Religion has always been a double-edged sword. It can be weaponized to dominate, to segregate, to justify violence and oppression. But it can also be the soil from which love and justice spring. Too often, denominationalism—rigid, exclusive, sometimes arrogant—has aligned itself with systems that breed hierarchy and maintain the status quo. The alternative, non denominationalism, often seeks to erase difference in the name of unity, but in doing so, it can also erase the beauty, the struggle, and the lived realities of diverse communities.

There is a dance between thoughts, words, and reality. Sometimes I think first, then speak, and my words ripple out to shape what happens. Other times, reality smashes into me, forcing words into my mouth and thoughts into my head. This flow is not linear. It is a cycle, a feedback loop. In defining God, we must acknowledge this. When people say, “God is love,” they are not just describing; they are commanding, invoking, creating a reality in which love is divine. When people say, “God is wrath,” they are shaping a world where oppression is justified.

What does it mean to have an unwanted guest in someone's life and all they want to do is get rid of them but can't? The invisible chaos, the stranger I never asked to join, and the one who stays throughout this lifetime. It is my greatest enemy but also my greatest teacher as it's taught me that true healing begins when I decide it's time to stop pretending everything is fine. Speaking in truth will never be done in silence, as it takes several pushes and shoves to finally fight back and take back control. This unwanted stranger isn't easy to kick out as it stays in the back of my mind constantly. I don't need an angel to blind this creature, I am becoming the angel in the dead of night who shines its glorious light against this darkness.

I've been standing at this door for weeks. Not a literal door—though there's a closet I haven't opened because I shoved all my unfinished projects in there. But those life thresholds where you have to decide: Do I let this in? Do I keep this out? In Hindu tradition, dvara means door or threshold. Dvarapalas are door guardians who ask: Who gets through? What stays out? Ganesha doesn't remove every obstacle—some are protection. Durga guards fiercely. Hanuman says no even to gods when devotion requires it. This pathworking walks you to your threshold to meet your keeper and make a conscious choice about your door. Not to get it right. Just to choose with your eyes open. [Continue reading the full meditation and journal prompts...]

I've been putting off writing this one. Because who wants to meditate on decay? Who wants to spend time with the goddess whose entire job is presiding over dead things? But here's what keeps nagging at me about Nirṛti (near-REE-tee, and I'm probably butchering that): she's essential. Without her, nothing new could grow. Without decay, no transformation. My youngest is convinced our backyard compost heap is magic because we throw in garbage and somehow get soil. He's not wrong. So maybe you're in that season where nothing is growing. Or maybe something actually died—a relationship, a dream, a version of yourself you were sure you'd become. And everyone's telling you to "let go" and "move forward" as if grief has an expiration date. This pathworking walks you to the corner of the garden nobody wants to visit—where things break down, where ruins become soil, where failure becomes wealth. Fair warning: the goddess of decay doesn't do light and fluffy. But I'll be here with you.

In my experience, glossing over the truth out of fear of confrontation does little to help someone who is spiraling downward. I have seen firsthand how silence or enabling behavior only allows harm to continue unchecked. This is echoed in many religious and philosophical teachings. The Christian Bible, for instance, urges, “Speak the truth in love” (Ephesians 4:15), emphasizing that honesty should be delivered with compassion and not with harshness. Similarly, the Jewish tradition values “tochacha,” or loving rebuke, as an obligation to help others turn away from harmful paths, but always in a manner that preserves their dignity.

Living with the intention to produce positivity is not just a spiritual idea; it has real, everyday benefits. I have seen in my own life, and in my community, that when we focus on spreading good—through acts of kindness, forgiveness, generosity, or just a smile—we change the energy around us. The world is full of negativity, and as a Black man, I know the weight of stereotypes, systemic injustice, and daily microaggressions. Yet, when I choose to respond with positivity, I reclaim my power. This is not about ignoring the real pain or injustice we face, but about refusing to let it define us. The teachings of many traditions support this.

This was originally written for a contest. The prompt was that it had to start with the line "something was moving in the dark".

This is Jamal. Just a regular brother who has some kinda funny stuff to say. This one might make you chuckle and that's all good. It's all about having a good time.

A mother is a child’s first blueprint for love, but when that blueprint is drafted in manipulation and coldness, it creates a legacy of trauma that splits siblings into two distinct roles: the narcissist and the empath. One child survives by becoming the taker—mastering control so they are never small again. The other survives by becoming the fixer—absorbing everyone’s pain just to keep the peace. The same fire breeds both monsters and martyrs. Behind the "perfect" public image of a charming mother often lies a quiet cruelty that teaches a child that love is a transaction and emotions are weapons. But the cycle ends when you stop trying to earn love from people who remind you of her. You are allowed to stop fixing her and start reparenting yourself, building the safe, soft stable love you were always meant to have. "The same fire breeds monsters and martyrs. You were shaped by what should have happened but didn't."

Loving a narcissist isn't just a heartbreak; it’s a psychological war that breaks your mind long before it breaks your heart. It is a cycle of "fake tenderness" followed by cold cruelty, leaving you trapped in a constant state of confusion. When they apologize, you feel seen—but by the next day, they act as if the apology never happened, gaslighting you until you question your own memory and sanity. They don't love you; they love the attention and empathy you provide. They feed on your softness and then punish you for it, eventually convincing the world that you are the unstable one. You end up loving a mask even after it has fallen off, starving for scraps of affection while being told you are "too much." The hardest part of freedom is accepting that you cannot fix them—you can only save yourself before you disappear completely. "They feed on your softness and then punish you for it. You aren't crazy; you're just someone who loved a mask."

Seventeen years of holding it all together has led to this: sitting in a car with a blown radiator hose, realizing the man I love would rather lie about being drunk than help me. From being left at a busy intersection to fixing broken windows with my teenager while he called me "needy," the pattern is unmistakable. Everyone showed up for me—my mother, strangers, acquaintances—except the one person who promised to. The most painful realization isn't that I deserve better; it’s that I don't want someone better—I just wanted him to be better. But love cannot survive on potential alone, and you cannot fill someone who won't lift a hand to help themselves. I finally see that choosing to stay means choosing to disappear. I’m done begging for the bare minimum. I am choosing myself first, because love shouldn't feel like being stranded. "I don’t want someone better; I just wanted him to be better. But I love myself enough now to stop pretending this is what love feels like."

Pain is a heavy armor, forged from every betrayal and scar we've ever earned. It’s tempting to hide behind it, to love cautiously and guard the fragile pieces of ourselves. But staying "safe" is just a quiet death of connection. Real, burning life isn't found in survival; it’s found in the raw, dangerous, and untamed willingness to risk everything again. Deep love is messy and exposed, but shallow love is an empty substitute. To truly live is to choose passion over protection—to show up fiercely in friendships, family, and romance even when you’ve been burned. It’s time to unlearn the fear that taught us to be small. We weren't meant to just survive; we were meant to love wildly and leave marks on the world that feel like home. "Love is dangerous and wild. You can spend your life protecting yourself, or you can finally choose to live."

We often win the theological battle only to lose the human soul. This is the danger of a faith that prizes being "correct" over being compassionate—polishing our own halos while crushing someone else’s spirit. When we use scripture as a weapon rather than a bridge, we may prove ourselves right, but we leave people feeling small and unwelcome. Jesus didn't lecture the broken; he sat with them. He understood that the real war isn't against other people’s sins, but against our own prideful need to be right. True faith isn't about enforcing rules; it’s about ensuring people feel seen, safe, and loved. If our "righteousness" drives people away, we haven't won anything at all. "We started confusing being correct with being Christ-like. Maybe the real war is against our own need to be right."

Abuse isn’t always a bruise; often, it’s a slow, silent erosion of the soul. Living with a narcissist means being trapped in a constant guessing game where one day you’re loved and the next you’re systematically torn down. It is the exhaustion of living on high alert, tiptoeing through your own home, and shrinking yourself until you are a shadow of the person you once were. This toxic cycle rewrites your reality until you believe their lies over your own truth. You apologize for their mistakes and abandon your dreams to keep a "peace" that never actually comes. From the outside, the family photos look perfect, but inside, you are drowning in a quiet, lonely war. The hardest truth is that you don’t realize how heavy the burden was until you finally set it down. If you are living small to survive, know this: you are not the problem, and you don’t have to stay hidden forever. "It doesn’t just wound you; it rewrites you. But you can find your way back to yourself."

Love isn't tested in the good times; it’s revealed in the rubble. This is a summary of the thousand silent breaks that happen when a partner consistently chooses themselves while you stand in the fire for both of you. I was the one who stayed, who fed you, who held your secrets, and who made excuses for your absence while I was breaking. You never held space for my pain or reached for my hand; you simply assumed I’d figure it out and then resented me for getting tired. You taught me how to survive without you by leaving me to drown, and now that the smoke is clearing, you expect me to be waiting. But the woman who needed you is gone. You wrote the ending to this story every time you chose indifference over compassion. "You taught me how to survive without you. Don't be surprised when I finally do."

This wasn’t a fight; it was an autopsy. No doors slammed, no voices raised—just a quiet conversation in the dark where I finally said the words I had been holding for years: "I don't need you anymore." When he asked what happened to us, I didn't give him a list of grievances. I simply pointed to the letters he never read and the messages he ignored. I didn't explode; I just let the silence sit between us. That night, the shift wasn't dramatic, but it was real. For the first time in a decade, he stopped looking past me and started seeing the woman who was tired of carrying his world. We aren't "fixed," and the scars are still there, but for the first time in forever, I was finally heard. "I wasn't waiting for an apology. I was waiting to be seen."

This isn’t a complaint about chores; it’s a eulogy for a partnership. It’s the breaking point of a wife who is tired of being an emotional afterthought while carrying the weight of a household alone. When we were a team, the work felt fair. But you stopped acting like a husband a long time ago. You’re upstairs, you’re outside, or you’re gone—leaving me to drown in the parenting and the silence. Now, you expect a maid’s service from a woman you’ve left starving for love and support. I see what mutual respect looks like at my mother's house, and it isn't this. I’m done giving everything to a man who gives nothing back. This isn’t about the dishes. It’s about being treated like I matter. And if I don't matter here, I’ll go where I do. "You’re asking for more effort than you're willing to give. I’m done being your maid while I’m starving for your partnership."

I’m on my way." Those four words defined my father. No matter the mess—whether I was an 11-year-old in juvie, a runaway, or an adult lost in the fog of addiction—he was the one person who never gave up on me. He chose me, even when I didn't deserve to be chosen, simply because I was his daughter. Before he died, he trusted me with one final task: to protect his legacy and honor his wishes. But when he passed, the sister who never knew him stepped in, the will vanished, and I was erased from the ending of his story. After a three-year legal battle, I lost almost everything he intended for me. But it wasn't the money that broke me; it was the failed promise. This is a letter about the debt of love, the pain of being silenced by those who didn't show up, and the realization that my father was always "the good piece" of bread in a world that felt ruined. "I didn’t care about the money, Dad. I cared about doing right by you. I cared about honoring what you asked."

I wasn’t living; I was just existing behind a pane of glass. This is the reality of dissociation—my brain’s desperate attempt to survive the unbearable. As my life collapsed into addiction and grief, the world began to feel like a staged production where everyone had a script but me. From the bizarre, unexplained deaths of my grandmother and father to a home that felt increasingly artificial, I lived for years as an invisible extra in my own story. I was numb, disconnected, and trapped in a nightmare that felt rehearsed. But that numbness was a shield. It kept me breathing when the truth should have stopped my heart. Now, the fog is lifting. This is the journey of coming back to my own body, moving from a cold survival to the painful, beautiful freedom of being fully alive again. "Dissociation kept me alive when the world fell apart. Now, I’m finally learning how to live."