inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Forever Young – Keeping the Kid Alive in Me

Cartoons, Scooby Snacks, and unapologetically oversized scoops of ice cream — that’s my vibe 😂 And honestly? Being a kid at heart is one of the greatest acts of rebellion in a world that wants us aging as fast as possible.

To stay young inside, you have to slow down.
You have to make room for wonder again.
You have to give the silly things a sacred place in your life.

Power down the phone. Turn off the news.
Grab a coloring book and let yourself get lost in purple skies and green dogs for an hour.

For those of you rushing from meeting to meeting — play that ‘90s R&B in the shower and let the water hit the back of your neck like you’re getting ready for the best house party of senior year. Relive the jams. Shake that nostalgia loose.

Simple joys are rare — and they deserve priority in your life too.

🍿 “Spooky Month” Adventures

Mr. California has reminded me how good it feels to be young again. Not just because he mailed me actual graham cracker Scooby Snacks (too adorable for words), but because he sent me hard drives filled — and I mean filled — with cartoons, silly movies, and the kind of shows that shaped my childhood and made me laugh before I ever knew what heartbreak was.

October has officially become our “Spooky Month.”
We dig through his very serious, very official folder titled:

HALLOWEEN AND SPOOKY THINGS 👻

(Yes, all caps — the commitment is real.)

I even bought myself a life-sized Scooby-Doo to watch with us, and I haven’t smiled that hard in ages. Last night we watched Spaced Invaders — absurd, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.

And it made me think:
They just don’t make movies that fun anymore.

Now everything is gritty, hyperrealistic, and self-serious.
Where are the rubber costumes? The goofy villains? The heart?

🎮 Play Again

So I have a question for you:
What makes you feel like a kid again?

What’s something from your childhood you could resurrect?
A favorite board game?
A charm bracelet collection?
A Saturday morning ritual?

I’ve been diving headfirst into mine — I splurged on a PlayStation 2 as an early Christmas present to myself, and it has been pure JOY.

As a lifelong Tomb Raider fanatic, hearing that old menu music again?
Instant teleportation.

One minute I’m in my apartment in North Carolina —
the next, I’m 17 again, swearing at the TV as Lara Croft misses a jump for the 800th time and plummets dramatically into a pit of wolves 🤦‍♀️😂

A simpler time.
A freer time.
A time that deserves space in my life again.

✨ Why It Matters

Growing up happens automatically.
Growing old is optional.

The world will always find a reason to make you serious — bills, careers, heartbreaks, responsibilities — but holding onto that spark, that silliness, that imagination?

That’s what keeps the soul alive.

Every time I press play on a cheesy cartoon…
Every time I cuddle up with Scooby under a blanket fort of nostalgia…
Every time I laugh so hard my stomach hurts…

I’m reminding myself that wonder never expires.
Magic doesn’t have an age limit.
And joy is still a language I get to speak fluently.

So bring back the weird snacks.
Buy the game console.
Wear the pajamas with the stupid little ghosts on them.
Color outside the lines.

Let the kid in you come out to play.
You need them more than you know.

✨ Stay young. Stay silly. Stay magical. ✨

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What does it mean to be a kid at heart?
View all responses

inspiredodyssey daily prompt

9/11/2001 – The Day Silence Fell on New York City

As a native New Yorker, September 11th has a weight that words can barely carry. It isn’t just a date—it’s a scar carved into memory. I wasn’t just a witness that day. I was in the middle of it.

At 9 a.m., I was at work at the Yale Club of New York City, right across from Grand Central Station. It was an ordinary Tuesday morning—the kind where coffee cups clinked, phones rang, and the rhythm of the city pulsed through the walls. Then someone said a plane had hit the World Trade Center.

I remember the shift in the air, the way every sound suddenly felt wrong. I called my mom from my desk, my voice shaking. She was already watching it unfold on TV. “Come home, honey,” she said. “You shouldn’t stay there.”

Before I could even stand up, the second plane hit.

The room filled with panic. Someone screamed. Another person dropped their phone. The building’s manager ran through the hall shouting for everyone to evacuate—rumors were already spreading that the MetLife Building might be next.

When I stepped outside, it felt like the whole city was trembling. Sirens wailed in every direction. Strangers clung to one another, faces pale with confusion and fear. Taxis were charging hundreds of dollars to desperate people trying to get home. The sidewalks were overflowing—crowds heading toward the bridges, walking for miles toward the boroughs because no one trusted the streets anymore.

One of my coworkers was terrified to go home—she lived downtown in the West Village. “I can’t go alone,” she said. Without hesitation, I told her I’d walk her home.

So while the crowds were fleeing uptown, we began walking downtown, straight toward the chaos.

The sky grew darker with every block. The air thickened with dust and disbelief. When the second tower fell, it was like the earth itself had cracked open. The sound was a deep, rolling thunder that seemed to swallow the horizon. Then came the ash.

It fell like snow—gray, heavy, endless. It coated our clothes, our hair, our lungs. Breathing hurt. My friend’s hand was clutching mine when we spotted a small neighborhood bar. We ducked inside, slammed the door shut, and barricaded it with chairs and tables. There were already people inside—shell-shocked, silent, trembling.

We listened to music and drank, trying to block out the world. Someone lit a candle. Another person started crying. For a few hours, that dimly lit bar became a strange little fortress against reality. We were strangers, yet bound together by fear, disbelief, and whiskey. It truly felt like the end of the world.

By three o’clock, the streets had gone eerily quiet. The noise had burned itself out, replaced by an eerie stillness. Ash covered the cars. Pieces of paper floated through the air like lost prayers. We finally stepped back outside, moving through that haunted silence.

I walked my friend the rest of the way home, hugged her, and found a payphone. When my mom answered, she was crying so hard I could barely hear her. “I’m okay,” I told her. “I’m okay.”

The city wasn’t.

I found an F train still running and boarded it, the car nearly empty. No one spoke. No one cried. We just sat there—strangers wrapped in quiet shock, our reflections staring back at us in the darkened windows. Even the sound of the subway wheels seemed muted, like the train understood the gravity of what it was carrying.

When I finally stepped off at my stop, I stood on the platform for a long time, breathing in the thick, smoky air of survival.

That day will forever be a dividing line in my life: before and after.

I can still see the smoke when I close my eyes. Still feel that strange weight pressing against the silence. New York City—the loudest, most alive place on earth—had fallen quiet.

And that silence, I’ll never forget.

It was the sound of heartbreak.
The sound of history.
The sound of a city realizing, all at once, that life would never be the same.

In the years that followed, that day became a compass for me. It showed me how fragile life really is—and how strong I could be when everything fell apart. Maybe that’s why I built such a different kind of life in North Carolina. I found faith again, found peace, found purpose. I joined the Legion of Mary, got sober, and started watching the stars instead of the smoke.

Every September, I still remember the ash, the fear, and that impossible silence. But now, I let it remind me that I survived—that the same woman who walked through the ashes of Manhattan once now walks beneath the constellations, unafraid.

Daily writing prompt
What major historical events do you remember?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Sobriety, My Own Place, My Own Life

I hung on to my ex-husband longer than I should have. We were both wrong for each other from the beginning. Leaving him was the best thing to ever happen to me, and something I am the proudest of.

I had been living a nightmare of my own making for most of my life. I had been drinking heavily, in and out of mental institutions, living in a room in my parents’ house with no hope of ever moving out or making anything of my life. I spent nearly a decade online, before OnlyFans was a thing, giving myself freely to men online, not having any kind of respect for myself. Did I really think I could find a husband this way? Did I really think a man could save me from all of this pain?

Then I met my husband. We went through NYC like Bonnie and Clyde, him introducing me to crack by giving me the pipe in my mouth, (I would never touch it), and me drowning more and more in alcohol. Even though we shared a special moment in my favorite church, where God told him to ask me to marry him, it was the last bit of romance that would ever go on in our toxic relationship. From emotional abuse, physical fights over money for drugs, me leaving him a bunch of times and him threatening me with suicide so I took him back, and us committing many crimes in NYC, we fled to North Carolina to start a new life.

But it didn’t end there, it just got worse. He found a new group of people to get drugs from, my alcoholism got worse, and I was so deep in sin, that only thing left for God to do was send us both to jail to stop all the madness. I spent 10 months on the floor of a jail cell, still dreaming of him and sending messages to the officers to give to him for me. I still hung on, even after I got out and became homeless, having to find shelter in a rehab. I was always building for our future, visiting him in the psych ward after jail, trying to make a life with a man that wanted nothing more than look for crack the moment he got out. He tormented me every single day in our new apartment, after I tried to do things the right way and live sober. It all crumbled. He refused medication. His addiction raged. And somehow, by grace alone, I didn’t relapse. The old crack spots were boarded up. The temptation wasn’t there. That was God.

He became incoherent. I watched him dissolve like I once had. My parents, now in North Carolina, put him on a bus back to New York. They saved my life. I owe them everything.

The last time I saw him, my parents drove us to the bus depot. I was quiet the whole ride, watching the North Carolina roads blur into memory. He looked exhausted — thin, worn, not quite tethered to this world anymore — but there was still something in his eyes, those big brown eyes I had fallen in love with in the ward. We stood outside the Greyhound station, under a gray sky that couldn’t make up its mind. He reached for me, and I melted into him, holding on like it could somehow undo the damage. And then came the final kiss — slow, trembling, soaked in goodbye. I closed my eyes and tried to memorize everything: the shape of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the sadness in his breath.

His last words to me were, “We can try and make this work, right?”

And part of me — the part still haunted by our first kiss and that candlelit church — wanted to say yes.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Even after he left, I kept in touch. I loved his mother — she made sure I had support even in jail, wrote me letters, and sent cards. She loved how much I loved her son. But it wasn’t enough.

He kept disappearing in New York, lost in the same cycles, same streets. And one day, I changed my number.

I grieved him like a death. Because I had buried so many parts of myself just to stay with him — my sobriety, my sanity, my dreams. And still, I would have stayed. That’s what heartbreak does to you. It confuses sacrifice with salvation. 

Because for all the chaos, for all the darkness — he loved me in a way no one else ever had. He made me feel beautiful when I had been discarded by so many. He gave me an adventure. He made me feel chosen.

All I ever wanted was to save him. But love is not salvation.

And sometimes, the kindest thing grace can do — is say goodbye.

I think of him still, when the nights are lonely — only because there were nights that he used to hold me when the mania or depression was just too much. He would stroke my forehead and lull me back to sleep. Mostly, it was the mornings when he kissed my forehead while I was still asleep.

If only he could have been what I hoped him to be. But you can’t change someone, you can’t even try. All you can do is pray for them, and hope God takes care of them. I pray for him to this day.

I moved on of course, and fell in love again, but it honestly hurts more than what I went through with my ex-husband. This time, this love showed me what it could be like to be loved completely and without addiction and toxicity – although I still got heartbroken in the end.

So what am I most proud of? Through all of that I’ve been through, I managed to keep my apartment, my sobriety, and most of all my piece of mind. I live my life alone and in peace, embracing my freedom and independence everytime.

To me that’s priceless.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What are you most proud of in your life?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Making Lazy Days Feel Like Progress

I’m not 100% on board with lazy days being either just restful, or unproductive, but more like how they are needed for our mental health, and peace of mind.

“Rest is not idle. Rest is repair.”

Because some days, my soul simply says, “Not today.”
Not to the inbox. Not to the chores. Not to the relentless demand to be useful.

And yet, the guilt creeps in anyway—My inner drill sergeant barks, “I should be doing something”.

But what if lazy days are not wasted at all?
What if “lazy” days are the most productive ones of all—just not in the ways we’ve been taught to measure?

🌙 The Quiet Work Beneath My Stillness

From the outside, my lazy days look like nothing special — me in pajamas till noon, coffee cooling on the nightstand, a book half-read and abandoned for a nap.

But underneath all that stillness, something deeper is happening. My body is recovering. My mind is unknotting itself. My spirit is remembering how to breathe again.

I’ve realized rest is the soil where creativity grows. Even when I look idle, my brain is sorting through memories, healing emotional clutter, and weaving invisible connections.

That’s not laziness.
That’s recalibration.

✨ Learning “Soft Productivity”

Instead of measuring my days by output, I’m learning to measure them by nourishment.

Now I ask myself:

  • Did I let my mind breathe today?
  • Did I feel sunlight on my face?
  • Did I make space for peace?

That’s what I call soft productivity.
It’s when I tidy one drawer instead of cleaning the whole house, or write one honest paragraph instead of forcing a full essay. It’s when I let myself sit in silence without the need to “achieve” something.

I’m still growing — even when I’m still.

☕ Turning Rest Into Ritual

I’ve started treating my rest like a ritual.

  • I make my coffee slowly, like a ceremony.
  • I play music that matches the mood of my morning, no news in the background anymore.
  • I take walks without a destination — just to feel the air on my skin.
  • And I call it recovery, not wasting time.

Because sometimes productivity isn’t about building.
Sometimes it’s about rebuilding.

🌤️ My New Kind of Progress

The world glorifies hustle because it’s afraid of stillness.
But I’ve lived enough burnout to know: I can’t bloom without rest.

So I’m letting my lazy days be sacred again.
They aren’t interruptions to my purpose — they’re part of it.

When I’m stretched out on the couch, halfway between guilt and grace, I remind myself:

I’m not falling behind.
I’m just catching up to myself.

Daily writing prompt
Do lazy days make you feel rested or unproductive?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

The True Story of Success: Mom and Dad’s American Dream

I can’t think of more successful people than my mom and dad. It’s not that they’re rich or famous, it’s that they showed me the true story of immigrants living the American Dream.

Immigration is a controversial topic now, but honestly, wasn’t this country made on the backs of immigrants? Growing up in Brooklyn, I saw all sorts of people of different colors and cultures, all working hard to make a better life for their children in one of the most dangerous places to live in the 1980s. My mom and dad are of West Indian descent, and while my mom was working and going to school, my dad drove a taxi at night just to keep food on the table. This was an upgrade because when they first came to this country, they were working in factories.

We grew up in poverty, so I didn’t get a lot of the things I wanted as a kid – but then again, it was an entirely different generation then. No internet or cell phones existed for me for the first 18 years of my life. But I digress. Mom and dad worked very hard to make sure I finished school, and I at least got all the books I wanted. I was part of the Scholastic Book Club, and this is what I looked forward to every Friday, after placing my order:

Mom and dad always made sure I had my books no matter how expensive they were. That to me right there is a success for their kid.

They pinched every penny, and saved every dollar they had, and eventually my dad started doing the thing he was always meant to do – build houses. In Guyana, my dad was a successful carpenter at a young age, only when he came to the USA did he have to dumb down his skills to get a decent wage at a factory to provide for his family. But when things were finally good, and they had the money to invest, Dad bought his first house in Queens and started fixing it up. All the while, I was busy growing up and Mom was finishing up her degree at Court Reporting school. I am not sure if stenographers are even around anymore, but they used to be a vital part of the courtroom.

After several years of building and selling houses, we finally hit it big and moved out to Long Island, NYC – which is where the rich of the rich usually live if you’re a New Yorker. We had arrived. I was doing really well in college and at my payroll job, and mom and dad were building more houses than ever. They hit a big bump in the road during the 2008 housing crisis but were still able to put away good money. I always admired my parents, for their tenacity, intelligence and survival skills, and where most people fail, my parents always seem to find a way to persevere.

I hit many big bumps in the road too in my life. When I came to North Carolina and was in an extremely dangerous relationship, and ended up in jail, not only did my parents pick up everything they had and leave NYC to come save me here, but they brought all my belongings and everything I left behind in NY with them. While paying for storage and living in motels while I was in jail, my parents managed to find a small house, pay cash for it, and fix it up so it was actually livable to where it is worth well over $100K now. All this while I made a complete mess of my life.

My parents are heroes and are the forever success story in my eyes. They love their life here in North Carolina, my mom says she loves the people and the big open spaces a lot more than NYC. Dad still gets nostalgic for NYC, but I think he likes the fact that he has big open land now, and a great place to retire. The funny thing is at 73 and 65, my mom and dad still build and redid a house in a nearby town to flip and sell. Absolutely remarkable, considering they did all the building and renovating themselves, where most people are well into their retirement.

There is no greater success in this world than the rags to riches story of my mom and dad. Through all the years, and even all my craziness, they managed to keep everything they earned and bounced back time and time again. They are my blessing, my heroes.

Stay Tuned.

Daily writing prompt
When you think of the word “successful,” who’s the first person that comes to mind and why?
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inspiredodyssey love

Loving a Man in Chains

Tonight I see it clearly — I am the free one.
I’ve walked through my own prisons: my ex-husband’s control, my addiction, the years of craving love that hurt more than it healed. I earned this freedom drop by drop, tear by tear.

And yet my heart still reaches for a man who lives behind invisible bars. His daughter, his guilt, his fear — all real, all heavy. I can feel how small the world must feel to him, how rare the air of laughter must be when he calls me.

But I will not trade my wings for his chains.
I can love him without locking myself away.
I can ache for his peace and still choose my own.

That is what love in the light looks like — compassion without captivity.

inspiredodyssey daily prompt

How I Scared Everyone, Then Became the Quietest Neighbor

Man, bipolar is one sneaky son of a so and so. I was doing great in my new apartment, made friends, got neighbors’ numbers, but man when you have manic episodes, everything can fall apart really fast.

I won’t even get into the Ring camera footage my dad saw of me running outside in my parking lot naked at 4am, or the candles I left burning on my bed and windowsill that nearly burned down my apartment, but just the sheer amount of craziness that I put my neighbors through is just appalling. My one neighbor, who lives across from me and has a little girl, got scared the most. I was calling her, knocking on her door in my delusions, that her husband (who was the first one to welcome me there), threatened to call the cops on me. So embarrassing! The worst part is I have $100 worth of Moana stuff for their daughter that I never got to give to her for Christmas because I was so crazy. Apparently, they talked to my parents when I was in the hospital too, telling them that they really liked me, but they were just really scared of me.

Fast forward to today, I am now the quietest neighbor in the complex. That couple with the daughter stays far away from me, (they avoided me when they saw my car coming in the summer). My noisy neighbor next door moved out, (I had tormented them too at all hours of the night), but they apparently were picking fights with all my other neighbors, and the landlord had the sheriff come to evict them, (thank God I wasn’t the worst one),

I think the best way to be a good neighbor is trying to be helpful and to just stay quiet. I found a small piece of mail the mail lady dropped the other day by our mailboxes, and hand delivered it to one of my neighbors, (I think that’s pretty neighborly). But that’s as far as I’ll go. The best thing I can do is keep taking my medication, sleep well, and make 100% sure I don’t find myself in a manic episode ever again. Just way too much to lose. So today, I am a good neighbor, just a lonely one in the complex.

Daily writing prompt
What makes a good neighbor?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Grace in Motion: The Principles That Define How I Live

There are moments in life — after heartbreak, after loss, after the quiet rebuilding — when you realize that your life is shaped not by what happens to you, but by what you choose to stand for.
I’ve learned this the slow way, through ache and grace, through faith and relapse, through learning to begin again and again.

So, what principles define how I live?

✨ Grace Is My First Language

Grace is the way I keep breathing when the ache rises.
It’s how I forgive Mr. California for the silence, and myself for waiting by the phone. I love this man with everything in me, but the complications and distance hurt me, hurt us.
Grace is how I turn pain into prayer instead of poison.

Grace doesn’t erase the past — it redeems it, thread by trembling thread.
It’s what carried me through four years of sobriety,
teaching me that healing is a thousand small surrenders,
each one whispered: “Not my will, but Yours.”

I’ve learned to meet myself where I stumble, not where I wish I was standing.
That’s where God meets me too — in the wreckage, in the real.

💗 Love, Even When It Costs

The Legion of Mary taught me that love isn’t just emotion; it’s mission.
It’s handing out rosaries when your heart is breaking.
It’s comforting the lonely when you wish someone would comfort you.
It’s praying for the one who walked away — not because you’re a saint,
but because you remember what it feels like to be lost.

I still love Mr. California.
Not as an idol, but as a soul I once touched with light.
And loving him now means releasing him gently into God’s keeping.
That, too, is service.

🕯️ Adoration Is My Anchor

The hours I spend before the Blessed Sacrament aren’t penance — they’re medicine.
When I look at that small circle of white, I remember who holds the universe.
I let His silence speak louder than the unanswered calls.

It’s where my heartbeat syncs again with heaven’s rhythm.
I whisper names — all my beloved friends across the distance and miles —
and trust that grace travels where I cannot.

Sometimes I think the monstrance holds not just Christ, but all our waiting.

🌧 Truth, Even When It Trembles

I used to think strength meant composure.
Now I know it’s confession — the willingness to say, “I’m still healing.”

Sometimes I go to Mass with tears still wet on my cheeks.
Sometimes I feel like a saint one moment and a storm the next.

But truth, even messy, is holy.
It’s what keeps me human in a world that rewards pretending.
Sobriety has taught me that honesty — especially about weakness —
isn’t failure. It’s freedom.

🌌 Beauty Is How I Worship

A candle flame, a choir voice, the sky through my new telescope —
they are all hymns in disguise.
I see God in every shimmer, in every constellation He flung across the dark.

When I find beauty, I offer it back.
Because every lovely thing is a reminder: He hasn’t given up on me.
Even the ache is beautiful when I surrender it.

🌿 Becoming Is the Only Rule

Every day I am learning to live slower, holier, truer.
I am learning that waiting doesn’t mean wasting.
That silence can be sacred, not punishment.
That loving without demand is its own vocation.

I am not who I was when he first said, “I see you, Lynn.”
But I hope I am someone who keeps seeing others that way —
through eyes washed in grace.

🌹 Benediction

If you asked me again what defines how I live,
I would say this:

I live by grace,
by love that costs,
by faith that doesn’t need proof,
by beauty that resurrects,
by truth that trembles,
and by the quiet miracle of becoming.

And when my heart aches for what was lost,
I place it back on the altar, whispering —
You can have this too, Lord. All of it. Even him.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9

Daily writing prompt
What principles define how you live?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Most of What We Postpone Isn’t Hard — It’s Emotional

I’ve been putting off an honest conversation with Mr. California, sitting my parents down to explain why I don’t want to move to Florida, and completing Step 9 of my AA amends with my two best friends in New York City. The list goes on and on.

And then there’s the usual stuff — cleaning out drawers, doing a deep clean through all my junk, exercising, eating better. That list could stretch to the moon.

So why am I putting so much off?

I’m starting to understand my procrastination more and more these days — and the truth is, about 90% of it is emotional. Facing feelings about people, or having hard conversations, is really hard for me. I catch myself thinking, maybe they’ll just forget, and I can pretend none of it ever happened. But that’s not how life works, and I know it.

If I keep avoiding the truth with Mr. California, I’m only setting myself up to get hurt — because I keep pouring in everything and getting almost nothing back. If I don’t have an honest conversation with my parents about not wanting to go to Florida, I could end up alone here in North Carolina during another manic episode, with no one to help me this time. And as for my friends in New York — they deserve a real amends from the bottom of my heart after all I put them through.

My sponsor and I have even hit a wall. I’ve been stuck on Step 9 for months now, circling the same emotional ground, and it’s keeping me from moving forward in my recovery. I’m nearing five years sober, but lately, that “dry drunk” mentality has been creeping in — all the old thinking, none of the bottles. And truthfully, it’s been far too long since I’ve been to a meeting.

These emotional barriers that keep me from doing what I need to do feel like heavy stones I keep tripping over. But I’m done just staring at them.

I have a plan.

🌹 The Courage Plan

(for the hard, emotional conversations that matter)

1. Recognize: It’s Not Fear of Conflict — It’s Fear of Loss

I’m not afraid of the words. I’m afraid of what those words might do.
I fear losing connection, approval, belonging — or the fantasy that things could stay comfortable.
But silence is never peace; it’s just an ache waiting for a voice.

“Telling the truth may cost me peace in the moment, but silence is costing me my soul.”

2. Name the Truth I’m Trying to Protect

Every difficult conversation guards something sacred.
Ask myself:

“What truth am I honoring by saying this?”

  • With Mr. California, it’s: “I need to feel emotionally safe, not uncertain.”
  • With my parents, it’s: “I need autonomy and to honor my boundaries.”
  • With my NYC friends, it’s: “I want to repair what I broke and meet love with humility.”

“When I finally figure out why I’m speaking, my courage will find its rhythm.“

3. Plan for Peace, Not Perfection

I won’t wait for flawless phrasing. That’s fear dressed as preparation.
I have to make notes, not a script. The heart never sounds polished — it sounds real.

“I’m not here to control how they react — only to speak what’s true, with love.”

4. Choose Timing and Setting with Care

Truth deserves a safe container, my sponsor stresses this a lot.
I can’t ambush anyone mid-stress and I can’t corner myself either.
I need to find the moment that breathes — not the one that breaks.
Maybe I can send a message like “Can I share something that’s been on my heart?” to open the door gently.

But when will I actually do this? NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT. (First message will be sent at the conclusion of this blog post).

5. Practice with Compassion

I think rehearsing out loud will help greatly.
Once with all my tears, then again calmly, then again as if I were comforting my past self.
By the third time, it will feel less like breaking — and more like healing.

6. Hold Space for the Fallout

Even the gentlest truth can land clumsily, I have to be prepared for that.
I have to have my after-care ready: a walk, a prayer, a song, a friend who knows what this will cost me. (definitely texting the bestie).

“Courage shakes the body. I need to treat it like recovery, not failure.“

7. Anchor Back to Love

At their core, these conversations — the ninth-step amends, the “no” to family pressure, the truth I need to tell Mr. California — all rise from love.

“I’m doing this because I love you, and because I’m learning to love myself too.”

That single line can soften any storm.

We don’t postpone hard things — we postpone feeling things.

But when we finally face them, we reclaim power we didn’t know we’d lost.

Courage is rarely loud. Sometimes it’s a trembling voice saying,

“This is who I am now.”

And that, right there, is the beginning of peace.

Stay Tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What have you been putting off doing? Why?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

The Night I Opened the Door

After years of being terribly codependent on every man I ever loved, tonight is the night I finally grew up, and finally learned independence.

Tonight, something subtle but powerful shifted.

I opened the back door of my apartment — a door I hadn’t touched in months — and stepped outside. The night air wrapped around me like an old friend, and I realized how long it had been since I let myself breathe beyond the walls of waiting.

I looked up at the stars, knowing that soon I’ll be seeing them through my own telescope — my first one. I even found a local astronomy club, in which this inspriation came, and for the first time in a long time, I’m excited about something that has nothing to do with anyone else. Just wonder. Just sky.

It used to destroy me when he didn’t call. The silence felt like proof of absence. But this time, I was steady. I’d made peace with the quiet — and then, like clockwork, the phone lit up.

He did call.

And the night that began in stillness ended in laughter and heat — Scooby-Doo, Wishmaster, for our spooky season of shows and movies, the teasing that felt light and alive, and the love I finally wasn’t chasing, falling apart over, or being desperate about. He told me he wanted to be next to me, and I could feel that softness, that spark, still alive between us. He told me how much he liked how much I teased him, and I could feel his needing and all his wanting again.

But this time, I wasn’t clinging. I was choosing.

I wasn’t waiting by the door — I was standing outside it, finally seeing the stars.

Something in me reopened tonight.

Not just the door. Not just the line between us.

My whole life.

Daily writing prompt
When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?
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