I don’t drink much anymore but my dinner company still does. No judgment. I accepted this dinner invitation out of politeness, not want to. I ordered this beer only to take the sting out of my discomfort.

I chuckle to myself as I take a sip. My husband would tell me he has no idea why I like these bitter IPA’s because “they taste like licking a cat’s ass!”. The lunacy of this statement makes me laugh every time. An Appalachian colloquialism meant for effect rather than accuracy.

I am careful to craft the conversation so my dinner company keeps…

Differentiating between the two.

A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about how narcissism is often mistaken or emotional immaturity. To be honest, I forgot about the piece and then it suddenly blew up over the last week. To be more honest, it’s not a well-written article and definitely not my best. In response, many commenters have pointed out the characteristics are the same for both. To a degree, they’re right, the characteristics are the same for both.

Narcissism is an extreme form of emotional immaturity. This is why it can be difficult to differentiate between the two. Even…

Thank you for your interest in contributing to Found In My Journal!

What’s hiding in your journal, diaries, or old unpublished stories? Are there thoughts you couldn’t understand? Words scribbled on the back of a photo and tucked away?

What will you find? A soulful poem, story prompt, or expression of emotions too powerful at the time? What do you see now?

Or maybe you will find yourself.

That is who we are. A family of writers brought together by each other’s words through a chance click on a random story. Through words, we find connection, belonging, and support while…

Millennials fear a return to the ultra-low rise.

Earlier this week I wrote a humor piece about skinny jeans getting canceled by Gen Zer’s. I don’t write humor often but this one sort of flowed out. I suppose that’s what happens when you become internet irrelevant.

I stand by every word, too. This is not a piece in defense of skinny jeans or anything. It’s one to say that if you’re confused by the panic, there’s a deeper explanation here. Yeah sure, it sucks to admit that we are, ahh — um, I am, getting older and now watching my…

In my community, the majority of voters are privileged and white. They historically vote conservatively and they have loved the hell out of Donald Trump and his shenanigans. In a word, it is oxymoronic. Nearly all of them will argue they do not know of this privilege I speak of. “I’m not privileged! I work hard!”.

I have repeatedly been mistaken for a cookie-cutter, Stepford Wife-ish, church-going Southern conservative. A snap judgment, solidified by my camouflage-soaked military spouse life. And one that I try my damndest to avoid.

I typically don’t write politics. It’s tedious. I don’t consider myself smart…

I see you. I feel you. I love you. I am you.

I see you standing there in your closet. Strapped in a tank top and pulling every sweater you have down from the hanger. Standing in different positions next to that dusty full-length mirror. Rotating between standing with your shoulders pulled back, stomach sucked in, and standing with your hip cocked sideways, shirt ruffled on the bottom. Twelve different outfit combinations, three of them tried on twice, all of them heaped in the closet floor — discarded with disgust. Nothing looks good and worse than that, nothing feels good…

I’d like to say something.

Hey, hey, hey. What is going on here?

I heard you over there on the Tik Tak or whatever calling out my generation for our skinny jeans and side parts. I’d like you to know that I went kicking and screaming into these trends in the first place. Still, I promise to take no cheap shots about how maybe you shouldn’t be in charge of fashion with all that Tide detergent reverberating in your veins.

Somewhere in my closet is a pair of fit and flare bootcut jeans with the hem worn off on the bottom. Damn, I loved those jeans. My 5'2…

Sometimes we must go back before going forward.

Yesterday I stood outside the hospital for the first time, one year and seven months later. The last clear memory I have of that day is his dad helping me into the truck — too tall for my tired, beaten body to climb into by myself. Four people congratulated me on the way down to the entrance, unaware he had died.

I didn’t know it would end like this when they wheeled me in via an ambulance stretcher. They told me it would, but I didn’t believe it. You can’t believe it…