inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Chronicles of a Couch Potato in Recovery

I can never stick to a resolution, so I never make any at the beginning of the year. Why set myself up for failure when I can just… keep things ambiguous and filled with vague hope?

I’ve been working on a book for the past twenty years. Yes, twenty. That’s two decades of “almost had it” and “just one more scene” and “where’s my snack?” And don’t even get me started on this so-called weight loss journey—if we’re being honest, it’s been less of a journey and more of a layover in a food court. I’ve gained 40 pounds in the wrong direction, and my emotional compass is still somewhere between “I should try” and “pass me the big piece of chocolate cake.”

I deeply desire to stick to my goals—but here’s the kicker: I have the discipline of a drunken sailor who just got shore leave and hasn’t seen a woman in a year. I get bored. I get overwhelmed. I spiral in silence and disappear into the vortex of chatrooms, forums, and omg Reddit, yes Reddit, that damn Reddit – and existential dread.

But I do have one incredible, titanium-strength win in my corner: I’ve been sober for five years. That’s not nothing—that’s huge. If I can do that, surely I can manage to shake my ass to a few dance workouts and open a damn Word document without melting into a shame puddle. Right?

Maybe.

We’re gonna find out.

So, here’s my baby-step blueprint—a Two-Week Plan for the Undisciplined, Unruly, and Unapologetically Human—to build new habits, sweat a little (but cutely), and stop collapsing every time life goes radio silent, (when he doesn’t call and my whole world crumbles into shame, guilt and hours of crying, how pathetic).

🔥 Two-Week “Get-It-Together-Lynn” Plan™

⭐️ Week One: The Warm-Up Week

Barely Doing the Thing is Still Doing the Thing.

🕺 MONDAY: The Great Unfurling

  • Goal: Just move. No expectations.
  • Action: One dance video. Literally one. Even if I flail. Especially if I flail.
  • Book Work: Open the doc. Scroll through it. That’s it. I don’t have to write, just reacquaint myself with it like it’s a long-lost ex I’m stalking on Instagram.
  • Mindset Move: Say this out loud: “Discipline isn’t sexy. But I am.”

🍜 TUESDAY: Meal of Queens

  • Goal: Eat one actual vegetable. Not a garnish. Not salsa. A real one.
  • Action: Cook or order something green. Bonus points if it crunches.
  • Dance: One video + freestyle my own silly routine after.
  • Book: Write one paragraph. Doesn’t have to be good. Just has to exist.

💡 WEDNESDAY: Midweek Miracle

  • Goal: Make Mr. California’s silence work for me, not against me.
  • Action: Set a 15-minute timer. Do something focused (book/dance/clean/anything) with no distractions. Then reward myself with the dumbest meme I can find.
  • Book: Write a list: “Scenes I still want to write.” No pressure. Just play.

📦 THURSDAY: Shuffle & Declutter

  • Goal: Clear the chaos just a little.
  • Action: Clean one thing. A drawer. A shelf. A pile. Blast music while I do it.
  • Dance: Put on a song that makes you feel sexy and MOVE.
  • Book: Re-read something I wrote that I like. Bask in my own brilliance.

🌙 FRIDAY: Fancy Friday

  • Goal: Romance myself.
  • Action: Dress cute, even if you’re I’m home. Light a candle. Make my coffee like it’s a $7 café drink.
  • Dance: One routine. Lip sync like I’m auditioning for The Voice.
  • Book: Write a love letter to my main character. Remind them (and me) why they matter.

💤 SATURDAY: Lazy, Not Dead

  • Goal: Gentle motion + gentle kindness.
  • Action: Stretch for 10 minutes. Then nap like a Victorian heroine.
  • Silence Prep: Make a Silent Survival List: stuff I can do when everything feels empty.
  • Book: Set a timer for 10 minutes. Brain dump whatever is in my head.

☀️ SUNDAY: Soul Reset

  • Goal: Reflect, reset, recommit.
  • Action: Take myself on a solo date (even just to the living room). Journal three things that made me smile this week.
  • Dance: Put on a slow, romantic song. Move like I’m dancing for someone I adore. (Yes, maybe him. Or maybe you.)

💥 WEEK TWO: Gentle Repetition = Real Habit

We’re not being “good”—we’re just being better than yesterday.

This week? I’m just repeating Week One. No fancy upgrades. No overachieving. Just loop it again—with slightly more confidence, slightly more consistency, and the knowledge that I didn’t crumble.

If I miss a day? I start again the next. There is no failing in this plan. There’s only showing up with my messy hair, last night’s mascara, and a desire to not live in chaos forever.

I may completely be undisciplined with procrastination in my bones, but dammit, I won’t let these big challenges break me this year.

Happy 2026!

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What are your biggest challenges?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Classic Nostalgia- Being Unplugged – Not Hollywood Remake Madness

How many of you are just so done with every damn thing being redone, recycled, rebooted, regurgitated from the past? I mean seriously—how many more Spider-Men, Batmen, Ghostbusters, or girlbossified reimaginings of once-perfect classics do we need? It’s not even nostalgia anymore—it’s like a copy of a copy of a blurry VHS tape that someone tried to turn into a TikTok.

When I say I’m nostalgic? I don’t mean the algorithm spoon-feeding me another reboot. I mean unplugged. No computers. No phones. No texts dinging every five seconds. Just the clink of change at the bodega, where you could get a bacon egg & cheese and a cup of coffee for under five bucks. A foam cup, too. Not some hipster compostable oat milk nonsense.

Lately, nostalgia’s become a dirty word. Like people are gripping the past so tight they forget how to actually create in the present. Especially in Hollywood. It’s like ever since COVID hit, every last creative gene got flushed down the nearest vaccinated toilet and now we’re stuck watching pixelated Frankenfilms stitched together with AI and celebrity cameos.

Okay, but listen—every now and then, the universe throws me a bone. I thought that reboot of Anaconda with Jack Black and Paul Rudd was gonna be absolute garbage. But it actually slapped! I laughed, I got that good hit of throwback dopamine, and I didn’t feel like I was watching a bloated corpse of my childhood favorites being paraded around like a puppet. Win-win. And don’t even get me started on Stranger Things—remember how that show used to feel like a love letter to 80s kids? Now? The episodes feel like AI wrote them on a deadline. The lowest ratings on IMDB don’t lie, folks. Writer gods, why hast thou forsaken us?

So yeah, when I crave nostalgia, I’m not reaching for some streaming app’s Top 10. I’m popping in a DVD—yes, a real one—and curling up on the couch next to my giant plush Scooby-Doo with the phone on silent and the world locked out. You know why? Because I want to pay attention. Full, undivided, sacred attention. Not that split-screen, scroll-and-watch nonsense we’ve all been guilted into calling relaxation.

And can we talk about how all these notifications and constant pings have turned half the population into jittery squirrels with burnout? I mean, growing up in Brooklyn in the 80s, nobody had ADHD. Why? Because we were OUTSIDE. Drinking from hydrants. Playing manhunt. Getting lost on purpose. And if someone wanted to reach you, they had to leave a message on the one phone. With the one answering machine. On the one little cassette tape. And guess what? You didn’t check it till you were good and ready. We had freedom, baby. Sweet, unreachable, unbothered FREEDOM.

To me, nostalgia is about stillness. It’s about choosing to be present in the quiet—wrapped in a soft robe with a Walkman on, letting the songs play in their original order without skipping. Maybe even dragging out that dusty vinyl from the closet and letting it crackle under the needle. Or wandering into a used bookstore, sitting on the floor, and reading a random chapter just because it caught your eye.

God, I remember walking into Barnes & Noble back in the day and seeing people sprawled in the aisles, devouring entire books like their lives depended on it. Back then I’d grumble, “get outta my way”—but now? I miss them. I miss the chaos. I miss the realness.

What do you miss most?

For me? It’s that hit of a song on the radio I haven’t heard in a decade. Not a curated playlist, not an algorithm—just a lucky stumble into memory. It plays, and suddenly I’m sixteen again, in platform sneakers, lip gloss poppin’, talking to boys I had no business talking to, and absolutely thriving.

But maybe, just maybe, nostalgia doesn’t have to mean “going backwards.” Maybe it just means making space for the parts of yourself the world forgot to love. The unplugged version of you. The one who still knows how to sit still, sip a bodega coffee, let a record play, and just be.

So yeah, Hollywood can keep the remakes.

I’ve got Scooby, a DVD player, and a killer memory bank.

And I’m not giving that up for any franchise.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What makes you feel nostalgic?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Forever Night Owl – Most Happy at Night

“Because the night belongs to lovers, because the night belongs to us.”

Those infamous words have followed me through so many seasons of my life, and lately, they feel spoken just for me.

I’ve always loved the night.

It’s where the noise fades, where the world exhales, where the sharp edges of the day soften into something forgiving. Night has never demanded anything from me — it simply opens its arms and says, come as you are. In the quiet hours, inhibitions loosen, laughter feels freer, and the most honest versions of ourselves slip out from hiding.

As a teenager, the night was rebellion and adrenaline — sneaking out with a fake ID, neon lights flickering across sweaty dance floors in New York City, music vibrating through my bones as if it could rearrange my future. Later, the night became contemplative — long hours spent stargazing while the rest of the world slept, lying still beneath constellations that reminded me I was small, but never insignificant.

Through all the ebbs and flows of my life — the chaos, the heartbreak, the rebuilding — one thing never wavered.
My love of the night stayed faithful to me, even when nothing else did.

Now, nightfall brings something entirely different.

Something gentler.
Something sweeter.

These days, when the sky darkens and the house grows quiet, I find myself wrapped in the soft intimacy of Mr. California’s presence. Hours slip by on the phone, carried by shameless flirting, tender laughter, and that delicious teenage-crush energy people spend decades trying to rediscover. There is comfort in knowing the night will end with his voice — low, warm, and familiar — weaving its way into my thoughts.

The night tastes like Mexican hot chocolate, rich and slow, and sounds like the softest, sexiest voice in my ear, talking me into calm, into closeness, into that suspended space where nothing else exists. There’s desire, yes — but there’s also devotion, playfulness, and the kind of emotional intimacy that feels rare and sacred.

Things aren’t perfect.
The distance aches sometimes.
The longing stretches thin on certain nights.

But what I’ve never had before — not like this — is independence. My days belong to me now. They’re full and busy and bright: friendships, purpose, movement, freedom. I live my life fully out in the world, loving the woman I’ve become. And then, when night comes and I retreat into my own space, I realize something quietly astonishing.

I have everything.

I have my freedom.
I have my peace.
And I have a man who is absolutely, undeniably crazy about me — who meets me in the dark hours not to consume me, but to share the night with me.

So yes.
The night belongs to lovers.
It belongs to whispered conversations and stolen smiles across time zones.
It belongs to longing that feels hopeful instead of desperate.
It belongs to us.

And honestly?
I wouldn’t trade these nights for anything.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
When are you most happy?
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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.
View all responses

inspiredodyssey Uncategorized

The One Change – Seeing Myself Through Softer Eyes

We all have it — the little voice that whispers, “not good enough,” “not pretty enough,” “not thin enough.”

I wish, in the deepest part of my heart, that this voice wasn’t so loud for me.

I battle with it every day, especially with a bipolar mind that loves to spiral and exaggerate things until I’m drowning in thoughts that aren’t true. But I am trying — truly trying — to live the best life I can in spite of all that noise.

Keeping that inner critic quiet only comes with action — with putting my life in motion. Getting out there. Meeting people. Spending time with friends. Going to events. Showing up for groups. Working in therapy. Taking action to push back against the thoughts that want to swallow me whole.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that rituals of self-care make the battlefield quieter.

Making my bed every morning.

Eating breakfast even when I’m not hungry.

Forcing myself to shower when my body feels heavy as stone.

These simple acts quiet that inner enemy — that inner bully — who tries to make me feel small in a world that can already be harsh and unforgiving.

But here’s the part I never say out loud:

I have lived through things that should have broken me long before now.
And yet here I am, still rebuilding, still rising, still showing up to my own life.

💔 If I Could Change Anything… It Would Be the Way I See Myself

Because how do you explain to a mind like mine — one that spirals, crashes, grieves, aches — that I am not the girl I used to be?

How do you convince yourself that you are worthy when you’ve survived:

• jail
• homelessness
• addiction
• heartbreak
• humiliation
• the ghost of Giovanni
• and the long road back to yourself?

How do you quiet that voice when your past is loud and your fears feel louder?

You do it by looking at the life you built after everything fell apart.

🔥 I Rebuilt My Life From Ashes

When my ex-husband left and the world felt like it was collapsing, I didn’t just survive — I began again.

I clawed my way out of a life that nearly destroyed me.

I found a home — my home.
I found stability.
I found dignity.
I found a routine that keeps me grounded.

I found sobriety and fought for it with everything in me. Four years is not an accident. It’s work. It’s faith. It’s choosing myself even when my brain tries to convince me I don’t deserve to be chosen.

And I found a purpose.

✝️ I Found My Faith Again

I walked into the Legion of Mary and discovered that God had not abandoned me — He was just waiting for me to come home.

I built a life where I serve others.
Where I bring Communion to the elderly and the disabled.
Where I pray with people who need comfort.
Where my presence actually means something.

That inner critic loves to pretend I am a failure.
But the truth? I am someone’s blessing every week.
I am someone’s comfort.
I am someone’s kindness showing up at their door.

🤝 I Found Love and Friendship That Feels Like Home

My friends — my circle — my people:
My soul sister, my oldest friend, my soulmate and lifelong friend… the ones who answer the late-night calls, who sit with me during spirals, who love me through the storms.
They’re not here by accident.
They’re here because I have a heart worth staying for.

🏡 And Then There Are My Parents

Two people who crossed states just to rescue me.
Two people who gave everything they had to lift me out of darkness.
Two people who still show up, every single day.

Their love is proof that I am not the worthless, unlovable thing my brain sometimes tells me I am.
Their love is evidence of my worth — and a reminder that I come from strength.

🌸 The One Thing I’m Learning to Change

Not my bipolar mind.
Not my spirals.
Not my sensitivity.
Not my softness.
Not even the messiness of loving people too deeply.

The only thing I would change…
is the way I speak to myself.

I want to look in the mirror and see the survivor, not the mistakes.
I want to see the daughter my parents are proud of, the woman my friends love, the Legionary who serves with compassion, the girl who made it out of a life that should have swallowed her.

I want to see the woman who rebuilt everything.

Because I am not the voice in my head.

I am the life I’ve created.
I am the strength I’ve shown.
I am the love I give.
I am the hope I keep reaching for.

And if I could change anything about myself, it would be to finally — finally — see myself the way the people who love me already do.

Daily writing prompt
What is one thing you would change about yourself?
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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.
View all responses

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

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?
View all responses