How Poetry Is Saving Me

Almost every young girl that sees herself as a writer becomes a poet at some point in her life. For me, that was 17, and full of emotions that I didn’t know how to pin down without rhyming. My poems were moody, and ever changing, but they were also an outlet for how I was feeling.

I am now 34, divorced after a 15 year relationship, barren, a single mom for a special needs child, a mom of two children dead, a questioning Christian, a striving minimalist, and a business owner. Life has not been easy, or kind, and poetry is again a balm for my soul.

I listen to spoken word poets, I read books filled with rhyming words that soothe my soul, and set it on fire. I sink deep into words that are comforting, and understandable. I never thought that I would go back to poetry, but now I drink it in again. I can see that I have become dehydrated by the struggle that has been my life, and I need to be quenched by souls that relate to mine.

I have always had a love for words. Growing up, I was likely found in a tree, or a corner with a new book every day. The world around me was not always kind, and I wanted an escape. Words were my escape.

After my divorce, I wrote all the time. I filled journals, and blog posts, and little papers scattered about with my thoughts, my dreams, my fears, and my hopes. Words came out in ink, and filled pages with the pain of reality, and the hope of fantasy. Lists became my life. I had a list for everything, and I do mean everything.

Then my son died, my words dried up. I didn’t know what to say. What could you say when your heart was bleeding so profusely? I tried to write. I tried to make words into sentences that I could hit publish on. But, nothing seemed right, or good enough. Nothing made sense. It wasn’t right, because my world was all wrong. When you love someone so deeply, marriage shouldn’t end. When your 17 year old baby boy dies suddenly it’s not right to never hug him again. When the little girl you begged God to give you spends more time feeling frustrated, and going to therapies than being a little girl, you think about how you should be playing at the park, instead of filling out paperwork for yet another doctor. And when your body fails to preform the way it should, your world is not right.

So my words stopped. Everything spins so fast when it’s all crashing down around you. When you feel like Alice, falling down a hole, you try to grab at whatever you recognize. There was nothing about my life that I could recognize. So the words stopped.

Poetry started showing up in my news feed. It was suggested in ads. It was there on the library shelves staring back at me. So I picked it up. I read a few lines, and my brain begged for more. Give me more words that feed my soul. Give me more people that understand. Give me more pictures in my mind of what I had been feeling.

I drank in the words, slowly at first. Then I searched for more. My soul is still twisted with all of the pain, but a little bit at a time, the words are saving me. And I am finding that the more I drink, the more I am filled, and I start to hope that one day my own words will come again.

I Needed A List For Comfort

When my son died I knew there would be nights like tonight. I was hoping I could avoid them. If only I could stay busy, work hard, read a lot, play with my daughter. But, nights like tonight still come. Nights when I cry, and curl up, and hope that something changes. Nights when watching what I ate all day becomes void as I slowly empty an entire sleeve of saltines. Nights when I stop answering my phone, and when it rings I glare at it because somewhere in the back of my mind pushing that green button could produce catastrophic results.

Then I make a list. Lists make my world feel a little more stable. Lists help me see the facts. To me, lists mean I can be more focused, and less of a mess. So tonight I made a list. What comfort is….it’s not a great title, but it is what I needed. I thought, just maybe, it might be what you need too?

What comfort is:

  1. A big, soft sweater pulled around your aching body.
  2. A fluffy blanket tucked under your toes.
  3. A pile of notebooks, and pens to take down your fleeting thoughts.
  4. A dozen or so books beside you to choose from when the tears have dried.
  5. A banana bread beer. It’s familiar taste from a date you went on long ago.
  6. A cowl, half knitted, waiting to be finished.
  7. A song, played on repeat to soothe your soul.
  8. Gorgeous pictures filling your Tumblr feed, to bring you back to a place of calm.
  9. Soup in your bowl, because you know that eating is part of self care.
  10. Lists that you make to help you feel like you have some sanity left.

Looking For Myself When I Break

Cameron Brick

Note: I wrote this almost two weeks ago, and it is still a daily struggle. But I hope through sharing it that you will relate.

I haven’t been myself in a very long time. I became who I thought he wanted me to be. The ironic thing is, when I changed he didn’t want me anymore. He wanted someone else. And in the process I lost myself.

I lost my ability to say no. I lost that part of me that didn’t take any shit. I lost the part of me that said that I am worth standing up for. I lost the idea of who I wanted me to be. I lost the edge, and the beauty of being a soul who speaks her mind, and became someone who just let things happen to her. And I became someone who didn’t like being alone with herself.

I miss him, and I miss what we had, but tonight I needed more. I have needed someone to be there and hold me, and talk to me about the bad things happening, and tell me it was all going to be okay. I lost the ability to do that for myself.

I broke tonight. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t stand the pictures he was showing off of his new kids, or that he said he was talking to his girlfriend. He said it to me. A woman should never have to hear those words from the man she thought she would spend forever with. It was harsh and cruel.

I broke tonight when the crowd was on their feet cheering, and encouraging the boys on the field, because my son wasn’t out there any more. I look for him, and I don’t see him. I know that I won’t. He died. I saw it myself, when I identified his body. But I still look and hope to see him, and then I plummet into sadness, and heartbreak.

I broke today when we had to meet with the funeral home director to collect the death certificates, and copies of donation checks, and his ashes. When we realized what had caused the accident, and we all felt responsible in some way, I broke. I listened as his biological mom talked about all the grief she is going through, and I could say “ me too” for everything she said, but because I didn’t give birth to him, so my grief wasn’t validated.

I broke when the man who I married years ago was supposed to be there and didn’t show up. Because that meant that I was there without any support or back up. I was fighting for myself, and still collecting what he needed, and I was doing it without him. More broken promises.

I broke when a friend showed up to watch the game with him, and I was left out. He was my friend too. He had become my brother. He said those words, and yet I wasn’t a part of the conversation, the friendship, the bond that they still had was cut off from me, and I broke.

I broke as I held my dead son’s cousin while we buried her baby this morning. Another baby gone. Another mother crying out for her baby to come back to her. Another heart that will never be the same.

I broke when people that I had come to love had only harsh words to say. I broke when people that once knew me best, didn’t even see that I was not okay. I broke when I thought of all the loss I have had, and wondered what would be next. In 5 months I lost my husband to divorce. I lost my son to death. And all I am left with is my daughter. I worry what will happen to her.

And I lost myself. How could I still even have anything left of myself with all the brokenness? When your heart breaks into so many pieces how is it even possible to have anything left of yourself?

I broke. I did not explode. I wanted too. I did not stop living. I’ve wanted too. I just walked away. I needed out so badly. I needed away from all of the pain. I needed my husband to love me. I needed my son to hug me. I needed to not hear the cries of a childless mother. I needed to not hear the anger of a broken bio mom. I needed to not see the pictures of him with his new family. I need out. So I ran.

I stood up, and walked out. The game was ending. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I talked to a friend. She knew I was shutting down. I said that I was going to explode or go silent. She said I need out

I work all the time. I know that isn’t totally true, but I do work hard. I have too. I am now a single mom. The only child I have left alive is high needs. I have to educate her. Take her to all of her many appointments, and help her through all of this grief. I have to work to keep her warm, and fed, and clothed. And I still try to be a fun mom, and make her life better.

But tonight I broke. So I went to the place where my son died. It is the only place we can go to feel near him. Then I reverted 20 years. I drove fast. I drove back roads. I blasted Puddle Of Mudd. I sat in my cold car with a coffee and a pack of camels. I wrote on the side of the road. And slowly, after two hours, I started to feel okay. I started to feel like me.

Am I still mad? Yes. Am I still sad? Yes. Am I still broken? Hell yes. But it helped. I took myself back to a time where I listened to Alt rock, and drove fast, and wrote in the cold with my smokes, and coffee instead of going home to dive right into work.

When I did get home I put on baggy clothes, crawled into bed, and wrote some more. I grabbed books that have nothing to do with building a business, or eating healthy, or education. I grabbed a magazine, and a novel. I grabbed the laptop and music.

I need me. I need to find me again. It probably won’t always be in a Puddle Of Mudd song. But I have to try. Because for the first time in a long time I don’t feel quite so bottled up and stuck in who I tried so hard to be I felt like me. The girl that likes loud music, and fast cars. The girl that needs space to drive, and sit, and write, and be angry.

Parenting After Death

When a child dies, in some ways a parent does too. The hopes you had. The dreams you listened too. The plans you made with them for a future, and a life all of their own. They all die.

Losing a child of any age is horrific. I lost a baby in early pregnancy. It was horrible, and left damaging scars on my family. But, when you have come to know your child, you watch them grow, you see their smile, and you hold them tight….the damage is worse. I didn’t know that it could be, but it is.

I will never get to feel his strong arms hug me again. I will never get to see his beautiful smile again. I will never get to listen to him call me mom ever again. I will never get the late night talks, or midday texts. The pain in those lost things is heart wrenching.

I think of graduation, and college, and marriage, and babies, and jobs, and dreams I will never get to see with him. It almost immobilizes me. Parenting a dead child is the worst. You go out to the place you feel most connected to them. You watch their friends go on with the life that they were supposed to live. You wake up, and go to bed wondering what you are supposed to do with all the parenting you have left and can’t use for them. Even if you have other children there is a void that you just can’t fill.

People ask you how many kids you have, and you stumble because you don’t want to make things weird. People don’t know that you have parented a child so old when you give advice. People don’t know if they should say something or say nothing when they see you at the coffee shop, so they give you looks of pity, and hugs, and you love them for trying.

When you are parent with out your child the world looks different. I experienced this to some degree when I went through years of infertility, and again now. People complain about their own kids (and I’m not above complaining about mine) But you know the ones I’m talking about? The ones who probably should have stopped several kids ago, or maybe gotten a dog instead? Or there are the people that just can not, and will not get their shit together. Now I understand that some of these people have real reasons, I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about the ones who just sit around, and leach off of other people. Hello, you were given a life! Live it already!

When you know that your child will not get the opportunity to live a long life it makes every thing just a little bit more harsh, or more beautiful. There doesn’t seem to be much of middle ground right now. So I look at my life, and what needs to change. How to move forward, asking what would I teach him about something like this.


Does Your Mindset On Failure Need To Change


I live in a creative community. Sometimes the pressure to put out new and amazing work feels high. There are photographers, writers, painters, potters, jewelry makers, musicians, book sellers, craft beer specialists, florists, soap makers, knitters, and even an independent printing press. There are artist meetups, and mixers all over town. Events to showcase the work to everyone around town, and grants to assist new and upcoming artists.

I do what I can to stay connected to the network around me. I go to some events, I visit the shops, I chat with people when I see them at the local coffeehouse. It’s a necessary thing to maintain connections, even for an introvert. Then there are those crazy rose colored glasses that make everyone else’s work seem so much better than yours. Do you know what I mean?

My insecurities about my work have followed me well into my adulthood. As I am sure it has for many of you. First, there is the fear of failure. We all have it about something. In my case, it is my writing. I can admit that I’m a fairly good knitter, and I can cook, but my writing is where I doubt myself. What if I’m not good enough? What if I get laughed at? What if I never make it as a writer, and I just end up with a bunch of notebooks, and nothing to show for it?

I want to combat these insecurities. So I’m going to hit them head on.

What if I am not good enough. Well guess what, dear heart, you aren’t, and you are. There will always be someone who thinks you are not enough. You will never be good enough for them. Your work will always seem beneath them. Just make sure that person isn’t you. Because, if you are doing the best you can in the situation you are in, well then you are good enough. You are good enough for that moment. You are good enough for the work you have before. You are good enough…..fill in the blank. Again, if you are doing the best you can, you are enough.

What if I get laughed at. You will. Some people are not intelligent enough to know when something great is in front of them. But, if you are doing the work there will be someone who will think you are fabulous, so just ignore the rest! Seriously.

What if I never make it? You might not, and what is the worst that could happen with that? You think you will have wasted your life? All of the knowledge and experiences you had along the way, those were not a waste. You learned something. You fought to become something. You built something. That is worth so much more than I can describe to you.

You see, yes there are a lot of wonderfully talented people in this world, but you are one of them. You are needed to bring just a little bit more beauty to this world. You will fail, but there is something in failing that will help you become better. Use the failures to your advantage, and learn from them. Until one day you no longer fail. Don’t stay down. Get up, and use it to create something better. In your life. In your work. In your art. You can do it.

You are enough.

Dream Something New

I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to go to Africa, and help the sick, the poor, and the oppressed. I wanted to write about it all, and be published. I had grand dreams. None of it ever fell into place though, and I reworked my dreams to instead include a husband, children, and living a life with them. We got married, and loved well, and filled our days and nights with each other.

Then it happened. Those dreams were gone too. He was done, and had already moved on. I was stuck. I moved out. I started businesses. I continued to home school,to work, to go to our son’s football games, and run our daughter to her appointments. I started building a new life.

This life was harder in some ways because I no longer had my husband. He was my friend, my confidant, and my lover. I had lost all of that. But, I did have the freedom to stay up late and work. I could be busy, and not have to think about how that effected anyone but me and my kids. It wasn’t an even trade by any means, but it’s what I had.

So I keep going. My kids are watching me. I work hard. I play sometimes too. I keep busy. I live in the life we have made, full of writing, and knitting, and school, and the never ending hustle. I work out. I try to keep my thoughts to myself. I avoid drama, and I march forward. Because that is what building a life again looks like. It looks like work, and relationships, and finding new adventures. It looks like trial, and error, and learning, and questioning, and exploring who you are, what you want, and how to get there.

I’m not a doctor. I rarely travel. But I am changing things around me. I am working to have a life that I am proud of and happy with. I am working to build something that I enjoy. I am building businesses. I am cooking, and writing, and creating. I am taking old dreams, and building new.

Just because your dreams didn’t come to pass does not mean your life is over. Keep going. Build something new. Go back and start over. Build something that you’ve always dreamed of. Just live.

In The Waiting


I hate waiting. It’s hard, and it gives me time to overthink. Today, I am doing a lot of thinking, and overthinking. Things may be changing in my life again, and I hate waiting to find out. It makes my anxiety go crazy.

When I’m buried under so much anxiety I have a routine to keep going. I grab my schedule, and start working my way down the list. I answer emails, and make my posts for my businesses. I write, and I read, I work out, and I make plans. I put myself (as much I can) into a robotic mode, and I work.

Keeping set goals for my life helps me to function even in difficult circumstances. It provides purpose when I need to keep moving forward, and gives me an outlet for some of my feelings. When I pour into my goals instead of sitting in my worry I am doing something to better my life.

Bettering our lives is what I am trying so hard to be about right now. I have reduced the amount of junk in our home. I would now consider us minimalists. I have worked on healing my body, and making it strong through working out and eating well, and occasionally taking time to rest. I have taken a little time everyday to write for me personally. Some days that means I journal. Some days I write out plans for travel, or what I want my home to look like,or my future, or goals. Sometimes I just color, or knit, or do something that gets my creativity flowing.

Bettering our lives also means that I say no to things a lot more than I used to. I guard our time. I take things slower. I don’t take on the drama as much anymore. There are people in our lives that we have a mutual give and take relationship with. Then there are those who will just take. Those are the people that I just can’t live in peace with right now. So I make our circle smaller so that everyone benefits more in our relationships. I take more time to rest, and watch a movie with my daughter, or sit on the beach because those things are just as important as the work and goals.

I have spent years waiting, and not living. I am now trying to find a way to do both. I can’t change waiting. It’s a part of life. I can live while I wait. I can work. I can move toward my goals. I can learn to breathe in the space I am in. I can better our life, make a life, and live a life while I wait. Who said waiting couldn’t be active? What do you do while you wait?