a new reality.

A teen….one we knew well and loved immensely, had committed suicide.

I won’t get into his story. It’s not mine to tell. But with the love for my father, the love for my daughter, the time to build her a fun cake from scratch, and the joy of life, it’s taken me a month to come back here. To write again. To get my planner out each day and start to live again.

It’s the one thing we can do. Because we’re here.

We can live.

And drink vats of coffee after bloodwork has been completed.

I hope you all are well, and I wish you love and peace.

~Stella