What I have learned about myself


~ I am terrified of the future and the uncertainty of my life

~ It is easier for me to trust a complete stranger than it is for me to trust myself

~ I never really had a favorite color

~ Although a majority of people say that the more they learn about our humanity the less faith they have in it, I find the more I am able to learn the more I grow to love myself and the people and complex world around me.

~ I love peppermint tea

~ My biggest life goal is to be the best version of myself and to inspire people to do the same.

~ I am scared that I will never be able to find something that I truly believe in.

~ I am easily overwhelmed

~ I don’t trust myself to make decisions

~ I constantly feel the need to seek validation through other people.

~ Shakespeare makes no sense to me, and I wish it did. I have tried so hard! I want to understand it, but the words just swim in my head and lose any and all meaning.

~ I fear that I am my biggest threat.

~ I have synesthesia

~ I struggle to understand people. I struggle to understand emotions, whether they are my own or some one else’s.

~ I learn best through talking and writing. To sort out my thoughts, I need to say them outloud.

~ I procrastinate

~ I hate being told what to do. Authority has always brought out my worst inner child, and I always have to bite my tongue.

~ Irish fold music makes me happy. I really don’t know why.





I was this funny little girl. I was dorky and clumsy yet headstrong and stubborn. Then that person went away. She sort of gave into the pain of others and let it take her. She left a memory of a person behind. This beautiful unique memory. The memory fades a little every year, but she’s still there. That little memory is still there and lives every day. I liver every day. I breathe, I eat, I sleep. I am still here, just a little dimmer. When I get tired, I thnk about her, this little vibrant healthy thing. Sometimes if I really listen I can still hear her, too. I think of her often. It’s funny when all it does is make ms ache But i do not want to forget who I was so, so I think of her every day.

Everybody has their low days. It’s a part of this wonderfully confusing life. Her low days were so bright. It was beautiful.

She could never come back, though. Even if I wanted her back. She is too beautiful to be in this place. But I will never forget her. She is unforgettable. She lives in cold summer days that pinch your face. She lives in those beautiful melodies that give people hope. She lives in the purest of laughter. She was the beauty in everything broken.

When she left there was this empty space where her light used to rest. There wasn’t any peace within our restless thoughts. I didn’t know how to fill it without her.


Je ne sais pas pourquoi, le troisième

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais j’adore…

I do not know why, but I love..

Black and white prints; old hard covered novels; strawberries; clawfoot bathtubs; nicknames; rope bridges; brown paper bags; freckles; large Russian carpets; ripples; baby’s breath flowers; windows; ballet; the word “ribbons”; oil paintings; teacups; kaleidoscopes; watercolors; pianos; sand dunes; the sound of a train; the sound a typewriter makes; crates of fruit; jars; and so much more.


Je ne sais pas pourquoi, la deuxième

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais j’adore…

I do not know why, but I love..

The word pockets; brand new pencils; thick mugs; saying the word “buckles”; laughing; dead trees; old floorboards creaking under my feet; tree stumps; the steam coming off of a a hot cup of tea; the sound of paper rustling; brick buildings; a clock ticking; erasing a white board; the sound of cutting fabric against a table; ivy; giving high-fives; opening mail; and so much more.

Je ne sais pas pourquoi

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais j’adore…

I do not know why, but I love..

Clean white paper, untouched without a wrinkle; old typewriters; wind so fierce it shakes my old house making the beams creak and sway; rain; the soft sound of a thrumming dryer; used tubes of paint all crinkled and messy; the indescribable sound bike tires make on wet pavement; the sound of a book spine being cracked; shadows creeping up my bedroom wall; the busy sound of the road that passes by my house; stars; old photographs; the sound of saying the words “paper and pencils”; the sound of a fan; old cracked sidewalks; curtains; clean sheets; sunlight; and so much more.


Raison D’être

I write because I know I’m not going to be here for very long.  I know that years after I have gone, my life will disappear as did many other lives before me.  I write because in the limited time I have, with every fiber of my being I want to inspire people.  I want to have done something that will live on in somebody’s heart and be remembered.  I write because maybe I’ll touch somebody, even if it’s long after I’ve gone.

Everybody has different reasons.  There is mine, strange yet cliché as it is.

Evening Thoughts

I hated writing growing up as a student with such a strong passion.  I had never been more frustrated than I was in writing class and yet I had such a deep love for it.  Now I sit on my bed in my pajamas and wonder what writing even means to me.  I barely actually ever publish a post, even though I have stacks of notebooks filled with material.  I don’t even know why I really have this blog.


I Was a Strange Little Girl

“Because to be able to live with the boys, you must be able to yell above them…To be heard, you must speak louder.”


I’m not sure what other little girls dreamed about, but I’m pretty sure my dreams were different.  I used to dream about being like the little boy from Bridge to Terabithia and fantasize about what Terabithia was like.  I dreamed about being a tomboy and I dreamed about the looks I desired from the boys – looks of awe as they would watch me perform incredible feats.  I would dream of looking like one of the boys, strong and stupidly arrogant.

But I had such a girly side, too.  I imagined myself as a princess.  Clad in jeans and my older brother’s shirts, I still managed to come off as a young lady.  I would never fit in with the boys.

My idols were George Washington the founder of our country, and Corrie Ten Boom, Joan of Arc and Anne Frank, three of the most empowering and brave women in history.  I didn’t need princesses.  I didn’t want a knight in shining armor.  I was the hero in my own stories.


Can’t I Have More than 1 Dream?

I want to go to Paris with only a sketchbook under my arm, some paints and pencils in my pocket, and a camera around my neck.  I want to sit in a little cafe and just write, until I have nothing left to say.  I want to capture the beauty that I see.  I want to show that there is still so much beauty left in this broken world, and that it should be celebrated, not destroyed.  Such a noble profession it is to capture what isn’t captured enough.  But instead of poverty and destruction, I want to capture the beauty that still needs to be shared.

I want to compose a piece and have it played.  I want people to hear it and gasp.  I want it to stand out and make them think.

I want to write something worth reading.  I want to write something people will talk about, something controversial that will express the questions I have, in hopes other people can help me answer them.

I want to inspire other people.

And once I’m done traveling the world, I want to settle down with a family of my own and teach them all that I’ve learned.



In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Cringe-Worthy.”

I’m not a shy person.  Nor am I quiet.  I am a loud person with a ridiculous amount of misplaced energy.  And yet, to strangers, I come off as a very introverted, shy person.  Which, if you truly know me, is absurd.  But I guess that misguided impression comes from my fear of confrontation.  When I feel comfortable, especially around my best friends, I usually have trouble shutting up.  But around people I am unfamiliar with, I freeze.  Being assertive is not something I am good at.  I will exhaust all possibilities to avoid talking with anybody.  I will make something hard out of a simple task because of my fear and refusal to ask for help.  Most people associate somebody who refuses to ask others for help as someone with too much pride, but that is not my issue (granted I am not perfect and can be quite arrogant).  I cringe at having to expose the fact that I am completely clueless with certain things, and require assistance.  As a student, I would often times go home with no idea how to complete an assignment because I refused to ask a question.  I feared embarrassing myself in front of the whole class, more than I feared the consequences of taking home a bad grade.  Mainly, my problem lies with my elders.  Especially when I was younger, talking to anybody older than me, even older by only a few years, was enough to make me cringe.


In a room full of people, you’d find her sitting and watching.  Watching as people laugh gaily with friends and play games.  Watching from a comfortable place that she’s situated herself in, surrounded by people she cares about.  Her hands rest in her lap.  She always fiddles with her jewelry.  Always doing something with her fingers.  She smiles.  She couldn’t be happier.