inspiredodyssey daily prompt

My Biggest Complaint: Soul-Crushing Silence

If I’m brave enough to tell the real truth, ungraceful, unapologetic and messy, I have to admit this: what I complain about the most is silence.

Not the peaceful, sacred quiet kind that feels like rest.
I mean the hollow kind.
The echoing kind.
The kind that makes your chest feel like an abandoned room.
The kind that feels like being forgotten.
Like being quietly set aside.
Like a sentence handed down for loving too much.

I complain about waiting.
About hoping.
About checking my phone too often.
About staring at empty spaces where reassurance should live.
About the space between messages, between promises, between moments of closeness that never quite settle into certainty.

I complain about loving with a heart that refuses to be quiet.

I complain about the not-knowing, so much emotional limbo of almost, maybe, soon, someday.
About caring more than feels dignified.
About longing so loudly it sometimes disguises itself as frustration, impatience, or anger.

But if I strip it down to the bone, here’s the confession underneath the complaining:

I don’t complain because I’m shallow.
I complain because I’m so damn fragile.
I don’t complain because I’m ungrateful.
I complain because I’m wounded.

Sometimes it feels like I’m being punished for the size of my own heart.
As if loving deeply is a crime.
As if longing is something I should apologize for.
As if the depth of my devotion is a flaw that needs to be corrected by distance, silence, and restraint.

It can feel like I’m being taught, over and over, that wanting is dangerous and no good.
That hope should be smaller.
That love should be quieter.
That the price of depth is learning how to suffer politely.

I complain because I feel like I’m always the one reaching.
Always the one waiting.
Always the one trying to make peace with uncertainty while my chest quietly caves in.

My complaints are grief in disguise.
They’re devotion with nowhere to land.
They’re love pacing the floor, restless and unsheltered, aching to be answered.

I complain because I feel too much, way too damn much,
because my heart doesn’t know how to do anything halfway,
because when I attach, I attach with my soul,
because silence can feel like abandonment even when it isn’t meant to be.

And beneath all the venting, spiraling, and overthinking, there’s a softer truth I don’t always say out loud:

I’m not angry.
I’m aching.
I’m not bitter.
I’m grieving.
I’m not dramatic.
I’m hurting,
and trying to understand why love sometimes feels like a punishment instead of a gift.

Maybe what I complain about the most
isn’t other people,
or circumstances,
or fate.

Maybe I complain about
how much I love,
and how much it hurts to keep loving anyway.

And maybe that isn’t a flaw.

Maybe it’s a confession.
Maybe it’s evidence.
Maybe it’s proof
that my heart is still fiercely, painfully alive.

Daily writing prompt
What do you complain about the most?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

What Love Really Looks Like (Positive Examples)

There are many forms of love, but never in my life have I felt it as fully as I do today. Not in big, fancy ways or dramatic declarations, but in something quieter, steadier. I feel it in my independence. In my freedom. In the people who surround me now. And maybe most importantly, I feel it in the way I am finally learning to love myself.

That’s the evolution, I think. The love I’m giving myself is starting to show itself back to me through others. My giving nature hasn’t disappeared, I still love deeply, openly, but now, for the first time, I’m giving that love to people who meet me with care, respect, and reciprocity. That changes everything.

My friends are the backbone of this love. Truly. From my best friend I met on Bumble for Friends (because yes, adult friendship is a dating app now), to my two cornerstone, survival-level friends back in New York who know every version of me, to my soul-sister friends at church; the women I serve alongside, pray with, laugh with, and do holy work with. And all the beautiful souls in between.

When I spiral, when depression tightens its grip, when bipolar chaos tries to hijack my thoughts, when I start to disappear into myself, these people breathe life back into me. They ground me. They remind me who I am when I forget. I honestly don’t know where I’d be without them, and that alone feels like a miracle.

And then there are my parents, my mom and dad, who hold the highest honor in my heart. When I walked into the darkest chapter of my life, the one that led straight into jail and homelessness, they didn’t hesitate. They gave up their entire life in New York. Everything familiar. Everyone they loved. And they came to North Carolina, to a place they didn’t know, just to save me. Just to take care of me. Just to make sure I lived.

If that isn’t a positive example of being loved, I don’t know what is.

And then there is Mr. California. My sleepy bear. The man who introduced me to his world and gently taught me a different way to love, without anger, without possession, without codependency. A love that feels holy and chaste and wildly alive all at once. He makes me feel like a teenager again, (in the best way), full of wanting, butterflies, hormones, and hope. It’s bliss, honestly. I laugh at myself sometimes because it all feels so innocent and X-rated all at once, lol.

There are hard moments, of course. His silence hurts. Distance is not kind. But even that is teaching me something important; how to love outside of him, not collapse into him, not disappear when he’s not there. That lesson is painful, but it’s also sacred.

Through all of this, the most important love I am learning to give is the one I give myself. Living alone can be incredibly hard. My bed misses the man I love. My heart does too. And when I spiral, I forget how deeply loved I already am. That’s something I still struggle with; I fall hard, I forget the bigger picture, I suffer more than I need to.

Maybe that’s where a gratitude journal comes in. If I can just find the discipline to keep one, it might help anchor me on the days my mind tries to convince me that I am all alone in the world.

But the truest, most positive example of being loved?

I woke up today. I got another day. Another breath. Another chance to try again.

That kind of love, the kind that keeps showing up no matter how many times I’ve fallen, can only come from God.

And that, more than anything, is what carries me forward.

Stay Tuned.

Daily writing prompt
Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?
View all responses

inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Clearing the Clutter from My Home and My Head

Decluttering has been on the New Year’s list for a while, not just the kind where you throw out expired mascara and ask yourself why that same DVD has three different damn cases, lol, but the kind that clears out the mental clutter, too.

I’m not saying I’m a hoarder, but… let’s just say my cozy apartment has been leaning a little too far into the “cozy” lately. Piles of things I don’t use, mystery objects I swear I’ll get to someday, gifted items I don’t even like (but feel weird throwing out), it’s all starting to close in on me. And that’s just the physical clutter.

Don’t even get me started on the mental mess.

My brain? Oh, she’s on her own schedule. Jumping from grocery lists to emotional spirals and crying fits, to story ideas I never write down, to “did I ever respond to that email from three weeks ago?” to the soundtrack of that movie I once knew so well, but now seems corny as hell. It’s like living inside 47 open browser tabs with music playing from somewhere, but you can’t find the source. “I know there is music playing where are youuouuuuu???!!!!” Lol.

So this year, I’m on a mission. A clean-sweep-everything-down-to-the-soul mission.

🧠 The Mental Declutter

When was the last time you actually just sat with yourself? Like no phone, no Netflix humming in the background, no doomscrolling until your eyes pops out of your head?

When was the last time you imagined something for fun?
Told yourself a story in your head?
Danced around your living room like Tom Cruise did in tidy whities?

It’s wild how distracted we’ve all become.

I live alone. I could be doing this every day. But between shows to binge, apps to check, and brain fog to battle, I somehow forget I even like myself when the screens are off.

That changes now.

I want my mind to have room again. Room to wonder, to dream, to remember who I am when I’m not overstimulated and under-inspired. I want to lie on my couch, open a book, and stay there for a whole hour without reaching for my phone. I want to breathe slower, daydream more, maybe even get a little bored – did you know it’s not a bad thing to be bored? Why is it so bad to have nothing at all to do – I mean NOTHING, just do nothing, why is it we always have to do SOMETHING?

🧺 The Home Declutter

As for my apartment? We’re going in.
Stuff I haven’t worn in years? Gone.
Weird, gifted knick-knacks that haunt my shelves? Thank you, next.
Anything that doesn’t spark joy or at least serve a purpose besides being mildly cute and collecting dust? Bye-bye.

I want my home to feel like a hug again—not a storage unit run by someone who’s emotionally attached to old tote bags.

💌 And Yes… The Clutter of HIM, Too

Now… we do have to talk about a certain man I call Mr. California.
Because as much as I’m decluttering, his name still takes up premium real estate in my brain.

Yesterday was all quiet on the Western front but today brought a warm little message. I know he’s under a lot of stress; he’s having to reapply for some of the benefits he needs for his daughter, and the system, as usual, is an unholy mess. It hurts to see someone I care about deal with so much unnecessary pressure. And I know he’ll need support. The kind I’m very good at giving, ALL kinds of things. I think that will include turning him into a pile of unkept, spent, breathing, post-coitus mess too, lol.

But I’m learning something new this year: I can love him and still make space for myself.

My love doesn’t have to come at the expense of my peace.
And his silence doesn’t get to stop my momentum anymore.

So yes, out with the old, in with the soft, the joyful, the meaningful, the uncluttered. In with mornings where I don’t wake up instantly anxious. In with shelves that actually breathe. In with dance breaks and books and wild imaginings.

Because this new year?
It’s not about perfection.
It’s about lightness.

Stay tuned.

inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Needing to Love with Without My Heart Bleeding

This is a major shift that I need to make in my life. It is part of my truth, the stress in my relationship, the hurt that keeps coming back over and over again. I’ve been loving without boundaries. Wholly. Fully. Without hesitation. And it’s left my heart gushing—sometimes metaphorically, sometimes I swear it feels literal—like a faucet that won’t turn off. The hurt keeps circling back like it’s on a goddamn boomerang. You think it’s gone, and there it is again, socking you in the gut like it forgot its keys.

Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to anchor too many things at once, like I’m some kind of emotional octopus:
🌀 Lose a massive amount of weight.
🌀 Fix my career while dragging around a criminal record that feels like a scarlet letter made of concrete.
🌀 Forgive myself for a marriage that nearly destroyed me and still echoes in the worst possible ways.
🌀 And—oh, right—try to love a man who simply can’t meet me halfway no matter how wide I throw open the door.

It’s like spinning plates during a hurricane. And I’m the plate. And the hurricane. And the one yelling at the weather.

So, what could I do differently?

Let’s start here:
I have to stop beating myself bloody in the space where love isn’t showing up.

Because the truth? My timeline and this man’s capacity are not synced. I’m trying to build a bonfire and he’s handing me a damp match. Not because he’s cruel or doesn’t care—but because he just can’t right now. He’s tied up in his own storm. And while I’m standing in the doorway waiting, I’m slowly setting fire to myself.

That silence? That delay? That not-knowing-if-he’ll-call?
It’s been paralyzing me.

I stop dancing.
I stop writing.
I stop applying to jobs.
I stop trying.
I sit frozen in a pile of unmet needs and unspoken prayers. Waiting for breadcrumbs.

But this year? That version of me—the one who waits, who withers, who wilts at the sound of no sound—is not coming with me.

Today, I took the first real step. I met with a new therapist.

And no offense to Mr. California, but I swore to myself I wouldn’t let him hijack the whole hour.

Today wasn’t about him. It was about me.

My weight.
My self-worth.
My desire to make money again even with this giant felon stamp across my chest.

Do you know how maddening it is to be punished forever for something that happened in the middle of a manic episode—when I was so drugged and drunk and utterly gone, I barely remember my own name? And yet the system remembers. It remembers every charge, every fingerprint. It doesn’t care that I’ve been sober five years. Doesn’t care that I now spend my time serving in church. Doesn’t care that I’ve given my heart to helping others.

But God knows.
God knows the whole story—the one no one else ever really sees.
God knows what happened when I was arrested.
God knows what was in my blood, in my brain, and in my breaking point.
And God knows who I am now.

That’s who I’m answering to this year. Not the courts. Not the shame. Not the silence of a man who can’t always show up. God. And me.

Because last year?
Last year was about pain.
It was about scrolling, rereading emails, waiting by the phone like some tragic black-and-white movie heroine in fuzzy slippers and unresolved trauma.

But this year?

This year is about movement.

About me on the living room floor, sweating and swearing through dance workouts I actually like.

About opening that Word doc I’ve been scared to finish.

About emailing one new place a day even if it leads to nowhere, because I’m still trying.

About holding my heart in my hands instead of laying it out like a doormat.

I’m not going to pretend I’ve figured it all out. Hell no. I’m a mess with glitter on. But I’m a mess in motion. I’m moving. I’m healing. I’m showing up.

No more waiting.

More living.

Daily writing prompt
What could you do differently?
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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?
View all responses

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 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

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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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

More Sleep and Definitely More Self-Care

Every day I deny myself something, more sleep, more time for myself, more love for myself. I admit I walk around with this self-hatred chip on my shoulder, one I have always had. I am not accepting of myself, and I definitely don’t love myself enough. I am working on that though, as the obsessions and the addictions I carry are slowly subsiding.

Mr. California hasn’t called me in two days. Tragic, life altering, earth-shattering to me a few months ago, but today, I am handling it in stride. I am spending more time with my best friend from NYC and just trying my best to not obsess and let my addiction get a hold of me. I am the first one to admit that I have traded my alcoholic mentality to a fixation on Mr. California: that transference is very real and prominent in my life. But as my best friend says, “if he calls, he calls, if he doesn’t, he doesn’t” – probably the wisest and simplest truth I have heard today.

I joined the NextDoor app again. Last time, I met a girl on there who was so crazy, I deleted the app and vowed not to go back, however, last night I opened it up again just to see what was new. They’ve changed the app, it looks much cleaner, and I actually found a cool Dell Wireless mouse for $5 that I am going to give my dad on Sunday. She wanted to meet at the library for the transaction, which felt kinda sketchy, but she turned out to be really nice. I wanted to ask her to coffee, but I decided against it, it felt too weird. She welcomed me to the neighborhood, and off I went with my new mouse, lol. I made a coffee date with another girl I met on there for Friday morning, so we will see how that turns out. All evidence of me trying to put myself out there, make more friends and not be so obsessed with Mr. California.

I am really sitting here worried I won’t get to talk to him for a third night in a row. I really hope this doesn’t become a habit. But I can’t let fear and doubt rule my life. My life has to go on because he’s 3,000 miles away and isn’t my boyfriend anymore – a hard truth that I really have to swallow. He loved me once, oh man, did he ever. He loved me so much, my heart used to burst with his love every night. But what I need to do more of is, I need to love myself more and stop pouring so much into him – into a dead relationship I keep trying to resurrect. He has a history of unhealthy relationships, so I should have known better. Did he get tired of me? Is he over me? Is he talking to someone else? So many spiraling questions swirling around in my head.

What I need to do is refocus. I need to enjoy tonight like I did last night. My life cannot be dependent on someone else’s actions, motives, or feelings for me. I learned that lesson with my husband, and Mr. California is teaching me, pushing me, and making me love myself and dedicate more time to myself as much as I am trying so hard to fight it.

Tonight is for me. And tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

Stay Tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What could you do more of?
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inspiredodyssey love

This Man Lights a Fire in Me

I remember the night of sex with my ex-husband, that was so orgasmic, I never thought anyone would match. But with Mr. California, my legs can’t stop squirming on a daily basis. Tonight was one of those nights. I just was on the couch talking to him, imagining what it would be like if he was on my couch with me, (we were trying to watch some really cool Justice League cartoons and a really good Stargate SG1 episode), but in between commercials, there was so much heavy flirting and teasing, I was dying for him so much.

This new chapter in our relationship is an interesting one. In the beginning, it was just as explosive, probably more so, because he was so openly in love with me and couldn’t contain how much he wanted me – marriage was even mentioned. Since then, through all the trials and tribulations, the heartache and pain we caused each other, the need and the chaos, the forgiveness, and desperation, we have come to this sort of compromised state. I am still blocked, and I know why I am; I lost that privilege when I showed him the real meaning of crazy. He said he would unblock me eventually, but I honestly feel a bit at peace with it. I leave him voicemails filled with prayers and love, and emails full of teasing and want. His calls come regularly and nightly, and to some that may seem incredibly unfair – even he said it all feels uneven, but to me I love him so much that I will take him in whatever form he is willing to give me.

This opportunity of freedom gives me the chance to go out and be in the world. I saw my bestie in Raleigh today, then my sci-fi friend, then took a nice drive to my parent’s house while they are out of town to take care of the property. The drive brought on tears, revelations, eighties music with thoughts of him, adventures I fantasized about and the realization that this exactly where God wants me right now. Everything that led up to this beautiful day, is the place and the duty that I was given since the floor of that jail cell, where I promised Jesus that I would never drink again, and join the church he founded by his apostles. Since that promise, I lost my husband, was homeless, lived with so many dramatic women in sober houses before finally finding my own place, then met Mr. California when I absolutely wasn’t looking and definitely didn’t expect to fall in love so hard and so deeply.

I don’t know what lays before me, but since taking my vows to Legion of Mary, and my promise to Christ to do his work and pursue a jail ministry, preaching God and sobriety, I think I am in the exact right place at the exact right time.

Stay tuned.