#CheckInWithMe: Give and get support here.

I have known many versions of my Father throughout my life.

The teen who graduated on Friday
and had me on Monday
and did his best to raise me.

The young man trying so hard
to build a life for his family,
using the blunt and sharp tools
he was handed
instead of the ones I needed.

The man who believed
that the belt
and his hands
and police
and institutions
would teach me lessons
he didn’t have the words to teach—
because his father
and his father before him
were good men in institutions
who did their best
to raise good men.

And maybe they succeeded
in raising good men.

But did they succeed
in having good relationships
with their children?

Were they close?
Did they know
they were loved?

Or did they just tolerate each other
and mourn the words left unsaid—

until a bugle,
a rifle salute,
and a folded flag
placed in waiting hands,
as if honor
could substitute
for tenderness?

I covered my grandfather’s corpse
with a flag
because my own father asked me to.

I uncovered—
and covered—
and arranged—
and did my best to take pictures
because he asked me to.

I did not share them.

Because even in my own grief
I knew better—
that he should not have to remember
his father that way,
but as the man
he looked up to.

That massive figure
in my father’s life.

A soldier.
A hero.
A grandfather.

Someone who put the safety
and security of those around him
before anyone else.

Barely present in mine—
but everywhere
in my body.

In the way my shoulders stay raised.
In the way my jaw locks.
In the way my chest tightens
when voices rise.

In the way I confuse love
with endurance.
Safety
with silence.
Affection
with compliance.

He wasn’t there—
but his shadow was.

And He wasn’t there either—
but His rules were.

Both distant.
Both watching.
Both shaping me
without knowing me.

I learned obedience
before trust.
Fear
before faith.
Survival
before love.

I learned coping skills
I never consented to—
hypervigilance,
self-erasure,
earning affection,
bracing for impact.

I learned how to disappear
to stay safe.

And now I am unlearning
what his love taught me—
that love is conditional,
that care comes with consequences,
that fathers only show up
when they’re angry.

And I am unlearning
what His love taught me—
that grace must be earned,
that pain is holy,
that suffering
is obedience.

Because my love
doesn’t feel like that.

My love lives in my hands.
In the way I sit with people
without fixing them.
In the way I soften my voice
instead of raising it.
In the way
I stay.

His will read with regret and grief
that he could not love his family
the way he wanted to—
because of violence and war
and trauma
and violence and war.

But my father loved him.
And I loved my father.

So I carried out his wishes.

But His Will?
God the Father?

How do you follow
God the Father
when your own father
has never followed you
into the depths of hell
he threw you into—
from a very young age—
without outsourcing repair
to cops,
military schools,
jails,
institutions?

Why am I so hard to love
without institutions?

Why can’t he love
what he created?

Why can’t He
love unconditionally?

It’s hard to find faith
in a hundred-million-dollar church
with a twenty-million-dollar sound system
that spends a million a year
on its community—

while welcoming anti-trans,
anti-queer,
anti-me rhetoric
into its halls and walls—

then passing the plate
for more money
and more money
and more money
to do it again
and again
and again.

The concerts are good.

But Christ’s teachings are missing
when it feels more like a brand
to be managed
than a message
to be lived.

Maybe I love Christ.

But I hate His Christians.
And His churches.
And the complacency
of calling a concert
and a short sermon
His good works.

Hatred and Hell
and discrimination
and His love
cannot coexist
in the same building—

but they can
in hearts
not ready to heal.

Maybe I am wicked.

But I am love.

And my love
does not demand suffering.
My love
does not need punishment.
My love
does not disappear
when someone fails.

And yet—
when his love
and His love
are what I crave
to feel whole enough
to surrender control
to a higher power
that can’t heal
what it broke—

it’s hard to feel
his grace
or His grace
when his actions
and His actions
have made me feel unsafe
and unloved
since my earliest memory.

On the drive home from church
I asked whether a baby
burns in fire and brimstone
before knowing Christ.

“Yes,” they said.

Because when asked why—

“Yes, queer kids burn in hell
for refusing His teachings.”

Unless they change
their wicked ways.

Unless
I change
mine.

Is it wicked
to love without shame?

To care less about labels
than the kind,
decent,
warm,
giving person
standing in front of you—

sharing their heart and home—

when His home
and his home
and His heart
and his heart
feel like hatred?

The message says
love and forgive
and love
and spread his word—

treat your neighbor
as you wish
to be treated.

Is that talking shit
about someone three feet away
because you’ve been to church
a handful of times in recovery?

Is it not wicked
to judge others?

To speak harshly
when I can hear you
the entire time?

I went to church
for the first time in decades
looking for reasons
to believe in His love.

Instead, I found
his critiques
and His Christians
serving hatred
on a platter—

like the offering plate—

asking for more money
and more money
and more money
to reach more people
to make more money.

If God exists,
why does His flock
muddy His words
until they sound like
his words
and his words
and his words?

If God exists,
He does not live
in a megachurch.

He lives
in courtyards,
small circles,
music,
shared meals,
people unburdening their hearts
without asking for payment afterward.

I feel Him
in the park—
serving the most vulnerable
of His flock.

I feel Him
in my siblings.
I feel Him
in my cousins.

But when He robbed me
of my family
long before their time
should have ended—

and when His hatred
moves through men and women
who attend church every Sunday
just to talk down
on those who’ve walked through Hell
and still search for His grace
without ever being shown His love—

Where do you go?

How do you kneel
and surrender
to a higher power
that has only ever hurt you
through His words
and his words
and his words?

My father’s house
was never my safe space.

My Father’s house
was never where I found grace.

But I can build one
for my son.
And his son.
And his son.

Still—

They say my father has changed.
And maybe he has.

He drinks less.
He says sorry more.

He blames alcohol
for decisions
that nearly destroyed
another marriage—

with abandon,
with carelessness,
with no regard
for the children
watching it happen.

His children.
His children.
And the children
they stitched together.

Would I have lost
my bonus brother?
My bonus mother?

Because of him?
Because of Him?

She lowers expectations.
She serves him.
Because of His will.
Because of vows
spoken in front of Him.
Because of the life
they built together.

And I find myself
hating him
and hating Him—

while loving her,
and my brother,
and my brother,
and my sister.

And despite everything
I still feel Him
in their presence.

But I feel his influence more.
And I feel His violence.
And his violence.

And the way
my body remembers
before my mind does.

He broke me.
And He broke me.

And once again
I am left
to put myself back together—

alone,
in an institution—

because he cannot repair
what he broke.

And neither can He.

#MightyPoets #MentalHealth #ADHD #PTSD #SubstanceUseDisorders #Depression #Grief #MightyTogether #CheckInWithMe #Trauma

I used to think
home was a place.

Four walls.
A key.
A mailbox with your name on it.

But when you grow up without that kind of certainty,
home stops being a location
and starts becoming
people,
and memories,
and the way your chest loosens
in certain rooms.

So it would be easy—
easy—
to believe
I don’t have a home to go back to.

Except I do.

There is a small house
on San Marco Street
in Vacaville, California
that has been my home
since the day I was born.

A tree in the front yard—
the kind of tree that holds history in its bark.
Generations climbed it.
Swung from it.
Fell out of it.
Cried under it.
Laughed under it.

That tree has caught more of us
than we ever realized.

There’s a red door.
Always the same red.
Opening into a living room
filled with couches older than some of the people sitting on them,
and clocks—
so many clocks—
all of them ticking.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

Clocks timing Christmas mornings.
Birthday dinners.
Graduations.
Funerals.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

Every clock set wrong.
Every single one.

An absolutely annoying sound.
A maddening sound.
A welcome sound.

When I was younger,
sleeping on that couch felt like exile.
Banished from more time with cousins,
from noise,
from warmth,
from love.

Lying there in the dark
listening to the tick, tick, tick
wondering why silence could feel so loud.

Now?

That couch—
those ticks—
are some of the most comforting things in the world.

Even when there are twenty people stacked on top of each other.
Even when there’s no room to stretch out
but somehow
always room for one more body,
one more story,
one more plate,
one more memory.

Because those people—
that couch,
that house,
those sounds—
that is home.

And still—
that home is broken.

Fragmented.
Scattered.

Lost to Alzheimer’s.
Lost to grief.
Lost to heart attacks.
Lost to overdose.
Lost to time.
Lost to relationships that cracked under weight
they were never taught how to carry.

But there were other houses too.
Homes that weren’t permanent
but were always open.

Uncle Ty and Aunt Lisa’s house—
where Cam and Savannah and I
were allowed to just be kids.

No fixing.
No performing.
No surviving.

Just bikes in the driveway.
Noise in the house.
Laughter loud enough to drown out the world.

And when the world shifted—
when that house learned grief—
Aunt Lisa’s house
was still my home.

She loved me like her own.
Called me on my shit
the same way she called out her kids—
not to shame me,
but to steady me.

The kind of love that doesn’t flinch
when you’re messy.
The kind that says,
I see you. Sit down. Eat something. Try again.

And Uncle Shane and Angela’s house—
that was another kind of home.

Where I got to hang with my cool older cousins—
the only ones I had—
watching, learning, absorbing
what growing up looked like.

Lessons good and bad,
but mostly good.
Mostly fun.

Late nights.
Inside jokes.
A front-row seat to a future
that felt just close enough
to reach for.

And Annie and Uncle James’ house—
that was where I learned how to grow up
without being pushed out the door.

Where I learned how to make some money.
How to change diapers.
How to hold babies.
How to stay.

It was unconditional.
Love and support without footnotes.
Without keeping score.

She was the glue.
The planner.
The sign-maker.

The one making posters
so no one could miss
how proud she was of her 'noodles'—
every milestone,
every step forward.

And when that house learned silence,
the family fractured
in ways we still don’t have language for.

But Uncle James—
learning how to be a solo dad
while holding what remained together—
has always been there.

Even while figuring out
how to survive a life
he never planned to live.

And Uncle Seth and Aunt Katie’s house—
that one felt like it was mine.

A place to rest.
To disappear into quiet.
To play video games.
To breathe.

But even peace gets displaced.

Because you can’t be a place of calm
when your world has been shattered—
by losing siblings,
and then losing your mother
piece by piece
to Alzheimer’s.

No house escapes loss untouched.

And my home—
the one that was supposed to be mine—
didn’t always feel safe.

It wasn’t always where I wanted to be.

But something changed.

After earth-shattering grief.
After loss.
After repair.
After remarriage.
After growth.
After choosing each other again.

My mom’s house
Is starting to feel like a home.

Not just for me—
but for my cousins too.

New traditions taking shape.
New laughter learning where it fits.
A future not fully formed yet,
but finally possible.

And Grandma—
my Mimi—
her mind betrayed her.

Stole her memories.
Stole the family
she spent decades building with her own hands.

And I ask myself now—
were there signs?
Chemical imbalances quietly shaping us
long before we had words for them?
Something that might have helped me understand
my own mental health
before it nearly swallowed me whole?

Or was it grief—
that kind of grief that doesn’t knock,
that kind of grief that kicks the door in—
that locked every room in her brain
and hid her away
behind her eyes?

Every visit is a new funeral.
A new goodbye.
Grieving her
again
and again
and again.

And Papa—
God, Papa tried.

Jokes.
Silly faces.
Inside jokes built over sixty-five years.
Becoming a caregiver he never planned to be
but vowed to be.

Love layered on love layered on love.

Trying to pull her back
with everything he had
while learning how to survive
a life he never planned to live alone.

Sometimes—
just sometimes—
there’s a flicker.

A smile at the corner of her mouth.
A flash of the woman who once spoke
nothing but encouragement,
kindness,
laughter,
love without condition.

And when the babies come—
the great-grandbabies,
the grown grandbabies—
her eyes light up.

Thirty years of love
still there.
Still intact.
Still finding a way through locked doors.

Because love doesn’t disappear.
It just waits.

And I learned this there:
you cannot break through
until you break down.

Papa’s house
has always been the safest place
for me to fall apart.

A home away from home.
The place where collapse was allowed.
Where no one rushed the rebuilding.

I am thirty-three
and finally stopping long enough
to feel everything I ran from—
decades of unprocessed grief
hitting my body all at once,
asking me to heal in years
what took a lifetime to break.

Trying to heal what I didn’t break.
And what I did.

Because what happens in these houses
doesn’t stay in these houses.

It echoes.

Through hallways.
Through generations.
Into the homes we leave.
Into the homes we haven’t built yet.

Papa’s house was my home
until I was ready
to build my own.

But building without blueprints,
without tools,
without a solid foundation—
feels like building on quicksand.

Brick by brick
while the ground shifts beneath you.

It’s terrifying.

And it’s necessary.

I have had many homes.

The Moore family houses
held me.

And now—

I am building my own.

Slowly.
Carefully.
Brick
by
brick.

#MightyPoets #MightyTogether #CheckInWithMe #Trauma #PTSD #Grief #ChildLoss #Depression #Anxiety #MentalHealth #Addiction #SubstanceUseDisorders

I am grieving a life
and a childhood
I never had.

I am drowning,
and no one is coming to save me
but myself.

I cry for help—
help,
help,
help,
help—
until the word loses shape
and becomes a sound
my body makes
when it can’t hold anymore.

The help arrives
wearing the wrong face.
Treatment.
Medication.
Hospital beds.
Well wishes.
Sympathy food left on counters
with no one staying long enough
to watch me eat.

Sometimes we try to come up for air
thinking oxygen will save us,
when what we really need
is to finally fall apart.

Some of us have to brave the depths—
the long, dark corridors of our own souls—
to uncover what was buried,
what was repressed,
what still demands
to be felt
and released
and processed
at last.

But no one taught us how.

So we run.
We fight.
We flee.
We sleep.
We please.
We disappear our way through it.

We are told:
Shut it down.
Be strong.
Don’t cry.
Don’t try anything.
Drink.
Get drunk.
Bury it.

Go to the wake.
See the people.
Bury them.

And silently,
we all agree
on the same rule:

Never burden someone else with it.

It feels safer to do everything alone—
but it doesn’t work.

So I grieve
every time I asked for help
and no one showed up
but me.

I grieve the child
who had to hold it together
while the world fell apart.

I grieve realizing,
far too young,
that no one was coming to save me.

We didn’t choose to be strong.
We had to be.

Breaking wasn’t safe.
So we stayed intact.
Crying changed nothing.
Falling apart only led to
criminalization,
institutionalization,
violence,
guilt,
punishment,
disappointment,
pain.

We walk through life
as if everything exists
at the same impossible scale.

Overprepared.
Hypervigilant.
A backup plan
for the backup plan.

We check doors.
Messages.
Notifications.
Emotions.
People.
Everything.

We move through the world
carrying the weight of
“I’ve got this,”
while breaking quietly
under the pressure.

They call us independent.

No one sees the child inside
screaming to fall apart,
to collapse into arms
that actually catch us.

The arms of the broken
cannot catch us alone—
not until we step together.

But I can catch myself.
And maybe,
if I learn how,
I can help catch others too.

Not because I was saved—
but because I survived
long enough
to stay.

And maybe gentleness
is not the absence of grief,
but the decision
to stop demanding strength from a body
that has carried too much for too long.

Maybe rest
is learning to loosen the grip,
to let the armor come off slowly,
piece by piece,
without needing to explain the scars.

I am learning
to be the arms that catch—
not by rescuing,
not by fixing,
but by staying.

By sitting on the floor with the breaking,
by breathing when the sobs come,
by making room for the fall
without turning away.

I can hold myself now,
and in doing so,
I make space
for others to be held too.

Not because the pain is gone,
but because I have learned
how to rest inside it
without drowning.

#MightyPoets #Grief #Depression #Anxiety #SubstanceRelatedDisorders #MentalHealth #IfYouFeelHopeless #CheckInWithMe #Trauma