I’m Pausing My Blog to Work On My Web
I’m writing this post to explain what’s going on, what’s next, and what you can expect from me moving forward.
First—The EXCITING News!
Kamilah Joy at the Light House Bulb has invited me to be one of three guest speakers for her series “From Wounds to Worth.” You can find her here. I’ll be speaking on something close to my heart—an idea from my Beyond the Plate series: that we are what we eat, sure, but more truthfully? We are what we consume.
I’m honored and blessed to know such powerful healers, out here building loving and authentic communities. A huge thank you to Kamilah Joy for inviting me along at every step of the way—starting back in October 2024 when she first invited folks to share their DV story for a chance to WIN a free entry in this same series, if I recall correctly.
Now—The News That’s Giving Me Anxiety (That I’m Trying to Reframe as Excitement)
I have more than one creative endeavor brewing—probably amounting to storytelling podcasts of sorts. Or several. I’ll be foreshadowing those a little later. 😉
I’m being intentionally vague because I’ve been swimming in these ideas for months, trying to figure out how to pivot and actually bring them to life. I can’t give you a timeline just yet—I’ve never made a production like the one I’m seeing in my head, and gathering the technical knowledge to pull it off is going to be a journey.
Speaking of Process…
Let’s talk about the mundane—the day-to-day that I’m balancing behind the scenes. I’m rebuilding my practice: yoga, meditation, diet, movement, etc. Along the way, I’ll be sharing tips on how real humans can make small shifts that support healing—physically, spiritually, mentally—without breaking the bank or adding to the chaos that we’re all already living through.
I’m also working toward a certification I’m really excited about—something I’ll be able to integrate into both my personal growth and professional offerings. And I’m working a little job that I love way more than I expected. Even when it’s exhausting, I’m learning so much. The skills, the spiritual muscles I’m building, the people—real, caring humans. It’s beyond a dream. I’m grateful.
FORESHADOWING & POTENTIAL SPOILERS: No TL;DR Here.
I’m embarking on a journey that means I’ll be speaking out—sharing heavy stories, that full disclosure, were told to me by unreliable narrators, and the realities I observed about the people I grew up with and around. These stories don’t paint them in the best light. And I don’t use heavy language unless it’s earned. I know what words weigh. I’m not perfect, but I try to be impeccable with my words. Even the heavy ones.
So before I tell you the stories I carry—the ones passed down to me, sometimes unknowingly—I want to tell you about the good I saw in them.
My Grandmother
My mother’s mother. She was a CNA before I was born, an avid reader, born in 1933 (if I recall correctly), battled colon cancer young, and is still alive today—changing her own colostomy bag. I looked up the spiritual significance of colon cancer and found many of the things that “cause” it are the same chains I’ve had to break myself. Maybe my paranoia that it runs in the family ends with me.
What really stood out: generational patterns like a critical spirit, unforgiveness, self-accusation—all rooted in the evangelical programming I grew up with.
The same woman who taught me how to sew a button and praised my ability to untangle knots once accused me of being observant. Yes, accused—with a tone and body language that little Mia read as annoyed, almost disgusted.
My mother had told me being observant was a good thing. I was confused.
A thread was thrown at me. 🕸🕸
My Grandfather
A gifted storyteller. I’m still enchanted by storytellers because of him. He was funny and color blind. Once, he swore my hair was blue and laughed when I told him I wanted to be a lawyer:
“Women can’t be lawyers.”
A thread was thrown around me that day. I didn’t understand it yet—but I felt it. 🕸🕸
He taught me how to burn paper into the shape of a horse—though I couldn’t tell you how to now.
When he said “I love you, honey” in labored speech, what I heard in my heart was:
“I’m sorry. Please hear me when I say I love you.”
(I sobbed just after I wrote that—not a sad sob. A release.)
My Mother
She made good food. She worked hard in different ways to provide food, clothing, and a roof. She taught me a little about herbs—enough to spark my curiosity. She passed down silly superstitions, which she said were “just silly” but treated almost religiously.
She would praise me in private… and join in my public ridicule among the “feral dog pack.”
The threads she wove around me—we don’t have time to unpack them all here.
From her, I got: a goofy sense of humor, a love of liquor, a deep distrust of men, a working knowledge of old ways—even if she didn’t understand or admit them—and a backbone.
Much to her chagrin.
I am many things, all thanks to my mother. Even if the lessons didn’t land the way she intended. 🕸🕸
Uncle Cantankerous
Another GREAT storyteller. Funny, dramatic, charismatic. He’ll give you the shirt off his back—but grumble about it. He’ll say 10 things that are criminally smart, followed by 10 conspiracy theories if you stay long enough.
For a man who demanded silence, he sure doesn’t allow much of it.
I think he did the right thing once—out of guilt or obligation—before becoming a perpetrator himself.
He once (probably more than once) told me I was asking for it. 🕸🕸
Uncle Pendulum
I didn’t have many positive or overly negative interactions with him. Mostly, I’ve felt pity. That kind of violent emotional swinging is trauma behavior. He won’t feature heavily in what’s to come, but when he does, I’ll paint him with compassion. I think he was one of the more broken actors.
Uncle Comedian
He’ll be spoken of gently. He didn’t deserve the hand he was dealt in the web we all inherited. He’s hilarious, intelligent, wise in ways this family never appreciated.
His only crime was being born into the wrong family.
To me, he’s like a sacrifice of sorts.
I was never around him in his darkest states, but I always felt safe in his presence.
Uncle Stays-In-His-Lane
And he did. I can only recall one time he made me uncomfortable, and in hind-sight - it was much more about something someone else had told me. He seems like a genuine person. His kids still speak to him—seems like he raised them well. Evangelical, sure—but it felt real.
Still, he’s part of a rigid, toxic family.
And the best predators do blend in.
Uncle Road Rash
I almost called him Uncle Cousin Fucker—but that felt too low-bar.
I don’t have anything kind to say.
Not particularly funny, smart, kind, or generous. Not genuine.
I found him scary, creepy and gross—my entire life.
Uncle Possible Cult Leader
He was the baby. Adapted to survive. Needing a toxic family warps a person.
I remember him being funny—but, like, mean funny.
Always a little put off by him, but he’d never done anything to me, so I ignored it.
This is the kindest light I can shine on each of these people. I’ll honor their stories the same way I honor all stories of victims—to the best of my ability. I’m not trying to shame or blame them.
They’re just people. Allegedly doing their best.
It’s just that... for some of them? Their best was more suited to a life of crime and abuse.
So—with compassion, love, and a genuine hope that those who can heal do—I look forward to telling you the stories.
The webs my family weaved.
🕸
Mia Marie
