Category Page relationships

I had to learn to stop trying to help everyone and stop putting myself on the back burner and help me and stop being around people who wanna just hurt me and use and abuse me I had to know my worth and learn to chose me.

My son died in a car accident at 19 — five years later, a little boy with the same birthmark under his left eye walked into my classroom. I had raised my son alone. His father left before he was born, and from the moment I held that tiny bundle in the hospital, it was just the two of us against the world. Owen was everything to me. My reason to keep going. Proof I had done something right. He was 19 when the phone call came. A taxi. A drunk driver. Wrong place, wrong time. "They say he didn't suffer," the officer told me. I buried my only child a week later. I remember standing at the cemetery, staring at the dirt, thinking the world should not be allowed to continue. Five years went by. Teaching continued. Kindergarten. Five-year-olds with sticky hands and loud laughter. Pouring my heart into someone else's children became a way to cope. That morning, the principal brought a new boy into my classroom. "This is Theo," she said gently. "He just transferred." He stepped forward, shy but polite. And then I saw it. A small crescent-shaped birthmark just beneath his left eye. In the exact same place where Owen had one. My breath caught so sharply I had to grip the edge of my desk. It was not only the birthmark. The way he tilted his head when he listened. The soft half-smile when he was nervous. I finished the lesson on autopilot. After class, I knelt beside him. "Theo, who picks you up after school?" I asked as calmly as I could. "My mom and dad," he said brightly. "They're both coming today." I nodded, though my hands were shaking. I stayed for aftercare that afternoon, even though my shift had ended. I told myself I just wanted to be sure. When pickup time came, Theo spotted someone near the door. "Mom!" he shouted, dropping his backpack and running toward her. I turned to see the woman he threw his arms around. And I lost the ability to speak. ⬇️

+7 A person knows they have a gender through a deep, internal, and often subconscious sense of self—being male, female, a blend, or neither—developed early in life. This gender identity usually forms by age 3–4, with awareness often coming from how this internal feeling matches or differs from their assigned sex. NPR NPR +4 How People Recognize Their Gender Internal Feeling: It is an inherent sense of "who I am". Alignment/Disconnection: For many, this feels natural and consistent (cisgender). For others, there is a gap between their inner self and their assigned sex (transgender), which may cause discomfort or a need for affirmation. Developmental Milestones: Many children establish a stable sense of gender by age 5–6, though this can evolve with age and self-reflection. Exploration: Individuals may understand their gender better by exploring clothing, pronouns, or social roles. Point of Pride Point of Pride +6 Key Considerations Not a Choice: Gender identity is not a choice or a phase, but an integral part of a person's humanity. Individual Journey: While some have a clear, consistent sense of gender, others may feel it is fluid, non-binary, or feel no connection to a specific gender. Beyond Appearance: While people may use outward expression (clothing, behavior) to signal their gender, identity is an internal, non-visible experience. Point of Pride Point of Pride +6 If you are questioning your gender, it is a personal journey of self-discovery, and it is okay to not have a label immediately

Some lessons don’t come from speeches. They come from survival. As a child growing up during segregation, Lionel Richie once drank from a “whites-only” water fountain. When white men confronted his father, the moment could have turned violent. Instead of fighting, his father grabbed him — and ran. Later, when young Lionel asked why he didn’t stand his ground, his father gave him a response that would shape his life: “Son, I had to choose: to be a man or to be a father.” That lesson stayed with him. Real strength isn’t always loud. It isn’t always fists. It isn’t ego. Sometimes strength is walking away. Protecting your child. Choosing wisdom over pride. Choosing love over anger. In a world that often confuses aggression with power, this story reminds us: courage can look like restraint. #LionelRichie #LifeLessons #Fatherhood #RealStrength #Wisdom #ProtectYourFamily #BlackHistory #Legacy #ChooseLove #EmotionalIntelligence #StayWise #PowerInPeace

WOW, I seem to have pissed off alot of people with some comments I made concerning Erika Kirk. Let me start by saying, Yes, we all handle/process grief differently, each of us. Now, how many of you have been thru what she is going thru, by that I mean how many of you are widows/widowers? I am a widow!!! How many of you have lost a loved one to gun violence, specifically? Again, I have. Since not one of you thought to look me up in Newsbreak, I'll clue y'all, I'm the author of Just another child of God and in that post is a testimonial, I'm a victim of senseless gun violence about 40 yrs ago. I my new found friends am now going to get real, my 1st husband was gunned down in his truck back in the 80's so yeah, I know EXACTLY HOW SHE SHOULD BE FEELING, RAGE AND ANGER!!! How dare someone take him. My husband's has NEVER BEEN SOLVED!!! SO I ask, who the hell are you to assume I'm being judgemental? No, I'm being real. God only took my rage abt the time I almost had a heart attack. I was 21!!!! I lost our son 3 mos later. Now I don't care how many of you will be shocked. Erika Kirk knows who killed her husband and one thing about widows/widowers, God takes care of us, but did any of you even stop to think before you attacked me? I forgive each one of you, you didn't know I share that with her. You can't possibly know unless you walk in that person's shoes and I have and did and came out a lot stronger than most, but after all, I'm just another child of God. Judgement is for the Father, so why did some of you ask me about being judgemental when in next breath you judged me? Very Christian of you all. I'm not being judgemental if her, I'm being real and I'm not the only one. Some of you may want to apologize for this, that's fine, I'll tell ya now, again I forgive each of you. It takes a better person to admit forgiveness, which she did on national television. I'm sorry for pissing you off, but not what I said. Happy Holidays to each of you.

People get frustrated when they know how somebody else thinks or believes, but whatever their politics or religions are why do people feel they have to use insulting words? It will never change a person‘s opinion. It just makes the reflection of the person using those words look bad and maybe even less intelligent ,insulting people just causes more anger and disconnect never solving problems. It’s especially harmful to kids when they hear name calling from their parents . They often act or talk in the way they see in their parents and do theirselves , It definitely should give people self reflections and hopefully remind each of us to treat others better and respect and kindness whatever their politics beliefs in religions are, If you want peace in the world, sometimes it starts with one self and at home. 🫶✌️Peace

"My name's Harvey. I'm 68. I work the night shift at TravelCenter truck stop on I-40. Pump diesel, ring up snacks, clean showers. Same blue vest for thirteen years. Truckers fuel up, grab coffee, hit the road. Most are gone in fifteen minutes. But I see who stays parked. Like the trucker who'd been sitting in his rig for three days. Engine off. Never came inside except for bathroom. No food, no shower, just sitting. Fourth morning, I knocked on his cab. "You okay, buddy?" He rolled down the window. Looked exhausted. "Broke down. Waiting on parts. Can't afford to eat and fix the truck both. Truck wins." "When'd you eat last?" "Tuesday." It was Friday. I went inside, made him a hot dog, brought chips and coffee. "Store policy. Can't sell day-old stuff." It wasn't day-old. But he was starving. He cried eating that hot dog. Started noticing others. The female trucker sleeping in her cab because shower credits cost too much. The rookie driver rationing gas station food because rookie pay barely covers fuel. Truckers choosing between eating and making deliveries on time. I began keeping food. "Expired" items still perfectly good. When truckers looked desperate, I'd "find" extras they could have. Word spread on the CB radio. "Harvey at the I-40 TravelCenter helps drivers." Then something unexpected. A trucker I'd fed years ago made it big, started his own company. Came back, left $1,000. "For drivers who are where I was." Now our TravelCenter has a "Trucker Relief Fund." Other truck stops copied it. Fifty-three stops across nine states. I'm 68. I scan Slim Jims and pump diesel fuel at a highway truck stop. But I learned, truckers deliver everything we need to survive. And they're often starving, broke, sleeping in their cabs because one breakdown destroys them financially. Watch your lot. Someone's been parked three days without moving. Someone's choosing between fuel and food. Find the expired snacks. Offer the shower credit. Sometimes a $4 hot dog is what keeps

I just want someone to text me first for once. That's it. That's the whole thing. Just a "hey thinking of you" without me having to earn it or start it or wonder if I'm bothering them. I want to stop being the one who always reaches out. Who plans. Who checks in. Who remembers birthdays and sends the memes and asks how they're really doing. I'm tired of caring more than people care back. I want to be loved without having to be interesting or funny or put-together. Without having to perform. Without having to hide the parts of me that are still figuring it out. I want to be held without it being weird. Without it meaning something more. Just a hug that says "I got you" from someone who actually means it. I want God to feel real. Not distant. Not silent. Not like I'm talking to the ceiling while life happens around me. I want to believe He's not annoyed by my doubts. That He's not keeping a list of every time I chose something else over Him. That He sees me scrolling at 2am and whispers "I'm still here" instead of "try harder." I want to believe heaven means I get my dog back. And my grandma. And the version of me that wasn't so tired all the time. I want to believe love actually wins. Not in a cheesy Instagram caption way. In a real way. In a way that means this ache means something. That missing people means I'll see them again. That crying in the car alone doesn't mean I'm actually alone. I want to believe I'm enough. Not because I'm killing it. Because I'm showing up. Because I'm still here. Because I haven't given up even when giving up sounded easier. If that hit? Same. We're in this together. Scrolling alone but not actually alone.

2 Police 🚓 🚨 officers in Italy were dispatched to an 87 year olds house, because she called 911 and said she was lonely and hungry obviously they had to go, just in case it was a serious situation. They arrived and it was exactly what she said...so they came up with an Idea and cooked her pasta and sat down with her and ate a small meal together...Just a beautiful story of 2 caring humans who came out and served a lady in there town, ya know protect and serve. We sometimes forget the serve part..in the comments people were arguing about this and how in there state this would never happen and on and on, my response was this.... what's yours? Are we seriously grown adults playing the na ah game.....can't we just celebrate what those police officers of the law, did for that lady. Forget about the country, and the language, and location. At the end of the day, it's just 3 humans. 2 were police officers, and one was an 87 year old lady. In any country, or state, or territory in the world, no police officer, would get in trouble for serving others, especially a lonely 87 year old grandmother. They Protect and Serve. And that was serving a lady, in there community the best they knew, and probably the first time they had done that before, let's stop arguing about how it happened or where, and just celebrate a special Moment.

I'm lonely in rooms full of people. That's the part they don't warn you about. You can have followers, friends, family, a full contact list—and still feel like you're shouting into the void. I text first. I always text first. I remember your birthday. I ask how your mom's doing. I send the meme that made me think of you. And then I wait. And wait. And watch my phone stay dark. I'm tired of being the one who cares more. I'm tired of watching people post "best friends forever" with someone else while I sit here wondering what's wrong with me. I'm tired of surface talk. The weather. The weekend. The "we should hang out sometime" that everyone says and no one means. I want deep. I want real. I want 2am conversations about fears and dreams and the stuff we're too embarrassed to admit in daylight. I want someone to ask a follow-up question. To remember something I said. To check on me without me having to break first. I want to stop performing for people who aren't even watching. I want to believe God sees me in the quiet. In the car alone. In the bed scrolling. In the moments where I wonder if anyone would notice if I just... disappeared. I want to believe He's not silent. That I'm just not listening right. That the reason I feel alone isn't because I am alone—it's because I've been looking for love in places that were never built to hold me. I want to believe I'm not too much. Or not enough. That somewhere between "too much" and "not enough" is a version of me that someone actually stays for. I want to believe healing is real. That the patterns break. That the people who left don't get to live in my head rent-free forever. I want to believe love doesn't always leave. If you're still reading? Same. Let's be lonely together. Maybe that's less lonely.