Bike Crash

It was like the scene of movie, but a nightmare. My son lay in the street, whimpering in pain, blood oozing from cuts in his knees, on his arms, his knuckles, forehead, and even his goddamn toes, where the street pavement had beaten it’s way through the cotton socks.

A couple of neighbor ladies stood with me in the street, ushering cars around him, as he claimed he couldn’t move his body. Even as I insisted, having seen many bicycle crashes (and the often gnarly aftermath), many times before, that he try to move to the side of the road. I think my first need was to get him to a safer place, but he just couldn’t. Baffled, and increasingly worried, we thought out loud to one another, that maybe he shouldn’t move then.

I called his dad, a pro athlete who has taken many a spill himself, even breaking his collar bone and shattering an arm, for an observation, but he didn’t pick up. I asked the other mother standing with me over my son, if I should call 911. She said she thought we’d better, and so I tapped in the three little numbers for the second time this year. This kid is seriously aiming to be on a first name basis with every police officer and paramedic in the neighborhood by the time he graduates from High school. He just hasn’t admitted it yet …

Let me rewind. I had been sitting in my front yard having a lovely visit with my aunt and three of her grandchildren, who had come to see our basket of kittens, when my oldest son had rode up on his bike. He said hello to everyone, but was anxious to get to his next destination, with my permission. I hesitated when he asked if he could go to a nearby park to spend time with his new girlfriend. I had no reason to, and I even stopped and wondered why the hesitation. I like this girlfriend. I trust him. It made no sense, so I told him yes, but not to be away for too long. He waved goodbye to everyone, and a minute later the most heart wrenching screaming started. It’s a sound that would grab any mother’s attention.

Of course, being his mama, I did recognize the sound of his voice. I jumped up, my phone in my hand, and ran. I could see a car sitting in front of him, and him sprawled out on the ground feet away from his bike. I instantly assumed the worst, that he’d been hit by a car. So many things were going through my mind in the thirty seconds it took me to get to him. I was wondering how to unlock my phone to call 911 while I was running, I was scoping out the woman in the car (who seemed annoyed at this unfortunate interruption in her day), I was envisioning myself opening her car door, pulling her out, and laying into her. I decided against that.

The scene was truly horrific. I mean, the kid had holes in his fucking socks, where his little toes were bleeding. Every single one of his knuckles was bleeding, skinned red and raw. His forehead had a big bump forming on it. I started asking him questions about what had happened. He said his chain had fallen off and he’d flipped completely over the bars, flying and skidding across the road, hence all the damage.

Fast forward to the paramedics arriving, and determining within thirty seconds that my dying child just needed bacatin and a good shower, Three men who obviously weren’t maternal in the least, still they were nice. The neighbor who had seen my son crash, recounted the event, saying that she had heard a scream, “Oh fuck!” and seen him in the road, to which the gentlemen laughed out loud.

I am so warmed by the mother’s and fellow human beings who stood over my son, before I even got there, making sure a car didn’t hit him. Staying with me, talking to me, to him, and handing me painkillers for later, so I wouldn’t be overcharged at the hospital if that’s where we ended up. I happen to love the police, and paramedics, the heroes of our society. I mean, they show up at crazy scenes that sometimes end up being sort of humorous later on, and often they arrive to scenes nobody wants to be at. I salute them.

Fast forward to tonight, when reflection kicks in. The boys are out with their dad and his friend, maybe going to take go carts for a spin, and I know I am lucky for this gentle reminder of how precious life is. At how instantly things change. And how grateful we should always be for the universe working in small ways to keep us here, until we aren’t supposed to be any longer. It is not lost on me that had this silly bike crash happened elsewhere that the outcome might be a lot harder to swallow.

I have a pretty banged up teenage boy on my hands, but he’s alive. He’s here, because of all of these little things lining up rather perfectly in his favor. The fact that he crashed three houses down on a rural street, rather than on crossing a busier street on his way (which he would have) to the park. The fact that the women in the car behind him was paying attention (sorry I wanted to beat you up, thought you killed my kid), and stopped. The fact that these women I’d never met before, took over as the other mother’s while I stood there wondering how to even get through it, is all a blessing. My sweet Aunt even drove her beautiful green car three houses down to pick him up and transport him home.

The world isn’t always a bad place. The people in it, can surprise you. And the connection we feel, specifically when all disguises must fall, is the reason we live through our darkest storms, through the impossible moments. I think we can count on others to show up when we need them the most, including the universe. We just have to be open to all the subtle ways we are being blessed every single day.

Namaste

Bullies In The Schoolyard

I’ve wanted to share this story for a long time. I kept trying to speak about it to others, but the words wouldn’t escape my throat. I feared the twisted way others might perceive me for telling the truth.

I try to support the victim in most cases, given that I feel they are speaking from a place of reality, when they come forward about sexual assault/rape claims. And let’s be honest, who the hell would lie about that? I get that it happens occasionally, but for the most part it’s a long and tumultuous process to be sure of such a thing. And then to speak out, that’s another risk they’re willing to take. In particular in cases with high profile people involved. They risk death threats, being outcast, and losing a potential battle with someone the public maybe likes, or just knows better.

It was hard for me to hear the accusations against Michael Jackson for the milllionenth time, but this time, being old enough to grasp that sometimes people aren’t who they pretend to be, I listened. And I chose the side of the victim, which means my role then is to stop supporting the abuser. I don’t listen to Michael’s music anymore. It’s really the least I could do.

I knew my abuser for many, many, many years. At times we did share a consensual sexual relationship. At other times, he took complete advantage of me. I wasn’t able to speak out then. I think this is why he was able to get away for so long, and with so much. He chose a victim who really was a victim, who didn’t even realize all she had to do was say something. This is mind control, and it is the way rape in part, works. Abusers often choose a weak link, someone they know is easy to bully. And keep quiet.

The first time I remember being horrified by what he did to me, I had given birth to my first child 5 weeks prior. I cried and cried afterwards, because I was in a relationship and I had wanted to be faithful. In fact, being that I was almost 6 weeks postpartum, I was looking forward to having sex with my then boyfriend soon. He took that from me, against my will, and then comforted me by saying, “shhhhhh, I love you.”

I so badly wish I could explain the amount of fear that goes into a victim mentality. It’s the same reason women in physically abusive relationships take forever to come forward, if they do at all. I know it’s easy to judge someone from the perspective of being healed and trauma free. And I know we dismiss a lot of stories that are true because we just can’t imagine why the victim wouldn’t speak out. I mean, it’s easy, right? People even asked that question of then 14 year old Elizabeth Smart when she managed to escape her abductor.

The event I really want to discuss is the time my abuser nearly took my life. He sat me down on my bed, and said, nonchalantly, that he had put something in my water to help me relax. I started to freak out, because my typical reaction to drugs of any kind, really isn’t compatible. He tried to calm me down, but inside I was sick. And then it all gets blurry pretty fast. Clips of this, clips of that. Two men, not one.

My abuser watched my two small children as his brother raped me. I remember this now in bits and pieces, them both standing over my naked body at times. Maybe some laughter. A little conversation. The time I was being raped, revealed as he became angry, “come on, you’ve been in here for almost two hours!” It’s weird what your recall in that state of existing.

And then I got sick. I got very sick. I couldn’t stay awake, and when I did I was nauseous. I was in and out of consciousness. He held me in his arms like a baby. I couldn’t move. Or respond to his words. I peed on him, and he thought that was funny. He actually laughed. That’s the part that gets us caught up as victims, how normal the abuser makes it all seem. Like it’s another day, and another walk in the park. Or another spin on a mountain bike.

Being that I had peed on him, he took me then into the bathroom to shower. Every time he tried to stand me up on the cold tile floor, my legs buckled beneath me and I fell. I ended up sitting on the floor naked, throwing up, as he came in and out of the room again and again. He then decided just to shower with me, where he proceeded to get me to try to perform oral sex on him. I was gagging, and the water running over my face wasn’t helping. I was so sick, and he was having shower sex with me like I was some cute girl he’d taken out to dinner who had decided to go back to his place for a good time afterward.

Minutes earlier he’d been standing near my dead body, freaking out about my blue lips and lack of pulse, in a panic, as he and his brother talked about what they would do. I couldn’t move or speak, and apparently appeared dead by all accounts, but I could hear them. They were pretty relieved when I opened my eyes. Wouldn’t you be, if your afternoon rape session seemed like it had ended up more of a manslaughter?

Before he left, he made me a can of soup, of which I was too queasy to eat. My mind was in a fog. He told me my kids were out back, and said the most casual goodbye. I guess his brother had already bailed, maybe to get ready for a date that night. Or buy a pack of beer for a great time with his friends later on. A normal day for them. As I share my story, knowing how calm and two faced these losers are, I have to wonder, who else did they victimize? I bet there are more women than me, who wish they could say it. Who wish people knew their names, and what they’re capable of.

I bet my story isn’t the only one.

To every woman out there who has told their story, and the ones sitting in fear, wondering if the pain they’re in will ever go away if they don’t share, I have to say, it’s good to be on the other side of fear. You’re welcome here with us anytime. I see you, I validate you, and I am someone you can reach out to talk to anytime, until you’re ready to do the bravest thing of all, which is to allow the natural consequences of someone else’s bad decisions, to become their burden instead of yours.

I have been in such a place of bitterness for so long. It became toxic, spilling forth into every aspect of my life. There is no growing in a toxic garden.

CVD, NVD, and the others, will not control my life and my right to happiness any longer. There is nothing they can say that will ever sink so deeply into my mind, that I am a victim again.

Thank you to the millions of women who made it possible for me to stop living in the past, to own my story, and to say what has been needing to be said for way too long. There are those who will blame, those who will disbelieve, but they don’t own any rights to us either.

I won’t stand by and support your bully, your rapist, your abuser, no matter how cool, popular, good looking, or well liked they believe they are. I don’t like anybodies music, or riding, that much.

Namaste

Poor People With Money

Money. It’s something most people want. They go to work for money. They rob banks for money. They hustle unsuspecting people for money. Sometimes they even murder for money. Money is the root of all that is unholy, but let’s be honest, it’s also a key to a better experience on our planet right now. As much as we try, we can’t deny that. But what happens when someone has too much of a good thing?

Greed. Exasperated by the development of inner emotional poverty. That’s the feeling that one can never be satisfied, no matter how much is given to them.

An ex of mine has a terrible habit of acting as if he is poor, when he is in the middle of buying a home. He owns two vehicles, and a couple of bikes even that are valued at more than you would care to know, honestly, because normal people (those of us who aren’t pro, or mountain bike enthusiasts), would audibly gasp at the amount some pay to “ride in style”. Times do get rough for him as far as paying his house bills, etc, but really, he lives in a first world country and he pays 45-50 for lift tickets nearly every weekend. Is he actually poor?

I’m always baffled at how people born into opportunity and money actually behave in their personal lives. It can be one of the saddest things to witness. For someone born into the opposite lot in life, I know exactly what I would do with all that money. I would build from the ground up a life that serves others. I would take care of my family. I would spoil the ones I love, who have never had that experience before. I know I would do amazing, kind, and generous things. It would be a relief to experience that much opportunity, actually.

And yet, somewhere is a girl who’s dad has paid for every house she’s ever lived in, who has had every whim of her’s satisfied without a second thought, who still receives multiple thousands of dollars in allowance from her father, as an almost thirty year old woman, who chooses to sleep with men in exchange for drugs. Who is addicted. Who never had a mother figure in her life, to love and guide her. She is experiencing emotional poverty, even though she can have anything she wants, anytime she desires it.

I’ve had the experience of actually dating men with money, and let me tell you how quickly the fantasy of being financially secure for the first time in my life (I authentically like these men, but perks are perks), fades, as their demons surface. Fast. The reality is that money becomes very important to those who are used to having it. The reality is that it does often act as a band-aid for them in many instances. The reality is that money becomes a substitute for real love in many cases, and the emptiness that pervades their lives, never goes away.

We are a society that is motivated by money, by that next buck, by the hustle. Even the poor look up to, and admire, people who flaunt their wealth. My greatest hope for my life is that I escape this narcissistic reality, and can manage to do with my freedom from that, something that serves a greater purpose. This is my nightmare, this strange idea of happiness looming over our heads here in America. The joke of an American ideal.

I crave a life of substance, connection, realness. People who aren’t poor in their emotional lives, but rich. Rich for the gifts they offer the world. Rich for their artistic talents. Rich for the warmth they spread everywhere they go. Rich in laughter, and smiles … and love.

There is a way to be happy no matter your circumstances. That way is never tied to the physical or material goods. Yes, it would be nice to live in a house with beautiful wooden floors (is this a metaphor?), but to live in that house alone, severed, suffering, the beauty would be missed. And I think that kind of poverty is the worst kind of all.

Thank you for your time, namaste’.

Adopted

I had a different experience last night. As I lay in bed, the rain pouring outside my slightly open bedroom window, visions from a past life inundated me. They were detailed and incredibly vivid, as if watching a movie. I wondered to myself, am I supposed to write the script for this memory to be turned into a movie at some point in time?

The message was clear, as the visions came to an abrupt end, half an hour after they began. When we infuse our relationships with love, they thrive. And when we don’t, they are almost sure to fail. Sometimes tragically. Even more tragic, is the fact that that tragedy is preventable.

I was a young girl who was an orphan. A very rich man came to see me, and eventually, despite my prickly exterior, he adopted me. I can’t tell you what year this all took place, but the clothing and circumstances make it obvious that this lifetime was a very long time ago. The man who was my father in this period, is a relative now too.

I was a little unique in this lifetime. I was an adult who lived at home with my father, because I wasn’t able to take care of myself. I see myself in that lifetime, sitting on a bench, in my bonnet, dress cascading all the way down to my feet, staring at nothing. I see myself at a live theater, becoming agitated by the performance onstage, and needing to be comforted.

I see my father crying for me, to a friend. He is heartbroken for me, knowing I will never live a normal life. Knowing what I am missing, as I lie stuck inside of myself, silent, and without much joy in my soul. He says he wishes it could be different, for me, not for him. He is getting older, and he is afraid I’ll be left alone in the world, to fend against the judgement of being different. He is afraid that no one will care for me the way I need to be cared for.

A black man works in the wheat field behind our house. He is playful and makes me angry the first time I meet him. However, I gravitate to him.

I see my father watching us from the window, the first sparks of love blooming between this man and I. He has never seen this in me, that smile on my face, or the way I stand within inches of this man’s face as we laugh. He recognizes, it, knows what it is, and accepts it as easily if the man his daughter is falling in love with, were a white man.

We invite him to dinner. My fathers friends arrive unannounced. They are crude to my new friend. I yell at them, tell them they can’t treat him that way. They have no right. My father, calmly sends me upstairs to my room to bathe and prepare for sleep. He speaks to these men on the porch, and warns them that if “that boy” ends up hurt, there will be a price to pay. They leave, a bit confused by the whole scenario.

We begin a romance, and there is no hiding it. I see my father aging, still afraid of leaving me with no one to care for me.

My father brings my friend into the kitchen one night while I am sleeping. He talks to him openly, and my friend is afraid he’ll be in trouble. He tries to explain his love for me, but my father hushes him, and says he knows. That he wants him to move into the house with us.

I see myself lying on an unmade bed, in my long white nightgown, aging, as my friend stares down at me, with so much love in his heart. I am perfect, even though I am not like other people. Even though I need to be cared for a little more carefully.

The glaring difference between this lifetime I witnessed last night, and the one I wrote about as Serene (I fell in love with my fathers slave), is the love and acceptance of my father. In my life as Serene, my father didn’t accept the person I fell for. We hatched a plan to run away, which ended tragically with me drowning in a pond in the middle of the night. My father in that lifetime never recovered. And it all could have been prevented.

Love is a healing balm. It soothes that which is irritated and agitated. It belongs to that which is pure in nature, despite the judgement of others.

And with the acknowledgement of this last life, I have to also admit that nothing has changed. Things like love never change. It’s the kaleidoscope that is the human perspective that allows us to see through the lens of hatred, or through the lens of love.

Namaste

Black Sheep Entrepreneur

“When you dream, dream big!” We’re inundated with this sort of inspiration as we grow up. It begins in childhood, when we’re told we can literally be anything we want to be. We just have to believe it’s possible and work hard. It lingers into adulthood when we hear the same thing, only in harsher words, “You can do it. Just stop whining, and don’t be so lazy.” And yet, while we’re attempting a new path, not worn by any footsteps before us, people only have one thing to say, “um, get a job.”

Last summer I had a friend shove an application for a job at an ice cream parlor into my hands, right after I’d just exclaimed that it seemed like nobody had my back in this journey, to be more, to do something bigger with my life. That they literally would be a lot more supportive if I just played a dimmed down role, succumbed to my place at the bottom, and accepted my fate as someone destined to be unseen, and unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

So, I’m wondering, who exactly is it that we want to DREAM BIG? Who is it that we want to see step outside the expectations of their role in society, and climb their way to the top? If it’s not our neighbor, friends, or the black sheep of the family, who are we sharing these inspirational words with? Because it seems like when somebody is pursuing a grander ideal in life, there’s not a lot of actual support for that journey. Until and unless, it pays off. And even then, there can be a struggle just to be accepted as someone who has become prominent.

I don’t necessarily listen to a lot of Cardi B’s music, though I think she’s obviously talented. Though she has “made it”, and she’s now living a life I’m sure she could only have imagined in her most distant fantasies during her days as a stripper, there is so much hatred aimed at her. Though she legit has proved her talent, even winning awards for her art, and being recognized among her peers, she’s still dealing with people trying to bring her down, to put her in her place, to remind her of where she came from, and that she will never be good enough.

There is a certain type of person we don’t care about succeeding. In fact, we’d rather they didn’t, because if they did, we’d have to question everything. We’d have to question our entire existence, our importance, how valuable we are compared to what was previously located beneath our feet. There is a certain barrier we don’t want to see broken through, because it would be terrifying to be on the same ground as that which we had deemed less than us.

It’s why The Hiaerchy wants to remain The Hiearchy. It’s why white privilege, and the privilege of the rich is handed down generation through generation, rather than shared with everyone. This power can’t’ be taken from them, or they won’t matter. They won’t be leaders, rulers, the guaranteed to be successful among us. Imagine if you will, a poor bi-racial woman sitting on the cover of Forbes, instead of a pretty eighteen year old instant celebrity with a silver spoon in her mouth. Imagine the horror of actually seeing the poor succeed just as easily as the rich.

These are the days of my journey that I absolutely will recall once I have met with my own idea of success. And everyone who supported this journey will be given front row tickets to my show, so to speak. I fully expect that front row to be pretty empty, because there is nobody standing here reminding me that I am worth taking this journey in the first place. In fact, it’s insultingly the opposite.

I’ve seen myself successful. In fact, my journey has been frustrating because of that. The picture of my life and it’s full scope of purpose has been laid out before me. I know how influential I will serve to be on this planet, in this lifetime as Alisha Archuleta. And yet, it’s just beginning to unfold. And so the puzzle isn’t complete, and that is hard to understand, even for me. It’s like looking at a puzzle that is finished, knowing I will solve it, but having to take the time to figure out where each piece goes.

I’ve always known I was going to do something really big with my life. I have a habit of checking the time every thirty seconds, and becoming agitated that the hours, minutes, and seconds are slipping away from me. And yet, I know this stress belongs to time, and not to me. I am eternal. I have begun my work. Others don’t have to recognize that, only I do.

Nobody can do with I’m doing. Nobody could if they wanted to. That is how you know it is a calling and not a job.

What is success if it isn’t loving the mark you’re leaving on the world? What is success if it’s money, but no real desire to live the life you’re living? What is success if you’re not healthy enough to enjoy it? What is success if you’re surrounded by all the wrong people?

It’s not success. It’s a story you tell yourself to make yourself feel better about living a life that won’t change the things you want changed. It’s a band-aid to soothe your soul, for wasting your time creating a life that pleases others more than it makes any sense to you.

I think if there is one thing we can do a little differently, it is focus on things and people that matter. It is find that real artist, or entrepreneur in our lives, and lending THEM our support, instead of promoting the same well known artists again and again.

It is seeing the potential in that person who seems so normal to us, so human, someone who probably doesn’t feel seen or special, and reminding them that you meant it when you said, “DREAM BIG.”

And you meant them.

Super Villain

I will gladly play the role of Villain over offering a lesser, duller, milder, version of myself to the masses. In fact, this role is not new to me. I’ve never been a particularly well liked individual. Do well liked people stand for much? It seems to me that the more you’re following a structured idea of likability, or beauty, or anything, really, the more “fans” you have. My own fans are not my fans, they would never be. If you’re like me, you find it rather odd and off putting to have to be a fan, or to entertain fans. I fuck that up fast, trust me. Once a fan, now a bitter enemy …

I don’t pride myself on being the opposite of likable either, I just … am. The life of a Villain isn’t an easy one, but it’s one that I’m so familiar with now that I sincerely wonder if I could ever be the adored superhero, and do so comfortably? I don’t think so.

The fact of the matter is we usually do like that which challenges us, or at least we respect it on some deep level. It enthralls us, and keeps our attention, as we secretly root for it to succeed. We just can’t tell anybody that we like it. I know this feeling all too well. I’m the friend you sit with and let your gut out, spilling the nastiest aspects of who you are, the most desperate, fucked up version of yourself rising to the surface, and you breathe a little easier in that hour or two. And then you get online and … post inspirational quotes. The acceptable, likable version of you, once again replaces real you. And life goes on. Nobody ever has to see unlikable, real, human you.

I don’t mind being kicked to the curb rather abruptly by so called fans either, because I like my own company. In fact, like most villains, I prefer the silence of the darkness, and the misery of my own mind. You know?

The truth is we all have a different state of deeply inspirational alignment, and mine isn’t covered up, or dimmed down, or edited. I’m my best version of self when I’m sharing my real story. I often find it frustrating that we as a whole, seem to want some happy ever after version of our friends and family. That we can’t, or won’t, tolerate their quirks and flaws. It’s not a beauty pageant, it’s life. Real life doesn’t have to be embarrassing or shameful. Or hidden.

Like the Villain, we all have a nasty side to us. We just don’t want to admit it, to ourselves, or to anyone else. I’ve actually had people call me “nasty”, to my face (and behind my back), who quite frankly, are pretty nasty in their own nice way, which as you can imagine is irritating and amusing all at once.

I literally have had a “sweet”, dimpled, family member everyone loves, screaming in my face about what a liar I am in relation to my psychic experiences. I have a hard time hearing women who have slept with everyone’s boyfriend, talking about how respectful they were raised to be. I’m not knocking others for having a human experience, or for making mistakes as they live. It would just be cool if they could admit that they’re not without the imperfect nature of being human too.

The beauty of being a Villain, you have a lot more fun in life, because you’re not trying to impress anyone anymore. Hey, many a great artists were Villains. Think of all of the singers, songwriters, actors, actresses, and pure Hollywood Royalty who have graced the media with their presence since the beginning of time. Eminme, Tupac Shakur, Marilyn Monroe, for example. What did we love about these artists? One word: Authenticity. What do I still need and require from anyone I follow online (it’s almost nobody at this point)? Authenticity. And a certain amount of humility, thank you.

I will stand up and play the role of Villain, because like Margot Robbie said In the movie, Itonya, people want someone to love, and they want someone to hate. Sometimes you don’t get to choose which role they cast you in.

I never did.

Evelyn

Evelyn.

Evelyn appeared to me, an elderly woman wearing a ballet onesie in pale pink. She wanted her story told, because she felt it was important. Perhaps, it’s an area she never got to clarify in her life. Or she felt was misunderstood. Hey, that’s why I’m here.

Evelyn was a woman who chose “career over family.” She loved her freedom and pursuing her dreams with nothing to hold her back. I’m guessing that especially in her day and age, this wasn’t respected. Woman, after all, even in my decade, were still primarily being brought up to be lovers, wives, and mothers.

Oh, Evelyn loved babies, and frequently fawned over her friends children throughout the years. She even stopped sometimes to wonder if she really had made the right decision, but when she was up on stage dancing in the lights, she never questioned that. She lived a life of adventures most of her friends who chose motherhood, never would. And she valued that experience.

I have a few friends who don’t know (or have already decided) that being a mother isn’t for them. I actually love when they acknowledge this, because there are so many unloved children who aren’t being guided or protected. We truly don’t need more people on the planet. If there is a desire to nurture, but not bare children, there are plenty who need it. And if that isn’t something one feels inspired to do at all, so be it. That too is fine, believe it or not.

I have a little bit of Evelyn in me. I love my children, but to say it’s a natural fit for me to be stuck at home raising people, while my adventures are swept aside, is to bold face lie. Had I known myself better, motherhood might have taken a backseat for me too. At least until I was older and had sowed my wild oats.

It is true that generally women want to nurture, and so nurture they will. There are all kinds of ways to express that nurturing aspect though, such as Evelyn did by doting on her friends. She was proud of that part of her life. She didn’t have children to use up her energy and time, and she was able to be a good, solid friend, because she wasn’t so tired all the time. She was, in a way, a source of strength for her mother friends when they felt overwhelmed by the demands of a husband and children. So, she did mother, in her own beautiful way.

I sincerely hate that no matter how we choose to live our lives, we can all have the insecurity that it’s not good enough.

Evelyn is smiling as I write this, because she feels I’ve done her justice in sharing her life story, which was incredibly valid even though she didn’t have children.

The path that is right for you probably feels awkward, because nobody has set footprints there quite yet. And so you wonder if you’re “doing it right”, when really, there is no wrong way to live life.

Men have chosen to remain bachelors for hundreds and hundreds of years. It doesn’t make a woman less of a woman to choose her career over being a wife either. Evelyn was very nurturing and loving, and due to her childless status, was able to spread that love as far as it could go.

Do what’s right for you. Set a tone for your own life, and then rock the shit out of it. As the wonderful, always graceful, talented. and lovely, Miss Evelyn did in life. I wish I could have seen her up on that stage.

Thank you, for choosing me to share your important and valid journey as a woman, Evelyn.

Namaste’