the Fox

 Cold and Bright

With a stillness of a whisper

I am here.

I am present

The fox smiles at me today

it makes me smile in return.

I enjoy his vibration.

It makes me feel happy.

His orange coat calls me to touch him.

Though  I do not know if this fox is really going to let me.

I will just enjoy his company. 

The Kind of Tired that Doesn't Sleep Away

Author's note: A companion essay is available alongside this piece. They are intended to be read together. You can find it here: Why Do I Feel So Tired All the Time? (Even When I Rest)  

The Kind of Tired that Doesn't Sleep Away

Heavy, burned into my neck and shoulders

Heavy, warm against my heart.

I can sleep.
I can rest.
I can stop moving.
And still… it stays.

Just Heavy.

Air that my lungs cannot seem to catch.
Sands of sleep burying my soul, bringing no relief.

A tightness that doesn’t quite leave.
A heaviness that isn’t exactly pain.
A fog that makes everything feel slightly distant.

I am tired
Tired still in the silence.

In the indifference. 

The kind of tired I cannot sleep away...

Kind.

Be kind to that tired that doesn't sleep away.

Why Do I Feel So Tired All the Time? (Even When I Rest)

Author's Note: There is a companion prose piece available to accompany this essay. They are intended to be read together. You can find it here: The Kind of Tired that Doesn't Sleep Away


I am not tired in the way sleep fixes. I am tired in the way that silence feels loud. In the way everything takes just a little more effort than it used to. Not the kind where you close your eyes and wake up lighter. Not the kind where a quiet night resets something. This is a different kind of tired.

It sits behind your heart and behind your eyes, heavy and constant. Somewhere dull and persistent, like a low hum you can’t turn off. A fatigue you can't just shake off or stretch out. Sometimes your body carries it before you even realize that you are carrying anything at all.

I can sleep.
I can rest.
I can stop moving.
And still… it stays.

It is hard to explain this kind of exhaustion because to many people it has no reason to exist.
On the outside, nothing looks especially wrong. There is no injury to point to, no obvious event that explains why everything suddenly feels heavier than it should.

When I feel this way, everything inside my mind everything takes more effort. 

Simple things feel overwhelming. Thoughts take longer to form. Even small decisions feel like they require something I don’t quite have. 

It is not dramatic. It is quiet and because it is quiet, it is easy to dismiss.

So I tell myself: Maybe I just didn’t sleep well. Maybe I didn't drink enough water. Maybe I need to try harder. It becomes a loop of small explanations, each one trying to make something invisible feel manageable.

It takes some time for my brain to catch on. Sometimes, it is not about sleep. I have known this for years, and sometimes I forget to consider it when I am trying to understand why I am so tired. 

Sometimes this kind of tired comes from carrying too much for too long.

We don't always carry our stress and worries in a way that is obvious. Sometimes we carry them in the tension that quietly settles in the body. In the thoughts that don’t fully stop, even in stillness. In emotions held rather than released.

Over time, it accumulates without us even realizing it, Maybe this is why we so easily overlook this as a practical reason for exhaustion. Our body begins to feel it, even when the mind tries not to. The strange part is how it blurs the line between physical and emotional.

A tightness that doesn’t quite leave.
A heaviness that isn’t exactly pain.
A fog that makes everything feel slightly distant.

For me, sometimes the line between physical and emotional exhaustion blurs. My body will feel sore and tense, sometimes limiting my range of motion, until I finally stop to look at what I have been pushing through. In those moments, I wonder how long my body was trying to get my attention before I was willing to listen. 

Sometimes the body seems to know that something has been going on quietly for longer than we have been willing to admit. 

The body is not always loud when it needs something. It doesn't necessarily force us to stop or make a scene. Sometimes it just slows everything down.

Maybe motivation disappears. Energy crashes for no obvious reason. Simple tasks or questions take longer to process. Even small decisions begin to feel strangely difficult. 

I think this is more of a signal to us than a punishment our body is trying to enact. It is like a drawn out SOS from our mind and body. A request to stop pushing through long enough to listen. This kind of tired does not seem to respond to extra sleep or caffeine. Telling myself to keep going doesn't make it disappear.

It is okay if you cannot name exactly what is exhausting you. Sometimes recognizing that something feels off is enough. We don't always have to understand what our bodies are saying before we decide to pay attention. 

Maybe it is something to listen to.
until next time,
S.

Nevermore

Content Warning: This poem contains violent imagery that some readers may interpret as self‑harm.

This poem explores my grief at the loss of my father and the complicated emotions that can surface around milestones imagined without him—like marriage.

When I struggle, I turn to words—not harm—to search for understanding. This piece reflects grief, worthlessness, and the quiet questions loss leaves behind.

Writing about pain and struggle is not dangerous. Feeling alone with pain is..

Prose from my Past: A Collection

 The following is a collection of prose that was written around 18 years ago when I was 16 years old. 

These pieces were written when I was sixteen years old. I have preserved them largely as they were originally written, complete with all the intensity, certainty, confusion, heartbreak, hope, and dramatic flair that often comes with being sixteen. They remain a snapshot of who I was, what I felt, and how I tried to make sense of the world at the time.

Self Sabotage: The comfort of What I Know

I hate myself.
But why?
Have a snack.

I hate myself.
But why?
Here's a blanket.

I hate myself.
But why?
Take a shower.

I hate myself.
But why?

Just talk to me...

-S

You can be as prepared as you want to be, but that does not always mean the week is going to go as you plan. Some days your brain just decides it has had enough. Some weeks are tougher than others a bit like this one was. It was not a week of giving up. It was a steady week of trying. 

I cannot remember when it first started, this thought that comes to me from time to time. "I hate myself," it will eventually lead me to  "what is the point?" 

For what ever reason the power it holds is mighty. This thought I have is not necessarily the truth, but it does change my behavior as though it were. 

It gives me permission to turn away from my goals, to essentially give up on the plans I have already put in place. I begin to derail or spiral into a dark little hole, as though I am insignificant. 

I do this to myself.

Why do I do that to myself?

I had read somewhere once that if you feel like you hate yourself you should take a shower. The idea being that the more we care for ourselves in spite of the feeling, the less power we give it. 

I have showered. I have cleaned my space. Yes it has helped but that feeling is still lingering this week. 

Looking back, there is something interesting in that. How can I care so much for someone I apparently hate? 

The things I do after thinking "I hate myself" reveal something more truthful than the thought itself. So just start with the shower, take a nap, make yourself a pancake. 

I think back to my post Living In The Wrong Season and maybe my season is taking another shift that I need to make myself aware of. Perhaps it is time to shift to reflection and slow down, to regroup around what my goals are and what my soul and body are capable of achieving in their current state. 

Maybe the hard work needs to change. 

The person I am today never agreed to every part of the plan I made before, and it is ok to switch it up. I can go back to try things that I did in different seasons that didn't work then. Perhaps they will work now. If I am finding resistance maybe I switch it up until I find a little less of it.

Another thing that comes to mind is the idea of self sabotage. 

Conversations With My Lizard Brain touched on to the Triune Brain Theory, including the idea of a more primitive part of our brain concerned with things like survival, often referred to as the Lizard Brain.  I know the Lizard Brain is more metaphor than modern neuroscience, but it remains a useful way for me to describe that protective part of myself that would rather choose familiarity over the unfamiliar. 

As we change and grow, we enter places in our lives that can be uncomfortable, simply because they are new to us. Growth happens outside the bounds of what is familiar, but unfamiliar territory does not always feel safe just because it might be good for us.

To me self sabotage can sometimes feel like my brain responding to discomfort. As I write this out I am starting to feel more in tune with what my body needs. I guess even just acknowledging that I might be feeling uncomfortable/unsafe with the new routines and new beliefs about myself that are forming is beginning to ground me. 

I have been trying to figure out for a couple weeks why I have had this "floaty" ungrounded feeling. I described it to my friends as the feeling of wanting to just run. 

Although a little different that running away.

More like I was out of place. 

Perhaps a I want to run toward something rather than away from it. Like I was missing something but was unsure where it is. 

I felt that feeling of wanting to run toward something but I didn't do the work to understand what I might be trying to run toward.

 I am running towards my health.

Towards an adventure I am planning in May. 

I am slowly working through the idea of wanting to date again. Being single for four years has it's positives but it is also hard to picture a relationship with anyone else as I am still building one with myself.

Maybe I am able to have both. I can build a relationship with someone else without losing track of the relationship I am building with myself along the way.

Perhaps that is the conflict I have been feeling. Part of who I am becoming wants to rush forward, fighting her way towards the new me somewhere down the road. The other part of me wants to stay where we know, where we understand enough. 

I think the worst part about self sabotage is that we are uncomfortable with the idea of what is new, while sometimes not being particularly comfortable with where we are either.

I can appreciate that the part of me that wants to stay at this point in my life is not exactly comfortable with how things are either. She just knows how things work here.

 The reality is at the end of the day, what you know, even though it is not great, is still something you know. That can be easier to deal with than an unknown future state.

The weight I carry on my body is not ideal, but who I will become if I lose it, how I will feel if I lose it is unknown. Will I actually be healthier like I am working toward?

The knowledge I have as an instructor is limited, but the next class I sit in, who knows what I will have to learn? will I even be able to learn it? Will I struggle to understand? 

The dark little hole I sit in from time to time is cold and lonely. If I leave it, will I even find someone worth loving? Will they, in turn, even find me worth loving? Will leaving this familiar loneliness only give me the opportunity to hurt more?

I can appreciate the reason my brain hits me with the "I hate myself." Maybe it's a fear speaking. It makes me retreat back into habits and places that I know. 

There is an odd comfort in knowing.  

Maybe self sabotage is not the part of me that hates me. Maybe it is the part of me that is afraid of what happens if I change. 

Succeeding is scary because succeeding changes who we are allowed to remain. 

I do not hate that part of me. She is not trying to ruin everything. She is not looking to hurt me when she triggers that "I hate myself feeling". 

She just knows how to survive here. Even if this place hurts, she knows survival is possible here.

I can accept that what appeared as self sabotage to me for her might feel more like self protection. 

I love her for that.

As I move forward , I will do my best to protect us, too. 

I am going to move forward because I don't want to just merely survive here anymore. I want to live more. 

I am standing between a version of myself I understand and one I haven't met yet. Apparently, that is a surprisingly frightening place to stand. 

-With Love, S

Moments

Lost
Spiraling
Falling, lower and lower

Still.

I catch my breath.

I catch myself.

I catch my soul.

I waver

I bend

However

        I breathe.

I refuse to break.

I refuse to return to my dark little hole.

I want to shine

I want to take what I have earned.

What I have paid for.

My soul has been chipped

piece by piece.

I gave my pieces.

I am done.

I want what is owed.

My soul is worth

something.

In return for the  pieces

for struggles

for pain

We are owed 

            Moments.

I want my moments.

I refuse to give more until I am paid.

Post Script:

A reflection on perseverance, boundaries, and knowing one’s worth.

-S.

The Saints, The Angels, and the Stars

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I could sit down with the younger versions of myself. Not to change anything, not to warn them, just to listen.

To have some conversations across time and better understand who they were and maybe who I am meant to be. Perhaps even discover why I am the way I am in those weird little ways that drive me nuts.

I know there are many versions of me, and lately I am thinking about three in particular.
The little girl staring out windows at the night sky.
The teenager trying to make sense of experiences she could not explain.
The adult woman who still carries some of those questions.

I think all three would have very different answers about who they believed they were.
Yet somehow they are all the same person.

Lately I have found myself thinking about one thread that has followed me through every stage of my life. It is not a certainty, it is more of a mystery.

When I was a little girl I spent a lot of time looking at the night sky.

As a child I was fascinated by Orion. I did not know much about astronomy. I did not know much about theology. All I knew is that I loved wishing on stars and if some could grant wishes than many of them must be listening.

Orion was my favourite; all I knew is he was a warrior and a hunter who wore a belt made up of three stars. When I looked up I saw that shining belt and an archer written in the stars. His elbow held high drawing his bow back with a powerful stance. He was sure and steady.

I was drawn to Orion and would just talk to him in the silence. "Oh Archer." I would whisper through the window pane. 

At the time I genuinely believed Orion carried a bow and arrow.

Years later I learned that traditional depictions often show Orion carrying a club and shield instead. Yet artistic traditions have imagined Orion as an archer, this makes me smile. Perhaps my younger self was not entirely alone in what she saw.

Although I do wonder if he ignored by wishes or evening chats because I didn't talk to him properly. 

Not that my conversations with Orion were anything special, they were just the ramblings of a little girl. Sometimes small little hopes and dreams that were just starting to take shape, wishing that her daddy would have a good day at work tomorrow or that mom would bake some cookies. Wishing that perhaps fun would appear during the next day so she had something to share with her archer the next time they talked. That maybe someday she could shoot an arrow as perfectly as the archer she saw Orion as. 

Her Archer was protective and strong, and he listened to her words even when she felt so small. 

For me, what matters now is not whether Orion was an archer. 

What matters is that I was a child looking for something larger than myself.

Someone to talk to, someone willing to listen to the words of a little girl.

I just happened to choose a warrior in the night sky and still to this day I thank him for being with me. 

Although before I knew it I would have another warrior come into my life. 

The Gift in the Living Room

When I was around sixteen years old, something happened that I still cannot explain.
I was sitting alone in my sister's living room playing on my laptop. There was nobody else around.
They had gone to the grocery store and I was alone in the quiet. No dramatic moment it was just an ordinary day.

Something struck me in the face before falling into my lap. I remember picking it up confused to find that it was a pendant. Not a necklace. Just the pendant itself a small grey pendant the size of my thumbprint.

One side depicted Archangel Michael slaying a demon beneath his feet.
The other depicted a guardian angel watching over two children.

To this day, I do not know where it came from, most people do not believe me when I tell them why I wear this pendant.

Honestly, I understand why.
If someone told me a pendant simply appeared from nowhere and hit them in the face, I would probably have questions too. I can only tell the story as I experienced it.

I didn't spend long investigating. I didn't launch a search, not much I could search for; I was sitting in the middle of the living room carpet there was nowhere for it to fall from and my family was not religious. I asked my sister's family when they returned home and no one recognized the pendant. 

I didn't try to become an expert on angelic apparitions.
I simply bought a chain and wore it. At sixteen years old, that seemed like the obvious thing to do.

I did learn a bit about Saint Michael, the Archangel after acquiring the pendant. It was enough for sixteen year old me to know he was the leader of God's armies against the forces of evil. I did wonder why this pendant came to me but I didn't deny the gift. 

Having something that might protect me if I needed it was enough. 

A Curious Piece of History:

Years later, curiosity got the better of me.

I began researching whether there were stories of Archangel Michael gifting physical objects to people.

I discovered that while mainstream Christian traditions do not record Michael handing out pendants, there is an Italian folk legend known as the Bell of San Michele.

In the story, Michael gives a shepherd boy a small bell which serves as both protection and guidance.

I also learned that Saint Michael medals have a long history connected to pilgrims, soldiers, police, travelers, and people seeking protection.

All of that is very interesting but these are things younger me would not have needed at the time of finding the pendant. Finding more meaning and understanding is what the version of myself needs today. Maybe in some ways Archangel Michael has always been with me, simply showing up in forms I could understood at different stages of my life. 

Through the stars and through a quiet pendant. 

 I still have the pendant. It is small, about the size of my thumbnail.

The Saint Michael side is worn smooth in places from years of handling and wear.
The guardian angel side shows two children beneath the watchful presence of an angel.

Eventually I became afraid of losing it so I tucked it away in a jewelry box for many years.
Recently, however, I felt strangely compelled to wear it again.

I cannot explain that either. Perhaps I was looking for an anchor. Perhaps I simply wanted to reconnect with a younger version of myself. Perhaps it was something else entirely. Maybe I need it for something that has yet to come into my life.

Over the years I have often wondered what role Michael plays in this story.
I do not consider myself particularly religious. Still, I have spoken to Michael since the day his pendant entered my life.

Then again I have also talked to the moon and the stars on occasion.
Sometimes those conversations sounded suspiciously similar.

What I have landed on is this: The story is not really about Michael or God for that matter.

The story is about a girl who experienced things she could not explain and spent a lifetime trying to understand what they meant.
Maybe these experiences reveal something about how human beings search for meaning.
I honestly do not know.

What I do know is that the mystery became part of my story.
Not the whole story, just a chapter.
A thread.

A presence at the edge of the forest path. Watching. Protecting. Possibly there. Possibly imagined. And somehow, after all these years, I find that uncertainty more interesting than certainty ever could be.

I don't know if a saint, an angel, coincidence, or something I still can't explain placed that pendant in my path. What I do know is that I have carried it for most of my life. Whatever happened that day, it became part of who I am.

As a little girl, I talked to an Archer shining in starlight.
As a teenager, a Saint Michael pendant fell into my life and I quietly heeded Michael's protection.

As an adult, when I feel unanchored, I find myself reaching for the same piece of metal.

Maybe protection doesn't always arrive in the form we expect.
Maybe it arrives in the form we'll actually recognize.

Maybe Michael saved me.
Maybe Michael helped me save myself.
Maybe those are the same thing.
I don't know.

What I do know is that a small pendant has traveled with me for most of my life, and I am still listening for what it might have to teach me.
The experiences of my younger selves, those are real to me.

You do not have to understand every mystery you encounter.
Sometimes it is enough to acknowledge that it changed you.
And to keep walking.

-With curiosity, S

Thoughts at Midnight

 

He is

    the Autumn Ridge;

Turned whore red

    of my childhood.

Love and grace

in it's raw form.

Fading.

Fleeting.

Calling me to...

to what?

Misleading and breaking my meaning.

In a sense, I know not who I am thinking of.

Is it now or is it then.

Do I need that answer?

Do the thoughts and words mean anything there?

Post Script:

This poem was written late at night, when memory and meaning blur together.

-Love S.

The Two of Me

My parents always told me that when it came to my Scottish side that with only a drop of blood I am what I am. With that blood in my veins I am a Scot and no one would think to deny me of that. I can be proud and chase my heritage and my roots that live on that side of me. I can have claim to that part of me.

When it came to the other side of me, I learned from a young age that many would not accept me. That I would be denied my Gitxsan blood because to some of them I am too white. I have never been discriminated against by a white person. I have however been discriminated against by many Gitxsan people most being my extended family.

My father is half Gitxsan, naturally you would assume I am a quarter. However taking an ancestry DNA kit and a deep dive into my genetic make up I am closer to a third than I am to a quarter sitting around 30% indigenous. 

In my past as a child I was excited to embrace my culture; to be Gitxsan. I would proudly tell anyone who would listen about how my dad was a member of the Frog Clan. I wanted to attend feasts and learn the old ways to learn a language to connect me to my ancestors. Unfortunately that was not in the cards for me. 

Any time I would enter the feast hall I would get dirty looks. "Who is this little white girl intruding on this event." "Someone deal with the amxsiwaa" they would say with disgust. 

Amxsiwaa, their word for white person. 

My mother would watch as they treated my brother and I with disrespect, half the time we would just ignore it. We were usually there to support our dad as he paid respects in the feast hall. I would try not to let it affect my love for the culture as a 6-8 year old I usually fell back in love with the Gitxsan Culture when I would return to my cultural awareness class in elementary school.

Cultural awareness class was all about the Gitxsan Culture. We would learn some of the language and some of the oral history. The clan structure as well as the feast meanings were also discussed. What I learned in class rarely translated to my experiences in the feast hall. The paying of respect and the celebration, the banding together in times of hardship; none of this was my lived experience.

The final straw for my mother was when my father's grandmother died and we went to her feast. Notice I didn't call her my great grandmother. At the time I loved her, I mourned the loss of her. I didn't have a grandmother growing up and she was the closest thing. I wanted more than I got out of that relationship. Looking back now I guess my mourning was more the loss of what should have been rather than what was. 

I was still young when this happened around 8 years old. My father had to work the feast as it was a frog that passed away. My mother took us as my brother and I were great grandchildren of the frog that passed away. It is normal no matter what clan you are in for all grandchildren to be acknowledged. 

It was hard to see all of my cousins cared for and sat in an area where they could be a part of the feast. To see all of my cousins, who I loved dearly, separated from me while I was pushed into a corner facing the wall. We were all mourning a loss but my brother and I were not acknowledged at all as even being related to my great grandmother. 

My mother ended up taking us home before things finished at that feast. She couldn't sit there seeing the hurt on my face. The feast hall was very busy and by the time my father noticed something was wrong it was too late. I had watched all of my cousins celebrated and named and I was a worthless white girl. I was just some Amxsiwaa.

This is where my love for my father's culture and my love for myself took a lot of damage. How those people treat me today doesn't matter to me. However how they treated her back then bothers me. I was just a kid, I know it still bothers that little girl. The adult me accepted a while ago that my father's culture ends with him. That little girl though, she still believes in a lot of ways that she is a worthless little Amxsiwaa. To protect her I haven't been in a feast hall since that day.

The thing about childhood wounds is they don't stay in childhood. The beliefs of that little girl followed me into adulthood. That moment shaped the questions I ask about myself. Do I belong? Am I enough? Am I worthy to claim  these parts of me? For a long time I believed these were questions about being Gitxsan. Looking back now, They are more questions about being loved and accepted. This starts with me, showing that little girl that I can love her and accept her when those people couldn't. 

My father has been gone for almost three years now. When he passed his house (Frog Clan) held a feast and wanted my family to go. None of my immediate family did; they held a feast for my dad without his wife, his kids, or his grand children. That is unusual but it shows that my father's culture largely ended with him. Not that a little girl didn't want to embrace it, not that she didn't want to love it. For the fact that her skin colour was not the same as he father's.

Grief has a way of making us revisit our past wounds. To really begin to understand what is underneath. Losing my father did not just mean losing my dad. He was the one person who connected me to a heritage that I, at one time, wanted so desperately to reach. He never looked at my skin and decided what parts of me were real. To him I was simply his daughter. 

Next year I go to Scotland to find my roots on that side of my bloodline. There are people waiting to meet me there, people who have never questioned whether I belong. Part of me is excited for that journey.  Although I still know there is a little girl sitting in a feast hall somewhere, wondering why she was not enough. 

Those are the two of me.

One is still learning how to let go as she mourns what could have been. Still trying to figure out how to fit pieces of herself together. 

One is strong and steady, she learned to let go. She wears a Scottish Family crest with pride, sure of where those pieces of her belong. 

-With care, S

Knowing Better

Some days self doubt arrives quietly. Not as a storm, but as a fog. This poem was written on one of those days when I knew the feeling wasn't truth, yet still struggled to see clearly through it.

 Today I am unclear.

Today I ask who I am, Why do I walk aimless?

I feel like grey. Leaning more to the shadows of today.

Feeling alone, scared that I am worthless.

That perhaps breathless 

I may be worth more.

I know in the back of my mind, it is not fact.

But today it's like muddled voices beckon me.

My mind is me enough to know better.

I cannot hear or make out what the voices say.

Which I believe is a good thing.

Looking back, I can see this poem sits alongside many of my reflections on growth. Not because there are answers here, but because there is a willingness to keep asking the questions.

Today I was unclear. Tomorrow I may be too. But knowing better does not always mean feeling better. Sometimes it simply means recognizing that a difficult thought is not the same thing as the truth.

-Quietly, S.