inspiredodyssey daily prompt

The Man Who Taught Me How to Love Without Losing Myself

I have had many loves in my life — all frantic, characteristically bipolar, clingy, wildly codependent, and dangerously self-damaging. But when Mr. California came into my life, the entire dynamic changed — not by choice, but by circumstance.

I was just coming out of a toxic marriage. My ex was a drug addict, schizophrenic, and volatile. I had done everything I could to escape that relationship: I got sober, served time in jail because of him, became homeless, and somehow managed to rebuild my life. And still, I couldn’t let go. It took my incredible parents stepping in and putting him on a bus back to NYC for me to finally be free. I thank God for them every single day.

Ironically, when he left, the grief hit me like a tidal wave. The tears poured out. The sleepless nights came. The what if I can change him fantasies haunted me endlessly. In the middle of that despair, I found myself pouring my heart out on a support forum, trying to soothe my mind through the wreckage of grief.

That’s when Mr. California entered my life.

It was the simplest thing. One message:
“I’m so sorry you’re hurting. I hope you get some sleep. I’m here if you want to talk.”

From that moment, six months of steady messaging followed. In that time, I began to find myself again. I started dressing up and going out. I made new friends, became involved in my community, found a great job, and — for the first time in a long while — started sleeping again. I’m not saying all of that happened because of him, but he certainly contributed.

Our messages were long, thoughtful, and endless. They became the thing I looked forward to every night after full, busy days. And then one day, after six months of talking to a mystery man while I remained a mystery woman, I took a leap and sent a picture. To my surprise, he sent one back.

It absolutely floored me.

This man was stunning. A mix of Mexican and English heritage, dark hair, a perfectly shaped beard — and those eyes. Big, brown, beautiful eyes you could completely get lost in. This man I had been talking to for half a year was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Honestly? A Mexican version of William Riker from Star Trek: The Next Generation. Total swoon.

When he saw my picture, the attraction wasn’t just mutual — it was electric. Texting soon moved to Discord. Then came phone calls. Then video calls. Then phone sex and cam sex, which, quite frankly, was better than any physical sex I’d ever had. It wasn’t just intense — it was devotional. It was immersive. It was magic.

Beyond that, there was something deeper. Because of all those months of talking, we already knew each other inside and out. Our interests aligned effortlessly. And most importantly, he encouraged me to speak with the priest at the church I attended and consider joining.

My faith is deeply important to me. One of the most positive impacts Mr. California has had on my life is his own profound faith. As a former altar boy and Eagle Scout, he carries a strong sense of duty, honor, and moral grounding. I had been an outsider at my church for a long time and never truly considered joining. His encouragement gave me the courage to meet with the priest and explore that path.

One year later, I am not only a member of the church — I am part of a Legion that serves the elderly and needy weekly. I am now on the path to becoming a Eucharistic minister, something that has brought me a sense of joy and purpose beyond anything I ever imagined.

But there was a dark cloud looming over us.

In late 2024, I experienced a violent, explosive manic episode that shattered my life and destroyed my relationship with Mr. California. From across the distance, he felt helpless and deeply wounded by what I was going through. He blocked me, believing he would never hear from me again.

And yet — like sunlight breaking through a storm — emails began again after I was released from the hospital three months later. Three months apart after everything we shared: the love, the intimacy, the promises that couldn’t be fulfilled. Slowly, cautiously, communication resumed.

Here’s the paradox: after more than a year of reconnecting, I am still blocked on his phone.

Anyone on the outside would say, “Just leave him. Block him back. Move on.” But what happened instead was unexpected. I learned how to love from a healthier place because of the block.

We email. I leave voicemails. He calls me. We spend hours on the phone together watching movies, talking, bonding. We exchange gifts on holidays and birthdays. This past Christmas, he sent me beautiful things — including a silk robe in my favorite color that made me feel radiant and desired.

And still, the block remains.

I spiral. I cry. I curse the universe. I ache. I get angry at him for shutting me out like that.

However —

I have learned how to live my life outside of him. Fully.

I go out with friends. I spend time with other people when he’s quiet. I write. I read. I watch my shows. I spend time with my parents. I engage in my faith and my community. None of which I was doing last year when we were recklessly in love.

He has a complicated life. Our relationship couldn’t survive me calling and texting constantly, collapsing into him.

What I’ve learned — and what has become one of the most positive transformations in my life — is that I am learning to love and be independent at the same time. The block broke my codependent patterns. It stopped the clinging, the consuming, the self-destruction. It taught me that love can breathe.

For someone like me — with bipolar chaos, poor impulse control, and a history of erasing boundaries — I needed the block. It taught me that love doesn’t have to consume me to be real.

Yes, the spirals still come. Not being able to reach him unless he reaches out hurts deeply at times. But this is the lesson God is teaching me: how to become an independent woman. I live on my own. He is 3,000 miles away. What good does it do to ache on the phone all day when we can’t yet be together, when instead I can live fully — with my friends, my parents, my church, and the work I’m called to do?

This — right here, even with the block intact — is where God wants me. To grow. To build. To become someone who can sustain love without losing herself.

And honestly?

The block won’t be there forever.

He is changing.
I am changing.
And together, we are growing — slowly, imperfectly, but honestly.

The impact he has had on my life has been nothing short of astounding.

I used to believe love meant losing myself. Now I know it means standing on my own feet while still choosing someone. That lesson didn’t come easily, but it came honestly — and it’s changed everything.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
Describe a man who has positively impacted your life.
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Tiny Things That Test My Patience (But Not My Peace)

So, I know these days, EVERYTHING seems to annoy us. I don’t know if we’re all just walking around permanently disgruntled or what, but it feels like the days of passing by your neighbor with a smile are fading away.

But here’s the thing: annoyances are only a problem when we let them take over our whole life. A little irritation here and there? Normal. Human. Relatable. A full-blown spiral because someone chewed too loudly? That’s when you know it’s time to breathe.

Today’s prompt called them “Pet Peeves,” but I still like to call them annoyances, because honestly… that’s what they are.

So — what about you?
What really grinds your gears?
What shakes your spirit?
What sends a chill down your spine just hearing it?

Here are my top three:

1️⃣ People Who Type in “Txt Spk”

Look. I’m not here to judge anyone’s linguistic choices — but if you send me a paragraph that looks like an encrypted alien transmission, I am immediately tired.

“u gna b thr l8r bc idk if imma go”

…what?

I need vowels. I need complete thoughts. I need my brain not to work overtime decoding what should’ve been a simple sentence. Life is confusing enough!

If you have a full keyboard at your disposal, please — use your words. Y’all were raised better than “k.” 😂

2️⃣ Cars That Ride Your Bumper Like They’re Filming an Action Scene

This one gets me every time. I could be going five miles above the speed limit, minding my business, listening to my music — and suddenly someone is hugging the back of my car like they’re trying to merge into my backseat.

Why?
For what?
Where are you going that urgently?

Unless you’re in labor, being chased by zombies, or auditioning for Fast & Furious: The Carolina Drift, please give me my space.

3️⃣ People Who Hold Up the Line Because They’re Not Ready

This is my third annoyance because it is universal and spiritually exhausting.

You’ve had 20 minutes in line.
Twenty. Whole. Minutes.

And the moment it’s your turn, suddenly it’s a surprise?
“Uh… hold on… what do I want?”
Then they turn around and ask their friend like they’re on a game show.

Ma’am. Sir. Please.
We are all trying our best out here.

I think this one gets to me because it’s not just the delay — it’s the lack of awareness that other people exist on this planet.

A little mindfulness would go a long way in keeping civilization intact.

In the end…

We’re all human.
We’re all irritated.
We’re all trying to get through the day without losing our minds at the little things.

But a tiny annoyance doesn’t have to steal your joy — unless you hand it the keys.

Laugh about it. Shrug it off.
Vent if you need to.

And then move on with grace… and maybe just a little side-eye. 😉

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
Name your top three pet peeves.
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Time – How to Be Kind to Your Hours

I don’t balance my time well. I feel the days, months, and years slipping by so quickly, and I can’t help but feel like I’m being left behind. Do you ever feel that too—that sense that there just isn’t enough time?

I had so many plans for school, for hobbies, for little dreams that used to make my heart race. I wanted to write more, read more, learn something new, dance again. But somehow, life got louder. Work, errands, exhaustion, distraction—it all piled up.

So I made a plan. Nothing fancy. Just a promise to squeeze something into the middle of my day—something that’s mine. A walk. A few pages of a book. A paragraph of writing. A breath that doesn’t belong to my obligations.

Because time won’t ever stretch for us. We have to carve it out with both hands, messy and determined.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe the goal isn’t to “find” time, but to make peace with it. To realize that it’s not the enemy rushing past us—it’s the companion walking beside us. Sometimes too fast, yes, but always faithful.

When I slow down enough to notice the world—my coffee cooling beside me, sunlight sneaking through the blinds, a song from the 90s that instantly takes me home—I realize I’m not actually out of time. I’m just out of presence.

The truth is, we make time for the things we give our heart to.
The rest… becomes background noise.

So this is my gentle reminder to myself—and to you:
You don’t need more time.
You need to claim the time that’s already yours.

Even five minutes can become holy if you fill it with something that makes you feel alive.

So start small.
Make that cup of tea.
Watch the sunset without photographing it.
Read one page. Write one sentence. Take one deep breath.

You don’t have to fix your whole life today.
You just have to give time permission to love you back.

✨ Stay present. Stay patient. Stay kind to your hours. ✨

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
Do you need time?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

1996 – The Year I Danced with Brooklyn and Didn’t Look Back

I really lived it up when I was in high school. I rocked a pink beeper on my hip and started my first business selling fake IDs — yes, you read that right. 😂

There was this college guy I met at a party, and in true ’90s fashion, one thing led to another, and suddenly I had access to his college’s computer and a homemade laminator. Before long, I was printing driver’s licenses that could get anyone into a club. Ten bucks a pop, and business was booming. It went great until clubs started scanning IDs at the door — but by then, I’d already retired from my short-lived life of teenage crime.

Late ’90s New York wasn’t gentle. It was loud and electric — a thunderstorm of culture, danger, and dreams. I’d cut class and ride the MTA for hours, Aaliyah crooning through my Discman, Biggie’s flow shaping the beat of my walk. I knew every station like scripture: the B to the D to the F, connecting boroughs and destinies. I’d ride from Brooklyn to Harlem just to feel alive, to feel seen, to feel something.

The city was a living contradiction — bodegas glowing on every corner, incense curling from apartment windows, breakdancers spinning on cardboard outside Union Square. Girls in bamboo earrings licking Mister Softees in front of graffiti-covered stoops. The streets sang their own gospel — of hustlers and prophets, preachers and poets. I watched girls in Jordan jackets laugh in the face of fear. I learned to talk fast, walk faster, and read danger by the glint in a stranger’s eye.

And me? I was just this small girl with big dreams, trying to belong to it all.

I wore my hair straight and my jeans tight, my eyeliner thick and my hopes even thicker. Riding the trains, I imagined I was the heroine of some great unwritten story — half Hollywood, half hood, all heart. I dreamed of love so big it could stop time. I dreamed of careers, fame, escape, salvation. I dreamed of standing on a stage or behind a camera and finally being seen.

Brooklyn was my chaos and my cradle — bullets in the air, drug dealers on the corners, and my own heart beating too fast for a girl so young. I drank to bury it. I raged to survive it. I broke curfews, broke rules, broke hearts. I wore my rebellion like perfume.

At sixteen, I was one of the most popular girls in school — my grades hanging on by a thread, my nights filled with neon and noise. My friends and I were known as the “party girls,” and we earned the title. We’d drug my friend’s dad with Nyquil in his tea so he’d sleep through our 2 a.m. escapes to downtown clubs. We jumped into cars with men twice our age, chasing excitement, never thinking about danger, never thinking about tomorrow.

It was reckless. It was wild.
It was youth.

Those years were chaos wrapped in glitter, and if I could go back — I would. Not to relive the mistakes, but to reclaim the magic before the darkness crept in.

I’d dance again under those same strobe lights, laugh until sunrise, and let that fearless girl run wild one more time. But this time, I’d tell her to put down the drink before it swallows her whole. I’d tell her that the party isn’t worth losing herself for.

It was a time of my life that was the most fun, the most dangerous, and a time I felt the most alive.

I would go back in a second, just for the late night shenanigans alone.

Stay Tuned.

Daily writing prompt
Is there an age or year of your life you would re-live?
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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?
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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 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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