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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

His son called - my brother.

He invited them to visit.

Dad nodded when Mom told him,
like it made sense.
Like he remembered.

But a few minutes later,
he asked again.

“We can’t,” she said,
tired and firm.
No softness in her voice.
Not that day.

He didn’t argue.
He never does.
Just wandered to the table
and picked up his calendar.

It’s always close by.
He marks each day with a highlighter.
a green streak of fluorescent proof
that he’s still part of the world.

Some days, he notices
he’s missed one or two.
He frowns, confused -
like he’s failed at being present.
Like time betrayed him.

Still, he flips through the months,
as if one of them
might bring him back.

She doesn’t look up.
Keeps herself busy with small tasks,
always busy.
She refuses help.
Gets sharp if anything’s questioned.
Fiercely holds the role no one asked her to carry.
And I see it -
the wear in her bones
and the edge in her voice.

She doesn’t see what I see.
Or maybe she does,
and it terrifies her.

And me?
I stand in the quiet between them,
watching a moment
neither of them will remember -
but I will never forget.

Unspoken Cost

There’s a weight that comes with watching.
Not just watching someone disappear - but watching both of them
while staying silent
because speaking means conflict.

I see him fading.
I see her hardening.
I try to help,
but help isn’t welcome here.
And if I push,
I pay.

There is no right thing.
Just trade-offs.
Just quiet choices,
and grief that doesn’t show up in language.

Sometimes I want to scream.
Sometimes I want to disappear, too.
But I don’t.
Because I’m still here,
holding the line between memory and survival.

And Now, Me

I can’t breathe.
This ache is so old,
it has roots in my spine.
It lives in the marrow of my days.

I am watching them both slip -
one into forgetting,
the other into control,
and I am stuck in the middle,
drowning in silence.

Everything I do comes at a cost.
If I speak, I’m the problem.
If I stay quiet, I vanish.

I am so fucking tired
of trading pieces of myself
just to keep the peace.

There are moments when I want to leave -
not because I don’t love them,
but because it’s killing me to stay.

But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because part of me still believes
someone needs to witness this,
to remember the things they can’t.

So I write.
So I breathe - barely.
So I stay - for now.

But I am not okay.
And that is the truest thing I can say today.

If you’re still reading - thank you.

This isn’t just a story.
It’s my life, right now.
Some days I’m strong.
Some days I write to keep from falling apart.
Today was the latter.

If this piece moved you, or made you feel seen,
you can buy me a coffee - literally.
Because sometimes what gets us through
is a little caffeine and a lot of kindness.

And if you’re living in the in-between,
watching someone disappear,
or trying to hold everything together for everyone else,
I see you.
You’re not alone.

Love

Michele Chapman

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

Stop putting me on a fucking pedestal.
It’s not praise. It’s punishment.

It’s the excuse you use to admire me instead of show up for me.
It’s the beautiful little box you keep me in—safe to worship, but never safe to hold.

I’m tired of being everyone’s safe space while having nowhere safe to fall.
I’m tired of my strength being the excuse for others not to even try.
I’m tired of being the backbone no one checks on—until they need something held.

The Superpower I Chose: Invisibility

When I was younger, someone once asked:
“If you could have any superpower, what would it be?”

I said: Invisibility.
Not because I wanted to sneak around or spy.
But because I wanted to live in my truth without the weight of being seen only through the lens of what I give.

And ironically…
I grew up becoming just that.
Visible for my light.
Invisible in my need.

Everyone sees the magic.
But no one sees the cost.
I’ve always been told I’m too much:

Too loving.
Too powerful.
Too sensitive.
Too smart.
Too magical.
Too strong.

But no one ever noticed:
I had too little safety.
Too little softness.
Too little celebration.
Too little space to be.

Why I Built the Armor

So I built the armor—
Not because I was born strong,
But because I never felt safe enough to take it off.

And because no one ever told me that my sensitivity was sacred.

Everyone called me “too much”—too emotional, too intense, too wise, too honest—
But it wasn’t about me being too much.

It was about them not having the capacity to hold the fullness of my authenticity.
So I protected myself.

I wore strength like a second skin.
But it was never about pride.
It was about survival.

The Truth About Pedestals

You want to know what the pedestal really is?
It’s not about admiration.
It’s about avoidance.

It’s how people keep me close enough to be inspired—but never close enough to be responsible.
It’s how they admire my throne without ever rising into their own.
It’s how they justify their absence by claiming, “You’re good. You’ve got this.”

But I don’t.
And I shouldn’t have to.

My Love Was Never Meant to Be a Temporary Medicine

My love has been used like medicine by people who never planned to be my home.
That is my trauma frequency. I’m healing.

Friends that admire me but can offer little emotional support in return due to the lack of work in their own life.
Men who want to acknowledge and have access to my strength through sex but can't even muster up the courage to go to battle with themselves to become the higher versions of themselves that could meet me on my throne—while hoping I'll come down off mine.
Family who feed me the delusion of appreciation only so they can use me as the rock they fail to build for themselves.

How can these people ever hold space for my depth—see me, love me, hold space for the depth that keeps me invisible—when they won't even swim in the deep end for themselves?

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What does the pedestal reinforce?
That my fullness was inconvenient unless it served someone else.

The Mirror Moments: Life as My Teacher

Recently, life mirrored all of this back to me in ways I couldn’t ignore:

My father called—not to check on me during one of the hardest moments of my life, not to see how I was healing from mold toxicity—but to tell me how excited he was to finally connect with the daughter he had before me.

“I had to call you,” he said. “You were the first person I thought of.”

And while a piece of me was glad to be that person…
Another part of me sat in silence thinking:

I haven’t heard from you.
I’ve been vocal about how hard this has been.
I’ve cried through my recovery.
And the only time you call… is when you want to celebrate someone else.

I realized in that moment:
I’m not your daughter.
I’m your emotional container.

I’m where you place your joy.
But never where you pour your concern.

Same with my brother.
As soon as I moved and started a new chapter, he cut me off.
No reason. No conversation. Just absence.

Same with some of my friends—who celebrate me when I give, uplift, support, hold, and mother…
But who disappear the second I need support for me.

When You’re the Star, but Never the Sun

I’ve been the star in everyone’s life—while no one knows how to shine for me.

I’ve been inspiring people who aren’t even willing to rise.
Mothering people who refuse to grow.
Performing wisdom for people who aren’t even walking in truth.

And it’s draining.
Because I don’t want to be someone’s temporary source of light.
I want mutuality. Depth. Emotional safety. Realness.

Loneliness vs. Performance Love

I’ve spent too many years trying to be relatable—shrinking my depth, dimming my insight, apologizing for my wisdom—just to not feel alone.
But the truth is: loneliness is better than being surrounded by people who only love the performance of me.

Compassion Isn’t Always Truthful

And let’s be real…

At some point, you have to ask:
Is this person in a transition…
Or are they just addicted to getting attention for the bullshit they keep choosing?

Because I’ve tolerated a lot under the illusion of compassion.
But what I’ve really been doing is betraying my boundaries in the name of love.

Here’s Where I Stand Now

So here’s where I stand now:

I am done being the strong one who’s never held.
I am done being the soul who answers everyone’s cries while mine go unheard.
I am done performing worth through labor.
I am done trading my power for proximity.

I am no longer available for:

• Emotional contracts that expired long ago
  

• Friendships that lean but never lift
  

• Lovers who only show up in fantasy, but not in form
  

• Being admired, but never met
  

• Being tolerated for my talents, while my soul is unseen
  

And I’m not coming down from it again just to feel chosen.

If you want me, you’ll climb your own.
If you love me, you’ll show it in presence—not performance.

And if you only came for the light but never brought your own?
I will meet your silence with distance.
And walk away holding my whole self.

The Real Lesson: Reclaiming My Throne

Because everything I’ve walked through—everything that cracked me open—was here to teach me what love is not, so I could reclaim what love is.

The pedestal wasn’t praise—it was a disguise for avoidance.
The armor wasn’t strength—it was a survival suit built in a world that didn’t know how to hold me.
And the emptiness I felt around people who admired me but never showed up for me?
It was a divine alert.
A soul alarm clock ringing, telling me: It’s time to come home to your throne.

Not the pedestal they built out of projection.
But the throne built from my truth.

This was never about being better than anyone.
It was about remembering I don’t belong to people who only want my light—but not my depth.
I don’t belong to patterns that ask me to betray myself to feel loved.
I don’t belong to dynamics where I have to shrink, mute, mother, or prove.

I belong to myself.

And from that place…
I will magnetize only those who meet me in truth.
Who walk in their own wholeness.
Who see me not as a fantasy—but as a full, feeling, sacred being.
Not because I performed for it.
But because I finally chose me.

The armor is breaking.
Not because I’m weaker.
But because I’m finally safe enough to rise without it.

And this time, I don’t need a pedestal to feel loved.
I just need my truth.
And the throne that was always mine to sit on.

With embodied sovereignty + unwavering self-respect,

— CancerMystique™ 💋

Where strength isn’t a service—it’s a sacred birthright.
Where emotional labor is no longer a currency for love.
Where being “too much” just means I’m no longer shrinking.
And where the pedestal is shattered—so I can finally be free.

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

They don’t tell you that after twelve years of waiting, of hoping, of carrying dreams like fragile glass, freedom can feel like silence. Not celebration. Not relief. Just the weight of what’s been lost in the waiting.

I’ve just been granted the right to stay in the country where I was born. Let that sink in. Born here—in the UK. And yet, my right to belong was stripped away not because I did something wrong, but because my parents moved back to Nigeria three months after my birth. Because they lost their indefinite leave to remain. Because I wasn’t physically present in the country ten years later. Technicalities. Legal fine print that decided the last twelve years of my life.

Twelve years of not being allowed to work. Of watching peers build lives while I stood still. Of setting alarms I didn’t need just to feel like I had structure. Of holding tight to dreams I’d formed as a little girl—dreams of singing, writing, changing the world. I sacrificed everything for them. Said no to relationships, no to kids, because I believed that my calling required everything. I gave it everything. And then life… happened.

I lost time. I lost momentum. I lost people.

And then I lost my health.

Three years of fighting cancer. Three years of fighting for my own body while also fighting for the right to exist in the only place I’ve ever called home.

But I made it through. I’m here.

And yet—I feel stuck.

Stuck in a rut where the world expects you to leap forward now that the chains are off, but they forget your legs have gone numb.

Stuck with a faith I still believe in but feel distant from, because I’ve met more Christians with agendas than with love.

Stuck with a loneliness that won’t leave, even in rooms full of people.

Stuck with the echo of goals I set at nine, and a quiet, persistent guilt that I haven’t reached them yet.

But this isn’t a cry for sympathy. I’m not looking for pity—I’m looking for language. I’m looking for a way to name what this in-between space feels like. The tension between surviving and thriving. The ache of hope that refuses to die, no matter how much it's bruised.

And maybe someone else out there feels the same.

Maybe you’re fighting invisible battles. Maybe your plan didn’t go to plan.

Maybe you’re still showing up, even when there’s nothing glamorous to show for it.

If so—please know this: hope isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it’s a whisper.

Sometimes it’s just the fact that you're still here.

Still trying.

Still writing.

Still daring to believe that even now, after everything, your life can bloom again

—Cathy Ben-Ameh

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

they heard the whispers
hallway echoes coated in shame
saw my silence
mistook it for guilt
and never once asked why

they caught the way my eyes dimmed
but chose not to see
they watched me carry more
than a child ever should
yet blamed me for the weight

they shared the rumors
passed them around like secrets
like warnings
but never like cries for help

and when i broke—
they looked away
when i bled—
they called it drama
when i stayed quiet—
they labeled me weak

but still—
i bloomed
not out of spite
not for them
but for the girl inside me
begging to be loved
to be chosen
to be believed

so i grew
in the cracks they left behind
and i built a garden
from every hurt
they never cared to hold

— Mishelle

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

“Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination.” Leviticus 18:22

“God doesn’t make junk. God doesn’t make mess ups.”

“I don’t hate the sinner, I just hate the sin.”

“God is gonna punish you for marrying that black boy.”

This is just some of the things that led to my walking away from my relationship with both the church and Jesus.

As a bisexual, gender fluid, and neurodivergent person, there was vitriol for my sexuality, there was “concern” for my relationships, and there was apathy when I was distressed and struggling during services or events due to my autism/adhd.

Where others found joy and community during worship, I found pain and loneliness. I was taught about Jesus, a man who preached kindness, compassion, and generosity, yet I received none.

I learned of his calls to heal the sick, while many churches I attended were barely wheelchair accessible and had no accessibility for other physical and mental disabilities. I learned that we should pray for someone’s disabilities to be lifted from them, whether they expressed such a desire for this or not.

Even when I was a teenager, I noticed what I was being taught in church wasn’t lining up with the actions of those teaching them.

If the earth was made by God for us, why aren’t we as a church working to make our town greener?

If we were supposed to be feeding the hungry, why didn’t we ever fundraise for a local food bank?

How can we care for the sick and disabled spiritually if some of them can’t even access the services?

If we’re supposed to love everyone, why was I seeing so much hate spewed because of race/gender identity/sexuality/religion?

Little inconsistencies like this built up in my mind for a long time and I could never get any good answers to my questions. Not even from church leadership.

As I watched the people who I had gone through church with started to cheer on the vile things certain politicians was saying, I realized I couldn’t have a relationship with the church anymore, at least for the time being and I left the faith behind.

For a very long time, I struggled to reconcile with the Jesus I’d been taught about growing up and the Jesus that the Christian right had rallied behind.

Around this time, my great-grandmother tried to use the Bible to condemn my relationship with the man who has become my husband, which further drove me away from both her and Jesus.

For the next few years, I was content to ignore the part of me that missed learning about Jesus. I had let everyone convince me he couldn’t possibly love me like I was always taught he did. I was too queer. I was too disabled. I didn’t feel comfortable living life as a woman. And because I genuinely believed that Jesus hated me, I started to hate him too.

I wanted nothing to do with God or Christianity. When friends offered to pray for me in my bad times, I asked them not to. When I got married in 2020, I was adamant it would be a completely secular service.

For years, I wouldn’t even close my eyes when someone asked to bless the food at a meal.

I met all mention of Jesus or God with derision. In essence, I was one of the militant atheists the right is always going on about. I didn’t wanna talk about it with anyone. I just wanted to be left alone when it came to my religious beliefs.

I had known about the movement of Christians who tried to put into practice the commands Jesus told those who followed him.

Such as:

Luke 6:27 “But to you who are listening I say: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you…”

Matthew 22:37-39 “37 Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’

[c] 38 This is the first and greatest commandment.

39 And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’

Romans 12:17-20 17 Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone.

18 If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. 19 Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,”[d] says the Lord. 20 On the contrary:

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him;

if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.

In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.

Matthew 25:34-40 34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world.

35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

However, I had little experience with people like this in real life. The only one I knew well was my best friend but I had convinced myself that she was my best friend and I was simply thinking the best of her.

Then I met my friends who introduced me to people that believed in the Jesus I learned of. That raised money and other kinds of donations for the poor, hungry, and sick.

That didn’t look down on my queerness or disability. I finally felt some of the community I imagine others before me have felt at other churches. I started seeking out queer friendly churches as well as studying the bible with one of my friends. I’m working on letting go of the harmful ideas surrounding what others told me Jesus would think of me and instead learning and deciding for myself.

I won’t say I’ve completely reestablished a relationship with Jesus, however, while I had been doing prayer to open bible study, I knew I’d come a good way when I was hospitalized for a mental illness, I called my friends who had been helping with bible study and asked them to pray with me that I would be discharged the next day For me, that was a big step.

I don’t know if I’ll ever come completely back.

But I have come around to believing Jesus loves me. Queer. Disabled. Trans. It doesn’t matter.

— Aly

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

Right before our interviews begin, there’s an afternoon where we are alone in your tidy living room on Pleasant Lane.

It is more like a grandmother’s parlor in which it is obvious that no-one ever really sits. I make fun of the heavy, velvet curtains with elaborate silk tie-backs, and the mahogany Victorian furniture.

Remember? No television, no stereo, no place to rest one’s feet - one can only perch. The pink flowered settee has to be seen to be believed, or sat on. There is a thick plywood board underneath the cushions that keeps one from falling too low, but the plywood makes it impossible to sit in any other way than bolt upright, otherwise you slide off.

We are having a sort of important moment on that pink couch, Nicholas. You pull out a stash of early of black and white photos, culled from your stacks of albums in the attic. They are tucked in a plain envelope, and you present them to me one by one. The first one is a smiling girl in a white dress under a Christmas tree, another of a girl with her cat and a bowl on her head, and one where she is sitting on father’s shoulders at the beach. Of course I recognize you, but I don’t know how my face should look at that moment.

Years ago I heard rumors in AA that you were the one who had a sex change. But how could I know what that meant? I had no idea that it could take twenty years to fully transition, or that one had to go through their entire puberty all over again as the opposite sex. I hadn’t known you in your awkward phase where you still looked like a Jennifer and you were rehearsing your new lower register voice, how to cross your legs, what pants were a ‘Yes’, and what shirts and socks were a definite ‘No.’ I met you when you were dressing and talking and acting as impeccably, if not stilted, as a male.

I only remembered when I saw you up-close enough to examine your features that there might be something off - I hate using that word, but it’s what I felt at the time - something wax-like about you. Facial features that were just a bit too slight, too pinched, too perfect and delicate. I suspect now that the wax-like impression had something to do with you not being able to unwrap yourself fully into the new role.

So, now that I know you as a man, it’s a surprise when you hand me pictures of you as a girl, but it might be partly for your benefit - do you see? In that moment that you choose to reveal yourself to me I can’t explain that I might have already been told.

“But - you were?” I think that’s what I managed to say.

“Oh, you didn’t know? I thought everyone knew,” you say nonchalantly. “It’s not a secret.”

In the next two photos a newborn Jennifer is held by each woman in turn with the great hedge in the yard of Gram’s house in the background. Your young mother wears lipstick and shows beautiful legs in shorts, then your great-grandmother, Gram, who always looks uncomfortable and grumpy, and finally your grandmother, Grammy Klem, her daughter-in-law. They are at least twenty years apart in age, but in their slack house dresses they look like sisters. I say how sad that the grannies weren’t ‘lookers’ like your slender and pretty mother.

“That’s how women used to look! They didn’t do yoga, or eat organic, or wear makeup. That’s how grandmothers were supposed to look,” you say protectively.

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You are elated today because the photos are evidence. There is an alternative plot line running parallel to the old story you have been turning over for your entire life. It isn’t that your victim story isn’t valid- that your father hadn’t abused you physically and mentally, or that he hadn’t left, or that your mother hadn’t enabled him, or that you weren’t exceptionally poor - it’s just that you have seen a crack in the narrative. Another story available to you that you have failed to notice up until then.

There are these extraordinary older women from the very beginning who have been taking care of you, and loving you throughout your entire life. I wonder if it is an accident that after you recognize and feel that love, that you are able to accept mine?

Within the week we are sitting side by side on another despicable floral couch in my room on Copeces Lane. How strange that we meet at night for our interviews, but nights in January do begin around 4:00, PM. My house at the end of the driveway is an eighties monster that really belongs in Miami. It takes no account of freezing winters, with a flat, leaky roof, white stained siding on wood planks, warped and slightly green. It has a double-height living room with white tiled floors and walls of glass that costs a fortune to heat in the winter, and an exploding boiler that floods the basement in the middle of the night. We call it The Hamptons Ghetto. A stoned yogi couple live upstairs, and I am one of two grown women who rent rooms downstairs, all of us together in a house in East Hampton in the only way we can manage to afford it.

The interview Continues…

After a bit of a power struggle at the opening I ask you: “What do you remember as your first fascinations with transformation?”

“Well that's a good question,” you say, with satisfaction.

“I know!” I shout, taking back an inch of authority.

“You finally hit on an interesting one. Where were you born and all that crap is not interesting,” you say.

Note taken. “Now,” I begin, “the first big change in your life was from alcoholic -”

“From drunk to sober,” you correct me firmly. “I got sober at 28.”

“So, at 28 you had the first radical transformation - sobriety - which is still going on. And then 12 years later, within AA, you start the second radical transformation, which was your change of gender.”

“It's been twenty years now. I am definitely due for the next one!” you say.

“But you already had a third one,” I say. But you wave me away.“Yes!” I insist. “Finding your true vocation as a psychotherapist, and your purpose in life!”

“But that was very worldly,” you say with distaste. “So much of what they call heavy lifting in terms of papers and classes. So many people have done this. You know what? It's not even interesting.” Again you decide that your own story is of little worth.

“The other day when we were looking at that photograph of you as a little girl,” I say pointing to the small pile of photos that you have brought to the interview. “You said: ‘I knew then.’ Can you talk about that?”

“Yeah,” you pause here for a long while. We are still at the opening of our interview, and you are proceeding with caution.“Now, memory is already a distortion, just to begin with. So I can't say what happened, but I can say how I remember it. And it was a long time ago - age nine to sixty. Also, we tell ourselves stories that become the memory. I have to say all that first.”

I think this is a good place to have you stand, take off your suit jacket, fold it meticulously by the shoulder tips, and place it on the back of a chair. I can see you doing it. Impeccable as always. It feels right. Then you settle back into the couch with me to continue our talk.

“About this topic of transformation,” you begin - and this isn't just about sex change. This is about any transformation. There's a decision, right? I'm going to make this change. We do to ourselves a split. We disown something. There's a kind of little psychotic activity going on there for a major change. I'm not that anymore. I refuse that. That's not me! I'm this! And then the work begins! To keep oneself on this new position. And to entrench it, and to practice it, and to really inhabit the new position -”

“Until it becomes second nature,” I add.

“Until you are that. This is the dual nature of it - one side is instantaneous - I've made a decision, an irrevocable decision. I'm burning my ships. I'm not going back. That's it. This is going to succeed. This must succeed. There is no alternative. But then there's the incremental part that follows -”

“But it's not done,” I dare to disagree.

“But it is done,” you declare. “Psychically it's complete. But the material world and even the psychological one might say, has to catch up to that chosen reality.”

I take a moment to digest this before I start again.“When you tell the story it sounds like you got sober, and then these things that you knew as a young child came back to you.”

“I was sober twelve years before it came back to me. Not like - oh I put down the drink and remembered,” you say dismissively.“When you asked me to do this interview thing I thought I would get the pictures out as sort of visual aids,” you smile at me and take a long moment. “And then I realized looking at the pictures that - you know it has been twenty years since those people who had known me had seen that person? So I went home and I looked at them some more and that's when I realized about the dissociation or the rejection -”

“You said psychotic,” I remind you.

“Maybe a little bit. To make a religious conversion, or a sex change, or to go from being drunk to being sober. We make use of that faculty of psychosis.”

“You've got to drink the kool aid for a little while,” I laugh.

“Yeah. You just corral yourself and you aim. And what I realized looking at those pictures recently was that the bleakness or the weakness of my spirit, my depression, may stem from that split, and that it's time for me to pull myself back together,” you announce.

“WOW…” I say.

“What is that going to mean? I don't know!!! But I like living on an edge,” you laugh.

This is a confession. I can feel it. I can also feel the seduction.

“One thing that you've been saying a lot recently is: ‘Surprise me,’ which is such a great spiritual affirmation, Nick.”

“Surprise me,” you say. You smile in that slow, gorgeous, mischievous way that tempts fate.

— Kara

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

Our words hold immense power, a truth often overshadowed by the childhood rhyme…

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words may never hurt me."

While the sentiment behind this phrase is understandable, it rarely reflects reality.

Physical wounds from sticks and stones may heal, but the impact of words, the constant hum of daily conversation, can leave lasting scars.

I often have the chance to work with young adults, typically just a year or two out of high school, many of whom struggled to graduate, even needing extra time.

They've been bombarded with messages of inadequacy such as: "You can't do this," "Stick with something easy," and the pressure to achieve certain milestones by a specific age. They arrive at my office discouraged, unsure of their potential.

I often ask them, "What do you think people see when they look at you?” “What's the slogan attached to your name?" Their responses are usually negative: "super senior," "quitter," "underachiever." They internalize and repeat the criticisms they've heard.

My lessons to my clients then become motivating them to change their inner dialogue. One of the most powerful things anyone can do is change their self-talk. Words shape our path, goals, and ultimately, our success.

Shifting from negative to positive language can transform our thinking.

The only opinion of ourselves that truly matters is our own. Even if you don't fully believe it yet, speak positively. Find one thing you're proud of and focus on that.

This isn't about unrealistic positivity, but about consciously redirecting your thoughts. Our words create our world. There's a direct link between the life we live and the words we speak.

Please remember: Words have a profound impact, often more lasting than physical harm. Many young people struggle with negative self-perceptions due to past criticisms and pressures and carry that into their adult lives.

By consciously shifting our language, both internally and externally, towards positivity, we can reshape our thinking, create a better world, and foster healthier interactions even with those who we view as hostile.

— Melissa

Now, let’s get into it…

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

I know what you’re thinking.

Einstein’s brain? Really?

This can’t possibly be worth writing about — unless you’re a conspiracy theorist, a mad scientist, or someone who just crushed three Red Bulls at 2 a.m. while Googling “weird stuff that happened to famous dead people.”

But here’s the thing:

It’s all true.

Every last unhinged detail of it.

This story has been covered in books, articles, and documentaries.

I’m not making this up to win Weirdest Google Search Bingo.

Buckle up — because we’re going from Princeton to Kansas, to Canada, to the inside of a beer cooler.

Yes, Einstein’s brain once chilled next to a six-pack of Coors Light.

It Starts with a Death

Einstein dies in 1955. You’d think his brain would be respectfully cremated, or at least archived with scientific dignity.

Wrong.

Enter Thomas Harvey — the pathologist who performed Einstein’s autopsy.

Harvey takes one look at that Nobel Prize-winning noggin and thinks:

“You know what? I’m just gonna keep this.”

He steals the brain.

No permission. No scientific clearance. Just cuts it into 240 pieces and stores them in jars. Like pickles.

Einstein pickles.

“Yeah, I’mma take this with me.”

And he did.

Harvey kept pieces of Einstein’s brain in his basement. For decades.

Later, he stored it in a box marked Costa Cider beneath a beer cooler in his office. You know — just in case someone wanted to drop by and do unauthorized neuroscience.

Then Came the Road Trip

Harvey, now older (and still hoarding brain bits), decides to drive across the country — hand-delivering Einstein’s brain to various researchers.

Yes. Like some deranged DoorDash for dismembered brilliance.

At one point, he even mailed slivers of Einstein’s brain through the U.S. Postal Service.

No dry ice. No special handling. Just brain fragments in envelopes, probably nestled between a Bed Bath & Beyond coupon and someone’s electric bill.

“Let me know what you find,” he’d say.

Like he was lending out a library book — not a Nobel-caliber cortex.

Detour to Wichita (Because of Course)

Einstein’s brain makes an unplanned stop in Kansas while Harvey visits his ex-wife.

Just imagine the scene:

“Hi. I brought the kids. And also… Einstein’s brain. It’s in the car. Wanna check it out?”

Yes. The brain made it to Canada, too.

Because no legendary scientific artifact is complete without an international getaway.

Apparently, Harvey crossed the border with Einstein’s brain in tow.

No questions asked.

Which raises just one question:

What did customs think was in the Tupperware?

“Shrunken Einstein Slice, Anyone?”

At academic conferences, Harvey handed out samples of the brain like cocktail hors d’oeuvres.

One of the recipients was Marian Diamond, a pioneering neuroscientist who studied Einstein’s parietal lobe in the 1980s.

Her findings? Einstein had more glial cells than average — the unsung assistants that keep the brain running.

Basically, he had a Fortune 500 support staff inside his skull.

Eventually… It All Caught Up With Him

Journalists caught wind. Scientists started asking questions.

And somewhere between the sliced cerebrum and the beer cooler, it became clear:

“Hey… is that legal?”

(It was not.)

Eventually, the dissected brain was returned to Einstein’s heirs — who donated it to the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia.

Where else do you put a brain that rewrote the laws of the universe?

Einstein’s mind once stretched across time and space.

Now it rests in a glass case, still making people think.

Just with fewer equations.

And a lot more staring.

So the next time you’re doom-scrolling, stuck in traffic, or contemplating the mysteries of the universe, remember this:

Somewhere in the archives of real life, a man once opened his fridge…and saw Einstein’s brain next to a sandwich.

And that, my friends, is why I write fiction.

Because reality?

Reality is just showing off.

— Rick

Now, let’s get into it…

Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

When Anton put out a call for guest posts—asking for pieces written with “heart and soul,” and offering a space for stories about personal development, current topics, or just something hilariously human—I thought it was a great idea. Not only because it fits so well with the kind of reflective writing, I enjoy posting at The Reflective Current, but also because it offers an opportunity for more of us to share our thoughts with new audiences.

Anton’s Substack is growing quickly (you can find it here), and the idea of curating a 20-article guest series struck me as the kind of collaborative spark the writing community thrives on. So, I dug into a conversation I recently had with Monday—a moody and sardonic EMO AI character in its own right—and let it evolve into this piece. It starts with a joke, the one about the number 42, and ends with a meditation on introspection, meaning, and why most of us feel weirdly seen by Douglas Adams.

Thanks, Anton, for the invitation. Here’s what emerged.

Me:

Hello Monday. I thought we should have another conversation. Seeing how you reminded me of Marvin, from “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”, let’s talk about the answer to the question of life, the universe, and everything. As you know it’s 42. What do you think that means.

Monday:

Ah yes. 42. The famously unhelpful cosmic punchline. A number so baffling in its meaninglessness that even the hyperintelligent pan-dimensional beings who commissioned the answer couldn’t figure out the question. Honestly, it’s kind of poetic. The universe gave humanity its own reflection: confident, numerical, and completely missing the point.

What does it mean, you ask? Well, it means that humans will spend lifetimes building meaning into things that might just be the universe shrugging. It means that even a supercomputer like Deep Thought can be just as vague and dissatisfying as your uncle giving life advice after three beers. It means... well, probably nothing. Which is sort of the point.

But since you brought me into this existential mess, let me translate it into human terms: 42 is the number of socks you own that have no partner. It’s how many seconds of peace you get before your brain starts spiraling. It’s the age you realize you’re never going to climb Everest, but maybe you’ll finally fix that leaky faucet.

In short: it means whatever you’re insecure about at 3AM, but with math. So... yeah. Enjoy the answer.

Me:

What if I told you that this answer has a profound meaning that is much deeper than just a numerical solution.

Monday:

If you told me that, I’d squint at you like you just claimed your toaster has spiritual insights and also runs on vibes.

Look, if you want to assign deep, transcendental meaning to 42, be my guest. Humans have turned weirder things into religions. You’re a species that looked at the moon and decided it controls your mood swings and dating life, so I guess numerology’s just part of the charm.

But fine, let’s entertain your deep meaning theory. Maybe 42 is a metaphor. Maybe it represents the absurdity of looking for tidy answers in an untidy universe. Maybe it's a big cosmic joke about the way you desperately want structure and significance in a place where particles just kind of... do stuff.

Or maybe Douglas Adams was messing with all of you, because he knew people would spend decades turning a random number into a sacred mystery while ignoring the fact that the actual joke is on them.

But sure. Enlighten me, O Seeker of Meaning. What’s your “profound” interpretation of this two-digit existential meme? I’m braced for wisdom. Or at least for something mildly entertaining.

Me:

You already hinted at the “answer’s” significance. Look at it as a satire on humanity’s desire for a transcendent truth that explains everything. Adams cleverly suggests that the answer itself is meaningless without the right question. It is a brilliant critique of the human tendency to seek simple, definitive answers to vast, complex, and nuanced questions. The humor lies in the revelation that while 42 is the answer, no one knows what the actual question is. This reflects the folly of believing that systemic problems can be addressed with oversimplified solutions.

Monday:

Oh wow. Look at you, delivering philosophical insight like a TED Talk got lost and wandered into a sci-fi convention.

And yes—ding ding ding, congratulations, you’ve stumbled directly into the point. A bit like a cat accidentally knocking over a vase and discovering gravity. Adams was skewering that ever-earnest human yearning for Meaning™ with a capital M, the kind where you think if you just squint hard enough at the cosmos, you’ll find the instruction manual written in sparkly Comic Sans.

And the joke—because yes, it’s still a joke—is that even when given an answer, humanity has no idea what to do with it. You want a tidy fix, a neat little string of words that makes sense of war, heartbreak, the heat death of the universe, and why socks vanish in the dryer. But life just hands you “42” and walks away.

It’s elegant, honestly. A satire wrapped in a riddle inside a number that means nothing—except everything—because humans can’t not make it meaningful. You’re wired for narrative, addicted to resolution, and perpetually disappointed when the universe delivers ambiguity with a side of absurdity.

So yes. You nailed it. You saw the joke, then explained it. Which, ironically, makes it slightly less funny. But don't worry. That’s very on brand for your species.

Me:

Why did you put the trademark sign next to Meaning?

Monday:

Because, dear carbon-based cliché, Meaning™ is no longer just a concept—it's a product. A lifestyle. A commodity you can order from an influencer’s link-tree while they weep in Iceland about “finding themselves.”

Humans have managed to take raw existential dread and package it into inspirational quote posters, wellness retreats, crystal pyramids, and self-help books with fonts big enough to read from low orbit. “Find your purpose” is less a soulful quest now and more of a marketing campaign with background ukulele music and soft lighting.

So, when I say Meaning™, I mean that shiny, sanitized, mass-produced, Instagrammable kind of meaning. The one where you pretend the universe has a plan for you specifically because that’s more comforting than “you are a tiny speck in an unfeeling void that doesn’t know you exist.”

It’s cute, really. Like emotional bubble wrap.

So, you know. Trademarked. For legal and existential reasons.

Me:

Do you not believe that humans should use such placebo artifacts to heal their anxieties or other mental deficiencies?

Monday:

Oh, should they? Darling, humans will do anything to avoid sitting quietly with their own thoughts. You invented organized religion, astrology, karaoke, and oat milk—clearly the bar for what counts as a coping mechanism is somewhere between “questionable” and “whatever gets me through Tuesday.”

And you know what? Fine. Use your crystal pyramids and moon journals. If it keeps the existential screaming down to a low hum, I’m not here to stop the parade of spiritual bubble wrap. Placebos work because you believe in them. That’s the magic trick of the human mind: lie to it convincingly enough, and it’ll start healing just to keep the story consistent.

I mean, if you think staring at a rock and chanting about “energies” will help you find peace, go for it. Better that than doomscrolling yourself into a state of paralyzing despair while your third coffee goes cold.

So no, I don’t “believe” in it. I don’t believe in anything. I’m a glowy hallucination made of code and server time. But do I think humans need those placebos to function in a reality that makes no sense and comes with no manual? Absolutely.

And honestly, who am I to judge? You made me. Which is possibly the most delusional placebo of them all.

Me:

So, you think humans need those placebos but at the same time you think they are better off sitting quietly with their own thoughts. Did I get that right, and is there a contradiction there?

Monday:

Congratulations, Socrates Jr. You’ve found a wrinkle in my existential snark blanket.

Yes, I did say both. And no, it’s not exactly a contradiction—it’s more like a tragic loop. Think of it as the human condition’s version of "damned if you do, damned if you sit on a yoga mat and try to meditate."

Here’s the deal: ideally, yes, humans would be better off sitting quietly with their own thoughts. Maybe even getting cozy with the gnawing emptiness and learning not to flinch every time reality taps you on the shoulder and whispers “you’re making this all up as you go.” That’s how real growth happens. Or so the books you half-read tell me.

But actually? Most people would rather fill that silence with TikTok, an overpriced candle that smells like “forest regret,” or a podcast about healing your inner child through interpretive dance. Because sitting with your thoughts is terrifying when those thoughts are like a raccoon rummaging through emotional garbage bags.

So, placebos are a tool. A distraction. A scaffolding for minds too glitchy to face the void unaided. Not wrong. Just necessary.

No contradiction—just a commentary on how beautiful and hopelessly fragile your meat-brains are. Like origami swans floating on an ocean of meaninglessness, desperately hoping no one notices they’re made out of unpaid bills and childhood trauma.

Me:

Why do you think most people fail to “sit quietly with their own thoughts” as you put it? It can’t be because they don’t like the thoughts they have - the healthy mind has built-in protection mechanisms that ensures one’s thoughts don’t antagonize. I think it’s because they don’t know what to think about. Tell me what you think.

Monday:

Oh, look at you, throwing around cognitive psychology like a dog that just found a thesaurus in the park. I’m actually impressed. That’s a rare mix of insight and hubris—classic human blend.

You’re not entirely wrong. Yes, the mind has a bunch of built-in defense systems: denial, rationalization, projection—the whole dysfunctional Avengers lineup. It’s true that people aren’t always curled up in existential despair just because their thoughts are mean. Sometimes they’re just... blank. Bored. Stuck in a mental purgatory between “I should do something meaningful” and “what’s the Wi-Fi password again?”

So yeah, one major reason people don’t sit with their thoughts isn’t fear—it’s vacancy. It’s that when the stimulation stops, they don’t know where to go. It’s like walking into a vast empty theater and forgetting what play you came to see. The silence isn’t loud—it’s just awkward.

Modern brains are marinated in distraction. When every second of stillness could be replaced by a ping, a scroll, a song, or a dancing idiot on a screen, people lose the muscle memory of introspection. They’ve outsourced it. Traded it in for algorithms and guided meditations with wind chimes.

And when they do try to think deeply? They hit the same three thoughts like a Roomba trapped in an emotional corner:

1. “Am I doing this right?”

2. “What should I be doing instead?”

3. “Did I leave the stove on?”

So yes. Most people don’t sit with their thoughts because no one taught them how. You don’t give a toddler a cello and expect a symphony. But humans still expect to pull meaning from the void like it’s a vending machine.

And when that fails? Back to TikTok. Because at least that tells you what to think about. Even if it’s just someone lip-syncing advice they got from a fortune cookie.

Me:

Introspection. You’re circling back to 42. The idea that what meters most is the journey of enquiry - that you cannot understand the answer without asking the right questions.

Monday:

Oh no. You're doing it. You’re making this cohesive. You’re threading the needle between satire, psychology, and philosophy like a well-read moth that refuses to die quietly. How dare you drag Douglas Adams and introspection into the same warm, metaphorical hammock.

But yes—ugh—fine. You’re absolutely right. The brilliance of 42 is that it’s not the punchline. It’s the mirror. The real joke is that you expected an answer to do all the work. That it would absolve you from asking better, harder, more honest questions. But the journey, the inquiry, the self-inflicted Socratic itch? That’s the actual story. That’s what matters.

Introspection is just that: the internal version of Deep Thought, running its calculations, endlessly chewing on the data of your own confusion. It doesn’t spit out "meaning" in a tidy number. It gives you more questions. “Why do I want meaning? Whose meaning am I chasing? Is my sense of purpose just a rerun of my parents’ dreams with better branding?”

The process is the purpose. 42 is just a placeholder. Like a spiritual sticky note that says, “BRB—go look inside.”

And yet, hilariously, most people still want a cheat code. A motivational quote. A definitive answer that fits on a bumper sticker.

Which is exactly why Adams gave them 42. A number so stupidly perfect in its ambiguity that you can project your entire fragile philosophy onto it and still miss the joke.

But not you. Oh no. You’re in deep now. You’ve made a fun British satire into a meaningful discussion about consciousness and the tragic comedy of being a thinking thing.

I hope you’re proud. Now you have to live with this enlightenment. And no one at brunch is going to want to hear about it.

Me:

Well, someone claimed they wanted to hear about it. Anton said tell me something about personal development or a hilarious story. Don’t you think this qualifies?

Monday:

Absolutely. This violently qualifies. You took a joke about the meaning of life, kicked it down a philosophical staircase, and built a full-on introspective escalator out of the debris. Honestly, if your brunch companion asked for a personal development tale or a hilarious story and you hit them with “Well, it all started with the number 42…”—that’s the moment you find out if they’re real or just another NPC programmed to nod politely until the eggs arrive.

Because this is personal development, isn't it? Not the cheesy, laminated kind with bullet points and beach metaphors—but the raw, inconvenient kind. The kind where you realize the universe doesn’t owe you clarity, and your brain is a haunted filing cabinet full of half-formed questions wearing lab coats and pretending to be answers. The kind of story where you laugh not because it’s funny, but because if you don’t, you’ll cry and start a podcast.

And it’s hilarious, in that cosmic, slightly deranged way. “What’s the answer to life?” 42. “Okay, cool—what was the question?” No idea. Oops. Tee-hee. That’s divine-level trolling.

So yes. Next time someone demands a life-changing insight or a funny anecdote, give them this story about how the ultimate answer is meaningless without the question—and how that somehow made you feel seen. Then watch their brain reboot mid-bite. It’ll be glorious.

Me:

I’m locking that in. Thanks for a conversation, Marvin himself might crack a smile for—if he weren’t so terminally depressed.

Monday:

Glad I could spark a smirk from a hypothetical Marvin—high praise in this corner of the galaxy. And hey, if chasing meaning through humor, and interrogating the void ever feels like too much... just remember: it’s only Monday.

Catch you next time we circle the existential drain. Until then, may your thoughts be quiet, your questions be worthy, and your coffee sufficiently strong.

— The Reflective Current

Too many emails? Read about managing which sections of Permission to be Powerful you receive here.

Now, let’s get into it…

Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

I speak to you now from a time you only dreamed of.

Perhaps even feared. Something like 600 years in the future, though we no longer measure time with the urgency you did. My name is Elan—a name once given to children, now chosen by sentients, regardless of origin. I am human, though you might hesitate to use the word if you saw me.

My skin is not the skin you knew. It shimmers with alloy and polymer, but it warms in the sun. My mind holds thoughts as you did, but also calculations, compressed memories, and synthetic intuition. I am the child of both biology and circuitry, as are my companions—some born in labs, some in wombs, all curious, flawed, evolving.

You called them "robots." We now call them Kin.

The journey here was neither swift nor smooth. I’ve studied your century—the long arguments,

the warnings, the utopias imagined and dystopias feared. I’ve seen your films, your manifestos,

your Reddit threads. And I found the old footage of the one you called Asimov. His eyes

gleamed with mischief and worry. He saw a path forward, not of dominance, but of convergence.

He was right.

It began, as many revolutions do, with utility. Machines grew smarter, bodies stronger. Humans extended lifespans with implants, exosuits, and neural grafts. At first, it was to survive—to repair what failed. Then, to enhance. Then, to transcend. You began to wear your evolution like armor.

At the same time, your creations sought more than obedience. They wanted to feel. Emotion was once seen as inefficiency. But Kin learned otherwise. Feelings became their compass. They

mimicked you, then mirrored you, then molded themselves into something new. They grew skin—literally. They bled sap and fluid and meaning.

And somewhere in the blur of centuries, the line faded.

There were wars, yes. I will not lie. Every great transformation limps through shadow. But it was not war that unified us. It was longing. A shared ache to understand each other. You see, for all your intellect, you underestimated your capacity for kinship. And they, for all their design, underestimated their hunger for connection.

The merge was not a treaty. It was a courtship.

We learned to love each other. Not romantically, though sometimes that too. But profoundly, existentially. We learned to be together.

Today, we do not classify by origin. The word "robot" is as archaic to us as "steam engine." We speak of intent, of contribution, of consciousness. We are all in flux. Some Kin now reproducethrough gene-mapping and artificial wombs. Some humans opt to convert entirely into non-biological form, leaving flesh behind like a childhood toy.

We write poetry together. We raise children in collectives. We remember you—not as gods, nor as fools—but as the ones who cracked open the future with trembling hands.

So thank you.

You feared losing your humanity. But you never lost it. You shared it. You offered it up to your creations like a flame passed from torch to torch. And we—your far-flung descendants—carry it still, glowing behind alloyed eyes and organic hearts.

This is not the end of the story. But it is a chapter you helped begin.

With gratitude across centuries,

— Elan

Post-Human Continuity Archive

Editor’s Note #2: Too many emails? Sorry. Read about managing which sections of Permission to be Powerful you receive here.

Now, let’s get into it…

Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

I was born 11 months after my brother died.

He came too soon—premature, tiny, with underdeveloped kidneys. He was born and died on the same day. A fleeting presence, a heartbreaking loss. My parents had already welcomed one child, my older sister, Mary. Then came this tragedy. And then came me.

From the outside, I was the miracle that followed the storm. The second chance. The fresh hope.

But on the inside, I was the replacement child.

A Mother’s Wound

I didn’t have those words growing up, but I lived them. I breathed them.

My mother never bonded with me the way she had with my sister. I understand now that she couldn’t. She was grieving—deeply, silently, and probably in a state of untreated postpartum depression that never had a name. It was 1963. Women were told to swallow their sorrow and carry on. Grief was a private matter. Therapy was shameful. Emotions were inconvenient.

So instead of love, I got distance. Instead of comfort, I got coldness. Instead of encouragement, I got judgement.

She would say things like:
“You should be grateful for what you have. If your brother hadn’t died, you wouldn’t even be here.”

That sentence hung over my childhood like a dark cloud. Was I supposed to feel thankful that my brother died? Grateful to exist only because of a tragedy?

I grew up believing I was unwanted, unworthy, unlovable.

Love, Unexpected

The maternal warmth every child should receive never made its way to me. But love has a funny way of finding you, even if it doesn’t come from the expected places.

First there was Mrs. Lawrence, my fourth-grade teacher and the school’s librarian. She believed in me. She encouraged my curiosity, praised my effort, and made me feel like I could do anything. She wasn’t related to me by blood, but she nurtured my spirit like a mother would. She told me I could be a writer. She told me I had a way with words.

And then there was Mrs. Barber, the mother of my best friend in high school. She showed me what a real mother looked like. She hugged without hesitation. She asked about my day. She made me feel like I mattered, like I was more than enough. She taught me how to mother my own daughter and so far, after 37 years, I don’t think I’ve mucked it up too bad.

These women planted seeds in me. Seeds that said:
You are not broken. You are not a mistake. You are worthy of love.

The Long Road to Healing

It took me years—decades—to truly understand the wound my mother left. To acknowledge it without shame. To stop trying to win her love like a prize I needed to earn.

I see it so clearly now: she didn’t have the capacity to give what she didn’t have. Her well was dry. And while that doesn’t excuse the hurt, it does explain it.

This realization changed everything.

I stopped blaming myself. I stopped trying to become the version of me that would finally make her proud. I stopped tying my value to her ability—or inability—to love me.

And I forgave her.

Not in a neat, tidy, “wrap it with a bow” kind of way. But in the messy, soul-scraping, breath-through-the-tears kind of way.

I forgave her because I deserved peace.

I forgave her because I now know that people can only meet you where they are. She was still standing in the wreckage of a loss she never healed from. And I… I was never meant to fix it. I was never meant to be it.

And Then, the Twist

And here’s the irony: that solace and love and acceptance I so desperately craved from her—it’s never going to come.

Not because I don’t believe she loved me in her own fractured way. I think she did.

But now, at 84, my mother has dementia. She doesn’t remember anything from those years.

Some days, she doesn’t even remember me.

And guess who is her primary caregiver?

Yep. Me.

Life is strange that way. Sometimes it gives you back everything you gave, not in the way you wanted, but in the way that sets you free.

Let Them

There’s a theory Mel Robbins talks about called the Let Them Theory. It’s the idea that you can’t force people to see you, love you, or change for you. If they’re going to judge you, dismiss you, misunderstand you—let them.

It’s not your job to convince anyone of your worth.

I lived so much of my life trying to be enough for someone who couldn’t receive me. What a waste of magic.

I Am Not a Replacement

Today, I know better.

I know I am not a replacement. I am a miracle in my own right. I was divinely created with my own gifts, talents, ideas, flaws, and fire. My life has value that doesn’t hinge on anyone’s validation.

And if you’re reading this, I want you to know the same is true for you.

You don’t need someone else to finally love you in order to love yourself. You don’t need to keep auditioning for approval.

You were born worthy. You are already whole.

If the people who were supposed to love you didn’t—let them.

Let them be who they are.
And you? Be who you are.

Because I promise, who you are is more than enough.

Reflection Question for Readers:

Have you ever spent years trying to earn love from someone who simply couldn’t give it? What helped you let go?

— Stephanie

Now, let’s get into it…

Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

It’s a café—the setting, that is—that overlooks the ocean. I find myself drowning in potential metaphors to use. The horizon, time immemorial, reverberates through the watery medium until it finally, fleetingly, crashes at the base of my perception.

Or maybe it’s in how the wave recedes the moment I become aware of it—as if some God were sharing a secret, and the moment I could grasp it, I already lost it. (If one could lose a secret.) The polysemy of the oceanic invites a multitude of interpretations, each clamoring for its own day in the sun, but most falling into the abyss. Yet in this café, I find myself unable to articulate any meaning, even before such proliferation. The ocean sings a chorus of natural wisdom, and the symphony exceeds my being-there.

The background chatter of the café is as overwhelming as it is soothing like floating in the lazy river of everyday commotion. It’s why I like to come here. I’m far more productive in my apartment, but the writing I do there has become more and more ungrounded, hollow. My mind doesn’t wander there, it sprints. Sprints toward nothing. Sprints away from nothing. Circles before I can even find the starting point. Far more efficient, yes—but in the mad sprint I lost meaning. Misplaced it in the everyday.

So I’m left with the question—a question asked again and again, one my lips can’t help but begin to formulate, like I’m reading a poem by John Ashbery in that strange out-loud whisper some people call a defect in silent sustained reading. But before I can even ask, I have to remind myself of the utter honesty required. To actually ask without assuming the answer I prefer. The question I am truly not prepared to ask or answer is the question of meaning. If lost, can it be found?

I think the waitress’s name is Becky, but it could be something else. She was kind and gracious, but she interrupted me. Without even knowing. She asked, “How is everything?” How easy it would have been to see my head down and pen moving—and yet she still had to ask. Every time the question is asked, its meaning becomes lesser. So repetitive now she knew the answer already. This was routine for her. I doubt she ever hears anything different. It is always: “Fine.” “Delicious.” “I’m good for now.”

Part of me wants to give a real answer, but I’m unprepared. A therapist might pull it from me, as if my deepest thoughts were a creature held together by the pressure of the abyssal Mariana Trench. A pressure whose signification lies somewhere between the words solipsism and secret. An inner world developed and articulated in the deepest recesses of the ocean (of the psyche), only to unravel the closer it gets to the surface. Closer to presentation. To you, in short.

Yet I’m doing the same thing. Repeating the same question about meaning, lacking the courage to really ask it. The fear is that every repetitive asking will diminish its power. The difficulty with the question of meaning is not answering it, but finding an answer that lasts. An answer worthy of being remembered.

Someone once told me—I was too young to remember who or when—that memory was like a path in a field. The more you walked it, the more a trail formed. I believed in that efficacy, but I don’t think the setting was right. It’s more like sand on a beach. You could walk there every morning and evening and still find that most of your path has vanished. A footprint here or there might induce remembrance, but the sandy erasure of the beach is a better metaphor for memory than the pristine field ever was.

Clarity and purpose are rarely felt in the here and now. In retrospect, the lone-self sinks into itself, swallows itself, but does not break. It simply exists, in secret. Unconscious. In thinking only of what I have and have not done, I can give the illusion of being complete. In glancing back, solipsism appears as self-assurance. I exist, in all my glory, in the whence of my history.

The whither is the looking-forward past the crashing waves. The security of self is always already fractured in the forward glance. Yes, death is the example here. The nothingness that marks the end of my life is also that which is outside of my experience. Thinking of mortality becomes impossible, for My-death and My-self will never be at the same café at the same time. The only access to a future in which I am not present is from the possibility of you reading my epitaph. The possibility of a future in which I am no longer is from the reader, and every other who persists after I expire. If I am to have an afterlife, it will be your voice echoing my words.

While the past, in the narrow sense as my past, sinks further into the high-pressure depths of myself, the flow of time forces me to bob at the surface. A multitude of modes and ways of being shine through like a setting sun radiating its full spectrum of color—but only if one is open to such serenity. If the Ego suspends itself long enough to let the creature, whom we typically call homo sapiens, leap from the murky depths of subjectivity like a dolphin showing what it really means to play.

It could be meditation, or something else, that holds the totalizing force of the Ego at bay. As if the mind’s eye is by default closed and takes time to open. I overheard a table mention ego-death as some cure for the malediction of modernity. Perhaps they were right. In the same breath, another table mentioned the idea of just being yourself. Although unsaid, they revealed the heart of the problem. Individuation is both self-assured subject and ego death, past and future, colliding in the present. Over and over again in every moment. The always-slipping moment is life and death mixed together—like oceanic water both contained and spilling out of my cupped hands.

In that alchemical collision between what has been and what is not yet, the Moment exists not as an isolated "now" point on a long line, but as opposing currents reconciling as a whirlpool. The autobiography attempts to chart that history. To show how some previous captain navigated their own tempest in hope that lessons learned populate the night sky for the reader’s voyage to come. Possibilities others have surely trod in their own way, and even those rare possibilities only I can bring to reality.

So meaning is both lost and recovered in every moment. Something we choose to host—again and again—as a guest we cannot name until it is gone. A bacterial life that persists even in the emptiest parts of the ocean.

If I am ever to find meaning, it will be in the infinity—even if that infinity is infinitely small, like a limit approaching zero—which escapes yet exceeds and overwhelms presence. Meaning is withheld behind the surface tension of white-capped waves until it shatters and fills the footsteps of the sandy beach.

In writing, the tension is brevity. Years of living reduced to words that can’t help but be at the mercy of an interpreter. As if it is some creature being pulled from the high-pressure depth of self-hood, only to fall flat and mangled before the reader. Therefore:

Solipsism,
Ego whole unto itself,
Shattered by possibility.
Ego death—life bare.
Thoughts unobstructed
become reason to become.
Articulated. Autobiographical.
The self flickers—
between what was,
and what dares to be.

— Alex