Read the Original: On Divorce

Goodness gracious. Roughly five months later, and I’m looking at myself in the mirror like I’m a brand new person. Pieces of me stitched together that I recognize, and parts I certainly don’t. I’m not scrubbed raw, but not quite bright and shiny either.

It’s…weird… I can’t say I’ve absolutely nailed the breakup. I was all go, go, go from February to June, trying to get through the last dregs of spring semester and to finish my qualifying exam for my program. Once I finished, I was just… paralyzed. The burnout that hit me in June was worse than I’d ever experienced before. I spent 90% of my June sitting in bed, playing on my phone all day. I managed to do some things, like laundry, and grounding myself in spiritualism and my plants… but I wasn’t in my own body for half of it. I was finding a routine in my environment so I wouldn’t slip into depression and utter exhaustion. The burnout was so bad that I skipped on turning in a revision request for a special edition of a prestigious academic journal for my first first-author publication. Just totally gave up on trying to do it because I literally couldn’t.

But, strangely, I’ve also taken it in stride. I’ve named all my plants and talk to them while I garden, which forces me out of the house and into the sun. I’ve found some time to practice my spiritualism more consistently, which has rewarded me exponentially in friendship and connection with my deities. I’ve even found time to drag myself out of bed and be with friends, with some killer shoes to match. Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever been hotter. I mean… When they said that “trauma is stored in the hips”, I ran with it. A bitch has been shaking ass recently.

…that’s not the point, though. What’s rocking my boat the most these days is the fact that I really haven’t sobbed my heart out like I thought I would. There have been tears, sure, but they weren’t over him. I shed tears over pieces of me that were suffocated over the years, and at finally being able to name them. Honestly, though, I think I’ve laughed more than I have in years because of all this. A large portion due to friends. A significant portion at the things he says that just utterly bewilder me... I would love to go into the things we’ve argued over. The things he’s said to me that have been so absurd that I couldn’t help but be baffled, but that feels like beating a dead horse.

In my defense, the horse keeps getting back up… but I digress.

It scares me a little, at how fast I stopped being in love. It was like something just fundamentally…broke. Clean, too. I’m not walking around trying to find shards of glass beneath my feet. It snapped. No rip cord. Untethered. Something I could just pick up and toss away, without so much as looking over my shoulder.

Honestly, it’s… horrifying.

A while ago, I was telling my therapist about how I feel shocked by my numbness to him. I thought the things he said would soften me… melt me until I was swooning into his arms again. It was something I deeply feared happening, but expected all the same. Hell, I was shocked at how light I’d been feeling.

“It’s because you’re free,” she said. I remember pausing. Something soft but abrupt dawning over me. “You grieved the relationship while you were in it,” she continued.

It was such a simply un-simple statement.

I was free.

Am free.

I even, apparently, grieved it all.

But did I really? Is it really grieving if you don’t even get the chance to recognize and process it in the moment? Is it really freedom if you’re not sure where you’re going and where you are?

When she said this to me, when she pointed out that so much of my life has been spent catering to others so I could survive as comfortably as possible… I got mad.

Heartbrokenly angry.

Ashamed… even.

Do you realize how unkind to myself I was to allow my own happiness be washed away like that? To put others above myself like that?

I’m furious that I made an active choice to treat myself so poorly, and then expect that to be a good model for how to love me. I don’t even know how to love myself. I’m not sure I ever learned, honestly.

I let myself be trapped, in a gilded cage, swallowing my own songs because someone else hated music. Rested my tapping foot because movement was forbidden. Shifted endlessly in my seat to stifle dancing, held my breath so as to not take up too much oxygen from someone “more deserving”.

It wasn’t anything big that he did that pushed me into a corner. There was no abuse, no active malicious intent to lock away my light. It just… happened. I gave it my all, and it wasn’t seen. When it was seen, it wasn’t right.

I’m not a guiltless party, certainly. But it’s funny how quickly my attempts to make myself heard became about him again. It’s funny how his tears didn’t even feather a spider’s web within me. Nothing. No ripples in the vast sea of my own turmoil.

It’s… empty. Gone. Completely and utterly absent.

I think it finally occurred to me that he doesn’t genuinely understand me, and I have let him—for so long—get away with that.

I’ve been asked a few times, recently, if I’d ever get back with him. My initial, gut reaction is “Hell to the fucking no.”

Yet, through it all, I’m not sure that is wholly honest. I might. Probably would, if I saw a hopeless-romantic’s-amount-of-effort and active dedication to make those improvements. Even better if there’s no guarantee for him that it’ll work. It means so much more, for some reason, if he did it on a mere hope and a dream to make things right with me — not even expecting or believing that I’d take him back.

Drunkenly, I asked my sister over some lemon-pepper wings if she’d be upset if I ever got back with him. Drunkenly, she responded no.

I’m not sure if that made me feel better.

It’s just… one of those possibilities that seems good when we’re good, and seems fucking awful when we’re not. I’ve found a good rhythm with him, when we don’t talk about the relationship that is, that makes everything feel so comfortably normal. But when we argue… I see him for who he is.

I am reminded time and again—through my own moments of silence and his actions—that the best thing for me to do is just… let go. Part ways. Move on. The comfort in the routine of a relationship is not more important than me.

I’ve learned a lot, though, looking back on the first half of 2026, on this separation. If I had to reflect on it all… I think I treated myself, and, frankly, him as well, coldly. I couldn’t love myself fully, couldn’t love him wholly. I treated myself in a way he learned from. I treated him the way I thought I should be treated.

Sternly, rigidly. Loved from a distance.

You know, it’s funny what behaviors linger from family. I’m sure I said something about it last time, but it’s ringing true every day. My family never really hugged. We didn’t compliment each other on much beyond academic or career successes. Conversations around the table, if we had any, were stilted. Emotions went undiscussed, mostly. There was this weird unspoken — half self-imposed — pressure to be the “good” grandchild. I was the model niece. I was the one who represented my family.

And I internalized all of it. Copied and Pasted it. I rarely talked about my emotions. I made a joke out of anything that fucking sucked. I stopped celebrating my birthday because my family forgot it, constantly… It was easier to never celebrate it so as not to be forgotten again.

But I knew we cared for one another, even through all the silence and hurt. Our appreciation for one another went through tiny actions and predicting needs. Through the unspoken words.

While I should’ve been a lot warmer in my relationship, I also realize that these acts of affection were never understood by him as affection. I came across as nagging and dispassionate. I wasn’t physically and romantically overt enough. I didn’t hug or kiss enough. I didn’t explicitly say the things I was thinking and feeling, like:

You mean so much to me that I think my world would flip upside down without you in it. Like you’re the gravity that keeps me grounded. Losing you would be like ripping flesh from bone.

I love to count every single grey, and see how many new ones are there, because it shows how much time we’ve spent together. It’s like a sneak peak at our forever.

I think of you in everything I do and see, because I know you so well that I can find you anywhere: That color reminds me of the shirt you always wear. God you would hate the person walking slowly in front of me. Here’s 300 pictures of the cats I think you’d love.

When you hold me, I feel like the world has faded away and all that’s there is the two of us. I know that I am completely and utterly safe. And even when I hate you, your smile completely obliterates all fury and irritation. If I let myself, I would never stop smiling with you.

If you ever went… I’d leave a pair of goggles in the drawer, in case you wanted to go swimming. I’d keep an extra blanket, in case you needed it. I’d carry sunblock, because you’re so pale and I worry about you aging like milk. I’ve even left sandals in the closet, because the pavement is too hot to walk to the beach barefoot on.

…And that shirt? The one I wore when you told me, for the first time ever, that you loved me? It’s in my closet. I kept it because of you.

If you ever went… I’d go too.

These past few months have taught me so very much about the way I give and want love. I can be cold to those who don’t understand me. I can be cold because I actively prevent myself from expressing obvious affection or joy, sometimes. I can be cold because even if I’m not preventing expression, sometimes I genuinely just forget to emote. But everything I do is rooted in the unspoken.

I should’ve been louder.

But even knowing all that, I want someone who hears my quiet and names it. I want someone who feels the quiet as if I’m screaming. I want to be louder, but even in my silence, I want to be heard. I don’t want someone who can just predict or name my feelings, but truly understands them. I don’t want someone who does things just because I like them.

I want someone who learns to love the things I like — who actively seeks to participate with me — because they want experience happiness with me. I want someone who sees how scared I am to get the wrong gift, and knows it’s because I want to do right by getting something they’ll love and use and cherish.

Still… I want to be more open. To express freely. To be more overt. To take comfort in knowing that my effort and care mean more than the most perfect outcome.

It wouldn’t just be for him. Or whomever else I end up with.

It’d be for me too.

I want to be more affectionate to myself. Kinder. Patient. Overt with my care. Relaxed in the perfectionism. I want to love myself the way I want someone else to love me.

And I am so sorry to myself that I haven’t.

So…

Dear sj,

Your survival is not dependent on appeasing others. It’s reliant on you and the choices you make. So, choose to make yourself happy. Choose to love yourself. If anyone is going to do it, it better be you. You are the only one who can truly love and know every chapter of yourself, and every word in your book. You have to live with yourself, from birth to death. There might as well be light in the dash that makes up everything in between.

and, while I’m here…

Dear Former Forever,

I hope I haunt you.

love always,

<3 sj

p.s. they broke up.

p.p.s. yes i gloated.

hehe

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Read the Update: On Healing

Well… Statistically, this comes as no shock, but emotionally this shit is insane.

Five years of love and it’s just… over.

When he ended our relationship, he stressed that we were fundamentally wrong for each other. I was nothing like what he wanted. He was not the one for me. When it happened, I wanted to argue with him.

And I did.

I argued how he fucked me over by not coming to me sooner with his issues, by not clarifying his needs when he saw me misunderstanding them. I monologued about how I showed up for him exactly the way he asked me to, and that still wasn’t enough.

He rebutted with how the affection I gave him was too restrained. Not spontaneous enough, not considerate or proactive enough. And the sex. Let’s just say, I’m not nearly as invested in sexual pleasure as he is. We went back and forth about chicken or the egg—who started pulling away first. Whose fault is it really. Who was the root and who was reacting.

It’s a bit pointless, really, to argue about which came first. The fact is, it happened. He felt like he couldn’t talk to me. I felt like he didn’t like me. But… for some reason… I thought we were working. I thought the arguments, few and far between, were simply seasons and cycles of marriage.

Proof that love is work and requires constant growth.

I see it now, though. Who I am… my love language, my style of affection, my sex drive… all of it is fundamentally in opposition to him and his needs. The effort that I put in was not enough, nor in the style that made him feel seen validated.

The love he told me was unconditional was very much not. It was dependent on sex, on being a homemaker and not asking him to participate in the housework, on giving one specific form of affection.

Dependent on being a totally different person.

It’s amazing how “getting along” can reflect a future, even mimic unconditional love.

The little girl in me, the one still healing from childhood trauma of abuse and neglect is being rubbed raw from discovering that who I am… everything that I am… was not loved wholly. That so many parts of me were resented and unwanted.

The best way I can describe it is this: Picture a scar. Something I barely glanced at. No longer hurt, but it served as a reminder of the deep cuts. In a way, it was a scar I was almost proud of. I healed. My body repaired itself. It didn’t hurt anymore.

But somewhere an infection was festering. I had no clue it was there. There were no symptoms, at least none that I couldn’t dismiss as fluke pains and oddities. Yet, it was growing and creeping into the rest of my body like a cancer. And one day, the seam of my scar split. It wasn’t a slow split that stung, dribbled a bit of blood and you quickly patched up.

No, it exploded.

Blood spray everywhere.

Crumple to the floor and cry silently because the pain takes your ability to speak and scream. It takes your ability to ask for help.

And even if you could ask for help, you wouldn’t get what you needed because you just lost your health insurance.

So you lay there, writhing on the bathroom floor, waiting to either pass out and die, or gather enough strength to stand back up and stitch yourself together again.

Because no one else will do it for you.

Everything hurts. He loves someone else. They’re already together, less than 24 hours after we were through… and I’m watching their relationship happen, right in front of me. Hearing every other word of praise and affection, just a door down from me. I won’t go into the details of everything that’s gone down, nor drag his or her name through the mud. This isn’t really about them.

This is about the open, festering, and gushing wound left behind.

This is about me getting divorced.

…I’m getting divorced…

I’m getting divorced???

What the fuck.

To say that there are no hard feelings would be a complete and utter lie, but I also can’t say I’m not the tiniest bit relieved.

The man I fell in love with hadn’t been present in the relationship for a while. I knew that. He knew that. Seeing him struggle with life, generally, and being completely and utterly unable to help him in a way that felt meaningful to him was hurting us both. He kept me at arms length, and I responded by allowing it.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure if I pushed him away, too, or was reciprocating the energy given to me. To be even more honest, I’m not sure it fucking matters. What’s done is done.

I deeply want the best for him, though I still really hope it’s not with her, simply because of how it all went down. However, seeing the man I once knew starting to resurface—no longer drowning under the weight of life, job, and me—I fear that she is better for him. I haven’t seen him this stress-free in a long time.

Knowing it’s because of a totally different person, though, is like hot coals in my lungs.

Knowing that he could only love someone who wasn’t me… even worse that he clung to hope I would become that person? I might as well be swallowing shards of molten glass.

And it’s forcing me to reflect on who I am in a relationship. He told me he didn’t hate me, but hated who I am in a relationship. He hated the relationship itself, not the person.

It doesn’t feel that way, yet.

Am I avoiding accountability if it’s easier to say he hated me? What responsibility do I need to take? What was my role in the relationship? This part confuses me. I know I was wrong for him. I am aware and accepting of the fact that I didn’t want to have as much sex, nor the kind of sex he wanted. I am aware that my form of affection was not physical or gentle enough for him. I am aware that I didn’t proactively demonstrate or disclose how much he means… meant (?)… to me often enough.

Yet, I am selfishly giving myself grace for these things, because I genuinely didn’t know he wanted and needed them. But, I was also too dense to put 2 and 2 together. So what should I be doing? How should I be feeling? Should I be on my knees begging? Sobbing and paralyzed in bed? Should I feel like shit for not knowing and not trying harder to do better?

It’s even strange to write about it all. How many details do I divulge? How much is too much about him and his personal life, even when it is mine, too?

At the moment, I think I mostly just feel… nothing. Everything is a bit insane. From how it went down, to the fact that it happened at all. It’s amazing how fast dreams fall. I’m having to imagine my future without the one person I thought would be there. I know he will continue to chase his dreams. But what the hell are mine, now?

I don’t think I can picture that far ahead because… Gods. I’m getting divorced. I’m 24, a year away from my doctorate degree, and I’m getting divorced. How the hell did I speed-run adulthood? How did I end up where people usually end up in their 30s and onward?

It’s odd being here, because through it all, I keep expecting?… hoping? that he’ll just kiss me again. Like the weight of all our old love and time together will pull him back to me for just a single moment, and the laughing and the memories will make him want to hold me again. I know it’s silly, and it would be disloyal and dishonest to his new girlfriend — though it would make me very smug — but there’s a type of gentle he is capable of that I want a glimpse of. Just one more time.

But it’ll always be one more, one more, one more.

I don’t want him back. I want a moment. I want a security and safety with him that I haven’t felt in a while.

I don’t want sex. I want a gentle kiss. I want to be held by him. One more time. And then, somehow, to go about as friends. But hearing him tell her that he loves her, wants her, and thinks she’s beautiful is painful. It’s devastating. Hearing him call her baby, honey, sweetheart… It’s like being stabbed in the gut, and he’s twisting the knife.

As much as I am okay with the relationship being done, I just want to feel like I still have even the smallest fraction of what I once had. What he’s giving to her. Just one. more. time. I want to feel like the distance between us never existed. I want the nails that stab into my heart with every pump to disintegrate.

Yet, at the same time, I wish I felt more strongly about it all. I know these pains are there. I know I’m feeling them. But, at the same time, I can’t feel them. I haven’t broken down yet. I haven’t collapsed to my knees and cursed at the world.

I don’t think I can.

I have shit to do.

I have a degree to earn.

So, I’ve caught this kernel of hope, and I’ve trapped it like a fairy. Waiting for it to sprinkle its dust on me and let me fly. Shaking the damn cage and hoping it finally gives itself to me. Because then, and only then, will I have evidence for myself that I am better off without him.

I dream of hot girl summers, kissing the wrong people, and getting hit on by strangers I’ll never see again.

I yearn for the freedom to live untethered, unbothered, and independently.

I ache for the version of me that scares men, allures women, and makes everyone envious.

I even wait for the grief. Will I ever be fully moved on if I don’t implode just once? When will it hit me, if at all? Was the sigh of relief greater than the grief of moving on?

And dear gods, how will I love again?

The concept of being loved, unconditionally, wholly, and wholeheartedly feels… out of reach. Every now and then, I’ll be scrolling on instagram and get recommended a video he commented under. He almost always commented on reels about marriage or dating, and would always praise “his wife” under them. It happened again today, where I found a comment from 5 weeks ago, where he praised me for giving him back scratches and holding him while he napped after a bad day.

5 weeks ago was about 1 or 2 weeks before he broke things off.

Unconditional love my ass.

It’s weird seeing evidence of us littered everywhere, including within intangible spaces. Electronic love letters he never sent to me, but declared for the whole world anyway.

Yet, I doubt their truth. I doubt his affections.

How much of it was show? Am I part of the goddamn circus?

When I told friends and coworkers, their flabbers were ghasted. They told me to hit him with my car. Beat a bitch up… People even cried for me. This was the man who obsessed over me. The same man that praised me in public and in private. The same man who made it so explicitly clear he was in love with me.

How could that man, and this one, be one in the same?

How can the one who held me as I ugly sobbed through pain and trauma, the one who participated in my spirituality so I felt as though he was safe, the one who withstood nasty words from my grandmother just to support me when I argued with her about my name… How can that man be done?

How can that man say he hasn’t loved me for a long time?

I hate him.

I don’t hate him.

I want him to come back.

I hope I move on.

I miss him.

Fuck him.

I wish he would hold me.

If he touched me again I would feel violated.

What if he made a mistake?

Why would anyone who ever truly cared do me so dirty?

Could we work this out?

Jesus Christ he fucked up too spectacularly for me to ever forgive him.

I wish I was sobbing.

I’ll never waste tears over a person—let alone a man—like that.

I wish this hurt more.

I feel like I might die.

I want to say that I truly understand and have learned that I need to add variety to how I express affection, and to be more interpretive in my communication style — he always said I was too literal and did only what was explicitly asked of me and never anything more. But I don’t think I truly understand those things yet, or at least not accept them fully. Mostly the communication bit. I ask people for exactly what I want and need, and when they do that I feel like they’ve shown up for me and care. So, I always strive to do exactly what I’m asked. I get that I could’ve been more proactive and broad in my approach to “increasing affection”, but I struggle with this because affection means very different things to people.

I need someone to show up exactly as I’ve asked them to. He asked me for a specific type of affection, I gave that, but he actually wanted much more. Me being confused and seeking clarity was exhausting for him. The funny part is, I get that. Being asked to clarify everything can be draining. I was so focused on not fucking it up that I got too specific and not creative enough.

At the same time, though, if you know I’ll do what I’m asked, just ask me for it. If you see I’m struggling to understand your needs, tell me and approach the conversation from a different way. I desperately wanted to be there, but I just… wasn’t.

So while I do know how things went wrong on my end, how I wasn’t the right person for him, I still don’t understand how I was never given the chance to be the right person. And how it all went down leaves such a sour taste in my mouth that it feels easier to say he simply never really loved me. It’s easier to accept that he was waiting for something more convenient and easy to come along.

Through it all, I wonder what pieces of me are because of him. I wonder what sayings and mannerisms will surface throughout daily life, reminding me that there was a time in my life where he was my best friend. Will anyone ever read my face and my mind as well as he does?

When the plane takes off and when it lands, who will I send those photos to?

When the cats do something insane, who will laugh about it with me?

Is he going to do our Christmas traditions with her? Will they feel just as special, or —fuck — more special, without me in those memories?

What jokes of mine does he make with her?

How did I go from being the funniest, most beautiful, and smartest person he knew to someone he doesn’t want in his life? How did I get replaced so quickly?

Was it a replacement, or an upgrade?

Which is worse?

And what the fucking fuck do I tell my family?

The aftermath of divorce is like that of a tsunami. Everything that once stood beautiful and tall is littered remains on a broken street. Everything changes. Everything is devastated.

And if you’re lucky enough to survive, if you’ve bobbed above water long enough to prevent drowning and swallowed just enough sea water that your lungs still function, you get to walk through the wreckage and wonder how anything rebuilt will be as beautiful as it was before.

The only thing I can see in the wreckage is myself.

Cuts everywhere. Scars forming. Dried blood on my knees. The sound of wet hacking as the memories of nearly drowning escape my lungs. Perhaps I’m not done drowning…

I see myself but I don’t recognize me. I lie to myself in the mirror.

That’s you, Sawyer.

That’s me.

But the person I am now is so fundamentally altered that it can’t be the same one I was looking at, just a month ago.

That Sawyer had a wide smile. The light slowly returning to their eyes with the hope that 2026 would be the best year yet. That Sawyer had lighter shoulders, and an eagerness to care for themselves. That Sawyer was excited for summer and sun, because it meant sharing a million more moments with the ones they loved.

The smile in my mirror now is… alien. It’s real, but so distantly removed from reality. This one is made from disbelief and insanity. This one is a persona, excited for a future of freedom.

It doesn’t quite seem to reach the eyes, anymore.

The body moves like a 20 something, soaking up all the rays of sun and fun it can. Shaking ass as if the trauma is stored in the hips, and not in the heart. Singing as if the noise will drown out the pain. Smoking more than it ever has, because lungs full of smoke are better than those with water.

Because I’d rather choke on my own choices than someone else’s.

Yet, at the same time, the person in the mirror is completely recognizable. The body has aged imperceptibly. But it’s noticeably heavier. Sluggish.

This is me in auto-pilot. This is me picking up as many pieces as possible, my head held high, before I go stomping around and making my feet bleed. This is the me that survived 19 years before him.

I recognize this me. She just has a few more crows feet. More stern cheekbones.

I recognize this me. The bags under their eyes seem a little deeper than before. Just a little more tired than before.

I recognize this me. This person has the same face as every iteration of herself. They have the same nose, and lips, and eyes. They have the same laugh.

But I don’t feel like this is me.

Five years.

Five years.

Five years.

Here’s to 70 more.

in love and longing,

<3 sj

Read the Update: On Healing

If you aren’t up to date on Transgender experiences, watch this video from John Oliver.

It’s always a little interesting to receive, read, and grade reflections on these more ‘dicey’ topics. I always get a few students who are vehemently “This is weird. This doesn’t align with my religious beliefs. You should find god. This is wrong.”

This year, I noticed an uptick in students that are outwardly supporting the Queer and Trans (QT) community, but also more students who are engaging with beliefs rooted in exclusion and phobia. These students aren’t aggressive in their exclusion — there’s no call to harm the QT community, no vibes of incoming hate crimes — but there are certainly more who are treading the line of “one existence is better than the other.”

I get it, people can have differences of opinion. Some people abide by religious beliefs that are inherently problematic (at least, to my own world view), and I won’t shit on them for it so long as they are being respectful. In the case of my students, they were being respectful… or as respectful as “I don’t think this existence is divinely correct,” can be. They used the correct pronouns of the speaker from the video they watched, they made points saying “I can see what the argument is trying to be,” (even though they still sort-of didn’t), and they engaged with the content without calling everything blasphemous.

Gold stars all around.

But it’s so hard to grade these papers. I am giving — because they are rightfully getting by rubric standards — 100%s. They have engaged with the content, they have written the full page, they answered the questions, they reflected with thoughts and opinions. That’s all the assignment asks of them.

But it doesn’t feel like I’m grading the learning process, it feels like I’m rewarding their beliefs. I will never unfairly grade my students, regardless of whether I agree or not, but damn does it suck to have to see something calling the Transgender community “weird” and “wrong”, and give it a 100.

To give you all a reference (and to be more specific), the students that week watched a TedTalk titled,

Inflammatory statement, I know. I understand why students were shooketh and displeased.

But the purpose of that video was to discuss how everyone does things to affirm their identity. Everyone tries to live as their true and authentic self, and sometimes this comes at the cost of changing something, whether that’s your fashion, getting boob/butt/nose job, hitting the gym to feel more masculine and #upthosegainsbro. This isn’t solely a Trans experience, it’s just frowned upon when you take action to affirm your gender in ways that do not conform to your sex assigned at birth.

A lot of students made the point that, yes the message may be true but Transgender folks have a lot more to cope with and experience in terms of identity and discrimination… therefore the two do not equate, these ideas aren’t comparable.

Other students are stuck on the “Everyone is Trans” bit. I understand that’s a bit of a “Ahh!” moment, but they’re not digging into the message or even trying to explore the meaning. One student mentioned needing data to prove that everyone is Trans — point? missed. Another said they’ve never wanted to change their body so therefore the speaker is wrong — point? missed. Then I got to the students who used their religion to say that you cannot experience fluidity in gender identity because being born as male or female is it. Full stop. You are or you are not, there is no spectrum. They argue that changing gender identity is not the same as getting plastic surgery, and while they are correct — these are not the same — they are stuck on the part (and rooting their argument in this) that being Transgender is inherently wrong to them.

I saw students using terms like “Transgenderism”, which is a notoriously conservative talking point to get people to think about Transgender identity as an belief, an ideology, like when conservatives say that wanting healthcare (or literally anything not serving the rich) is socialist or communist.

I mean, hell. One student said that “identity is not subject to personal feelings and societal trends.” (???) Race might not be, the color of our skin and the cultures we come from aren’t — even though how you interact with and embrace that identity is absolutely influenced by your feelings and the environment around you. But how we express ourselves, especially our gender identity, abso-fuckin-lutely is. It is inherently influenced by feelings and trends, regardless of whether you are cis or trans. Take, for example, fashion. I’m not going to equate fashion as identity, but it is absolutely how you express your identity, and fashion changes. People change their minds about how they want to be seen, what looks good, what makeup suits them best (everyone remember 2016 block brows? yeouch). Therefore the way we transition from phases and trends, and how we express our true and authentic selves is fluid.

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That’s the whole point of the video. We do things — all humans — all the time to represent ourselves in a way that fits us, in a way that fits the soul. Transgender people are not the only people to do this. It’s just that we’re so used to cisgender affirming care as the default, that everything else is a wild affront to nature.

Within all of this, I am seeing so many students talk about how gender identity is fixed, it is not fluid, and it only applies to Transgender people to experience any sort of fluidity. And that this experience is incorrect — divine reasons or not.

And I’m giving these students 100s! A++es! And it feels like I’m telling them, “Yes, you are absolutely correct in this belief.” But what I want is to be challenging these students. Part of the educational process is being challenged.

But I don’t think I can. We live in a world right now where in these classes I TA one student could complain about the class and the whole thing gets pulled from the university for some unscientific bullshit reasons like “Radical Gender Ideology”. Worst case? The instructors and I get doxed and attacked.

So I gave them 100s, and I have to fear debating them. Not even trying to change opinions, genuinely just trying to debate them so they reflect on their beliefs to see where it stems from and why it’s important to them. Push them towards critical thinking and move beyond the initial hook to capture the audience, and interact with the message behind it.

So many of these students—in past semesters and now—were rooted in “my existence is better than yours,” and “my existence makes more sense.” But, frankly, nothing makes sense. No single existence makes any fucking sense, because if you genuinely tried to think about reality for five minutes, it breaks.

Anyway, closing thoughts on my long winded rant — it’s deeply disappointing that encouraging critical thinking (not trying to get everyone to agree or believe the same things), and to push students to explore the content behind these big statements is frowned upon! It’s shameful as a society and on a national level that we must fear engaging in the learning process simply because we are living in a fascist system.

It’s even more fucking annoying because the descent into fascism wasn’t even fast! This has been such. a long. time. coming. Ever since we let corporations be politically and legally counted as people. Even before that when the nation was built off of capitalistic greed rooted in genocide, enslavement, and imperialism.

[big sigh]

So, TLDR and because if I don’t stop now I will just talk myself to death:

It hurts to be a scientist and in academia in a time when they’re setting us on fucking fire.

<3 sj

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As a child, I was reading books as if they were the best part of a diet. Voraciously consuming fantasy worlds like my life depended on it (and it sort of did). I was the 6th grade kid with the lexile score of a college student. But when it came time to focus on all 300 AP classes I was taking at the same time in high school, I stopped reading. Which, if I’m honest, was a terrible time to do so.

Recently, I’ve gone back to therapy—stay with me for a second—because I realized I’ve been walking through life mindlessly. I’ve been in survival mode, chasing success after success, milestone after milestone, to create some semblance of security. [Insert things I did as a child to get out of trauma], I finished top ten in high school, I went to college, I did well, I graduated young, I got married, I went to graduate school, I finished my Masters, I’m onto my generals and dissertation… I’m what parents would brag about.

But something is missing. Something is empty.

I’ve made lists of goals to accomplish and timelines to follow since I was young. My father once told me he can “always trust [me] to set a goal and stick to it.” It was entirely jarring to be perceived by him at all, but especially for that to be the synopsis. But it’s a testament to how successful I’ve been with achieving my goals, and perhaps at how much I’ve clung to them.

Except… I only read 3/5 books.

Of those three books, two were recommendations in the romcom genre, which was new territory for this Fantasy-Only…gal (what is the gender neutral version of gal??). And I loved them.

Technically, I could say I read four, given that I finished one book right before I started my goal, but I don’t surf by on technicalities.

When my goal deadline passed and I had failed to achieve it, I kept waiting for some crushing sense of defeat to wrap its tendrils around me, whispering my failure in my ears. Something like… If I can’t even succeed in a simple and mostly meaningless goal, how would I ever do well in life?

THREE of FIVE? Boooo!!! I’m throwing imaginary tomatoes at myself.

But it never came. That feeling of dread and despair never wandered in with a cocky sense of self. I watched the deadline come and go, and I felt completely okay. Honestly, I felt better than okay. I read three whole books in a month. My record before that was zero! It took me months to get through books because all my other goals and priorities came first. I even branched out of my comfort genre, talked to a friend about my thoughts about the books, and actively sought more to read. I even read two of those books in one sitting, meaning I dedicated time out of my own work schedule for something that did not directly or overtly contribute to my survival.

Things I enjoyed… things that fed my soul were never on the list of goals before.

As the youths would say, “A win is a win.”

So, yes, I’ve gone back to therapy to figure out how to actually live my life. See the world in color. Stop and smell the roses. All that jazz. But mostly, just enjoy my hobbies again. Enjoy myself again.

I can’t promise to never make a goal again, and frankly I’m sure any proper therapist would say that goals are useful tools. Instead… maybe the goals help keep me honest about putting in the effort.

And… maybe… I don’t mind so much if I don’t achieve them.

<3 sj

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What is HIV?

Human immunodeficiency virus, commonly known as HIV, is a virus that attacks a person’s immune system and makes them more vulnerable to disease, including Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome, also known as AIDS.

HIV spreads through contact with bodily fluids, like blood, semen, vaginal fluids, and rectal fluids. As such, it’s most commonly spread through sex, but can also be spread through intravenous drug use, aka, using needles or syringes to inject your body with substances.

HIV tends to cause flu-like symptoms 2 to 4 weeks after exposure to the virus, but sometimes causes no symptoms at all. The only way to know for sure if you have the virus, especially if you’re concerned that you’ve been exposed to it, is to get tested.

Thankfully, modern medicine and science have created several medications to allow people to protect themselves from contracting HIV, or to live long and healthy lives if they have an HIV+ diagnosis.

Prevention and Protection

Let’s first talk about prevention and protection against HIV.

PrEP means pre-exposure prophylaxis. It is a medicine designed to help reduce a person’s risk of contracting HIV, and can be taken in pill form daily, or through a shot every two months.

PrEP is specifically for people who are not HIV-positive, and is only designed to reduce the risk of HIV—not other sexually transmitted infections. It has a 99% effectiveness rate in pill form, and is 74% effective in reducing risk in shot form. PrEP cannot guarantee that you’ll never get HIV, but it can make you less susceptible and give you peace of mind.

There are several groups of people who may qualify to get on PrEP, and you can always reference HIV.gov if you need a reminder. Ask your provider about PrEP if you:

• Have had anal or vaginal sex in the past 6 months,

• If your partner is HIV+, or if you aren’t sure of their status,

• If you haven’t been consistently using condoms or dental dams,

• If you’ve been diagnosed with an STD in the past 6 months,

• If you inject drugs, especially if you are sharing needles, syringes, or other injection equipment

  • And definitely if you’re sharing this equipment with someone who is HIV+

• Or, if you’ve previously been prescribed other HIV related medicine, like Post-exposure Prophylaxis, and continue to engage in sex that may not be safe or protected.

To get on PrEP, talk to your medical provider about the medication to see if it’s a good and appropriate fit for you. Luckily, PrEP is a protected medication under the Affordable Care Act, so it should be covered under almost all insurances and Medicaid.

Even when taking PrEP, you should always engage in safe sex practices, like using a condom or a dental dam, and getting tested regularly. In addition, open communication about your or your partners’ HIV status can help you stay on top of risk, and also make sex safer and more enjoyable for you both.

If you think you’ve been exposed to HIV with your regular sexual partners, or have recently been assaulted, contact your medical provider or your nearest urgent and emergency care clinics, and ask about Post-Exposure Prophylaxis. PEP is a medication designed to reduce the risk of HIV developing after being exposed to the virus, even if you aren’t sure the other party has HIV.

You should start this medication, ideally, within 24 hours of exposure, and at maximum within 3 days (or 72 hours). This is an emergency medication, and is not designed to be taken regularly like PrEP. If you are consistently exposed to HIV, or regularly engaging in unprotected sex, make sure you’re on pre-exposure medicine, not post-exposure.

If prescribed PEP, you will take it for 28 days, and then get tested for HIV during and after those 28 days. Your provider will let you know when to come in for a test. Like PrEP, this medicine should be covered under most insurances and Medicaid.

You can take this medicine if pregnant or breastfeeding, but make sure you talk to your doctor about this.

Living HIV+

Now, we’ve covered staying protected from HIV. What if you already have the virus?

If you are diagnosed HIV-positive, neither PrEP nor PEP are the medicine for you. However, ask your provider about Anti-retroviral Therapy, or ART. ART is a medication for HIV-positive individuals to reduce their viral load. Viral load is essentially how much of the HIV virus you have in your body. When taking ART, this medicine reduces this viral load count and makes you less likely to transmit HIV to someone else.

With ART, you can even reduce your viral load so low that the virus is undetectable. This does not mean you no longer have HIV. It just means that your body and the medicine are doing really well at keeping you as healthy as you can be, while still being HIV+. ART increases life expectancy, improves quality of life, and reduces transmission of HIV.

ART also comes in pill and shot form, and you should talk with your provider to see which form fits you and your needs best. It is crucial that you take your medicine on time and regularly if you want the most effective results.

Remember, ART is not a cure, and you should always practice safe sex, get tested regularly, adhere to your medication routine, and talk with your partners about your status so they can protect themselves as well.

So, as a brief reminder…

HIV makes you more likely to get sick, and you can get HIV through bodily fluids—like through sex or shared needles! You can prevent HIV by taking Pre-exposure Prophylaxis (PrEP). If you think you’ve been exposed, ask about Post-exposure Prophylaxis (PEP). If you already have HIV, ask your doctor about Antiretroviral therapy (ART).

Even with all of these medicines, you should be using condoms and dental dams, talking with your partners about your and their status, and as part of your routine or when in doubt, Get Tested! I’ll let you in on a little secret, by the way… you can test for HIV at home! These test kits are pretty easy to purchase from stores like Walgreens, CVS, Walmart, etc. Just give “at home HIV test kits” or “Oraquick test kits” a google and you can see your options.

Now, I’ve covered all the basics about HIV and the available types of medicine to keep you safe and healthy. You can always check HIV.gov or the CDC for this information. My research lab also has other resources available that you can use for free ~ just scroll for materials about HIV, mental health, racism, finding Black therapists, and more.

See ya!

<3 SJ

if i had to guess, though, i think my passion for escapism started with jk rowling (fuck her, though, she’s a terrible person). i was young and impressionable, and living a pretty shitty life. stories about a child who found out they were actually magical, escaped that specific brand of a shitty life, discovered true family, and changed the world for the better?? sign me the fuck up. i was hooked, and i was desperate for a chance to make it true. somehow, someway, i needed that life. even if it was just in my head.

so, yes, of course my first real attempt at story-writing was creating a harry potter fanfiction on wattpad. yes, it won a “people’s choice award” from some creator who probably directed all of ten people to my account. yes, that fanfiction was turned into its own world and story. writing is in my blood. creation is in my blood. i write chapters upon chapters, create dialogue and complex backgrounds, build whole worlds, and then… i stop…

there’s this little thought writers become all too familiar with when it comes to creating:

who the fuck cares? this will never be published.

combine that thought with the push and pull of daily life, and you create a wonderful concoction of, “i’ll write tomorrow…” and “this story sucks…” that repeats in your mind every. single. day.

i think the stories that made it big, the ones that got so successful they’re engrained into the culture, like Pride and Prejudice and Mr. Darcy’s hand-flex (i’m swooning!), make writing seem so… fantastical. so easy. something that pulls desperately at your soul, devouring your concerns about all else, and giving you a dream to latch onto.

and then, when you wake up, you remember that the big-screen doesn’t just happen. worlds and characters don’t just spring forth, fully formed. writing is not some talent, or a gift that keeps on giving. it’s a skill—and it’s a hard one, at that. characters fall flat. plot holes grow wider. you’ve forgotten how you initially described this side-character and you’re not about to search through 100 pages to find out. is that what actually happens when you get stabbed? are there too many commas?aremycharacterstalkingtoomuch?amigivingexpositionorinfo-dumping?howthefuckdoishowandnottell?whyarepeopletellingmeineed150newwaystosay‘said’!!??

i say i’m a fantasy author, but i’ve lost so much motivation for creating. how can i be an author if i’m not writing? the drafts getting dusty in my google drive don’t count if i’m not working on them… and when i put pressure on myself to create, to hit 500 words a day or finish three chapters in two months, i start to put quantity over quality. my writing degrades into a product, a deliverable, and loses its meaning as a passion.

but, again, writing is a skill. it is something you must use or lose. so what’s the balance? what are the ingredients to practicing consistently and embracing passion? perhaps it is just to write regularly, regardless of the story. perhaps it is to write when the inspiration strikes.

perhaps it is none of these. maybe it is both. i haven’t figured that bit out for myself yet. but i’ll tell you what i do know.

there’s no shame in finding yourself stuck, or realizing you’ve stopped altogether.

as long as you promise to try again.

<3 sj

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If you want to hear SJ talking their intentions for their research lab, watch this!

Key Terms:

Correlation/Correlates - one thing is related to another somehow! Positive correlations means higher of A is likely to be related to higher of B. Negative correlations means higher of A is likely to be associated with less of B. Remember, correlation is not causation. Correlation does not mean A = B.

Intersectional - all of your identities, like sexuality/gender/race/ethnicity/culture, interact and shape the way you perceive the world, and the world perceives you.

Microaggressions - A form of discrimination. These are day-to-day comments that degrade and berate a person for having an identity that is different. These can be purposefully harmful like being called the N-word, or sometimes be indirect and passive like “You’re pretty for a Black girl.”

Internalized Stigma - These are the messages we tell ourselves about our identity being wrong, shameful, sinful, disgusting, or that we wish we weren’t who we are.

Caregiver Messages - Acceptance and rejection communicated by parents/caregivers to a youth about their identity.

Moderated Mediation - When A correlates with B, sometimes C helps explain why A is correlated with B. That is mediation. When A correlates with B, sometimes D strengthens or weakens that correlation. That is moderation. When D is strengthening or weakening the relationship A has with B through C, that is a moderated mediation.

For those who are research minded, or just great allies and curious, I completed my thesis on the mental health of LGBTQ+ (aka Queer and Trans / QT) youth from marginalised racial and ethnic backgrounds (aka BIPOC). Buckle in because this post is a little dense and lengthy…

Background:

There is plenty of research that talks about how being both QT and BIPOC can create this extra stressful existence, where you’re not just navigating racism and violence for your skin color, but you’re also navigating phobias and violence for being QT. Navigating these multiple oppressions can result in mental and physical health outcomes, like depression, anxiety, and heart problems. It literally hurts the heart to deal with this stress! Sometimes this stress can come from intersectional microaggressions, which are comments that attack a youth for having both QT and BIPOC identities. Microaggressions are positively correlated with depression symptoms in the literature. AKA, experiencing discrimination is not good for the mental health. Sometimes, after experiencing discrimination, youth tell themselves these same messages. Someone tells a youth their curls are ugly, or their Queer identity is sinful? There’s a chance a youth starts to believe that and tell themselves the same thing. This is internalized stigma (I.S). I.S is also positively correlated with depression symptoms.

Now, when a youth has good social support systems, like their caregivers who they rely on for shelter and love, sometimes these positively correlated relationships are weakened. Meaning, yes, discrimination is bad for mental health, but when your parents or peers are there to back you up and remind you you’re beautiful, maybe you experience a little less depression than if they weren’t there. Rejection from your caregivers, like being kicked out, may make these correlated relationships stronger.

In sum, in my study, I wanted to look at how youth in this community were experiencing depression after facing microaggressions, and whether internalized stigma helped to explain this relationship (Mediation). Further, I wanted to understand how caregiver acceptance and rejection may weaken or strengthen these relationships (Moderation).

Results:

First let’s talk about what a moderated mediation in this study is, using a hypothetical love triangle/friend group. Start off by imagining you have a triangle. At the bottom two points of your triangle, you have two people—let’s call them Rachel (racism) and Debby (depression). Rachel loves Debby, and they’re two peas in a pod. At the top of the triangle, you have another person—let’s call him Isaac (internalized stigma). Isaac usually hangs out with both Rachel and Debby, and at this point he might as well be a third in their relationship. When Rachel isn’t sure how to talk to Debby, Isaac takes her phone and texts on her behalf. Most of the time, he helps Rachel and Debby remain tight-knit. What this means, though, is that how strong Rachel and Debby’s relationship is going is sometimes explained by what Isaac is saying to Debby on behalf of Rachel.

• Basically, instead of Racism always talking directly to Depression, they’re also sometimes talking through Internalized Stigma, which is a mediation!

The three musketeers share a good friend named Cathy (caregiver messages). Cathy’s mood changes… Sometimes she’s supportive and sometimes she’s a bit jealous. She’ll interfere with Rachel and Debby’s relationship, and other times she’ll get between Rachel and Isaac. She is an outside force on the little odd poly situation between the other three. When she’s supportive (caregiver rejection), all the relationships are strong. When she’s being toxic for the other three (caregiver acceptance), she makes their relationships weaker. Sometimes, she’s their biggest fan and other times their most obnoxious enemy.

• Cathy, aka our caregiver messages of acceptance and rejection, is a moderator because nothing is going through her, but she loves to jump in anyway.

As a reminder, at the start of my study I thought that experiencing discrimination correlated with increased internalized stigma (feeling worse about yourself), which would explain the increased depression scores. I also thought that sometimes rejection from caregivers encourages this, or acceptance weakens this. AKA, Rachel, Isaac, and Debby move as a pack, and Cathy is on the edges using her influence to either strengthen or weaken their bond as a trio.

Part of that, the mediation part, was what I ended up seeing. Where higher levels of discrimination correlates with higher levels of depression: More ~ More. Internalised stigma sometimes explains a little bit of why racism and depression correlate; that’s the mediator. This means higher levels of racism ~> higher levels of internalised stigma ~> higher levels of depression. It’s our polyamorous triangle between Rachel, Isaac, and Debby!

Now, remember, this is all correlation because none of this can be proved. So, when I say more ~ more, I am not saying it is a guaranteed equation, because I don’t know if it always is that way, 100% of the time!

Remember Cathy? She was our moderator. Caregiver Messages come in two forms, acceptance and rejection. I thought that when the messages were about rejection, the poly relationship would be stronger and we’d see more of Isaac and more of Debby. When the messages were acceptance, we’d see less of those two. However, this was only shown in correlations, not when part of the moderated mediation. What I mean is that when Cathy is added into the whole equation, it seems like Rachel and Isaac are pretty good at ignoring her. Essentially, Cathy doesn’t seem to be significant when Rachel, Isaac, and Debby are all together.

• This means that parental messages, regardless of the type (rejection or acceptance) do not significantly alter (strengthen or weaken) the relationship between racism, internalised stigma, and depression.

That doesn’t mean she’s useless, or that she has zero influence, it just means that when she’s with the main crew, we can’t really compare her influence with everyone else’s! When she’s on her own, we can see her influence better.

Summary

Now, I’ve done my best to explain the statistics and psychology without sounding like a snooty-nosed academic. Let me try to summarize it. The role of our caregivers in supporting youth is important in protecting youth from negative mental health outcomes, like depression, or from internalized stigma. Rejection from caregivers may make depressive symptoms or internal stigma worse for youth. However, the role of caregivers (both acceptance and rejection), may not be a significant buffer/stressor when we also consider how discrimination impacts mental health. The effects of discrimination seem to outweigh the role that caregivers have in these relationships. Experiencing discrimination does seem to increase internalized stigma, which may help explain higher levels of depression in these youth, but discrimination still has a direct relationship with (aka directly impacts) depression. Basically, internal stigma doesn’t explain all of why racism impacts depression, just some of it.

I should note that there are some additional reasons why I found these results, which may help explain why caregiver messaging wasn’t as impactful as I thought it was, but I don’t want to make you all suffer through my science any more.

If none of that made any sense, please ask me questions!

Okay.. So What?

The short of it all is, essentially, that youth who are in the QT-BIPOC community need support! It is not the ownness of the youth to heal, but on the larger community and society to be there and present for them. Showing up and showing out is really important for validating identity, reminding youth they are loved beautiful, and in reminding the powers that be that hatred never wins—at least not in the long run. There are some ways we can support, like protesting and pushing for positive changes in policy, but those are sometimes the big changes that not everyone has the capacity or energy to do. That’s okay! There’s some smaller ways to promote change, and build resilience with youth, like…

1. Affirming Identity: Doesn’t it just feel great to feel loved and seen?

Here's a little more from SJ about what affirmation means, and how it helps!

1. Activism: Fuck the gov’t. You know what I mean. Activism helps with feeling like our voices matter, finding community with similar folks, and in redirecting the harm from discrimination and mental health issues into action.

2. Access: Building better access to care is important to getting people help & resources when they need it, not just by addressing systemic issues like cost, insurance, lack of clinical training in talking about discrimination… We also need to be going into the communities directly and talking with people and organizations already doing the work. Things like building resource directories, to help bring attention to the types of care available; creating stylish fliers and materials that summarize the research, so people don’t have to read 16 page articles to understand what science is saying; and asking “What can I do for you?”, so we aren’t just telling BIPOC and QT communities what to do, but they’re telling us what they need.

Check out this video of SJ talking about barriers to care for intersectional Queer youth!

Ignore how often I say “uhm” in these videos please…

But, all in all, what I learned from this project is that science can only do so much. We can understand, and study, and research all we want. But, sometimes, it’s more important to go directly to the people these issues are affecting and let them—the experts of their stories and needs—tell what we can do for them, using our resources and “expertise” to frame these identities as worthy of the attention of political and social spotlights. By promoting these voices, and promoting love, we will do far more good in this world than one tiny little orange dictator can do harm.

Thanks for reading. You are loved.

<3 SJ

I won’t explain why I find the current state of the world so depressing. I’m sure you can guess my gripe with it. However, I will say this… There is no action of resistance so powerful and easy to accomplish than having joy and staying smart. I say easy, not because you can obtain it with a snap of your fingers, but because you need only to rely on yourself. No need to organize a state-wide protest, or to ask the government to pass legislation. You can find the joy, the knowledge, and the peace in your own time and space. It will not be easy, especially when the government does not pass that much needed legislation, but it is possible.

Unfortunately, I cannot tell you what makes you happy. I cannot sprinkle pixie dust on you and make you fly off to a better place (much to my chagrin). But I can let you know what sparks joy for me, in the hopes you are prompted to try something similar and find a new thing that makes you happy. For me, I have found that my mental is much improved and I am significantly less burnt out when I interact with the following:

1. The sun on a clear day, so long as it is accompanied by a breeze, because Gods know the sun is actually quite brutal. Also, added note, there is no pollen in this equation because I am tired of sneezing thirty times in one hour. Pollen is inherently anti-joy. Well, maybe not for the pollinators... I’ll add pollen into the equation if it’s just for the bugs and the bees.

2. My three cats, sitting in funny ways, making funny faces, and eating the bugs that try to destroy my plants. I do not find joy in being sneezed on every single day, though. Literally every day.

3. My plants! Do you know how tasty and fulfilling it is to pull a cherry tomato off its branch and taste something so fresh? I keep trying to save enough for a salad, but the urge to snack on them all individually is too strong. My “harvest” disappears within five minutes of my gathering.

4. Actively saying “Fuck that shit,” to most of the news… No explanation needed, really.

5. Escapism, particularly into terribly formulaic films (because then I don’t have to think too hard), and fantasy novels about having enough power to take those folks causing harm down. I am also extremely partial to the video games that force me to reconsider my marriage because my partner did not click X at the same time, and now we’ve both died. It raises both our blood pressures, but at least that is an anger and a problem we can control and resolve. Plus, it’s usually more fun than it is not.

These are the small pieces of my life that make me sit in the moment, feeling present and able, and remind me that even when the world is on fire, I am still lucky to find warmth, safe and comfortable. I still wish to douse the flames of chaos and destruction that run rampant, but I am glad that such anger has forced resistance so beautiful. I am in awe of the small moments, more so now than ever, and so incredibly empowered by the big ones.

So…If your joy is from the big moments, the ones marching down the street and saying Fuck the Man, I wish you the grandest sense of fulfillment in knowing that you are protecting these smaller moments for us all. I support you and your safety, and I wish that every rest is rejuvenating. I hope your words are always louder than the ones stifling you.

And if your joy is from the small moments, regardless of whether you support or participate in the big moments, then I hope your stars shine a little more brightly the next time you look up at the moon.

<3 SJ