Tag: life

The “Overdramatic” Diagnosis

Comic panel: Beatrice swoons at an annual gala while guests say “GASP!”, “SWOON!”, “Not again!”, “Seriously?”, “Ugh, the drama is exhausting!”, “SNEER”, “ROLL EYES!”, and “She’s feigning it! What an actress!”
At the annual gala, Beatrice dramatically swoons as guests react with disbelief and concern.

I am still ruminating over a stranger catching an attitude with me, at Sprouts of all places. But this moment has now created two essays to finish the 30 Blog posts in 30 days, and they’re pretty strong, according to the people in my life, and a stranger with a stank face and probably an itchy butthole. I have been living in a state of high theatricality since approximately the 80s. I was recently informed once again that I am “overdramatic.” Naturally, I spent the rest of the evening silently ruminating on this diagnosis, holding a full-blown internal tribunal while processing a quiet loss.

It got me thinking about my lifelong track record with this label. It turns out that society’s definition of “overdramatic” usually means “having a physical or emotional reaction to something actively happening to you.”

Child pulling another child’s hair while he cries, with text reading “Ow! Stop pulling!”, “GRAB!”, and “WAAAH!!!”
A comic-style classroom scene shows a child pulling another child’s hair as he cries out in pain.

Take my early childhood, for instance. In pre-K, a classmate casually bit me on the cheek. I cried, as one does when being processed as a snack, and was promptly scolded for overreacting. In kindergarten, another child barged into my bathroom stall while I was using the toilet. I screamed to defend my dignity, only to be branded the problem child for breaking the peace.

By middle school, the stakes grew higher. During a cafeteria food fight, a boy launched a rogue apple directly into my face with missile-like accuracy, shattering my glasses and swelling my eye shut. Vice Principal Mr. Levy, who, mathematically speaking, is likely retired or floating in the great beyond by now, handed me detention. The offense? Crying too loudly about having an apple hit my eye, and my left eye starting to happen in my socket. When my grandmother pointed out the absolute logical absurdity of punishing the kid with the broken face and crushed specs, the school’s defense was essentially: “Well, she was being dramatic.”

Comic-style school food fight with principal shouting STOP THIS NOW!
A furious principal struggles to stop an all-out food fight in the school cafeteria.

Looking back, none of these moments were acts of hyperbole. I wasn’t throwing myself onto a fainting couch because the local café ran out of oat milk; I was experiencing basic human cause-and-effect. A bite hurts. A broken pair of glasses hurts. Grief hurts. But when you are labeled “the dramatic one,” your genuine pain gets reclassified as a performance.

Don’t get me wrong, I can admit when I’m being extra. I have the heart of a theater kid, even if I ended up better suited for stage crew than the spotlight. I know what true drama looks like, and I am fully capable of owning up to my own theatrics when I actually pull them. But there is a massive difference between putting on a show and simply refusing to be emotionally paralyzed.

We live in a culture that seems increasingly obsessed with emotional constipation. We are expected to take hit after hit, literal or metaphorical, with the cool, stoic detachment of a statue. If you react, you’re “doing too much.” If you speak up, you’re “emotionally dumping.” We’ve weaponized therapy to tell people to sit down, shut up, and keep their feelings tucked neatly away where no one else has to look at them.

The irony is that denying people the right to feel doesn’t eliminate emotion; it just forces it to curdle. We end up in a society of suppressed human pressure cookers, wondering why everyone is perpetually on the edge of flying into a rage over the smallest things.

True maturity isn’t about feeling nothing; it’s about knowing the time and place. I know how to be neutral and professional at my desk. But at home, watching a sad film or sitting with the grief of losing someone who loved and cared for me for forty years, I claim the right to be human. I demand the right to cry.

Having feelings doesn’t make you a disaster; it just means you’re awake. The next time someone tells you you’re being “overdramatic” for reacting to real life, consider the source. Often, people who demand total stoicism from others aren’t practicing self-control; they are just uncomfortable with the messiness of real human connection. And honestly? They might be the ones who need a little therapy.

0

Am I The Drama at Sprouts? A One-Woman Grocery Store Meltdown

AM I THE DRAMA? A One-Woman Tragedy in Four Bottles of Alkaline Water (they were .69 cents a bottle a steal)

Crowded grocery market with shoppers choosing produce and checking out
Shoppers fill a warmly lit grocery market while selecting fresh produce and everyday essentials.

“They say, “Cardi, you tweakin’,” nah, I don’t be tweakin’ enough
Bitches be doin’ shit, and I been letting it slide, and I don’t be bringin’ it up
Bitches be out here tellin’ lies about me, and y’all just be eating it up
But when I drag her to hell, “Cardi, you evil as fuck”” – Cardi B “Dead”

Picture it. A Monday. Not just Monday. My Standard routine with my true evening ritual: I go workout and sweat the stress of the day away. Then I go to Staples run to make my copies for trivia, and then and only then the hallowed grocery pilgrimage for lunch for the week. I typically go to Trader’s Joes but tonight I chose Sprouts. I chose poorly.

I walk into Sprouts, a little to happy-go-lucky I am in my Stepford Wives mindset. I end up with the iconic Strawberry Poppy Salad and 4 bottles of alkaline water. I am trying to be healthy. I am working on my self-improvement. No kombucha, because I am TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF, thank you very much. I gather my sad little salad and my four bottles of fancy water like the disciplined baddie I’m trying to become.

Shopping cart surrounded by scattered fruits and vegetables in a dark grocery store
A lone shopping cart stands amid scattered produce in a shadowy grocery store aisle.

And then. THEN!!! I approached the register. I forgot to put the gray bar up to separate the items from the customer in front of me. Forgetting about the sacred conveyor belt divider, that tiny plastic bar that separates each customer, is a crime against humanity. I place my items down like an absolute rookie, and this woman with a bad weave and attitude turns to me with the fury of a thousand suns and snaps, “Can I finish?” rolling her eyes so hard I felt the breeze. I was wondering if she rolled any harder could she see her past life? A part of me wishes I channeled my inner Cardi B, but I channeled my inner Catholic.

I apologize. Dramatically, sure, I’ll own that “OMG, I AM SO SORRY”. But I was SINCERE. And she has the AUDACITY to tell me “Stop being dramatic?? Ma’am. Ma’am. You are the one rolling your eyes, from me forgetting the little gray divider. It’s you, YOU ARE THE DRAMA. The projection of frustration, on a stranger, on me!!! The absolute projection happening at register 1 of a Sprouts on a Monday night.

So, I slink off to another line like a woman exiled from the line of purchasing, and the universe says “We are not done with you yet” the next two cashiers proceed to psychologically ice me out. One’s staring at his name badge like it holds the secrets of the universe. I’m standing there, water bottles and salad, wondering if I should just leave the salad and my dignity behind and drive home in shame.

Customer points angrily at cashier while shoppers wait at grocery checkout
A tense grocery checkout interaction unfolds as a customer questions the cashier while another shopper waits nearby.

It would be great to say I persevered. I got my salad. I got my water. I got home. But I didn’t, I instead put all the items back and left. As someone who desired that delicious salad, while trying to load 2027 Baddie up. One thought echoed through my head was she now thinks I’m dramatic, and honestly? I might be proving her right by mapping out every other Sprouts location in a 30-mile radius. So, I never have to see her again. Is that dramatic? Absolutely. Do I regret it? We’ll revisit going to THAT Sprouts in November of 2028.

But here’s the real ending, I left with no food, because I felt disrespected. Past the bit: that customer was having a bad day that had nothing to do with me, and for one hot second I almost let her bad mood become my bad mood too. I didn’t. I said sorry, I took the L, I left without my Strawberry Poppy Salad. But I kept my Monday intact, with the good vibes I was feeling.

That’s the whole lesson, dramatics aside somebody else’s nasty attitude is theirs. You can hand it right back to them without ever picking it up yourself.  I will get a better salad another day, and that delicious Strawberry Salad with feta cheese can feed another person, just not me. I ended up with a bag of Smartfood White Cheddar Popcorn, so much for being a baddie.

Until Next Time,

Che Michelle

If you would like to sponsor my next Salad, not from that Sprouts à  Ko-fi.com/chemichelletales

What I really wanted to say to this woman, but my brain shut it down à https://youtube.com/shorts/F7TTLla_csQ?is=mC0vRQhPJjc5sWNF

0

Handle With Care: A Survival Guide for Friends of Writers

Handle With Care: A Survival Guide for Friends of Writers

It is a late Sunday night. I am currently sitting in the driver’s seat of my parked car, in front of my house, utterly paralyzed by exhaustion and avoiding the thirty-foot walk to my front door. It’s that sacred, slightly delirious twilight hour when the engine is off, the streetlights hum, and your brain decides: Yes, this is the exact moment to unpack the existential baggage of being an aspiring author.

A few years ago, I attempted to write a book titled The Secret Son of Hephaestus. The premise was born in a writing class: What if Aphrodite and Hephaestus secretly had a son, but Hephaestus had to hide the child in the shadows so his mother, Hera, wouldn’t obliterate him in a fit of Olympian wrath? It was layered, tragic, and entirely mine. Naturally, the moment I pitched the idea, someone chimed in with, “Oh, so it’s basically Percy Jackson.”

Illustration titled THE SLOW WRITER'S JOURNEY, showing a writer surrounded by clocks, papers, and words including FOCUS, LOST PLOT, DOUBT, IDEAS?, HELP, and WRITER'S BLOCK.
A frustrated writer struggles to create as clocks, tangled thoughts, and unfinished pages swirl around him.

For the record: I have never read Percy Jackson. Nor was it “just fanfiction,” as another friend so cheerfully labeled it. It was a mythological retelling—an ancient and respected literary tradition, thank you very much. But that sting highlights an uncomfortable reality every creative person eventually confronts: Writers and their friends exist in an ecosystem as fragile as a draft saved only on a glitching USB stick.

In my years of typing, stalling, and voice-recording rants in parking lots, I have deduced that every writer has four distinct categories of friends:

  1. The Ghosts: They will never read your work, and they will never support it. If you sent them your manuscript, they’d probably use it as a coaster.
  2. The Cheerleaders Without Glasses: They will never read your work, but they will show up to your readings, buy you coffee, suggest cool indie bookstores, and shout your praises from the digital rooftops. Bless them; we need them.
  3. The Unqualified Critics: They don’t actually understand your genre, style, or creative soul, yet they wield their critiques like a toddler swinging a sledgehammer.
  4. The Unicorns: Cherish them. Guard them with your life. They read your work, remember your characters’ names, and aggressively text you at midnight asking: “When do I get chapter four?”

I recently stumbled upon a viral Instagram post outlining the unspoken rules of loving someone who writes. It resonated so deeply that I felt called out from my car seat. So, as a public service announcement to the well-meaning civilians who share their lives with storytellers, allow me to translate what’s really going on behind the blinking cursor.

1. Hitting “Send” Is an Act of Raw Vulnerability

If a writer hands you a manuscript or emails you a Google Doc, understand that hitting Send took more courage than a lion tamer stepping into the cage. We are essentially handing you our bruised, exposed nervous system printed in 12-point Times New Roman.

I was once on vacation after getting edits back from a writing group. I handed a chapter to a friend whose opinion I truly treasured. They made a parade of polite excuses about how they had “too much on their reading list” to look at it—and then spent the next three days complaining aloud about the terrible published novel they were reading on the beach.

You are not obligated to read my work. Truly. But if you have time to complain about a celebrity memoir you hate, watching you deliberately avoid twenty pages of my soul feels like a slow paper cut. Don’t hit us with, “Oh, the title looks cute!” It’s okay to say, “I don’t have the bandwidth right now, but I’m rooting for you.” Radical honesty beats a transparent brush-off every time.

2. A “Good Writing Day” Can Salvage Our Entire Existence

Writing in the modern world is an uphill sprint through molasses. We don’t live in the 1980s where you could just shut off the cathode-ray television, sit at an oak desk in absolute silence, and hammer out prose without distraction. We live in an era where modern life demands two jobs, libraries close at 5:00 PM, Barnes & Noble tore out all their good tables, coffee shops kick you out by 2:00 PM, and your phone constantly lures you into a thirty-minute TikTok doom-scroll.

Add in real life, depression, and the sheer exhaustion of having ideas in your head but zero energy in your limbs, and stringing 500 coherent words together feels like summiting Everest. If your writer friend announces they had a good writing day, treat it like they just won an Olympic bronze. My boyfriend will light up and say, “I’m so glad you got some writing today!” That single reaction will carry me through the rest of the week.

3. Staring Blankly Out the Window Counts as Hard Labor

When you catch us zoning out into the middle distance, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, we are not taking a mental nap. We are actively directing a three-act tragedy behind our retinas.

We are deciding whether Janelle would actually slap her boss or insult his loafers. We are blocking scenes. We are figuring out how to describe body language without using the phrase “she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.” Once, while sitting in this very car, I watched a bizarre argument between strangers unfold across the street—it had an inciting incident, rising action, and a climax so dramatic it felt like Shakespeare had a fever dream in a suburb. I was taking mental notes the entire time. That wasn’t loitering; that was occupational development. (And yes, wandering a bookstore for two hours is also taxable research.)

4. When We Say the Book Is Trash, Wait Forty-Eight Hours

Every writer has a day where they re-read their morning draft, decide they are an illiterate fraud, and solemnly swear to burn their laptop and take up goat farming. The Secret Son of Hephaestus is currently in literary purgatory because one day I decided the first three chapters were utter garbage.

Give us two or three days. A nap, a sandwich, and a little distance usually reveal that the manuscript isn’t irredeemable trash after all; it just needs a tightened paragraph, a deleted subplot, and slightly better lighting.

5. Specificity Is the Highest Form of Love

If you want to make a writer cry happy tears, do two things: remember our characters’ names, and tell us specifically what made you react.

A coworker once read a romance short story I wrote and casually remarked, “Sophia really deserves her own story after what happened with Camille.” I practically levitated. She remembered Sophia! She treated my imaginary friend like an actual human being!

Saying “It was good” is the conversational equivalent of a pat on the head. But telling us, “I screamed when he slammed the door,” or “This paragraph felt a little rushed, but that one line made me laugh out loud”—that is golden. It proves you were actually inside the world we spent months building in our heads.

At the end of the day, slow writers are still serious writers. Unread writers are still writers. We aren’t expecting our inner circles to act as an uncompensated, unpaid PR agency or a literary agency board.

All we ask is mindfulness. Be honest if you don’t have the time. Be kind if it’s not your cup of tea. But if you’re going to be in the passenger seat of our creative lives, maybe don’t tell us we’re writing fanfiction when we’re trying to build an empire.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been sitting in this driveway for fifteen minutes; the car is getting cold, and I have thirty days of blog posts to conquer. Bam. Good night.

Here is the link for the post that sparked this essay: https://www.instagram.com/p/DcoHebUESAD/?stkn=NGN3OGJpdmt3Z3d2

Also, if you would like to read my short stories or chapters, comment belowà I want to read your works ☺️

If you want to support my coffee shop visits: https://ko-fi.com/chemichelletales

0

Why I Stopped Drinking Wine: A Rant Turned Essay.

Tearful woman packs wine bottles into a donation box while saying goodbye
A tearful woman packs her favorite wine bottles for donation, saying goodbye to cherished memories.

Let me say this up front, under oath, hand on the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I am no longer allowed to finish. Thank you, 40s, for taking the one thing I love.  I love, well, I LOVE WINE! I love it the way some people love their pet chihuahua or a decade-old grudge from a frenemy, which they can never remember how it started. But Susan, when I see you in the streets, it’s at sight! I digress; I love wine, in an unhealthy way, but I also know when to stop.  At one point in my life, I dreamed of becoming a sommelier. I saved up money and dreamed of opening a local wine shop, with the shop name in cursive on the awning.  Special tastings, book events, even cooking classes. I understood wine as a language and a culture before I understood it as a drink.  I grew up Catholic, so during communion we would take a sip of wine to represent the blood of Christ. On milestone birthdays, or even special occasions, a bottle of champagne was customary. The glass of wine to toast a life well lived before saying goodbye to a loved one, because some things are too big for words, and a toast feels right before saying goodbye forever. I was raised in this culture; I learned how wine pairs with meals and events, and how it’s used. My family introduced me to the fine culinary rituals of wine, the same way other families introduce kids to Little League early, with the confidence that I’d be good at it.

So understand what follows is not a wine takedown. It is a eulogy to say goodbye to an aspect of my life that I outgrew, or my Liver said no more. And like most eulogies, it has three parts, and only two of them make me look good.

Comic-style scene with red wine, running shoes, notes, and text reading “AFTERNOON PAUSE.” and “…THE FINISH LINE CAN WAIT.”
A glass of red wine and running shoes invite a well-earned afternoon pause.

Reason One: My Body Filed a Complaint

Somewhere around 2023, I noticed I was gaining weight despite working out three- to five-mile runs, weight-lifting, and watching what I ate.  My body betrayed me and packed on the pounds, disrespectfully. The weight I was gaining was the fitness equivalent of studying all night and still failing the test. Turns out the problem wasn’t just the wine. Hormones were changing and not letting any ounce of fat go, turning everything into visceral fat. It didn’t help that over the two years, a parade of fitness instructors and trainers seemed personally offended by my request to train my back, shoulders, and arms instead of doing squat variation #47. I want a total body workout, not just a booty buster. I am not that girl; give me some deadlifts and chest press. For the love of GOD, let me do a clean and press for 15 reps, for three rounds.

I want a sculpted back. I want defined arms. I would like, once, to finish a workout without someone implying that my only redeeming quality is my corn-fed, hills-walking booty that I have because of genetics. One trainer straight-up asked if I wanted “a fat ass for my man. “Ma’am.  I don’t give a fuck about what a man wants! This is my body. I am the one who lives in this body. I get to decide what it looks like, not some future man.” I digress; I’m in my 40s now, and my liver, gallbladder, pancreas, and any other organ have opinions on my wine intake. Opinions I did not ask for!  But trying to keep my internal organs healthy and happy. An overrated fine, and necessit..) I made the boring, responsible decision to save wine for special occasions.  If I do decide to partake on the rare occasion I must drink, I must have wine before 8 p.m., like I’m a toddler. I plan the next day around “detox.” This is not glamorous. This is a grown woman doing math before a glass of pinot noir. The indigestion, four extra pounds, and elevated liver enzymes are not worth it. And to the person already forming the words “You shouldn’t drink at all! It’s bad for you!” Kindly keep that to yourself.

Reason Two: My Bank Account Filed a Complaint

This reason is the least poetic and the most honest: money. I work two jobs. In a fair universe, that buys me unlimited $15 bottles of wine on sale with a coupon. We do not live in that universe. We live in a universe where someone thought Herbert Hoover’s idea of tariffs was a great idea, as a bottle of Italian wine goes from $7.99 to $18.99 because, say it with me, TARIFFS! Before I turned 40, I spent roughly a few hundred dollars a year on wine, which, written down like that, is not bad. These days it’s closer to a hundred, maybe less, spread out over a year. I have learned to nurse a bottle slowly as it owes me money. I even stopped gifting wine, mostly because everyone I know has quietly done the same math I did, or has become a wine snob.  Please read the next paragraph for better context. Cutting the wine budget was, unglamorously, one of the best financial decisions I’ve made. No cinematic redemption arc here. Just a woman choosing her savings account over a Cabernet, and feeling, against all odds, pretty good about it.

Candlelit table with wine, cheese, bread, and a candelabrum
A warmly illustrated dining table invites guests to enjoy wine, cheese, and candlelit conversation.

Reason Three: My Friends Ruined It, and I Will Not Be Taking Questions or Opinions on this hot take

Here is the actual dagger. Not my liver. Not my budget. It was my friends. Et Tu -Bianca, Et Tu! (Pause if you don’t know the Et Tu line; go read Julius Ceaser. Read the classic if you want to learn the 48 laws of power, not the Robert Greene Book; back to our crafted Rant.

Somewhere along the way, a portion of my friend group transformed from “people who enjoy wine” into wine “SNOBS,” a much more insufferable species of wine lover. Not the fun kind of wine lovers who have restaurant connections and a taste for the elusive bottle of wine. They actually know all the history and details, smiling as they regale you with their time in France learning about this wine. (Shout-out to Fred from Total Wine, amazing teacher, sarcastic wine lover; I would have a glass with you anytime.)

Friends dining together as a waiter serves wine in a restaurant
Friends share wine, laughter, and conversation during a lively restaurant dinner.

I mean the kind who cannot let an opinion pass unchallenged, even when the opinion is mine, about my own mouth, tasting wine with my taste buds; case in point: the champagne and fried chicken incident. Pause, I know that wine and Fried Chicken can go together. However, not all champagne pairs well with fried chicken. It’s like eating a banana with coffee; your breath will smell like Hot Sh!t. On this day, that particular champagne had the word ” aperitif ” on its label.  An aperitif is a pre-meal palate-waker/cleanser, not a companion to fried food. This particular wine didn’t work for me with fried chicken. I was not asking for a debate. I was reporting sensory data from my own tongue. And one of my friends at the table decided this required a rebuttal, inevitably ending with the suggestion that, of course, it would pair with fried chicken.  I quietly ate and drank nothing that evening. You are not going to tell me this wine complements the fried chicken when the wine was clashing with salt and oil and, on top of that, the cool charcuterie of cheese and prosciutto.

Another time, someone not worth calling “Friend” decided to force me to have Riesling with my meal. Hear me out, I love Riesling, but it has its time and place. It follows a spectrum from super sweet to super dry. No, these are not sommelier terms, but I had dreams of becoming one, and obviously, if you are reading this, I am not a sommelier.  The wine arrived with our meal. I was having roasted fall vegetables with a spice element and a dry Riesling, which messed with my tongue; I tasted more bitterness and a metallic taste.  I personally wanted a nice Red to complement the Smoked Paprika and chipotle seasoning.  The other person smiled and grinned, saying, “Isn’t it great?”  My face as I watched them eat their smoked fish and try to act like it was the perfect pairing.  You can drink wine with anything, but sometimes it’s ok to ask the server for a suggestion or trust your taste buds rather than force a fake smile. Ahh, those vegetables deserved a better wine. Before someone says, the Riesling would have been fine, again my taste buds, my mouth, my digestive system.

Then there’s the Snooty friend at dinner, ordering red wine with a small speech attached, the pointed looks exchanged between me and the server, like we’re all confused about the speech for ordering wine. Meanwhile, I’m eating my vegetables, telling the server, “ Please bring me the wine the sommelier or chef suggested with the meal.” Now I would like to state that I know that I am just as pretentious as my snob friends. You know when people are staring at you, judging you, and saying “oh, you ordered that?” or “I am surprised you ordered that?”  Looking at the server giving the knowing look, we understood each other and what was exactly happening: they’re upselling the bottle with the highest markup, and I would rather trust a stranger’s inventory than sit through a monologue about tannins from a friend who just learned the word 10 minutes before dinner.

I don’t want wine to be the whole conversation. I want it to be the icebreaker, not the entire evening’s agenda. I don’t need a treatise on why you, personally, deserve the Riesling. I need you to relax, order the Moscato you actually want, and talk to me about literally anything else: politics, Bravo, the weather, our various ongoing personal collapses, the horrible co-worker that you hate. Drinking with these particular people didn’t make me feel included. It made me feel like I’d wandered into a time-share seminar I never signed up for. To be clear, it’s not all friends; there’s a small, beloved exception to this rule: the friends who will always get a glass poured in their honor, no questions, no commentary. The friends who understand the wine is a part of the experience, not the experience. They invite you over to watch TV and have wine and food on deck. The TV is on mute, with ambient lighting to enhance the laughter of friendship. Just a wonderful time with people who love you more than being pretentious. A good time. You know who you are. Everyone else: you turned my favorite ritual into a performance review, and I stopped attending.

The Verdict

So here’s the accounting, in order of how much it hurts to admit: I stopped drinking wine for my health, because the body in your 40s does not forgive the way your body in your 20s did. I stopped for my finances because a savings account and investments are, shockingly, more satisfying in the long term than a $15 bottle with a coupon. And I stopped, honestly, because a handful of people decided that loving wine wasn’t allowed to be simple anymore. Turns out a pretentious wine snob is a special kind of insufferable, worse, even, than someone who won’t admit they’re wrong. Both are annoying, but it turns out they’re related and deserve each other.

P.S. I had a bottle of wine it was called Clean Slate Riesling 2024. It was amazing ! I need to get another bottle ASAP.  Would  you like to buy me a glass of wi…coffee 😊 →Ko-fi.com/chemichelletales

1

The Truth About Happiness: It’s Not Always Happy

Comic panel: a woman in a green hoodie holds coffee and gives a thumbs-up, saying “I’M DOING EVERYTHING IS FINE!” Her thought bubble reads, “I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. SO EXHAUSTED... EVERYONE IS DEPENDING ON ME. I NEED TO HIDE IT.” Text below reads “THE FACADE.”
A tired worker hides overwhelming stress behind a reassuring smile and thumbs-up.

“I’m on the pursuit of happiness, and I know/ Everything that shine ain’t always gonna be gold/ Hey, I’ll be fine once I get it/ I’ll be good”- Kid Cudi.

We treat happiness like a destination. Chase it long enough, the thinking goes, and you’ll finally arrive and stay there. But that idea is backward, and it’s setting people up to feel broken for no reason.

Happiness Isn’t a Permanent State

Happiness is tied to a moment, not a lifestyle. It’s the spike you get from a specific event like getting good news, nailing a deal, or a great surprise, not a baseline you maintain forever. Psychologically, it works like a dopamine response: something raises it, then it comes back down. That’s not a flaw in the system. That’s the system.

The cultural script we’re handed says otherwise. We’re told to “pursue happiness,” as if catching it means we’re set for good. But that pursuit can become its own trap, chasing a peak as though it’s a permanent address instead of recognizing it as a visit.

What We Actually Mean Is Contentment

Most of what people call “being happy” is really contentment: a steady, low-key sense that life is okay, that you can handle what’s in front of you. Contentment doesn’t spike and crash the way happiness does. It’s the quieter, sturdier feeling underneath the highlight-reel moments.

Joy is a third, related thing — a recurring capacity to feel light and good, even though it coexists with hard stuff. The people who seem genuinely joyful aren’t immune to sadness or depression. They don’t treat hard days as proof something’s wrong with them. They feel the rough day, name it, talk about it, and move back toward joy without faking their way through the gap.

Why the “Be Happy Always” Pressure Backfires

Comic text: “This new issue is unbelievable, you have to read it!” A smiling attendee imagines being isolated, tired, not happy, and alone, thinking, “I’m so exhausted... can’t stop the feeling.”
A cheerful convention attendee conceals feelings of isolation, exhaustion, and unhappiness behind a bright smile.

Telling someone they need to be happy all the time quietly tells them something is wrong with them whenever they’re not. And the truth is, no one is happy 100% of the time; that’s not a personal failure, it’s just how happiness works.

Worse, pushing nonstop happiness as the goal can edge toward something that looks a lot like mania once it’s sustained too long or too forcefully. Authenticity matters more than constant cheerfulness. A person who’s “on” all the time, no exceptions, is worth a second look, not celebration.

Faking it also has a real cost. Forcing yourself to perform happiness instead of working through what you’re actually feeling leads to burnout, and once you experience burnout, it’s much harder to recover from than an honest bad day ever was.

A Better Way to Talk About It

Sadness isn’t the same as depression. Feeling disturbed, sad, or grieving something doesn’t mean you’re broken; it means you’re human, and you’re allowed to feel it. Letting people name their emotions accurately, instead of forcing everything into “happy” or “not happy,” gives them room to actually process what’s going on.

A healthier approach looks like this: something good happens, you notice it, you sit in gratitude for it, and happiness grows out of that rather than demanding a constant happy state and panicking when it slips.

The Real Misconception

The myth isn’t that happiness exists. It’s that happiness is supposed to be constant. It isn’t, and it was never meant to be. What we should actually be building day to day is contentment and joy, with happiness as the bright, occasional spark that visits on top of them. Once we stop conflating the three, we can finally use the right language for what we’re feeling and stop mistaking an honest bad day for a sign that something’s broken.

One of my favorite songs is Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happiness.” You can check out the videoà https://youtu.be/7xzU9Qqdqww?si=xdwbE1tJEFSvIPDp

Also, if you would like to buy me some Fresh Market Cookies to bring some happiness à Ko-fi.com/chemichelletales

0

What My Retail Job Taught Me About Finding Lost Treasures

What’s the best thing you’ve ever found randomly on the street?

Shopper finding a sparkling ring on the floor beneath a clothing rack
A shopper discovers a sparkling ring beneath a clothing rack during a busy sale.

Whenever you ask people what the best thing they’ve ever found on the ground is, they inevitably say money. It’s always money. “Oh, I found a crisp twenty in a puddle once!” Good for you, Jeff Bezos. A long time ago, I worked retail, which means the ground is less a venue for windfall cash and more an archaeological dig site of human despair. Over the years, my broom has swept up stray toy parts, pocket lint, and, on one unforgettable Saturday morning, an actual, literal intrauterine device. An IUD. Just chilling by the impulse cookie section- the irony. Was it a runaway medical anomaly? A dropped OB-GYN demo model? Did someone shed it in a fit of retail rage? Don’t ask me how I recognized it; retail transforms you into a forensic scientist whether you like it or not.

So, my broom pushed me to sweep the floor in the morning. I heard a CLANG against the store’s baseboards on a Saturday morning. Anything is better than that rogue piece of birth control was my baseline expectation. Instead, I found an absurdly demure diamond engagement ring. To understand how this happened, you first have to understand the sacred incompetence of the retail night shift. I was only in the store at 8:30 AM because my coworkers had sent a text saying, “Sorry! It was so slam-packed last night we couldn’t sweep!” Naturally, being a busybody, I checked the register logs. Their last sale was clocked at 8:01 PM. The store closed at nine. They had an entire hour of paid stillness to push a broom, stock the Snack display, and reflect on their life choices. Instead, they stood around people-watching and did the bare minimum, leaving the store looking like an abandoned storefront after Christmas.

So, I’m aggressively sweeping up their dust bunnies when the broom hit the ring, like a hockey play; I swept it into the baseboard—a real, diamond ring. I did what any reasonable, underpaid 25-year-old would do: I ran it down to a jeweler for an appraisal. The jeweler studied it, looked up at me with dead seriousness, and said, “This is exquisite. Maybe God is trying to tell you that you’re about to get married!”

Now, 25-year-old me had an immediate existential crisis over the fact that my boyfriend at the time was completely wrong for me, meaning God’s retail delivery system had severe targeting issues. Also, not that anyone asked if it slipped onto my ring finger like it had been molded in a laboratory specifically for my hand. Common sense returned and slapped me back to reality. I quickly took it off, placed it in a tiny paper envelope labeled “Customer’s Ring Found on Floor,” handed it to management, and watched it disappear into our bolted-down steel floor safe.

And there it stayed.

For five entire years!

We checked local lost-and-founds. I stalked early Craigslist boards. Silence. The ring sat in the dark behind a combination keypad, totally forgotten, until our store hired a new manager who possessed the specific, greasy energy of someone who views inventory sheets as creative writing. One day, the safe opened, the safe closed, and the diamond was… evaporated into thin air. A few weeks later, half the staff got fired over a cocktail of phantom discounts, register shorting, and the grand theft of a Diamond Ring rock (not quite; it was really people shorting the register that got them fired). The ring was gone, the statute of limitations was ticking, and we all moved on.

Until the ghost of retail past walked through the front doors. Five years after that fateful morning sweep, a woman strolled into the store. She was glowing, thriving, and happily reminiscing about our discontinued caramel nut mixes while visiting from out of state. Then she dropped the bomb: “You know, I actually lost something here right before I moved away years ago.” My broom’s hand twitched. “What did you lose?” “My engagement ring,” she sighed. “It never fit my finger right. I came in on a Thursday night to get snacks for my drive…”

A Thursday. Thursday. My brilliant, hardworking colleagues hadn’t just blown off Friday night’s cleaning duties; they hadn’t touched a broom for forty-eight straight hours. That diamond had been kicking around the carpet through two full business days of foot traffic, surviving purely because our staff was allergic to physical labor. She told me she had retraced her steps on Friday, found nothing, and realized the universe had handed her an exit ramp. Two weeks prior, her boyfriend had proposed, and she’d been harboring immediate, sickening regret from saying yes. When she confessed she lost the ring that weekend, the man utterly detonated, screaming, cursing, and revealing every toxic red flag he owned in one explosive tirade.

The dropped ring was her ticket out. She didn’t want to marry the man; she knew it wasn’t right. After that nasty argument that weekend, she decided to flee the state and start a glorious single life in Ohio. “Ohio,” my brain thought, but I let it go because she looked amazing.  She smiled and asked, “Did anyone ever end up finding it?”

I paused, looking at this radiant, completely unburdened woman who had successfully escaped a terrible engagement because of the wrong ring size.

“Oh yeah,” I told her casually. “I found it that Saturday morning. It sat in our safe for five years until a shady manager stole it and got sacked by corporate. Her face was pure, unadulterated relief. The ring had ruined a thief, dodged a toxic marriage, survived two days of retail neglect, and paid for nobody’s wedding. Sometimes the best things you find on the floor aren’t meant to be kept; they’re just dropped so someone else can finally run.

This was a dramatic retelling of me finding a ring on the floor at work. A lot of factors changed, times changed, and memories aren’t always accurate.

I am always going to ask: if you would like to help me get a right-hand diamond ringà Ko-fi.com/chemichelletales

0

If I Figured Out Time Travel, This Is What I’d Send Back to my 20-year-old-self

Daily writing prompt
What is something you wish you could tell your 20-year-old self?
View all responses

Note: Two days in a row I am doing the Daily Writing Prompt….

Love Letters & Hard Lessons An Essay by Che Michelle

If I Figured Out Time Travel, This Is What I’d Send Back

Things I wish I could tell my 20-year-old self — about the plan, the light, the Ford Focus, and the Midol.

By Che Michelle ·   Thriving, and Still Going

Dear You — yes, you, reading this in what I can only assume is mild confusion — I mean you just found this letter while your 20, young and going to school.

If you are reading this, it means I figured out time travel. I cannot change what happens, the timeline doesn’t work like that, but I can emotionally prepare you for what’s coming so you can navigate it better, smarter, and with significantly fewer financial failures. What you do with this information is up to you. If you think it’s nonsense, throw it away. If something in your gut says pay attention and it will, because your gut has always been smarter than your logic, then use it. Use every word.

And if I suddenly get new memories? I’ll know you changed something. Let’s hope it worked.

On Your Family and Your Friends

Your family is right about some of your friends. I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know it feels like interference, like they don’t understand, like they’re being over-protective to the point of suffocation. But here’s the truth that it took me longer than it should have to accept they have simply lived longer than you, and they can read signs you haven’t learned to recognize yet.

They’re not jealous. They’re not trying to isolate you. They want you to have friends, real ones. The kind that builds you up instead of quietly chipping away at your confidence while smiling at your face. And honestly? For a family that could have been much harsher about it, they were incredibly gentle with you. Gentler than you realize and with more patience than you ever offered back. Listen to them when the advice is not in an authoritative tone, but a softer, loving tone. It’ll save you from an existential crisis that, otherwise, is going to land right on schedule at 39 and feel entirely like your fault. Some of it will be your fault. I can’t help you with that part (Bonus advice, take accountability and change your bad behavior). Just listen to the family about your friends, they have your best interest at heart especially when those friends show their true feelings in front of them.

On the Plan You Had for Your Life

I know about the plan. You get married at 28, first kid at 30, second at 32. Tidy. Organized. It’s you, planning your life down to the date. I need to tell you, with all the love I have in my heart: That plan got blown up to absolute smithereens, and it is the best thing that ever happened to us.

You were not emotionally ready to be anybody’s wife at 28. You did not have the resources to be anyone’s mother at 30. And the life you actually get to live in the space where that plan used to be? It’s going to make you smile in ways you cannot currently imagine. You still end up with love. You still end up with the things you want. Just not when you think. And the version of you who gets there will be so much more prepared to actually receive it and reciprocate it to person who deserves it.

“You may have dreamed about being a wife. But you’re going to live a life so much bigger than that dream. Let the dream go so the best version of your life can find you.”

Do Not Buy That Ford Focus

I am completely serious. The blue one. You brought it either in 2015 or 2016, I don’t remember when, but don’t buy it! You’ll know when your then boyfriend suggested for you to get that car and not the Two-door Honda Accord, that you like. He will make it sound like an it’s good idea, has great value. It is not a good idea. That car is a money pit on wheels, and it is going to cost you in ways that will make you say words you didn’t know you knew. Find someone you trust, go to a different dealership, and buy something else. Better yet, don’t take that man with your car shopping! Anything else will be a million times better than that of the Blue Devil. This is the most logistical piece of advice I can offer you and I need you to take it personally. No BLUE FORD FOCUS!

On People Who Try to Dim Your Light

They’re coming. I want you to be ready. People are going to try to dim your light, and they’ll do it for one of three reasons. The first is jealousy, pure and simple, from people who have never learned to believe in themselves. The second is desire: they want what you have, and because they can’t figure out how to build it for themselves, they’ll try to dim your light by making you doubt your light, your intelligence. The third is the strangest one, they’ll try to dim your light to protect you from other people who want access to it. Fear dressed up as concern. They will tell you about doing events, cause it is not the norm. These people will use logic, and concern to convince you not to try, or not to put yourself out there for people to know who you are. It looks like love. It isn’t, its fear and it will confuse you. Stand strong in your belief and do it!

Here’s how you handle all three: practice your affirmations. Write your dreams down in blue ink in a notebook. Make a plan and execute the plan. The life you’re building will not be out of someone else’s paranoia, but out of your wisdom, your intuition and your vision for your life. You don’t owe everyone a front row seat to your becoming. Let people who try to imitate you do it. They’re too unoriginal to sustain it. Walk away and let them figure that out without your help and energy.

Also, I mean this does not let anyone talk you out of your intuition. Your intuition has kept you alive, when your survival skills were lacking. Your Spidey sense has kept you out of rooms you had no business being in. When you get goosebumps along your arm, it is usually a no, and you need to act accordingly.  Trust your gut every time.

On Dreams Changing (and That Being Good, Actually)

You are a jack of all trades, and people are going to say it like it’s an insult. It is not. The full quote which people conveniently cut short is “A jack of all trades is a master of none, but often times better than a master of one”. When people cut the quote short, they want to diminish someone to only be good at one thing. You contain multitudes and should explore all of your different layers. Each of those layers will, lead you to a new dream, a better dream. Your dreams are going to shift from your 20s to your 30s to your 40s, and every single shift means you’re growing; you’re seeing more of what’s possible, you’re becoming someone bigger and better than the person who made the original plan. Don’t let anyone shame you for evolving. That’s the whole point of life is to evolve.

On Your Health — Please Listen to This Part

Keep working out. I’m going to say it again because I need you to hear it: keep working out. Protect your body now so it can carry you to places you haven’t dreamed of yet. Your health is your wealth in a way that isn’t a cliché, it is a literal, practical, logistical fact. The other side of not protecting it is not somewhere you want to visit. Stay active. Watch what you eat. Still enjoy your life. Those things are not mutually exclusive, I promise. Also, take care of your damn teeth, we like you have a beautiful smile so you need healthy teeth to smile. ( I bet you started sing Shanice-“I love your Smile”, if so good.

And take the Midol. I’m going to give this its own section because it matters more than it sounds.

Take the Midol (No, Really)

There is a friendship in your life, one of the truest, most generous, most genuinely loving friendships you will experience. There is going to be a moment when you are in real physical pain, the kind that makes you pass out after your shift, and you are going to say something to your friend, while in that pain that you cannot take back. And that person is not going to want to hear that it was the pain talking or that your sorry. It will be too late, and they will walk away from this friendship.

 I am telling you now, Take the Midol. Eat something before going to work that day. Listen, don’t speak as they talk to you. If you can save that friendship, save it. It is worth more than whatever you’re about to say in that moment. And if you lose it anyway it was always meant to be a season of friendship in your life and not a lifetime friendship. I want you to know that it was still real, it still counted, and you will carry the best parts of that relationship with you longer than you know. But try to watch your mouth. Take the Midol and listen with no response.

On Death, and the Things People Say Near It

You are going to lose people. Some of those losses will come quietly and you’ll be okay. Others are going to tear something open in you that makes you rethink everything and somehow, in that rethinking, you’re going to find a clarity about your own life that you couldn’t have gotten any other way.

Here is what I need you to know about people who are close to leaving this mortal realm will do, they sometimes say things near the end that sound like rejection of you, erasure of a friendship, erasure of your meaning to them. They will rewrite the entire relationship either as more positive than it was, or that you were just strangers in the night who only said hi once a day. Don’t hold onto those words. I think something happens when a soul is getting ready to leave the mortal realm, like they’re trying to serve as many ties as possible so they can leave more freely. I am telling you to hold onto the dinners, the conversation with nuggets of wisdom. The times they fed you knowledge, praised your skills, and gave you the game of life. Let the last words go, if they sound unlike them. They were not the truth of what you meant to each other.

“Their life was never in vain. And neither was your love for them. Hold onto that and let the rest dissolve.”

The Rules (In Order)

Rule 01 Don’t let anyone take your shine. Not negotiable, not situational, not up for discussion. Your light is yours. Guard it accordingly.

Rule 02 Stop looking for love and start loving yourself. The love you’re searching for outside of you is being built inside of you right now whether you feel it or not. Trust the process.

Rule 03 Take the trip. Go to Japan. Go wherever you’ve been telling yourself you’ll go when things calm down, when you have more money, when it makes more sense. It will never be the perfect time. Save the money quietly, tell no one, and go. You will not regret a single stamp in that passport.

Rule 04 Get the accountant. Do not tell your family. Do not tell your friends. Just find one, pay the fee, and let them help you build the financial life you deserve. This is one of the best decisions you will ever make, and it’s going to feel so adult and so right the moment you do it.

Rule 05 Protect yourself always! Protect yourself enthusiastically, without apology. Your body, your energy, your peace, your destiny. All of it. Energy transfers are real, and some people come into your life specifically to take what’s yours. You are not obligated to make it easy for them.

What I Most Want You to Know

You are not living the life you dreamed. You are living the life you desired, and those are two very different things. You dreamed of being a wife. You became someone who poured love into people who needed it, on your own terms, in your own time. You dreamed of being a mother you have mentored and loved and invested in more children and teenagers more than you can count, and they carried pieces of you whether they know it or not. When it’s time for the rest, it will come.

The people who show up for you the real ones, the ones who love you exactly as you are going to amaze you. You don’t have to beg for their love and acceptance. You don’t have to change yourself for it. You don’t have to wonder if you’re worth it. You are. Full stop. The friendships you have to chase were never yours to begin with, and the ones that stay without being chased are going to be some of the best things in your life.

You have held down two jobs for twenty years simultaneously. You have built something real, quietly, without anyone handing you anything. You are funny, brilliant and more creative than the people who tried to convince you otherwise.

I love you at 20. I will love you in your 30s, and I love you now as we head into the mid-40s. I love every version of you that happened in between, including the ones who made the mistakes that this letter is trying, gently, to help you avoid or at least prepare your for. You are an adventure worth living. Stay healthy so we can keep going.

With everything I’ve got —

Your future self
(Who is doing great, by the way. You’re going to be so proud.)

PS No I didn’t give you lottery numbers. No stock tips. We were never meant to win that way, and honestly? What we built ourselves is better. You’ll see.

P.P.S. — The Ford Focus. I cannot stress this enough. Do not buy that car if you do trade it in as soon as your credit is better.

★ Che Michelle is a writer, cultural commentator, and person who writes her dreams in blue ink and on real paper if you know, you know.

2

Setting Boundaries: Preserve Your Energy and Well-Being

Daily writing prompt
Write your guide to setting healthy boundaries in relationships.
View all responses

Life & Self-Preservation an Essay by Che Michelle

A Field Guide to Not Getting on My Last Nerve

On boundaries, energy vampires, unsolicited weight commentary, and the radical act of minding your business.

By Che Michelle · Boundary Enthusiast & Credentialed Nowhere

I have boundaries. Several of them, in fact, and I have spent a considerable amount of time thinking about them, refining them, and preparing to explain them to anyone who will listen and also to a few people who have made it clear they will not. This essay is for both groups. Consider it a public service announcement. Consider it a love language. Consider it a warning.

Let me be clear from the top: having boundaries is different from being difficult. It is different from being cold, or antisocial, or “a lot.” It is the same as knowing yourself well enough to say “Here is where I end and where you begin, and I would appreciate it if you respected that line.” That’s it. That’s the whole thing and yet here we are.

01Do Not Comment on My Weight

This is the one I feel most strongly about and will defend until I leave this earth. Do not comment on my weight. Not if I’ve gained it. Not if I’ve lost it. Not if you’ve noticed a change so dramatic that you feel physically compelled to say something. Keep it in your mind, or mouth. Swallow it. Let it go.

Here is the thing: you are not a physician. You are not a registered dietitian, a nutritionist, a physical therapist, a personal trainer, or a nurse. You are a person who has eyes and opinions, and I did not ask for either of those things today. If I gain weight, I am a woman in my 40s pick a culprit (probably the wine and estrogen). If I have lost weight, I have been watching what I eat. Either way, the situation is handled. We are moving on.

“You don’t know what I’m battling. You don’t know how stressed I am. And frankly, it is not your business to know. That’s the point.”

What I actually want what I think we all actually want for the people we love to be healthy. Not thin. Not a certain size. Healthy. Able to go on a walk without getting winded. Able to sit at a dinner table and eat without feeling anxious about every item on the menu. Comfortable. Present. That is the goal. And none of that requires your unsolicited commentary on my body. So. We’re done here.

02My Appearance Is Not a Conversation Starter

There is a difference a crucial, non-negotiable difference between a compliment and a critique dressed up as concern. “That outfit is giving me a headache, what happened?” Fine. Fair. I can work with that. We can have a conversation about the outfit. But “you never get your hair done” and “why does your hair look like that” and “did you even look in a mirror before you left the house” those are not feedback. Those are you putting your bad energy somewhere it was not invited.

The allowable version of this conversation is simple: “Oh, I like those earrings. Where’d you get them?” And then I tell you, and you either want them or you don’t, and we both go about our lives. That is the transaction. That is all it needs to be. Anything beyond that requires explicit permission that, for the record, I have not given.

03You Cannot Talk About My People

This one has nuance, so pay attention. If I come to you frustrated about something a cousin did, I am venting about the situation. I am not issuing a license for you to call my cousin raggedy. That license does not exist. It never existed. The fact that I said something about them in a moment of frustration does not mean you now have access to that same lane. You do not.

And yes, I take accountability here too. I try not to talk recklessly about the people I love to people who don’t love them the same way, because I will not give anyone ammunition to speak poorly about someone I care about not even when we’re in disagreement, not even when things are hard. If we’re beefing and you call them out of their name, I will correct you. That’s still someone I love. Watch your mouth.

04Respect My Time or Lose Access to It

I will tell you exactly why I stopped inviting people to things: because people change plans an hour before. Because “can we do Wednesday?” becomes “actually I can’t” at 6:47 PM on Wednesday. Because single does not mean available, and “you don’t have kids” does not mean I don’t have a life.

“There are people out there in improv groups. Knitting classes. Going back to school. Just because they haven’t told you doesn’t mean they have time for you.”

I also have a second job, which means I have an employer whose time I respect and coworkers who are counting on me to show up. I am not calling out on a Wednesday night because you decided at noon that you wanted to go to dinner. That is not a character flaw. That is called integrity, and it is becoming rarer by the day.

Making time for someone looks different than simply having free time, and I wish more people understood this distinction. I will rearrange things for you if I care about you and you give me enough notice to do it with grace. Last-minute chaos is not something I’m available for and the fact that I’ve stopped asking doesn’t mean I don’t miss it. I miss dinner parties with friends. I miss the conversation that happens over a meal with people you love. I just stopped being willing to sacrifice my schedule, my income, and my peace for events that might not even happen. That’s math.

05Ask Before You Vent

This one I learned the hard way. I used to vent to friends the way people used to write in diaries freely, regularly, and without checking whether the other person had capacity. And I thought I was just sharing. Turns out some of them thought I was emotionally relocating all of my problems into their living room on a permanent basis. We had different interpretations of the same conversation, and that difference quietly soured things.

So now I ask first. “Hey, is it okay if I talk about something?” And if the answer is no, I receive that no with grace because their no is not a rejection of me. It’s a person telling me where their bandwidth is today, which is actually a form of honesty I respect. I go write it down. I record a voice note. I go talk to my therapist. I handle it.

And look I say this with love if your support system keeps redirecting you to a professional, that is worth paying attention to. Not because your problems aren’t real. But because a therapist is trained for this, and your friends are tired, and those two things can coexist without anyone being the villain.

06Energy Vampires Will Be Blocked

They are real. I need everyone to accept this. There are people who walk into a room and immediately begin redistributing the oxygen somewhere it can’t reach you. Some of them know they’re doing it. Some of them genuinely don’t. It doesn’t matter. The effect on the room is the same.

You have the right a full, complete, God-given right to protect your energy from people who consistently drain it. This is not cruelty. This is not abandonment. This is you deciding that your peace is worth protecting with the same energy you’d use to protect anything else you value. Block the number. Skip the group chat. Wear the crystal if that’s what you believe in. Say your prayer. Do what you need to do. Your energy is not a public utility.

07Do Not Compare Your Life to Mine

We made different choices. That is the entire explanation. Your choices led to your life. My choices led to mine. Neither of us is wrong. Neither of us owes the other a justification. What you are absolutely not going to do is look at where I am, look at where you are, run some internal calculation, and then present me with your findings like I asked for an audit.

Comparison is human. I understand the impulse. But there is a line between a natural moment of reflection and deciding that your choices only make sense if mine were wrong and I will not be standing on that side of the line with you.

08My Spiritual Life Is Not a Debate Topic

I am a practicing Catholic. That is my business, and I have made my peace with it. What I have not made peace with, and will not, is the version of this conversation where you feel called to inform me that I could find God anywhere as though I haven’t considered this, as though the tradition I have chosen is not something I hold with intention and care.

You can talk to me about spirituality. We can discuss meaning, and practice, and the things that ground us. What you cannot do is treat my beliefs like a draft that needs your edits. Nobody’s spiritual practice requires your approval to be valid. Not mine. Not anyone’s. Mind the business that pays you, which in this case is your own soul.

“You’re over there. I’m over here. I’m not going to let you come over here. Stay where you are. With love.”

In Closing

Boundaries are not walls. They are not a sign that something is wrong with you or wrong with the people you love. They are honest communication about what you need in order to show up fully — for yourself and, consequently, for everyone around you. They will change as you change. They deserve to be stated clearly, honored consistently, and revised as needed without guilt.

And if someone in your life consistently cannot respect them? That is also information. Useful, clarifying, sometimes painful information. But information, nonetheless. What you do with it is up to you. Which, when you think about it, is the whole point of having boundaries in the first place.

★ Che Michelle is a writer, cultural commentator, and person with a very clear sense of what she will and will not tolerate. She holds no professional credentials in therapy or nutrition and would like everyone to remember that the neither do they the next time they feel like offering some unsolicited advice.

1

The Beauty of Autumn in Baltimore: A Coffee Shop Adventure

Heads up to any readers out there, this post was written in October 2025, and I was in the midst of a temporary lay-off. Dealing with unexpected weight gain, which I found out was due to perimenopause, and just wanted to create an essay, rant, or prose about the thoughts in my head. There is no purpose to this blog; I just wanted to share a glimpse into my life at the time. Also, just writing, writing is becoming a dying art, and I would like for it to make a comeback, like common sense and $5.00 footlongs.

Welcome to another Coffee Chronicles, where today I spend money, I should probably save on a cup of coffee and a meal. Earlier, I kept up with my neighborhood walk, which was supposed to lead to either Sistah’s Sweets or Blueprint Café. These walks have been refreshing to my spirit as I build back up to running in the mornings again. During the pandemic, I ran every day and lost 20 lbs. in 2020. Fast forward to 2025, and I have now reached over 200 lbs. Please don’t tell Toni Fine, I can’t handle her form of critique. My medication has definitely contributed to the weight gain. Despite this, my goal is to walk over 10,000 steps a day.   Today, my walk took an unexpected turn when I encountered a man having a psychological break, shouting and threatening those around (and even those not around). At this point, I turned around and took a different route, feeling guilty about not helping yet needing to take care of myself. Along the way, however, I was struck by the often-overlooked beauty of Baltimore’s autumn, the vibrant orange trees rival Vermont’s leaves, while the sun’s warm caress heats the concrete and creates the perfect balance of a warm fall day and a crisp breeze. This temperature swing feels, unmistakably, like a sign of global warming. After my walk, which ended up less brisk than hoped, I made my way to Blueprint Café, only to find it crowded, just like Bird in the Hand Café. Wondering if I have a developing issue with coffee shops beginning with “B,” I scanned the menu, realized it was more of a late-afternoon lunch spot, and decided to try again another day. Debating between Sistah’s Bakeshop and just 7-Eleven coffee, I remembered Kitsch Kitchen. I’ve been there a few times, always enjoying the service, so I decided to grab coffee and maybe a bite before heading home.  

Street view with colorful rowhouses and autumn leaves on sidewalk
A person walks a dog along a leafy street lined with colorful rowhouses in fall.

Upon arriving, I saw only one person ahead of me ordering food, which at first seemed promising. However, the wait stretched to five minutes for three items, testing my patience. Realizing my irritation, I took a moment to talk to my inner child and gently parented my ego, reminding myself to stay calm. Once centered, I ordered a drink called “You’re My Best Friend” and Avocado Toast on Honey Grain bread. (For those curious, “You’re My Best Friend” is a drip coffee with shots of espresso, caramel, chocolate, and cinnamon—though I requested no cinnamon). The drink was traditional with hints of chocolate and caramel, while the avocado toast, though good, needed more seasoning. I longed for flaky sea salt or red pepper flakes, especially since Avery Farms’ avocado toast has spoiled me in the past. As a side note, the last time I visited Kitsch, I tried their “Breakfast at Tiffany’s “a smooth maple espresso with just the right amount of sweetness. I really enjoyed that cup of coffee.

I picture myself at R. House, blogging or writing book chapters. My layoff gives me time to rest, though I know I should get more organized. Instead, I explored local coffee shops with a side quest that boosts community connections. No Coffee Chronicles tomorrow; I’ll be working, but Thursday brings another coffee adventure outside Baltimore City. For now, I’ll enjoy supporting local businesses, even if it doesn’t help my weight goals.

Thank you for reading this post!

0

Coffee Chronicles- Almost Got “Got” at the library.

 It has been a while since I wrote a Coffee Chronicles. I haven’t been able to sit at any coffee shops or visit them for longer than 10 minutes. A few weeks ago, I decided to go to the library. I had a rare opportunity, no Trivia on Tuesday Night, due to Mardi Gras. I was torn between doing a step class with my favorite drill sergeant fitness instructor. Imagine the scene from the Crosby show when Debbie Allen worked Phylicia Rashad out until exhaustion. I played with the idea of starting back up to solid core classes, but I flash back to feeling my body tremble to exhaustion. Plus, I checked my account and didn’t have enough for a Solid core class and parking downtown. The snowstorm at the end of January messed up my rhythm to be a solid core baddie, given my current discipline level. Earlier this year, I told myself I wanted to make writing a habit. I decided to go sit down and write. I could do the Whole Foods in Towson, grab dinner, and write. Even though I considered going to the Paris Bakery, I loved the lighting and the food. I hated the parking in the area and knew it was outside my budget. Cue Dave Ramsay, “You don’t have to spend money on parking.” “You are damn sure don’t need to spend money on overpriced food when you have food at home.” So, I decided to be frugal and go to the library. I have gone to the Towson Public Library a few times. Parking is reasonable, $2.00, and going to the library is fiscally responsible.  

Interior of a city library with students reading and using laptops at tables under warm lamps
People study and socialize in a sunlit city library with high shelves and warm lighting

So, I decided to go to the library, even though this particular library has a smell, and not a book smell. I should mention that there is a large, unhoused population at this library, but honestly, they’re quite nice and don’t bother anyone. I would rather have them in the library than deal with the harsh winter conditions. At least they are warm and not freezing.  So, I can grow the f*ck up while I use a public space to work on a project.  I got to the library ready to work on my writing when I realized I had left my cell phone in the car. I felt my eyes roll as I thought to myself that it would be ok to sit and work without my phone. I can work without my phone, but my addiction to that pocket technology called a cellphone dragged me back to my car. I couldn’t spend 90 minutes without checking TikTok or pretending to listen to music while really procrastinating by swiping. I went back to my car, trekking back to the library to sit next to the quiet older lady. She was color-coding a notebook and felt like the area I chose was perfect. I could see and hear while also maintaining privacy.

After 30 minutes, the lady beside me left. I figured she must have finished her work, so I kept typing. When I felt a pair of eyes on me, I looked around to see if someone was watching me. Cue the Rockwell song, lyrics popping into my head: “Somebody watching me.” Fun Fact: Michael Jackson sings the hook on that One-Hit Wonder. When I noticed a young man drop his bookbag at a desk over from me. I thought nothing of it and continued writing. An older man hacked up part of his lung. Which made me realize I needed a mask.  I had an uneasy feeling, and I kept my head on a swivel. The man who was one desk over was not quite jumpy, but he seemed to be analyzing people. I thought nothing of it until I felt eyes on me again. I looked over at the young man, and he disappeared, moving back into the racks of books. I would be fine if he brought the books back to the desk. He still wore the pooh shiesty, and now my danger signals were going off. Whoopi Goldberg’s voice penetrated my head, the movie clip from Ghost, “You’re in Danger, Gurl.”    I decided to move to another area of the desk, closer to the librarian. I settled and noticed the lady I sat beside was at the computer. I open my computer to see the young man from the back with his bag sitting in front of me. I thought, “Why the hell did he move?” I kept my head down, but noticed he wasn’t watching everyone, just me.

Convert scene to comicbook style

At this moment, all my years of watching the CBS murder mystery combo kicked in. Angela Fletcher and Perry Mason trained me in how to escape a perp without getting caught. The next time he moved, I took my parking ticket and the bank card with the least amount on it from my wallet and shoved them into my pocket. I checked everything around me. Now I could go to the third floor and sit there for a moment until I found a new target, but that felt like I would isolate myself. I noticed I have two exits. One was the bridge to the parking lot, but it was also the most dangerous, because there were no cameras, and this rejected YN could not follow me. Then the Ramp, which seems the most dangerous, takes me to the ground floor, but I could make my way to Subway or 7-11 or even run down the street where the police usually pass. Next time the pooh-shiesty fellow got up, I acted like I was going to the bathroom. I realized I should have waited to move the parking ticket and card until I got to the bathroom, but I wanted to be ready. I then bobbed and weaved through the stacks, making my way to the exit. I stopped in an area with a parent and a kid, looking as if they were about to leave.

Pooh shesity man, walked towards the bathrooms. I got up and walked out with the family, taking the ramp to the bottom floor. Why would I take the Ramp!!!!!  I really am like Jessica Fletcher; that was a bonehead move. The Ramp, but I made it to the bottom. I didn’t feel it was fluttering anymore. No-Kill Bill musical sequence with whirling sounds before the bride attacks her next victim. I sprinted up the street to the parking lot and paid quickly.  I took the elevator to my car. Looked around and ran to my car. I drove away, wondering if I just psyched myself out for nothing, cause maybe it was nothing. I know my danger signs, first “Rockwell,” “Somebody Watching me” playing in my head. The YN is moving to different parts of the library as I try to write. My fight or flight response is kicking in, and instead of going to the librarian and saying, ” Hey, I feel unsafe I turn this into an overactive imagination of getting to the car. I told my friend about this interaction, and their response was, “You need to be more careful.”  I side-eyed my phone, my inner Kanye before his antisemitic rant came out, “How Sway?”  Am I supposed to go home and never venture outside? Am I only going to the library between the hours of 10-3 pm?  Was I supposed to go home, watch TV, sleep, and say, “maybe next time”? I just know that moving forward, I am going to the coffee shop, and parking next to it costs a damn. I do enjoy the library, but until I do like Cardi B, and get some Bear Mace. The library is only an option during daylight hours.

In conclusion, I was unable to write a story.  The man in the pooh shiesty mask moved on to another target. But I got a really cool essay out of trying to do the right thing, and realizing I got to start my morning runs again.

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑