I’ve heard this question countless times. It’s practically a meme: “So… are you a cat person or a dog person?”
My honest answer? Both.
But not in a half-hearted, middle-of-the-road way. I genuinely love both cats and dogs but, for very different reasons. They both hit very different emotional frequencies.
Let me explain.
My dog is my hiking partner. She is always ready to explore, no questions asked. The leash comes out, and the tail starts going. Luna is down for waterfalls, caves, trails, car rides. Whatever, you name it. She is not just an emotional support animal. Luna, an adventure buddy. Loyal, goofy, grounded. It’s true. When it’s cold, there’s comfort in having a warm dog body pressed up against you. When I’m anxious, curling up with her is invaluable. It’s steadying. It feels like a hug from a friend who just knows.
But my cat?
The kitty boys are something else entirely.
Cats are animals of consent. You don’t just get a cat’s love. You have to earn it. They choose you.
My cats are cuddle boys when they want to be. When they are in the mood, there is nothing more comforting than one of them purring into my ribs. But when they are not into it? That’s valid. They have their space. They come back when they are ready. That choice makes the connection feel more sacred.
There’s a respect that develops between a person and a cat. You have to show them that you’re cool before they give you affection. And when they do? It’s like a private little trust pact. That they’re not giving out to just anyone.
Dogs are often ready to love everyone. And I adore that about them.
Cats… they love on their terms. And I respect the hell out of that.
So for me, it’s not a contest.
I love them both.
I love what my dog brings into my life… joy, movement, loyalty, warmth.
I love what my cats bring… presence, autonomy, quiet connection, and consent-based affection.
They’re different souls. Different relationships. Different energies.
Some things just pull me into a rhythm so deep that I don’t notice the hours passing. I’ll forget to eat. I’ll forget to check my phone. When I finally look up, and it’s dark outside or way later than I thought it was. That timeless focus doesn’t happen with most things, but it happens to me in very specific moments.
Hiking is one of the first thing I found. There’s something about being on a trail where I don’t know exactly where it ends or what I’ll find. When the sounds of the world disappear, I only hear the crunch of my steps. I also hear the rush of water, wind, or leaves. Then I settle into my body in a way that makes everything else fade out. Whether it’s a steep climb or a gentle creek side path, I lose track of time. I become one with the woods.
Rock hounding is something I love. I will spend hours hunched over riverbanks, dry creeks, or piles of rock debris. I’m always searching for a glimmer of something hidden. The longer I stay, the more I see, and the more I see, the more I want to keep going. It’s never really about the end result. It’s about the process of looking. Honestly, it really is about the small discoveries. It’s about that quiet rush when I find something beautiful that the earth tucked away for me to notice.
Exploring towns pulls me in. Forgotten roadside stops capture my interest. Waterfalls are equally compelling. Just wandering through places with history or color captivates me in the same way. I like stumbling into things I didn’t plan on. Murals, statues, old buildings, chalk art, or just a view I didn’t expect. When I’m on foot in an unfamiliar place, I usually don’t check the time. I only do so if it’s necessary.
Then there’s the creative side of me that gets lost too. Writing poetry, making zines, laying out pages or trying to pull together themes for a collection. This takes me out of everything. I blink, and four hours have passed. I’ll go back and read something I don’t even remember writing. That space of creating is one of the few places I feel like I can just exist without pressure. It’s just me and the page. Me and the words. And that feels safe.
When I lose track of time, it typically means I’m doing something I actually care about. Something that connects me to myself or the world in a way that feels grounding or real. I don’t think losing track of time is a bad thing. I think it’s one of the few times I’m fully here.
The world is full of noise. People act like they’ve got it all figured out. They pretend certainty is something you can buy, Google, or fake your way into. But real certainty doesn’t come easy. It comes from surviving things that should’ve broken you. It comes from loving hard and losing even harder. It comes from walking through the same fire twice and still choosing to fight for something better. These aren’t opinions I’m floating out to debate. These are truths I’ve earned, and they’re not going anywhere.
1. I’ll miss my mom forever. She was my best friend.
Grief doesn’t shrink with time. It just learns how to sit quieter in the room. My mom wasn’t just a parent. She was my anchor. My favorite person. My best friend. When the world went sideways, she was the one I called. Now that she’s gone, the silence where her voice used to be is deafening. Missing her is permanent, but so is her impact. She taught me how to be real. She showed me how to love with everything I have in me. My mom always encouraged me to keep going even when I feel like I can’t. That love doesn’t disappear. It just shifts into a new forever one.
2. All humans are equal, no matter their socioeconomic status.
I don’t care if someone’s living in a penthouse or sleeping in their car. People are people. Period. Worth isn’t tied to a paycheck, an address, or a resume. It’s wild that we still have to say this. This society is obsessed with pretending some lives matter more because they’re richer. People think cleaner or more “put together” lives are more important. That’s bullshit. Struggle doesn’t make someone less human, and success doesn’t make someone superior. Every person deserves dignity, not because they earned it, but because they exist.
3. I love the outdoors. Give me a trail and a dog, the all trails app, and I’m set.
Nature is my peace. The second I step onto a trail, even a short one, something shifts in me. I breathe deeper. I move freer. Add a dog to that and it’s basically therapy. I don’t need fancy plans. Just give me access to All Trails, a pair of beat-up shoes, and a four-legged companion, and I’m good. There’s something healing about watching the world do its thing without us. Trees growing, rivers moving, birds calling out like nothing’s wrong. It reminds me there’s still beauty, still quiet, still reasons to keep going.
4. The world doesn’t have to be like this. Everyone fighting for a crumb of the crust.
This system? It’s not broken. It was built like this. Built to pit us against each other while a handful of people hoard the loaf. But that’s not how things have to be. We’ve been tricked into thinking there’s no other options, that this toxic hustle and scarcity mindset is just life. But it’s not. We can build something better. We can share more, care more, unlearn this survival-of-the-cruelest nonsense, and remember how to exist in community, not competition. All people deserve more than scraps.
5. It’s very possible to not like either side of the U.S. government.
It’s wild how people act like criticizing both major political parties makes you some form of traitor. I’m not here to support any side that lies. I won’t cheer for those who manipulate. I refuse to back those who sell out the people they’re supposed to serve. Propaganda exists everywhere. It just wears different colors depending on the channel. You can call out bullshit from all sides without being “uninformed” or “indecisive.” Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is refuse to play the rigged game at all.
6. Dogs are better company than most people.
Dogs don’t lie. They don’t scheme. They don’t pretend to be your friend while secretly rooting for your downfall. Dogs love honestly and without ego. They care when you’re hurting, even if they don’t know why. They don’t need explanations. They just show up. There’s something about that presence that makes you feel safe in a way most people can’t match. I’ll take a dog’s loyalty over a human’s performative empathy any day.
7. The thrill is always worth the risk.
Chasing a view requires sore legs and scraped hands. Making a life decision scares you half to death. If it makes your heart beat faster, it’s worth taking the risk. It’s probably worth it. That fight to get there. That doubt you have to push through. A quiet moment at the top where it all comes together. That’s what makes it real. The joy doesn’t come easy, but that’s why it matters. I’d rather risk it and live fully than play it safe and feel nothing at all.
8. College degrees don’t measure intelligence or creativity.
You can’t teach vision. You can’t grade lived experience. I’ve seen some of the most brilliant people get dismissed because they don’t have letters after their name. Some of the most useless ideas get celebrated because someone paid tuition. Don’t get me wrong, education can be valuable, but it’s not the only way. It’s definitely not the only proof of worth. Some of the smartest people I know are autodidacts, survivors, creators. Degrees don’t define genius. Action does.
9. Family is everything, but I don’t just mean blood.
Blood ties you to people, but it doesn’t make them your family. Family is who shows up when shit gets real. They see you at your worst and stick around anyway. They know your trauma, your mess, your contradictions, and still call you theirs. I’ve built my own family through friendship, through chosen connection, through shared history and mutual growth. Those bonds? They’re just as sacred. Maybe more so, because they were made by choice, not chance. I do, however, cherish my given family that I decided to keep around.
10. Google isn’t how you prove research.
We’ve gotten lazy with facts. Type anything into Google and you’ll find a dozen articles to back it up, true or not. Real research takes more. It takes curiosity, discernment, and effort. It means asking who wrote it, who funded it, and why. It means reading past the headline. Most people don’t go that deep. They just want something to confirm what they already believe. But truth doesn’t live in echo chambers. It lives in the uncomfortable space between easy answers and actual effort.
These aren’t just passing thoughts. They’re part of me. They’ve been earned through grief, joy, clarity, and chaos. You don’t need everyone to agree with what you know in your bones. You just need to hold onto it when the world tries to convince you otherwise. So this is me holding firm. These are the things I know to be absolutely certain. And that’s enough.
Adventure. Always. I’m not here for the safest route. I’m here for the one that makes me feel something. I live in Ohio, and while I haven’t explored every inch of Hocking Hills, I go there a lot. It’s familiar in a way that still surprises me. The cliffs and trails change every time. Their appearance depends on the season, the weather, or the way I showed up that day.
I’ve stood under waterfalls in Michigan, North Carolina, and all across Ohio. I’ve seen a lot in West Virginia too. I’m chasing the sound that drowns everything else out. Just today, I hiked out to a bridge in Saluda, North Carolina? To take a photo. It wasn’t long, extreme, or even all that remote. But it still gave me that feeling I’m always after: the “you had to be there” moment. That’s the shit adventure I crave. The quiet, personal, and absolutely necessary. There were also a lot of gems and crystals around this bridge. Score x2!
I’ve added, North Carolina, to the list just this week. Two days ago, I climbed a fire tower alone. I watched the trees stretch out like they had something to say. There’s clarity I only find on the trail. The best is always on hikes with waterfalls and views, the kind that make you work for it. The kind where your legs burn. Your back aches. But it’s all worth it when the trail opens up. There’s nothing but space in front of you.
Axton N.O. Mitchell Summer 2022 Hocking Hills, Ohio
I dream about hiking to the base of Half Dome. I want to see the desert waves in Arizona. I want to be swallowed up in the fog and forests of the Pacific Northwest (around Seattle and Portland.) I want to take the lesser-known routes too. The trail that passes under the New River Gorge Bridge in West Virginia. The guided hike through Black Water Falls with the swinging bridges.
Security is stillness. Adventure is movement. It doesn’t have to be chaos but, it has to be ahead. Sometimes that means turning off the main road. Sometimes it means stopping just to look. I don’t know exactly where I’m headed, but I do know I want to keep moving. Not for the thrill, but for the truth I only ever find out there.
What does that even mean? “Authority on a subject?” Who decided that’s a thing we should care about? Who benefits from that idea?
The thoughts I have when you say someone is an authority, make me want to ask… what makes them one? Experience? Is it how many books they’ve read yet, never quite comprehended? Is it how confidently they speak, how loudly they interrupt, how many years they’ve had to convince everyone they know something better than you? Is it the shade of skin they have? Is it their ability to pay for a seat? Is it power, or control? I think maybe it’s just an excuse to gatekeep knowledge and feel superior in rooms that were never built for everyone to feel welcome in the first place.
I don’t like authority. Not even a little. Especially not the made up, performed, or weaponized kinds. Authority that doesn’t come from lived experience. Is constructed like a stage prop to look impressive while standing on shaky wood foundations. Authority which claimed to shut others down, not to uplift them. The kind that says “I know more, so I matter more.” That’s not truth. That’s ego dressed in stolen robes.
Please don’t even get me started on authority over identities. That kind of “expertise” is the most violent of all. Like when people claim to be an authority on what trans people are or are not. That’s not education. That’s erasure disguised as credibility. Trump thinks he’s some authority on existence, thinks he can just declare people don’t exist. As if my soul is some policy he can veto. As if his opinion carries more weight than reality. That’s not authority. That’s hate with a microphone, a micropenis, and misplaced confidence.
No. I don’t consider myself an authority on anything. I don’t want that word. I don’t like it. Most people I’ve seen claiming “authority” use it to stop conversations, not open them. They use it to protect their own opinions, not to welcome understanding. They create a wall then call it wisdom. Yet, get defensive when someone has the nerve to question the bricks.
And here’s the truth… anyone can teach something. Anyone can learn. Maturity has nothing to do with how many years you’ve lived, how many books you’ve published, or how many letters are next to your name. Maturity is in how you treat people when you disagree with them. Maturity is how open you stay, even when you think you know all. A title doesn’t make you wise. A podium doesn’t make you right. And being loud doesn’t make you truthful. Money doesn’t make you worth more. Only hearing what degree holding people have to say is a form of white superiority.
If I am in authority over anything, it’s my own story. My own decisions. My own morals. Still, even then, I’m always learning. I mess up. I evolve. But my values? My dedication to justice? That is unwavering. That is rooted. If I have any claim to expertise, it’s in how I love all people. How I protect them. How I advocate for other minorities with everything I have in me.
My authority if we’re calling it that. Authority isn’t about superiority. It’s about solidarity. It’s about using what I’ve survived and what I’ve built to help level the damn playing field. It’s about tearing down fake pedestals, not trying to climb up them.
Authority should never be a crown. It should be a torch, passed around freely, so no one stands in the dark alone. So those who are only there because they can pay may watch their ability to matter catch fire. Because the amount of money one has doesn’t make them any more important or worthy of anything, but distrust.
The first surgery I ever had was my double mastectomy aka top surgery, with Dr. Brandon Reynolds in Las Vegas, NV.
I remember how everything slowed down when I was being pushed into the procedure room. It wasn’t just medical. It wasn’t cosmetic. It was survival. I wasn’t trying to become someone new. I was cutting away what never belonged to begin with. I was unburdening myself of a silence stitched into my chest.
My mom flew in to take care of me. That part still guts me sometimes. She didn’t hesitate. She came with snacks and soft words, helped me drain tubes, held space when I couldn’t hold anything else. She never made it weird. Never made it feel like I had to explain. She just showed up with love and candy and hugs and steady hands. That kind of care doesn’t leave your bones. I didn’t know it then, but I’d hold that memory close on darker days, especially after losing her.
That surgery gave me the kind of breath I didn’t know I’d been holding for most of my life. It was the beginning of my real reflection looking back at me. It was painful, messy, healing, and holy. It was mine. The next photos will be me fully healed in 2022 pre- and post-chest tattoo. After that, there will be a 4-day post-op photo. It shows a little swelling, bruising, and bodily fluids. It might not be suitable if you are squeamish.
For me it’s a patchwork of moments stitched together with intention and grit.
Sometimes it’s chasing waterfalls, hiking until my lungs burn and my mind quiets. Other times it’s sitting still with dirt under my fingers. I dig out rocks. I feel the pulse of the earth in my hands. The grounding is real.
I reward myself with little treats. These treats are not just food but include coffee. Sometimes, I get a new stone for my collection. I might even buy something that helps my work move forward. It’s the small acts that remind me I’m worth the care.
Marijuana helps soften the sharp edges when life presses too hard. It’s part of the ritual, a moment to breathe deeper and slow down.
Face masks sneak in when I want to slow the world for a bit. They give my skin and spirit a break, sometimes I even get a manicure or pedicure. Thanks Stink!
Kayaking isn’t just exercise. It’s a ways I reclaim my body. I feel strong and say, “I am here, I am whole.” Losing weight is part of that journey because I want it to be.
My kitty boys? Those cuddles are medicine. So is time with my dog, the quiet companionship and sunlit walks keep me tethered.
Reading fills my mind with stories. These feed my soul. Spells, rituals, crystals, and oils wrap around me like armor. They also serve as a healing balm.
This isn’t neat or perfect. It’s my survival, my love letter to myself messy, real, and sacred.
I waste time doom scrolling. I open my phone intending to check one thing but end up trapped in endless feeds. It’s not just mindless scrolling. It’s soaking in the chaos and noise of a world that feels too loud. I scroll past headlines, heartbreaks, and chaos, feeling heavy and helpless but unable to stop. The minutes melt away while the weight in my chest grows.
I waste time fearing sending my work in for submissions. I waste time fearing interacting with poets who feel out of my league, poets who are more known or established. I do spend time reading their work. Learning and absorbing is never a waste. However, the fear of reaching out or stepping into that space sometimes freezes me. That hesitation keeps me stuck, holding back the chances I should have taken.
I waste time watching videos. You know tutorials, interviews, and streams. I am always hunting for the secret formula. How to get my work read more, how to grow a following, how to stand out without selling out. Ways to make sure you are inclusive of all needs when creating digital or printable work. I click one video after another, hoping to find a breakthrough or a new tip that will change everything. But each video only makes me feel more behind. I feel more lost in a sea of creators who seem to know the game better.
I waste time looking for ways to get my work seen. Steadily chasing algorithms and hashtags. While jumping between platforms. I draft posts and delete them. I refresh my Etsy shop stats hoping for a spike. I scour forums and groups for advice and opportunities, but never feel like I’m quite doing enough. The effort feels exhausting and endless, but I keep trying, caught between hope and frustration.
I waste time drowning in self-doubt. I wonder if my voice matters, or if anyone will ever truly hear me. Then start to question if I’m good enough, original enough, consistent enough. I convince myself that maybe I should give up, or that maybe I’m fooling myself. The self-doubt is loudest when I’m most vulnerable, whispering that failure is inevitable and success is for others, not me.
This is how I waste most time, not every day but, on bad days.
Right now I am growing a lot of things. Some are visible and tangible. Some are deeply personal and still unfolding beneath the surface.
Small Business
I am growing a small witchy/ poetry business that reflects my passion and my craft. It’s more than just items or spells. It’s a space for magic and intention I am building step by step.
Poetry Collections
I am growing collections of poetry, both my own and collaborative works with others. Poetry is a way I give voice to what lives inside me and connects me the world around me.
A Loving Relationship
I am growing a loving nurturing relationship and friendships that bring warmth and care into my life. These relationships are a garden of their own, one that I tend with patience and kindness.
A Career
I am growing a career as a poet. While carving a name for myself in the world through words and resistance. It’s not always easy, but every step forward is growth.
Into My Skin
I am growing into my skin. As I am becoming more comfortable and confident in who I am and how I show up every day.
Small Meaningful Things
And then there are the small things I care for just as much. The pumpkins growing in my garden and the grass in my yard that grows green and wild with the seasons.
All these things be they internal or external, remind me that growth is never just one thing. It’s many layers unfolding and blooming in their own.
I’ve outgrown my adult best friend. The boy I became a man with. The boy who made it feel like I wasn’t alone in a place where nobody felt like me. For years he was the only mirror I had. The only person who got it. Honestly, I’ve been outgrowing him slowly, painfully, one splinter at a time. I didn’t know how to let go. Not until the rope cut so deep I practically sliced my fingers off just trying to hold on. Now there’s no grip left. Just skin and scar. space and peace. I don’t hate him. Which is usually how I let go when my love turns to hate. I just no longer wish to participate in his delusions or fantasies.
Addiction
I’ve also outgrown habitual drug use. Or really, drugs in general. At least the illicit kind. I still like my plants: weed, nicotine, caffeine. Those feel more natural to me. Oh, and mushrooms. Can’t forget the little mushroom dudes. Sometimes they’ve taught me more than any therapist ever did. But the rest of it? That chasing? That hole-filling impulse? That’s gone.
Toxicity
I’ve outgrown toxic patterns. The ones I clung to because they felt like home, mostly outgrown. I mean chaos was the language I was taught love in. I grew up watching relationships rot from the inside out and thought that must be what connection looks like. So I repeated it. Over and over. Until I didn’t. I still have my self-sabotaging hiccups but no one is perfect.
Clothes
I’ve outgrown my clothes. Literally. I dropped over 60 pounds this year. I had told myself I’d do it as my resolution. For once, I didn’t break that promise. My body feels different now. My skin holds me differently. My knees don’t hurt on hikes as quick for sure.
Allowing Myself to Wallow
And maybe the biggest thing? I’ve outgrown the lie that my depression controls everything. Some days, yeah, it wins. But other days, a lot of days, it’s a choice. Not to be sick, but to sit in it. To fester in the filth instead of fighting. I’ve started calling myself out on it. Started crawling out of bed even when I don’t want to. Started facing the rot before it spreads. Because healing is choosing again and again not to let the dark devour you whole. If there’s no light in my line of sight I have learned to become the light.
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