We started off seeing 8 sheriffs with one car pulled over. Then our route was detoured two times for the same wreck. We were 20 minutes behind schedule.
Luna, my seven-year-old American Pit Bull Terrier, and I hit the 1.6-mile Mambourg Park Loop in Lancaster, Ohio. It’s a smaller trail with just about 144 feet of elevation gain. However, it’s enough to wear us out in a good way. The trail starts wide and grassy. Then, it narrows as it climbs and gets more forested. It’s just the kind of walk Luna loves. There were plenty of squirrels and bunnies for her to try and chase.
Early on, we climbed some wooden steps, then crossed a small bridge over a creek. The sound of the water felt peaceful, especially with the light drizzle falling around us. Just off the trail, a small stream carved quietly through the edge. Little pretty rocks were scattered all around. Rocks, I was trying to ignore because, well, I already have enough at home for my Etsy store.
The air was thick with humidity, so muggy you could practically cut it with a knife. And, yeah, Ohio trails always get me with those spiderwebs, catching me every few steps. Luna didn’t care; she was busy watching every little rustle.
Lit.
About halfway through, I lit a joint… so you can consider the trail “lit.” It’s how I unwind. I take it all in. The buzz mixes with the fresh air and quiet sounds around us. Right as I extinguished the joint, we detoured off trail for a barking jack Russell terrier. Luna doesn’t do loud dogs and, Luna typically isn’t a loud dog. Don’t get me wrong she has dog friends but, they have all been introduced methodically.
Appalachia & Folk Lore
This area is part of Appalachia. It is a region steeped in rich folklore. It has haunting legends that have been passed down for generations. These stories were originally told around campfires and kitchen tables. They were meant to entertain, teach lessons, or warn travelers in the woods.
Dog Man
One well-known tale is Dog Man. It is a mysterious creature said to be part dog and part man. Dog Man roams the forest edges at night. Locals say his howl is eerie and unnatural, a warning to stay on the trail and not wander too deep.
Tall Guys
Then there are the Tall Guys. They are shadowy, elongated figures. These figures are said to stand motionless among the trees, blending perfectly with the trunks. Some say they’re spirits of ancient guardians or lost souls trapped between worlds. The Tall Guys are silent watchers. Spotting one is considered an omen. No one is quite sure if it’s good or bad.
Just don’t Whistle!
A common warning passed through the hills is don’t whistle in the woods. It’s believed whistling can summon malevolent spirits. It may attract the attention of the “haints” (ghostly beings). These beings follow the sound and may lead travelers astray or cause misfortune. Whistling breaks the natural silence of the forest, inviting unseen dangers.
Do NOT Look in the Trees!
Similarly, you don’t look directly into the trees, especially at twilight or nighttime. The woods are said to hide spirits called “tree watchers” or “shadow folk” who observe silently. Locking eyes with them is thought to invite their presence, which could bring bad luck, fear, or worse. It’s safer to keep your gaze low and avoid challenging the unknown.
The Wampus Cat
Other stories include the Wampus Cat. This fierce, cat-like creature has glowing eyes. It is said to prowl the forests at night, stalking anyone foolish enough to be out alone. It’s sometimes seen as a guardian of the wild, punishing those who disrespect nature.
The White Lady (LMAO!)
On a gentler note, there’s the tale of the White Lady. She is a ghostly woman dressed in white. She appears near certain creeks or clearings. Said to protect travelers from harm and guide lost hikers. She disappears without a trace once the danger passes.
Melungeons
A legend specific to this part of Appalachia involves The Melungeons. They are a mysterious group of people with a complex heritage. This heritage blends European, Native American, and African ancestry. For centuries, the Melungeons lived in the remote hills and hollows, often on the outskirts of mainstream society.
Folklore says they possessed secret knowledge passed down through generations. This knowledge included herbal medicines, ancient rituals, and a deep connection to the spirit world. Some believe they served as guardians of the forest. They were able to communicate with the unseen forces that roam the Appalachian woods.
Local tales whisper that encountering a Melungeon could bring both protection and a test. They were said to recognize those who respected the land and its spirits and offer help or healing. But for those who were disrespectful or ignorant, crossing their path might bring misfortune or strange happenings.
Their isolation and secrecy fueled many rumors. Some say they practiced old-world magic. Others believe they had ties to ancient European mystical traditions. Others claimed they could disappear into the woods like shadows, slipping between the seen and unseen realms.
Much about the Melungeons remains a mystery. Their legacy adds a rich, enigmatic layer to Appalachian folklore. It reminds hikers that these lands hold stories beyond what meets the eye. Here, history and myth intertwine deep in the hills.
Up up up up up!
As we pushed on, it got steeper, uphill, uphill, uphill. Luna’s panting grew louder. Her energy was fading. It’s funny because she started out wild. She ended up just as wiped as me.
The trail opens up at the end. Or it opens at the beginning, depending on how you look at it. It leads into a spot that reminded me of childhood afternoons. I used to spend those afternoons watching BMX races or riding little ATVs. My mom’s friends created a trail off to the side of the wheeling trail in the woods. We would race bikes or ATVs there.
We wrapped up around 7:31 PM, sweating more than I expected in the muggy air. Luna and I jumped into the car, blasting the AC full blast. It’s 74 degrees out, and we’re already plotting our next hike.
I’ve overcome fears that don’t scream loud but echo. Quiet ones. The kind that pull up a chair and settle into your bones.
I feared that becoming me would cost me everyone, and for a while, it did. I feared my voice would never drop far enough for the world to let me be. Feared mirrors, waiting rooms and ID checks. I feared that no matter how hard I tried, I’d still be some ghost caught between versions.
But I transitioned anyway. I started long before most people understood. Seven years before she died, I was already halfway home to myself.
And my mom… she didn’t just accept me. She showed up. She took care of me after surgery. Made sure I had soft blankets and real food. Talked to nurses when I couldn’t. Sat by my side with her steady warmth when the world felt too heavy to hold. She loved me as her son, not after time, not with hesitation, but with her whole heart.
I thought that meant I’d have more time. That she’d be around to see the rest of me grow into the man she already believed in.
But life doesn’t ask for timing. It just takes. Losing her wasn’t a dramatic moment. It was slow, then sudden, and then everything was different. The fear that followed wasn’t about being trans anymore. It was about being here without her. How do you keep going when the person who provided unconditional love is no longer here? How do you continue when those words are no longer spoken?
That’s the fear I never knew how to name, learning to live without her.
But somehow, I kept going. I carried her voice in the wind. In old voicemails. In the way, I still make tea like she did. I kept writing. Kept healing. I didn’t stop transitioning. I just started becoming someone who was able to grieve and grow.
So what fears have I overcome?
Plenty still reside in my ribs. I’ve stared down identity loss, transphobia, surgery scars. Then the bottomless grief of losing the one person who held it all together. I’ve found home in my reflection. I’ve become a man she’d still recognize, and be proud of.
And I learned that love can outlive the body.
That becoming isn’t something you do until someone dies.
It’s something you keep doing, because they loved you enough to help you start.
Sometimes, all it takes is a single leaf to shift our path forward.
This spell is one of my favorites for when I need clarity, direction, or a little universal nudge. This ritual uses a bay leaf as the vessel. It invites you to focus your intentions. You can declare and release them with both gentleness and fire. Whether you’re calling in healing, focus, confidence, or opportunity, this spell keeps it simple, sacred, and portable.
🧹 What You’ll Need:
1–3 bay leaves (fresh or dried will work) A pen or marker A fireproof bowl or dish Clear quartz (optional, but powerful)
🔮 Step-by-Step Ritual:
Center & Breathe Sit in a calm space, hands open, and breathe. Focus gently on one specific desire or goal, make it something that feels grounded and achievable. Write It Down Using your pen, write your intention directly on the bay leaf. Keep it short, just a word or a few. Examples: “Confidence”, “Safety”, “Open doors”. Charge the Leaf, hold the leaf between your palms. Visualize your wish blooming into reality. Pour your clarity and hope into it. Let the Fire Speak, Carefully burn the bay leaf in your fireproof dish. As the smoke rises, imagine your intention being carried out into the world. This is the release, the trust, the moment you let it go. Amplify (Optional) Hold a clear quartz crystal during or after the burn to amplify your focus and energy. Keep it near you for a few days as a touchstone. Give Thanks Whisper a thank-you, to your guides, the universe, the elements, or simply to yourself. The act of gratitude is the final seal.
✨ Optional Chant or Affirmation:
“Leaf to flame, wish take flight,
Bring my dream to clear sight.”
Say this aloud or whisper it as the smoke curls. Let it ground your belief and light your path.
🌙 Ideal Timing:
Best days: Monday (for inner clarity). Thursday is best for expansion. Best moon phases are the waxing crescent or waxing gibbous. These are the times when energy builds and intentions gain momentum.
🧺 Aftercare – Closing the Spell:
Let the ashes cool and gently bury them in the earth or scatter them outdoors. Keep your quartz nearby or on your altar to remind you of your intention. You’ve planted a seed, now let it grow.
🕯 Final Thoughts:
Not every spell needs complexity. Sometimes a leaf, a flame, and a moment of presence are all you need. Use this whenever you’re ready to speak your truth and let it take root in the world. Gumroad Free PDFPayHip Free PDF
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When the world gets too loud, like, shouting-through-a-megaphone-while-juggling-taxes-and-identity-crises loud, I log off. Literally.
I go to video game land.
Fortnite
It’s not real, and that’s exactly the point. It’s where Fortnite lives. Zero Build, thank you very much, because I’m not here to be Bob the Builder under gunfire. I’m here to run, hide in bushes, throw things, and occasionally third-party with wild success. Nobody questions it. Nobody wants anything from me but vibes.
Nostalgic
When I’m not dodging snipers and emoting after a win, I’m deep in the nostalgia zone. Crash Bandicoot spins like my anxiety but with better music. Spyro the Dragon? Pure escapism. He flies. He breathes fire. He doesn’t get bills in the mail.
Then there’s Streets of Rage, where I get to beat people up and no one calls HR. Sonic shows up too, sprinting through levels and collecting rings like my ADHD on a mission. Even South Park somehow makes the cut, crude, loud, messy, and strangely cathartic. Like therapy, if therapy was animated and extremely inappropriate.
Escapism? Disassociation?
In these places, the rules make sense: survive, level up, don’t get hit. Nobody’s trying to small talk you into a breakdown. Nobody misgenders you. And definitely nobody is asking for your five-year plan.
I leave my name at the login screen and go by something slightly ridiculous and highly specific. I’m not escaping. I’m just buffering. Rebooting the system.
And when I come back? I’m still me, just a little less crispy. A little more ready to face whatever fresh nonsense the world has in store.
So yeah. That’s where I go when the world is too loud.
Describe one simple thing you do that brings joy to your life.
For me, it’s cannabis.
This is not done in some over-hyped influencer way. It’s not to escape or erase the hard parts. Instead, it is an intentional, grounding practice. A small ritual that helps me settle into my body when the day’s left me scattered and tight. I live in a legal state, and that alone feels like a gift. It means I can let go of the shame that used to linger around this choice. I can choose this softness on purpose. And I do.
Some days it’s a joint rolled with care, stepped outside just as the sky turns bruised and quiet. Other days it’s a single gummy that says, hey, you made it, you can exhale now. Sometimes, it’s the slow breath that comes after the first hit. My chest finally stops holding on so tight, and I remember what it feels like to just be.
Marijuana
Cannabis doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t erase my struggles. But it softens them. It gives me a little more space between my thoughts. It lets joy creep in through the cracks. I experience unexpected laughter. I find deeper sleep. Music suddenly feels like it’s playing for me. I’m more myself, not less. Just a version with more room to feel without being overwhelmed.
We are all Valid
I know not everyone connects with this plant the way I do, and that’s okay. But I think we all have something like this. Something small, sacred, maybe a little misunderstood by others. Something that reminds us we’re allowed to feel good. We’re allowed to feel pleasure, calm, silliness, stillness. We’re allowed to tend to ourselves, even in tiny ways.
So that’s mine. That’s the thing that brings me a quiet kind of joy.
What’s yours? What small thing do you do, not because it solves everything, but because it brings you back to yourself?
How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?
I know it’s time to unplug when my thoughts stop echoing in my own voice. When the rhythm of my mind gets replaced by headlines, hashtags, outrage, and urgency. When I read one more story about someone like me, someone trans, or someone of a different race. It could be someone disabled or simply living, being silenced, erased, or attacked. Then I can’t even feel the full grief of it because the next notification is already coming in.
The build-up
It builds up, quietly and violently. The scrolling doesn’t feel like a choice anymore. It’s like I’m monitoring a storm I never signed up for, making sure no one I love gets struck. I absorb it all: the policies, the slurs, the opinions that mistake my existence for debate. And still, I don’t unplug. Not because I don’t want to, but because part of me feels like I can’t.
The Need to Unplug
If I unplug, who holds the line? Who keeps watch? Who amplifies the ones being shouted over, or reminds the world we’re still here? Staying connected feels like an act of resistance, even as it drains me. It feels like a duty, even as it blurs my sense of self. I don’t know how to look away, not when looking feels like a kind of protection, a kind of presence.
The signs are all there, though. I stop creating. I get snappish. I wake up already tired. I consume more than I respond to. My body tenses, my chest hurts, my hands hover over screens instead of reaching toward anything real. Still, I refresh the feed. I think if I just know more, I’ll be ready. I’ll be safe. But there’s no endpoint to awareness. There’s only exhaustion.
So when I do try to unplug, it’s rarely graceful. I have to force it: turn off the phone, leave the house, touch something not made of pixels or panic. Write a poem with no goal. Light a match and breathe. Let silence ring louder than the news for once. Let my thoughts come back in my own voice.
The Hard Part
That’s the hardest part, reminding myself that being informed and being overwhelmed are not the same thing. That I can care deeply without letting it hollow me out. That unplugging isn’t abandoning the fight. Sometimes, it’s how I return to it stronger.
Watching out for ALL Minorities
And it’s not just people like me I’m watching out for. My feed is full of grief and fury for so many others. Black communities are still brutalized and blamed. Indigenous voices remain silenced. Disabled people are pushed to the margins of every movement. Immigrants are treated like threats. Women and femmes are denied autonomy. Jewish and Muslim communities are caught in cycles of violence and erasure. The list doesn’t end, and neither does the ache of seeing it all unfold in real time.
Even when the news isn’t about me, it’s about us. All of us who live at intersections deemed inconvenient by the powerful. All of us who get flattened into statistics, headlines, or hashtags. I carry that with me. I don’t just stay online to protect my people. I stay to bear witness, to amplify, to hold space for others who are just as tired, just as sacred.
Respect
So when I say unplugging feels like absence, it’s not only personal. It’s collective. It feels like turning away from people I care about, even if we’ve never met. But I’m learning that I can’t hold all of it all the time. I can step back without stepping away. I can rest without forgetting. We all deserve that kind of permission, to pause, to breathe, and to come back when we’re ready.
This journal entry marks the beginning of something I’m genuinely proud of.
My poem The Men Who Are Trans has been published in the newest issue of Forever With Pride. It appears alongside a feature article. The article dives into my creative work, my love of poetry, zines, and even a little nod to rock hounding. This piece is more than just a publication. It marks the first month of a yearlong partnership with the magazine. I couldn’t imagine a better way to begin.
This poem, in particular, is tender and rooted. It’s a quiet thank-you to the men like me. These are trans men who remember what it’s like to be hurt by someone who was supposed to love them. They use that memory as a guide for how to love others with care and intention.
The simps who brood over you while staring at the moon. They forget to text you back while writing verses about their favorite muse, You.
The feature article introduces readers to my broader body of work. It includes my handmade items, prompt journals, and e-books over on Etsy. It also shares my deep love for nature and ritual. Additionally, it highlights the thread of advocacy that runs through everything I create. It’s rare to find a publication that understands you completely. They see you not just as a writer, but as a whole, layered person. Forever With Pride does just that.
I’ll be contributing to Forever With Pride every month for the next year. I’m excited and honestly a little emotional. I’m thinking about where this journey might go. Thank you for being here. Whether you’ve been reading my work for a while or you just found me through something here, it means a great deal to me. Your support matters greatly.
Lesson Learned vet Promoters and have them make reels & post ebooks before I send any physical items.
🚨 Small Business Warning🚨
Let me be clear: do not reach out to Daisy Marie Moncrief.
This post isn’t about harassment or revenge. Karma is my homie, and my craft speaks louder than any confrontation ever could. I have 5 litter boxes and I know it’s fitting
I’m sharing this so other artists and makers don’t end up in the same situation.
Daisy was the only promoter who ever asked to join my team she reached out to me after I made a post. The others who followed through were all ones I pitched too. She told me she loved my handmade creations and wanted to post them. I agreed and mailed her $81 worth of custom product, free of charge. She confirmed delivery and said she was excited to share.
But then she went silent.
After some time, she explained she had just moved and needed space to settle in. I completely understood . O hate moving too. I gave her months, I waited silently. I didn’t pressure her. I didn’t nag. I trusted she was just not ready.
After waiting patiently, I sent two polite nudges on TikTok. She ignored them both. Until
she finally responded, she told me she had “a new boyfriend and didn’t have time for this (you know her end of the bargain) .” She also claimed she doesn’t post at all anymore. I looked she had posted five times just the day before. I followed up kindly and created an invoice, giving her another full month to pay or see me in small claims court.
That’s when she said she lives in a tent, has no job, and can’t pay me back. She then said my work was shit. Even though she had praised it before I had put boundaries in place.
I want to be clear:
🟣 I never asked for money in the beginning.
🟣 I didn’t want anything but a few honest, creative posts.
🟣 I don’t want the items back. She got sent. Spray she claimed was empty and I know it was not.
🟣 I definitely don’t want promotion from someone who talks down on my work because she was asked to hold up her end. And then offers to make one measly post. I said no it’s within my legal rights.
I just wanted mutual respect and a fair collaboration Instead, I got ghosted, disrespected, and dismissed. And a total lack of accountability.
I’m not here to ruin anyone’s life. I’m not profiting off her. I’m not even mad anymore, I am just wiser. I do not need her to pay money she doesn’t have or make a video I’m no longer willing to use. I want not one tie to someone who is clearly looking to scam. I will not be scammed or disrespected in silence.
If you’re a creator, especially a marginalized one:
Please protect your energy. Vet your collaborations. Don’t give away your labor and craft without care. It needs to be fair. So you are aware fair isn’t free shit and no follow through.
Moving forward, I will still offer free items (with free shipping) for collabs. The promoter should have a min 1 k followers. They will receive 1 digital copy of one of my books for free. When they make their posts and reels for the first e-book, we can discuss sending the next, until all digital material is promoted. We will move onto physical items and reading and I will send one at a time until a relationship is established.
I’ll be busy tonight with the craft. Trust, I’m alright. Karma never misses. 🌙
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