Divorce felt like wearing a scarlet letter until I met someone who showed me scars don't define us. Sometimes the most healing conversations happen with strangers who become mirrors.
Personal Growth
Single Teacher Falls for Autumn Instead of Prince Charming: Writing My Own Part II
My tenth graders studied fairy tale archetypes today. The damsel needs rescuing; the hero needs a quest. But I mow my own lawn and fix my own electrical sockets. Maybe my Part II is about falling in love with fall instead of falling for a fantasy.
Two Shootings in Five Days—But My Evening Glories Keep Me Writing on This Porch
So when are you moving?' the officer asked after the second shooting. But it's my evening glories that shield me from the foster home's porch light, Mrs. Washington who talks gardens with me. Twenty-eight weeks ago, I started writing in a document called 'I Used to Be.' Now I bloom where I'm planted—gunshots and all.
What I Wish I Could Tell My Students About Failure
She reminds me of myself at sixteen—dreaming big, planning for perfection. But life has taught me something she doesn't know yet: we don't plan to fail, but we need to learn how to hope when we do.
It Took 12 Weeks for Evening Glories to Bloom—52 for Me to Stop Chasing Ambition
One white blossom finally appeared on my evening glories, planted the same week I made my dating profile. Divorce taught me to stop networking and vying for promotion. Now I'm English department head without ever learning the district leaders' names. Maybe love blooms the same way—when you stop expecting it.
The Oak Tree Fell in February, but I’m the One Who Got Replanted
For months, the hollow oak lay in my backyard—an eyesore, then a barrier, then a mirror. Like that tree, I'd stood tall in Nashville while rotting inside. But somewhere between Syracuse's disposal and Hampton's soil, a seed found new ground.
Burying Dead Roses: How My Garden Taught Me About Betrayal
He confessed to cheating just as my first garden taught me about variables you can't anticipate. Sometimes the best thing you can do with dead flowers is bury them and let them feed new growth.
The Magnolia Trees Bloomed While I Was Waiting for Perfect
I planned to photograph the magnolias when the light was right and the trash cans weren't there. By the time I returned, they were bare. I've spent my whole life waiting for the perfect moment that never comes.
I Used to Be
Thirty-two and sitting on my Virginia porch with red wine and a laptop, I hadn't written in two years. Not since Nashville. Not since the divorce. Tonight, the first writing tingle returned—would it be enough to reclaim what I used to be?
Writer's Growth 