KikiFikar

Brand Names & Battle Scars: A Love Story in Labels

What are your favorite brands and why?

By now, you know I love to shop. And if you don’t—well, welcome. Grab a cart. Stay awhile. In Chez Kiki, shopping isn’t a chore; it’s an experience. I read the reviews like they’re the morning paper. I compare, contrast, second-guess, and then—just when I think I’ve found “the one”—I’ll try something completely different just to keep things interesting. Loyalty, for me, isn’t blind. It’s earned.

Take store brands. I used to breeze right past them like they were the understudies of the grocery world. Why settle, right? Until one day, curiosity (and maybe a sale sticker) got the better of me. And guess what? Plot twist: some of those “backup singers” are hitting higher notes than the headliners. Same quality. Sometimes better. Honestly, I’m convinced there’s a mysterious warehouse somewhere in the tri-state area cranking out both labels while we all argue in aisle five.

When it comes to cars, my loyalty used to be inherited. I grew up in a Chevrolet family, with a little Audi influence sprinkled in. And to be fair, those Chevys treated me well. Reliable. Familiar. Comfortable. Then marriage came along—and with it, a new contender: Jeep. Three years ago, that “contender” became my forever. My Jeep flipped—up and over, spinning like it had somewhere else to be—before finally landing on its roof. I crawled out upside down, shaken but here. That vehicle didn’t just get me from point A to point B. It saved my life. Brand loyalty doesn’t get more real than that. I won’t drive anything else. Period. Full stop.

Now let’s talk clothes—because this is where things get personal. I’m not a high-end, designer-label kind of girl. Give me classic with a little personality and I’m happy. About thirty years ago, I walked into Gap and felt like I found my fashion soulmate. Since then, my closet has become a tribute to all things Old Navy and Athleta. At this point, I should probably get a holiday card from corporate. And while we’re here—let’s just say it: Athleta gym clothes outperform Lululemon in my world. There, I said it. They last forever, they move with me, and they don’t make me nervous to actually…you know…sweat in them.

The only other brand that has truly earned my undivided loyalty? Nike. I’ve tested them all—every style, every promise, every “this will change your workout” pitch. But Nike? Nike gets me. I’ve got a thin foot with a high arch, and since 2014, I haven’t had a single ounce of foot pain after a workout. Not one. Sometimes I don’t even branch out—I just keep buying the same sneaker like it’s a trusted friend. No flash required. Just results.

If you’re keeping score at home, my “brand style” is less about labels and more about loyalty with receipts. I’ll try anything once, but when something proves itself—whether it’s saving my life, surviving my laundry routine, or supporting my arches—it earns a permanent place in my story.

At the end of the day, our favorite brands say a lot about us—not just what we like, but what we trust. They’re stitched into our routines, parked in our driveways, and lined up in our closets like old friends. Some we outgrow. Some surprise us. And a few? A few show up when it matters most and never leave. Those are the ones worth sticking with…no coupon required.

Textual Healing: How Emojis Became the Official Language of Kiki Land

What are your favorite emojis?

Daily Prompt 1921

The texts absolutely fly here in the Land of Kiki. At any given moment, there are family texts for just the four of us, separate chats between me and the kids, groups with my mom and sister, and enough sidebar conversations to qualify as their own social network.

The messages are quick, chaotic, and usually hilarious. Some days I can barely keep up—especially with the extended family and cousin group texts, where responses come faster than I can find my reading glasses. Thankfully, we’ve added the younger cousins to the mix. They keep us current on all the latest emojis, abbreviations, and internet shorthand. Please note: I often need to quietly sidebar someone for translation services.

Apparently there are entire conversations happening in symbols now, and I’m just doing my best to remain bilingual.

Jules and I, however, have taken things to the next level. We now have our own private emoji language. We discovered you can turn photos into stickers, which means ordinary texting has evolved into a highly specialized communication system made up of facial expressions, inside jokes, and random snapshots used as punctuation.

You may recall that Jules and I saw Stevie Nicks last year. After every song, she’d grow very quiet. A hush would fall over the crowd… and then she’d offer one long, dramatic, deeply heartfelt: thaaaank you.

Naturally, this became part of our vocabulary.

So now, instead of typing “thanks” or even the efficient little “TY,” we simply send the Stevie sticker. No words necessary. Just mystery, gratitude, and a touch of chiffon.

Honestly, if every family had a custom emoji dialect, world peace might be possible. Or at the very least, fewer misunderstood texts.

“And I Wonder Who’s Loving You?”

I used to sing those lyrics every day after school and every weekend for years. They came from the smash hit Who’s Loving You? by the Jackson 5, featured on their first album. I received that record for my fifth birthday, about a year after the Jackson 5 burst onto the scene and into all of our lives.

That group had everything I loved as a child—a sound unlike anything else, infectious energy, and dance moves I studied and tried my best to copy. My love affair with choreography started early, and if you’ve read some of my other Kiki creations, you already know that.

Today at 2:45, Jules and I settled into Row J, Seats 16 and 17, to watch Michael—the new film centered on the early chapters of Michael Jackson’s life and career. I’ll watch a movie anywhere, but put me in a real theater—with surround sound, popcorn, and a large Diet Coke—and I’m instantly transported into the screen for a bird’s-eye view of the story.

Michael was portrayed by his nephew, Jafar Jackson (Jermaine’s son, for those who may need a refresher on the famous family tree). You can Google…go ahead. I’ll wait.

The movie offered an intimate glimpse into what many of us had heard whispered through the years and sometimes confirmed by Michael himself: he was treated terribly by his father. The abuse was heartbreaking. The film showed how Michael escaped those realities by immersing himself in old comedy films, cartoons, and fantasy. His love of Peter Pan and the inspiration behind Neverland were woven into that narrative.

And before anyone wonders—if you’re looking for commentary on the more controversial chapters of his life, you won’t find it here. There’s no room for speculation in these lines. What I am here to say is simple: I remain in awe of Michael’s talent, and he was undeniably an icon of my generation.

The movie was bold, emotional, and brilliantly done. Jules mentioned that many legal matters were never fully resolved, which meant several important figures in Michael’s life were left out entirely. Names like Diana Ross and his sister Janet were among those absent from the storyline.

As the movie moved forward, I found myself vividly remembering what it was like to watch Michael rise—not just as a star, but as an artist who became larger than life.

His music is stitched into the fabric of my memories.

His early solo songs played while I roller-skated each week. Later, hits like Bad and P.Y.T. filled bars and clubs during and after my college years. In August of 1984, I sat in the nosebleed seats at Madison Square Garden for the Victory Tour. Michael—and his brothers—were electric. I can still feel the pulse of that crowd, my seat vibrating, and the floor shaking as people danced in the aisles.

Near the end of the film, I glanced to my right and saw Jules beaming.

She grew up on Michael Jackson because of me.

One of the funniest stories from Chez Fikar goes back to the days of the Wii. There was a game called The Michael Jackson Experience, built entirely around recreating Michael’s choreography. You danced with the remote, and the game scored you based on how accurate your moves were.

My daughter, being the fiercely competitive child she was then (and, I maintain, still is), was endlessly frustrated because she could never beat my score.

One day I finally told her:

“Face it. This is my music, and I lived it years before you came along!”

So now, watching Jules bop along to those same songs as an adult is more gratifying than I can put into words.

There will be no spoilers here.

There is talk of another film covering the later chapters of Michael’s life being released next year. I’m not sure I’d want to see that one.

That would mean revisiting the day the world learned of Michael’s passing—June 25, 2009.

I can’t.

Honestly… I never can say goodbye to Michael.

Fly Me To The Moon

Work vacations can be spent traveling, caretaking, organizing, or shopping. Today, however, a new contender entered the chat—space research. Not casually dabbling, mind you. Full-on, coffee-fueled, note-taking, multi-screen, “Houston, I have questions” level research.

I’ve always been fascinated by NASA and our journeys beyond what we can see from the driveway. Anne and John fed that curiosity early with trips to the Kennedy Space Center in Florida, where I probably read every placard twice and asked at least one question too many. Back in the pre-Google era, I relied on my trusty Encyclopedia Britannica and whatever library book I could get my hands on. If it had planets in it, I was all in. I was scared to fly there but it just always drew me in.

Fast forward to this morning. Post-gym, coffee in hand, to-do list pretending to matter—I stumbled across the news that Netflix would be streaming live coverage of Artemis mission as it looped around the far side of the moon. A casual 1 PM commitment, I thought. I’d watch a little, learn a little, and move on with my productive day.

Cue the laugh track.

I squeezed in errands, got the Jeep washed (because priorities), and made it home just in time for what quickly became “Kiki’s Space Watch 2026.” At first, I folded laundry while half-paying attention. Thirty minutes later, the laundry was folded—but so was I—completely wrapped up in orbit patterns, mission timelines, and commentary from Houston. Not one screen, not two, but multiple tablets going at once like I was preparing for a final exam I never signed up for.

Three hours later—imagine the SpongeBob narrator voice here—I was still locked in. I went down the rabbit hole of lunar orbit, Earth’s orbit, tidal lock, and the misunderstood “dark side” of the moon (which, spoiler alert, isn’t actually dark—just fashionably late to the sunlight party). Every answer led to five more questions, and I happily chased every single one.

My brain absorbed more information today than it has in weeks—which is saying something considering its current “please hold” status lately. But there was something about this…something bigger than checking boxes on a to-do list. The universe has a way of humbling you while simultaneously lighting a fire in your curiosity.

Somewhere between folding towels and falling headfirst into lunar science, I was reminded of something simple but powerful—wonder is always available to us. It doesn’t require a plane ticket or a perfect plan. Sometimes it just takes pressing “play,” asking one question, and letting yourself be pulled into something bigger than your day. And if a random Monday can turn into a deep dive around the far side of the moon, then maybe—just maybe—we’re never really stuck…we’re just one curiosity away from liftoff. 🚀

It Started with a Prompt… and Somehow I Ended Up on a Beach with Kenny Chesney

There are moments in life where you stop and think, well… this is new.

Creating an AI-generated photo of myself with Kenny Chesney firmly lands in that category. This past week I’ve chatted with many of you via prompts about AI and how it is changing the fabric of our society. We are almost forced to use AI for work (my position calls for monthly enrollment projections so I must partake in this type of practice). However, I am against using this personally. We get into vigorous debates about this in my homestead. When discussing Summer plans and my need to see Kenny Chesney at The Sphere in Vegas – I said listen I just have to get a picture with Kenny. We all fell down laughing. I mean really Kiki. My daughter then says – why wait? Let’s get that picture before June.

Now, let’s be clear. I have not met Kenny. There was no backstage pass, no VIP wristband, no spontaneous duet under a Caribbean sunset. I did win tickets to see him in 2009 from Sirius XM. He did point to me in our up close and personal seats but that was the extent of my brush with greatness. What there was, however, was me, my phone, and a curiosity that got the better of me.

And just like that—click, type, generate—I was suddenly standing next to Kenny on a beach that looked like it belonged on one of his album covers. The lighting? Perfect. The vibe? Effortless. The reality? Questionable.

But here’s the thing…

For a split second, it didn’t matter.

Because the photo didn’t feel like a fake. It felt like a possibility. Like one of those “what if” moments we don’t always say out loud but quietly carry around anyway. AI just happened to bring mine to life—with better hair and a more cooperative ocean breeze than I usually get.

It also made me laugh. Out loud. The kind of laugh that says, I cannot believe this is a thing now.

We’ve officially entered an era where your camera roll can hold memories you never actually lived—and somehow, they still feel like yours. That’s equal parts amazing and mildly terrifying, depending on how much coffee you’ve had.

Will I be framing this photo? Absolutely not.

Will I show it to people like it’s a completely normal thing to have? Also yes. My daughter wants me to use this as my new Facebook profile picture and see who notices.

Because if nothing else, it’s a reminder that life is allowed to be a little ridiculous, a little unexpected… and occasionally enhanced by a well-timed prompt.

And honestly, if I’m going to dip my toe into the future, I’m glad Kenny Chesney was there waiting on the other side.

☀️ The Sunshine Blogger Award: A Little Light, A Lot of Truth

First things first—gratitude where it’s due.

A heartfelt thank you to BeingKevin – An American Living the Brazilian Way for the nomination. Kevin’s writing is thoughtful, layered, and quietly powerful—the kind of blog you start reading “for a minute” and suddenly you’re three posts deep, nodding along like you’ve known him for years. Do yourself a favor and spend some time there:

👉 https://beingkevin.com (go ahead… I’ll wait)

☀️ The Guidelines (because we follow directions… mostly)

Display the award’s official logo somewhere on your blog Thank the person who nominated you ✔️ Provide a link to your nominator’s blog ✔️ Answer your nominator’s questions ✔️ Nominate up to eleven bloggers Ask your nominees eleven questions Notify your nominees by commenting on their blogs

☀️ Questions & My Answers (the real stuff)

1. What is your favorite food?

A very rare cheeseburger, blue cheese crumbles, steak sauce, all sitting proudly on a freshly baked Kaiser roll. No substitutions. No apologies.

2. Favorite place to visit?

Bar Harbor, Maine. Not even close. It’s like stepping into a postcard—classic Americana meets “why don’t I live here yet?”

3. How old were you when you moved out?

Technically 18 for college. Officially 23 when I got married and the training wheels came off.

4. High school mascot?

The Golden Eagle. Strong. Majestic. Slightly aggressive.

5. Did you ever play organized sports?

I ran Track (shoutout to my New York State Games Racewalking era… yes, really) and competition Kickline. Balance and grit—my personality in a nutshell.

6. What are you afraid of?

Losing my kids before I check out.

Also: flipping a Jeep, bugs, and the possibility that this blog never makes it to TV.

7. Favorite TV shows?

This is where I lose control a bit:

Ted Lasso, vintage Saturday Night Live, Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, Seinfeld, Mad Men, The Sopranos, Entourage, and The Morning Show.

Movies? That’s a whole separate post—and you know I’ll write it.

8. What are you most proud of?

My kids. Ten and twelve years to bring them into this world, and they are—without exaggeration—marvelous humans.

9. Why do you blog?

To document real life as it happens. No fiction. No filters. Just the everyday moments that somehow become everything.

10. Thoughts on AI?

Let’s just say… I see its purpose. But I’m also side-eyeing it like it just sat in my seat.

11. Has social media helped or hindered society?

Hindered. Too much pressure. Too much comparison. Too much “what is even real anymore?” I’m grateful I grew up before it took over everything.

☀️ My Questions to You

1.What is your favorite hobby?

2.What was your favorite year of your life—and why?

3.Who was your first boyfriend or girlfriend? 4. Do you have a bucket list? What’s on it?

5. Did you play a sport growing up?

6. What are you afraid of?

7. What was your first concert?

8. If you could have one last conversation with someone you’ve lost, who would it be—and what would you say?

9. Why do you blog?

10. Who is your favorite musical artist or group?

11. Social media: help or hinder?

☀️ My Nominations (no pressure, just love)

JustCallMeSharon | A Delicate Balance of Highly Organized Within My Creative Disarray

Where It All Began 6 – Charlierobinsonbooks

Heart of Loia

My Little Corner of the World

Squiggle Line Cafe

The Happy Traveler

(And if you’re reading this and feeling a nudge… consider yourself unofficially nominated. Yes, I make my own rules. Michael, Brian, Willie, and Edward I am having trouble with the links despite Kevin trying to help this blonde gal.)

There’s something quietly powerful about being asked questions that make you pause, reflect, and answer honestly. So Kevin—thank you for the nudge into the sunshine.

Chasing the Laugh Track

What makes you laugh?

Daily Prompt 1892: What Makes You Laugh?

If you’ve spent any time here with me, you already know—these blogs are basically a breadcrumb trail of who I am. Some crumbs are obvious. Others? You’ve got to squint a little, read between the lines, maybe even take a leap and guess. You might be right. You might not. That’s part of the fun.

Here’s one that requires zero decoding:

Most days at work, I walk into the ladies’ room, close the door behind me, exhale like I’ve just finished a marathon, and think, “Why on earth am I not writing for TV?”

And every single time, the answer is the same: I have absolutely no idea.

What I do know is this—I love to laugh. Not a polite chuckle. Not a courtesy giggle. I’m talking about the kind of laugh that sneaks up on you, takes over your whole body, and leaves you wiping your eyes wondering what just happened. And if I’m being honest? I want more of that in the world. We’re all wound a little too tight these days. No politics here—you know that’s not my lane—but let’s not pretend we couldn’t all stand to loosen the grip a bit.

So what do I do? I go hunting for laughter.

Over the years, I’ve spent plenty of time in comedy clubs—some live, some courtesy of the YouTube rabbit hole that swallows hours of my life without apology. I’m fascinated by comedic timing. It’s an art form. A science. A rhythm. And long before he became a household name with Seinfeld, I was drawn to Jerry Seinfeld. He studies comedy. Dissects it. Perfects it. His writing? Sharp. His delivery? Effortless. The man doesn’t just tell jokes—he engineers them.

Now yes, Seinfeld is legendary. Untouchable in many ways. But for me? It’s not even his best work.

That honor goes to Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee.

The premise is simple—which is exactly why it works. Jerry grabs a classic car (because of course he does), gives you a quick love letter to the vehicle, picks up a fellow comedian, and they head out for coffee. That’s it. No bells. No whistles. Just conversation.

But oh…that conversation.

Two masters of their craft sitting side by side, talking shop, life, absurdity—it’s magic. Pure, unscripted magic. And every now and then, there’s a moment where Jerry completely loses it. Full-on, can’t-catch-his-breath laughter. The kind where you start laughing just because he is. Honestly, that might be my favorite part. Because if you can make him laugh like that? Good God…you’ve made it.

So here’s to chasing the laugh. To studying it, finding it, sharing it. To refusing to let the weight of the world steal something so simple and so necessary.

Because at the end of the day, if we can still laugh—really laugh—we’re doing something right.

Add to Cart: One Thick Skin, Please

What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?

Like many card-carrying members of modern society, I proudly hold an Amazon Prime membership. Which means, naturally, I can have just about anything my heart (or impulse control) desires delivered to my doorstep in record time. Need paper towels? Done. A last-minute birthday gift? Covered. A random 2 a.m. purchase I’ll question in the morning? Already out for delivery.

At some point, we’ll unpack my relationship with Amazon a little more—because, trust me, there’s a story there. But for today, just know: I’m a frequent flyer.

So when I sat down with this prompt, my mind wandered like it usually does. Sure, I’d love to read minds (strategically, of course). I wouldn’t hate waking up with effortlessly perfect Pinterest hair. Baking something edible—consistently—would be a win. And yes, I stand by my lifelong dream of sharing a few cocktails with Kenny Chesney on a beach somewhere.

But instead of typing any of that, I found myself entering two simple words into the Amazon search bar:

Thick Skin.

According to vocabulary.com, “thick skin” means being emotionally resilient, mentally tough, and not easily rattled by criticism, rejection, or the occasional unnecessary comment that somehow sticks longer than it should.

In other words, I’d like to glide through life a little less ruffled. A little less reactive. A little more…unbothered.

That’s it. That’s the wish.

It doesn’t feel like a big ask, honestly. Not compared to mind-reading or mastering the perfect sourdough. Just the ability to let things roll off a bit easier. To not carry what was never mine to begin with.

And if Amazon happens to have that in stock? Even better.

I’d gladly pay the extra $2.99 for same-day delivery—somewhere between 4 and 8 p.m. would be perfect.

Because while I’m still a work in progress, I have a feeling this is one package worth waiting for.

Living In The USA

Blogging started as a hobby for me, but somewhere along the way it quietly turned into a virtual classroom. Since tossing my words out into the wilds of WordPress and Jetpack, I’ve crossed paths with people whose talents stop me in my tracks on a daily basis—writers, musicians, storytellers who make you feel something before you even realize it’s happening.

Such is the case with my friend Bryan. He’s the real deal—an exceptional writer and an accomplished musician. Do yourself a favor and run, don’t walk, to his site: http://loia.blog

A few nights ago, Bryan posted a piece originally performed by Linda Ronstadt. I was hooked within seconds. One song turned into another, and before I knew it, I was deep into my playlists, dusting off long-forgotten Ronstadt tracks like I had just uncovered buried treasure.

Fast forward to tonight. I’m scrolling for something—anything—to watch, and there it is: a documentary on Linda Ronstadt sitting on Prime like it had been waiting just for me. I’m a sucker for a good documentary, so in I went. Within two minutes, I was smiling like I’d just run into an old friend.

What followed was less of a viewing and more of a deep dive—a full-on rabbit hole into music history. Early band beginnings, unexpected turns, and then those “wait…what?!” moments. When she struck out on her own, Don Henley showed up behind the drums. Not long after, Glenn Frey wandered into the mix. The two of them eventually stepped away to form Eagles.

It hit me as I watched—this wasn’t just a documentary. It was a web of connections. A reminder that music isn’t just sound; it’s history, relationships, timing…a classroom you never signed up for but somehow end up attending anyway.

And then…beep, beep. The WayBack Machine fired up.

It’s 1978. Thirteen-year-old Kiki hops on the N81 bus headed to the Sunrise Mall in Massapequa, Long Island. Babysitting money clutched tightly in hand, mission clear: get that brand-new album.

There it was—Living in the USA. The last one in the bin. You better believe I grabbed it like it was gold and made a beeline for the register.

That album didn’t just get played—it got lived. Spun over and over until it warped. Liner notes read so many times the edges gave out before I did. And that satin baseball jacket Linda wore on the cover? Oh, I campaigned hard for that one at home.

Back then, I had no idea I was listening to someone who would one day be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I just knew how it made me feel.

Music doesn’t ask for credentials. It doesn’t care how old you are, where you are, or what you know. It simply shows up—sometimes through a friend’s blog post, sometimes through a late-night scroll—and it pulls you back to moments you didn’t realize were still living inside you.

So here’s what I’ve learned from this little journey down the rabbit hole:
The songs may fade from your daily rotation, the albums may collect dust, but the feelings? They never leave.

They just wait patiently…for the next time you hit “play.”

The Anniversary That Never Left

It Still Happened

I’m big on anniversaries. Timelines in my life matter. I realize that’s not the case for everyone, and that’s okay. In fact, that’s part of the beauty of life. The things that carry weight for me might not carry the same weight for someone else. Differences keep life interesting. If we all thought the same way, the world would be painfully vanilla.

But there’s a difference between seeing things differently and dismissing how someone feels.

When someone discounts my feelings simply because they don’t feel the same way… well, that’s where I take issue. My feelings matter. Yours do too. Respecting that difference is part of being human.

Before I go further, a small housekeeping note. Much of what I’m about to say will remain vague and somewhat cryptic. Certain details cannot be discussed openly for legal reasons. But the emotions that have surfaced from this event cannot be ignored, and today feels like the right time to acknowledge them.

When I wake up tomorrow, it will mark three years since my life quite literally turned upside down.

I was driving to work that morning, just a block away from my home. Out of nowhere, a driver struck my Jeep and flipped it upside down. One moment I was heading to work like any other day. The next moment, the world was inverted and nothing would ever feel quite the same again.

To this day, I don’t know if I was unconscious or for how long. What I do know is that somehow I managed to unhook my seatbelt. Using a strange hand–hand–foot–foot crawl, I worked my way toward the door. A bystander—someone who must have been sent straight from Heaven—helped drag me out onto the street.

I still think about that person.

The specifics of the accident itself aren’t something I can discuss. What I can talk about is everything that followed.

Physically, I was fortunate. It could have been much worse. I sustained a traumatic brain injury, scattered focal matter in my brain, occipital neuralgia, nerve damage in my hand and right foot, and daily migraines that seem to park themselves behind my right eye. My brain is now monitored regularly through mapping for stroke activity.

But I keep going. That’s simply my nature. Surrendering to pain has never been part of my operating system.

And yes, people remind me constantly that it could have been worse.

“Be grateful you’re not dead.”

I am grateful. Beyond grateful. I know how close the margin was.

But gratitude and struggle can exist in the same space.

I still live with the reminders every single day. Loud sounds can make my heart race. Careless drivers can send me into a spiral. Night terrors make sleep something I dread instead of welcome.

And then there’s the spiritual side of it all.

For a long time, I believed God was watching over me that day. I even went to speak with the pastor at my church about it, hoping for some sense of understanding. His response was simple and flat: maybe I was just lucky.

That conversation hit harder than he probably realized. Add in the lingering feelings about how Jake was treated during his First Holy Communion, and somewhere along the way my connection to the Catholic Church quietly slipped away.

I suppose faith, like trust, can fracture.

The larger point in all of this is simple: just because an injury isn’t immediately visible doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Just because someone survives doesn’t mean they aren’t still fighting battles every day.

I was raised to believe you shouldn’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins. These past three years have reminded me just how true that saying really is.

Because of some of the reactions I’ve experienced, I’ve drawn inward. I’ve grown quieter. There are days when a “why bother” attitude creeps into my outlook on life.

I’ll still write. These blogs remain my outlet. But I rarely share the deepest parts of how I feel anymore.

After the crash, I was required to meet with a therapist. To be fair, some of the techniques helped immensely with the brain injury and navigating work again. I only missed three weeks because of brain swelling and vision difficulties. For that, I was grateful.

But when it comes to the emotional side of things? That switch feels like it was flipped off somewhere along the road.

I’ve learned a lot about people over these past three years—their reactions, their perspectives, their ability to empathize… or not.

And that’s okay. We are all different.

But somewhere in the middle of all those differences, you lost me.

Because the truth is this:

Part of me did die that day.

But the rest of me is still here… learning how to live with what survived.