Voice in my Head

The voice inside my head is so cruel.  

She doesn’t match the smile she masquerades behind.

She is nothing like the voice who encourages those around her. She hates me. 

She loves hating me in the meanest ways.

She has steered my life so that my home became the prison where she does her work. She has eliminated the chances of me having value to others. Exactly her desire, it makes her dominant.

Her taunts and chatter are exhausting and while my heart aches to know she isn’t speaking my silent truth, she’s become louder than that of my intuition.

Unworthy, unloveable, broken at your core, “there’s no fixing you, you’d need twenty grand to ever come close to being who you were before them.” She scowls and winces at her reflection. 

The voice inside does not rest. She berates even in sleep. “You are lazy, there is so much for you to do, get up off your ass, and take care of this now.” 

She hates everything that could bring me joy and she sneers disgustingly if I simply want to read a book. I don’t know how to please her, she grows louder every day.

Every day, my heart breaks a little but it’s happening slowly. She is nothing I can’t handle with fakes smiles, small talk, and the completion of one mundane task after another.

I cope with her hatred of me in the silence and I never introduce her to anyone. They know nothing of the torture I take daily and that is as it should be.

“Mommy, I love you,” small hands that I created in love, reach up for me. She flees, and she’s banished… she is not welcome in their presence and she scurries outside, until I’m alone again. 

I wonder if others have the constant war raging behind their kind eyes, too? She says they don’t. That this is just broken me doing broken things. 

She rebukes on. And she does good work. Some days she silences me  into a state of  quiet defeat. “SpaghettiO’s for dinner, folks.” 

My son rounds the corner and smiles an endless love grin up at me. For a moment, I am someone’s everything. That single moment, my weapon, to battle her another day.

They warned us in Bible-class that from the heart the mouth speaks. They told us to be careful because the influences you allow, become the way you think.

…..His voice became my voice…


SHE———never had a choice, because his voice became MY voice.

She doesn’t stand a chance.

Sitting with Uncertainty

Yesterday was tough. No one knew it, but I was silently frustrated. I got to missing certainty and the days of having an answer for everything. My youngest daughter, three year old Riot, is just desperate to know where the first mommy and daddy came from, and if this had been five years ago, the answer would’ve been so simple: God. I would’ve immediately said, ”God created them.” And that would’ve been easy and done with. 

As I fumbled to put together some semblance of an origins of life spill, based on ancestors and evolution, I couldn’t easily remedy  her question. I wasn’t used to that. And she wasn’t grasping it. We sat down and put on a YouTube video about it for kids. Finally, I proclaimed that perhaps she can be a scientist and learn all about this. She quickly quipped, “Yes, and then I will be in the TV and I will teach you!”

Cuddled up and ready to watch her documentary

I like that idea. But still yet, the mental longing to have certainty gloomed over my day. I went to my own mother and asked if she had ever questioned her beliefs. She happily exclaimed that not once had she questioned any of it and that because she was so busy being a mom and a school teacher, church had never been about beliefs, but about that community, the familial aspect.

I pondered aloud, “So you raised your girls inside a religious tradition that you simply never sought to study?” 

“That’s right, I always just loved the socialization.”

“So you’re telling me, you took us three times a week to a church you’d attended from birth, but you personally have NEVER studied through its doctrines?!”


“Huh.” My face contorted a bit and I needed to just sit with that. 

Now, don’t get me wrong—My momma is an amazing human, and the favorite teacher of many a hundred students from past to present, she literally studied her entire adult life to be able to teach her subject matter deeply—-she is welcoming, kind, and thoughtful, but WHAAAAAAT? Shits playing with your kid’s mental state over here… Hello!

I’ve spent the better part of seven years purposefully and intentionally studying the who, why, where, and hows of every topic pertaining to my faith. From hermeneutics,  and soteriology, to eschatology. Painfully, I did the work so I could be sure I was giving my best understanding to my children. Why? Because I believed with every ounce of my being….

For my daughters, I left no stone unturned. It baffled me that I was so deeply indoctrinated my entire life, built my EVERYDAY upon it, and my very own Momma, had simply been in it for the friendly chatter. Wow.

The big girls, my side-kicks

And, here I stand today……Without answers for my daughters. With nothing concrete  to say except an honest, “I do NOT know.” This pains me. I want easy, I want short and sweet, I wanted it to be true SOOOOOOOO bad.

My eyes glance over at my mother-in-law’s   urn on the mantle. Cancer, dead at 53, prayed for healing fervently. It would never come.



This is why I cannot do easy, this why I teach my kids the harsh reality that a God who could heal but chooses not to, either isn’t all-powerful or he isn’t all-good.

This is why we will sit with uncertainty. I’d  rather rest there, than in a fabrication of reality. Perhaps, my kids, being raised in such a way, will be free to hop right into learning instead of unlearning, like their momma  has had to do.


And, even though the day was tough and I missed the ease of quick answers, and I toiled away mentally in the “used to,” a wrong answer is still a wrong answer, and no amount of friendly chatter is worth denying that to me.

A Hot Mess, Minus Hot

How I show up to my child’s school bumping G-Eazy @ early morning drop off

Sooooo, I recently shared a day in my life—-What I didn’t reveal is how extra I am, rolling up to that school at 7:00 am. My teen always enjoys the lengths to which I have no shame and snapped this pic of me right before I was about to shovel dog shit out of the garage. When I dilly dally about in this attire, my husband swears and I quote he, “can hardly control himself!”

My mother was dressed beautifully with hair and make-up done to perfection EVERY DAY OF MY CHILDHOOD. I found this to be a form of torture. Now, I am teaching her in her retirement the ins and outs of errand-running minus the hassle of all that Jazz! It does my heart good to see her bare faced, in her velour sweat suit in the Taco Bell drive thru. This is us, subtly sticking it to the man!!!

Don’t take this the wrong way, but in the voice of Randall and his Honeybadger narration, “Momma doesn’t give a shit.” I promise to always have my kids to early morning practice on time- but do not expect me to be a HOT mess when I get there. Mess Always, Hot mehhhh.🤷🏼‍♀️