The ‘hood’ that raised us

The ‘hood’ that raised us

I’ll start this post off with a simple “Thank you” to whoever is reading this.

Whether it’s been a random call or text to say Hi, a congratulations on my engagement, leaving a comment on a video I posted, or coming up to me after a show… I’m thankful (and still socially awkward with compliments) for a view of my world from an outside perspective.

If you know me, you know I don’t take myself very seriously.  I’m never without some sarcastic or witty remark on social media or in the middle of telling you a ridiculous story, complete with comedic pauses and exaggerated facial expressions.

I feel like I was born an open book.

However, lately I have not felt like opening up about much.  It’s been a tough couple of weeks.

I’ve attended 2 funerals in less than a month’s time.  An absolute pillar of my world was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, my faith and fear all rolled up into a little ball, resting like a constant lump in my throat. My mother was in and out of the hospital all around Thanksgiving (she’s home and recovering now).  And we just came up on the one year anniversary of my fiancé’s best friend passing…needless to say, the emotional rollercoaster has been running to the extreme lately.

So, in all that, I’ve completely thrown myself into fitness classes and book-reading and learning songs that are easily played using the only 4 chords I’m good at…anything that I can control in the midst of what feels like chaos of the brain.

This here little blog of mine is where I process.

So here it goes…

I grew up in Belleville, Michigan. First, in a small ranch-style home, nestled in the most pot-hole-ridden neighborhood behind a family dinner.  I made my very first friends there. I learned how to ride a bike in treacherous terrain. There was a church at the end of my street where I loved to sneak into the “secret garden” to play. (Once I was older, I learned my “secret garden” was actually used to sprinkle ashes of deceased church members. Not creepy at all.)

When I was 8 years old, my family bought a “lot” in a brand new subdivision, Harbour Point. It was on the other side of Belleville Lake and sat directly beside the high school. I vividly remember Dad driving us across town each week to see the updates on the house-building process. When it was nothing but a frame, he’d point out, “This is the kitchen…This is the bathroom…etc.” We took photos with disposable cameras of me standing in what would eventually be my bedroom. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

When we finally moved in, there was only a handful of other completed homes in the subdivision. The rest of the neighborhood? The ultimate ‘playground’.

Dug out basements to jump in and out of, huge piles of stacked up A-frames to hide in, Port-A-Potties (for the construction workers) with vulgar doodles all over them, crazy “puddles” that were the size of ponds when it rained and made excellent ice skating rinks when they froze over, a wooded area in the very back where we’d pretend to survive in the wilderness.  All the half-built homes were ours to invade once the workers went home, kicking their empty beer and soda cans across incomplete rooms.  Giant dirt hills were the ultimate to climb up and play on, making for endless sledding options in the winter.  Our imaginations ran completely wild in this “oasis” of adventure. Looking back on it now, I don’t know how all of us kids weren’t severely injured/in need of a tetanus shot every other day. I would never allow my hypothetical child to play in those danger zones now, ha. But back then… it was everything.

Being that I am the oldest of 4, my siblings were fairly little when we moved into our new digs. Their very first friends in life lived within a 6 house radius. Their first bus stop was at the end of our driveway, where all the kids from the neighborhood would congregate. Kids barely bigger than their backpacks.

I can remember walking down the street, trying to wrangle up my sisters and brother for dinner, their bikes always dispersed in someone’s yard. Whether they were currently at that house or not was irrelevant to them.  Each kid had their sidekick(s) in the neighborhood.  You know, constantly at each other’s house, in the same grade, taking band class together, and so on. No other girl in Harbour Point was quite my age, they fell either a couple years younger or 3-5 years older. It’s funny what a huge difference that can make once you start middle school.  I never quite “fit in” with a neighborhood crew, which of course, planted seeds of insecurity in an already awkward time of life. While they had sleepovers and pool parties and got asked to babysit other neighborhood kids, I found solace in my school friends and music. Looking back, I now see that being more of a “loner” only helped  my singing obsession as a kid.  Also, why my siblings are, to this day, my very best friends.  (My siblings, on the other hand, would never say I was their best friend growing up. Ha!)

My little brother had 2 best friends in the neighborhood. Kyle, who lived directly across the street, and Jesse Johnson, who lived down the block. Garrett was NEVER without at least one of them by his side. The 3 of them were always making big plans for something…constructing elaborate forts, trying to con my dad into giving them permission when both of the other dads had already said “No”, choreographing Star Wars battles in the backyard, and all the other adorable and obnoxious things that little boys do. I was always the one sent up the street to retrieve my brother from Jesse’s house.  A lot of times his sister, Sam, would answer the door. She was probably the closest in age to me and was always super sweet to us Williams kids.  However, she was best friends with a couple girls in the neighborhood that I always seemed to be at odds with, so we never really hung out. I cringe/belly laugh when I recall the hilarious & petty “enemy lines” that so easily get drawn when you’re a kid. No real reason behind it, most times you forgive and forget after a day.  You’re just oblivious to life beyond your driveway.

I’d like that oblivion back right now. And if you grew up anything like me, I’m betting you want it back too.  We all come from our own “Harbour Point”.

My brother’s childhood best friend, Jesse Johnson, the blonde-headed and funny face-making kid from up the street, passed away last week.

He was 26.

This is a hard one to wrap my brain around.
I know I’m not alone on that.

His memorial over the weekend was surreal. Surreal to be mourning the 26 year old that was gone, when I so distinctly remember him as the little kid up the street. I don’t know that I’d seen Jesse since him and my brother graduated high school.  Observing the memory boards with him and Garrett…from 5 year olds on bikes to teenagers on stage, starring in high school productions…it felt like swallowing a brick.  Surreal to be reunited with my younger siblings’ friends and old neighbors from “the hood” and realize that everyone didn’t stay 10 years old. Everyone is grown and half recognizable.  It made me feel even more shocked by everything.  And old.

I’ve cried for my brother, the one who “gets me” more than anyone in this world, and for whom I cannot muster up anything enlightening or comforting to say.  I cry for his childhood memories that are now bittersweet & for the guilt I know he feels for having lost touch with Jesse the last few years.  I cry for Jesse’s parents, because this is just unfathomable. His mom was a secretary at my middle school. I’ll never forget when my mother was sick with a vitamin deficiency and had to be hospitalized.  I kept having meltdowns in the middle of class and wanting to call my Grandma to get updates. I was 11 years old and could sense the other people in the office growing impatient with me leaving class just to use the office phone. But Jesse’s mom understood and let me use it every time. I’ll always remember that.  I cry for Jesse’s sister, Sam, and I pray to God on my hands and knees that I never have to feel what she’s feeling. I could not lose my sisters or my brother. I can’t even bring myself to imagine it.

I’m broken-hearted for the kid in us all that thought we would live forever.

As adults, we know better. We won’t live forever, but we still think we have time.

It’s truly ironic that one hour before I learned of Jesse’s passing, I was reading the day’s devotional from Jesus Calling about thankfulness.
“A thankful attitude opens windows of heaven. As you look up with a grateful heart. you get glimpses of Glory through those windows. You cannot yet live in heaven, but you can experience foretastes of your ultimate home.”

I then proceeded to write in my journal that morning about how there has been a lot of loss and illness to process this year, but that I was grateful. My exact words were…“I’m so thankful that I still have time to make it right.”

Those words make me ache right now.
The hundreds of cliché sayings about letting people know how you feel before it’s too late, chasing the dream, forgiving, living life to the fullest…it’s all true. We lived it so unapologetically as children, with our bravery/creativity/vulnerability fluctuating as we grew up into adults.

But here’s the thing… We were all that kid conquering dirt hills once. We just find our uphill climbs more exhausting than adventurous now.  But we couldn’t be who we are today without being the child version first.  jesse

If I can take one thing away from this tragic loss it’s this…

May we cherish not only the kid we used to be, but honor the kid that still lives in us.  Trust me, they’re still in there.




everything in the middle of nowhere.

everything in the middle of nowhere.

It’s a weird thing.

I have literally thought to myself and/or said out loud to others, “I really feel like blogging” and yet… nothing.  For quite awhile now.

That is always a huge indicator for me.  I write when I have something that needs to be said.  When the desire to write my heart, read it back, and allow myself to process is more overwhelming than anything going on externally.  And sometimes, there’s just too much that needs to be said.  So, instead of flushing them out and tackling these topics one by one, I stay silent.  The chaos stays internal.  The blog stays unwritten.

I’m currently 3 songs written, 2 hours of Golden Girls watched, and a bottle of wine consumed today so… here we go.

I left Detroit on April 22nd.  That means, it’s been a whole 30 days since I’ve seen my dogs, my family, my porch swing, and my bed.  It has been 20 days since I have seen my boyfriend.  This probably seems extreme to a lot of you.  To some of you musician/gypsy spirit types, this seems relatively normal.  I rest somewhere between the two. 

I make sacrifices all the way around, some days seeming more worthwhile than others.  The documentary that initially prompted my split location finally wrapped filming 5 weeks ago, so now the “I have to be in Michigan for this” is up.  Clearly, life is much different than it was 18 months ago when I made the decision to give up my ever-dramatic, forever busy, at times volatile, full-time living (and distracting myself from) “the dream” in Nashville.

I now live in an “old lady bungalow” in the suburbs with the greatest man I’ve ever known and all of our doggie children.  I have a baby niece and nephew that I’m completely obsessed with.  I have a Granny that turns 90 years old in August and lives 5 miles away from the rest of my family.  I have an Aunt that probably doesn’t “need” me, but regardless, I feel called to be there for since the loss of my Godfather.  I have a few friends (new and old) that truly “get me” and I’m grateful.  The desire to create music and share it with Detroit remains strong.  I’m “one of them” and I yearn to contribute in a way I haven’t just yet.

However, Nashville brought me up.  It’s brought out the very best and the very worst in me.  I’m now at a place where I can recognize where I was and who I’ll never be again, no matter how alluring it may seem at times.  I am not that girl anymore, praise God.  And I’m SO thankful that I can have that realization NOW and not on my 2nd stint in rehab or with a couple kids under my belt.  Nashville, for all it’s hardships, is also where so much of my light is…it’s where I’m the most creative, the most productive, the most inspired.  Re-working my boundaries and my social circle has been a lot, but I’ve already seen the benefits.  I’m still working on eliminating the fog of self-defeating and self-sabotaging thoughts that held me down for so long, but I know the vision is getting clearer everyday.  I’m not the same Rachel I was 18 months ago and the Rachel in Nashville today genuinely reflects that.

And yet, all this time and traveling that has taken place since I left my little domestic haven on Baker Avenue in Michigan weeks ago… somehow, my lines have been blurred, scribbled, and stomped on repeatedly.  Two trips to Florida and 2 weeks in Nashville later, my sense of “peace” has been relatively non-existent for a month now.  There’s definitely a few people I could blame for this, but what’s the point?  It’s only partially their fault.  Because at the end of the day, I could’ve handled their poor behavior and these toxic situations differently.  And I’m disappointed that I didn’t.  In a couple of these scenarios, I thought keeping neutral and “cool” would be for the best, for myself and the others traveling with me.  It wasn’t.  So I ended up feeling like a doormat and allowing a few people that I love to feel the same.  Another scenario weighing heavy on my heart tonight is where I completely unloaded EVERYTHING, without ever coming up for air.  And regardless if those things were on my heart, I’m disappointed that I allowed those buttons to be pushed so severely.

It’s all left me feeling exhausted.

So yesterday morning, slightly hungover (and definitely sleep-deprived from what is now considered a rare, “girls night” out downtown), I picked up my (nearly) 90 year old Granny from Nashville International Airport at 8:30AM.  I immediately took her to the Cracker Barrel where I tried to nurse us both back to life with biscuits and a pot of coffee.  I then proceeded to drive 90 minutes to her hometown of Hohenwald, TN, where I’d be dropping her off for a few days with her youngest (and last-surviving) brother, my Great Uncle Johnny and his wife, Aunt Lillie Mae.  As tired as I was, I enjoyed the scenic drive with my ‘side-kick’.  I hung on every story that my Granny’s hoarse voice tried to tell me of anything and everything.

When we arrived, I stayed most of the day with zero distraction.  You see, Hohenwald is a “No Service” zone for Sprint.  Not “Extended”, not 1 bar if you stand at the end of the drive…no, it’s “No Service” for at least 20 minutes in every direction.  It stormed pretty hard for a majority of the afternoon, so that aided in my long visit.  A few times, I just sat out on the porch and listened to this beautifully vast country-side get pummeled by rain.  When it cleared up hours later (and I’d eaten about 10 pounds worth of good ol’ country cooking), I hit the road alone back to Nashville.

I was thankful for the solo drive.  I typically use that time to explore, get a little lost, make a dead-stop in the middle of the street just to take a photo, admire all the farms/random country stores/abandoned houses/gas stations, and know that GPS isn’t going to work 95% of the time.  And this time was no different.  I definitely got lost without my navigation working.


It’s funny how that happens…

We rarely allow ourselves to get lost.

We rarely give ourselves permission or allow time for exploration.

I’m forever grateful for my drives to and from Hohenwald, even if it’s just for that.

Honestly, it’s a spiritual experience.  I soak it all in.  The scenery is always mystifying to me.  My heart is literally pulled in.  It was probably on my 3rd stop in the middle of the road to snap a photo that I realized that THIS WAS EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED.  The peace I SO craved with these Florida beaches, a “vacation” from the dogs and my family life was so completely and utterly unfulfilling for a reason.

Nothingness.  No phone service.  No social media.  No making plans.  No time-crunch.  No traveling with others.  No worrying what others would be thinking or doing or texting.  No passive-aggressive bullshit.  Just shutting the fuck up and taking it in.  And it happened.  The peace was unreal.  And then, in the midst of trying to figure out which direction I was effin going down on some back country road, there was this….


And I thanked God at least a dozen times.

And then I drove directly to Kingston Springs, completely bypassing Nashville and the “night out” I had originally planned to have.   I went to bed at 10PM and for the first time in forever, I SLEPT IN…until 11AM at that, my first night of more than 5 hours of sleep in weeks.

Turns out, you can really work some shit out in the middle of nowhere.

I don’t know, maybe getting lost is the best way to find your way.



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“I talked myself out of it.”

It’s 2AM and I can’t sleep.

There is nothing particularly wrong.  Sometimes the brain just wants to create…and in my case, that means I’m writing.

It’s been over a month since my last blog.  I’ve thought about sitting down and writing every single day since then.  I’d take my laptop in the car with me wherever I’d go…including a couple trips to Nashville in December and over New Year’s.  But I talked myself out of it each time.  I’d find myself responding to an email, stalking my Facebook feed, or looking up which crazy-colored yoga pants I wanted to order from Kate Hudson.  While I type this, I realize that the words “I talked myself out of it” feels a bit like a Nerf gun fired to my face.

Because I do that.  A lot. 

**Talk myself out of things, and get nailed in the face with Nerf darts.

Whether it’s going out of my comfort zone to talk to someone I don’t know, sing a song I’m not sure I remember the lyrics to, go inside Chase bank and make them reverse their ridiculous maintenance charges, purchase the plane ticket, wake up in time for that kickboxing class, apologize to my boyfriend, or write a fucking blog.  I’ve probably “talked myself out of” some of the best “could’ve been” times because I didn’t trust it, for one reason or another.

It’s January.
Everyone’s at the gym.  Everyone is swearing to call their Grandpa more, lose 14.8 pounds, read the Bible, quit smoking, etc etc…And I wish them all luck.  When the ball dropped this year, I was still in horror of the Mariah Carey fiasco. (I don’t think I recovered for days afterward, if we’re being honest.)  While enjoying mimosas with a couple of my favorite gays on a New Year’s Day brunch, it dawned on me that I hadn’t made a resolution.  Champagne aided in me never making a resolution that day.  I wasn’t ready. 

Because with this new year/new start, it meant leaving 2016 behind.

There was much to love… I fell in love/stayed in love/am still in love with an incredible man.  My two sisters gave me a baby niece and nephew over the summer.  Two of my best friends got married, and my childhood bestfriend welcomed a baby girl right around my birthday.  I finished filming a music documentary coming out later this year.  I wrote & recorded songs that I’m extremely proud of.  I’ve sang in the studio and on the stage with some of my musical heroes.  My boyfriend and I adopted a sheltie puppy and named her Blanche (Devereaux), after my favorite Golden Girl.  I spent time with the ocean, the Great Lakes, New York City, the West Coast, and got to take my 89 year old Granny to Nashville to see her family twice.  I read more books and wrote more songs/poems/stories/blogs than I have in years.

There was much I could have done without too.
There was death.  There was a cancer diagnosis for my uncle.  There were internal battles within myself that felt like a Target bag over the head.  There were growing aches and pains for the girl and the life I was growing out of.  There were days of crippling self-doubt. There were moments of family drama/crisis that made me feel like I was imploding.  There were career/timeline setbacks.

There was life.  There was loss.

Nothing better portrayed this than my last blog entry.

On December 2, 2016, I wrote a long-winded blog about the significance of my 1st nephew, Nolan and his entrance into this world 6 years ago.  Hundreds of you read it/commented/”liked”…  It felt like such a release to share part of mine & my family’s story with you.

On that same day, December 2, 2016, my boyfriend’s best friend passed away.

We didn’t find out until the following night.

“Unexpected” is what they called it, but it felt much more severe than that.  When you’re having some beer and chicken pot pie at a neighborhood dive bar with someone, and 24 hours later, that person is gone… “unexpected” doesn’t begin to cover it.

EJ Grossi died at 34 years old.

I didn’t know EJ very well.  Him and my boyfriend had over a decade’s worth of friendship.  EJ actually lived with my boyfriend for awhile before/at the beginning of us dating.  When things started getting more serious, EJ moved out and me & my dogs moved in.  My boyfriend and EJ resumed their “best friend status” and were always hanging out when I’d go out of town, mostly just sitting at the house and talking.  He loved our dogs.  EJ was quirky and weird in the best way, super spontaneous, unassumingly thoughtful, and truly loved his people…and always wanted his people to know his people.  Case in point, when my boyfriend & I hung out with him the night before he died, he handed me 2 CD’s there in the bar.  It was music by a couple of his friends and he said he thought of me and that I might enjoy a listen.  He also said if I thought the music sucked, I could use them as coasters, ha.

His funeral was surreal.  There were so many people and never a good place to stand that was “out of the way” of everyone else.  Looking at photos of him on the memory boards was numbing and shocking at the same time.  He looked just like me, just like any of us.  There were tears and laughs as everyone reminisced with each other.  I couldn’t attach to any of it.  I just fixated on my boyfriend the entire time…wanting to scoop him up if I detected any slight sign of an emotional collapse.  I was prepared to save him.  I wanted to save him.

I also wanted to cry.  But I “talked myself out it”. 

I’ve cried since then.  Only a few times, and always by myself.  I don’t know if it’s my distain for crying…or my fear that my boyfriend will sink into depression if he sees how I affected I am…or that I don’t know/don’t want to think about all the things that are surfacing inside of me because of this loss.  I still haven’t figured it out.  Which is why, every time I thought about blogging, I didn’t know where to start.  It seemed inappropriate to write about someone I didn’t know very well or for very long.  Because, as you know, I like to talk myself out of things.

But somewhere, in the last couple days, I started to grasp that it’s okay to speak of things you don’t understand.  Because if you don’t speak it, how will you ever understand it?   I need to remind myself of that.  My feelings are real.  EJ’s presence was/continues to be real.  My boyfriend’s memories are real.

I think if this gut-punching end to 2016 is teaching me anything about what a new year of life to live should really mean, it would be…
Quit fucking talking myself out of it.

Rest in peace, EJ.


Sobering up to a “fallen sky”…

Sobering up to a “fallen sky”…

I don’t want to get political.

I really don’t.  And I won’t.

I will say, however, that I urged my fellow family members and friends to vote.  I posted on my social media accounts to please, for the love of God, go vote.  I spent a good chunk of time sorting through my feelings with my fingers on a keyboard the day before the election.  I then proceeded to share these very personal, somewhat uncomfortable thoughts/events/feelings with all of you on Monday evening, as over 1,000 of you have now read that blog post in the past 48 hours.

As in touch with my feelings as I may have been Monday and Tuesday… Wednesday morning was unlike anything I’ve felt in a long time…  And truth be told, I didn’t allow myself to feel it for long.

Tuesday:  I got my people to the polls.  I shared my story.  I swelled with so much pride seeing the lines at the polls, seeing everyone posting their photo with their “I Voted” sticker on Facebook and Instagram.  I  made the executive decision that I would NOT watch any election coverage on Tuesday.  So at 7PM, I turned my phone off and left it on the kitchen counter.  We then proceeded to our basement bedroom with all the dogs, junk food, and a joint.  We let ourselves fall asleep to the sweet sound of “Friends” on Netflix.  .

It was out of my hands now.  There was nothing else I could do.  It’ll be OK.  She’s going to win…maybe not by much…but she’s going to win.

My oblivion was blissful.

Wednesday:  Wake up at 7AM.  Jon gets up for work.  I ask him to turn on his phone and check.

“This can’t be right…. No.  No…this can’t be right.  Trump won.”

I’ll probably never forget what those words felt like.  How they knocked the wind right out of me when I first heard them.  I jumped out of bed and went upstairs to my phone.  I turned it on and there was just buzz after buzz after buzz with about 20 text messages I had missed through the night/early morning from friends and family in complete disbelief.  The thought dawned on me, “Holy shit, Rachel.  Half of America has been feeling all sorts of shit while you slept.”

Another punch to the chest. 

It’s now 7:20AM.  I get on Facebook and start scrolling and it’s not fake.  It happened.  I immediately find my “medicinal green” and light up.  I can’t process this right now.  It’s grey & foggy outside.  It’s early.  Just don’t feel it right now.  (And no Mom, I’m not a pothead/wake and baker.)

So I didn’t.

All day long.

I didn’t get on my phone.  I didn’t turn on cable.  I watched the 2nd season of “Friends” on Netflix.  I wanted Rachel Green’s problems in the mid-90’s.  I wanted nothing to do with Rachel Williams in 2016 problems.

I picked up my guitar.  I scribbled down thoughts.  But then I decided that I didn’t want to think just yet so I went back to “Friends”.  There’s no way I can put into words, let alone, a song about what I should be feeling right now.  What so many of us are feeling right now.

When my boyfriend came home from work, I decided that we should go out for dinner.  I needed to get out of these four walls, off of this couch, out of my numbness.

We walked into a couple of neighborhood bars.  On the flat screens behind the bar area was either CNN/FOX/MSNBC.  “I cannot,” I told myself and then walked directly out of their establishment.  Got lucky on my 3rd bar.  All they were playing were the Detroit Red Wings  I breathed a sigh of relief.

I ordered up some chicken tenders and a vodka soda.  I talked with Jon about his weird day at work.  I told him about how insanely funny “Friends” is and how there were so many episodes I’d forgotten about.  Then halfway through my second drink, I looked around…

Everyone was cool.

Everyone was drinking and eating.

The sky had fallen and yet, here we all were.

Maybe some of them voted Clinton.  Maybe some of them voted Trump.  Maybe some of them didn’t vote at all.  Either way…I just watched.

I watched as people inhaled and exhaled, laughed, high-fived, sipped their IPA….

And then it dawned on me.

We are all in this together.

There is no “me” and then “them”.  Our future President is the same.  Whether you are Taylor Swift or Kanye West, whether you are gay or straight, whether you are Mormon or atheist, whether you are an immigrant or born/raised/die in Detroit.  Whether you are feeling victorious right now or whether you are feeling confused and heavy-hearted, like myself.


I know it may sound naïve or idealistic, but I have to believe that there is no black or white, gay or straight, poor or rich, right wing or left wing…there is hate and there is love. 

The haters were going to be there REGARDLESS, loud & proud, whether it was Trump or Clinton in the White House.  All you need to do is scroll your Facebook newsfeed to see that.

I won’t do it.

There’s a million things I could say about the hateful posts I’ve read.  The videos I’ve seen go viral.  The words that our President-elect has said that have hurt.  The fears I have for my African American peers and my homosexual friends, including my homosexual brother.  (Nobody better fuck with my brother.)

But I won’t.

Because in the end, my hate says nothing about me except that I don’t love myself enough to love those around me.  And I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I have vowed to show myself love and compassion and respect every, single day…even when it feels undoable.  Even if it’s just in the slightest, most microscopic of amounts some days.  So I will do the same for others.

Whether they’re racist or whether they’re just Republican or whether they just hated Hillary Clinton…I will show love…even if it’s just in forgiveness.

I will rise strong.  We will rise strong.  If Hillary Clinton can make it through a concession speech, I sure as hell can get through my Wednesday, my Thursday, and every day after that…

And I will start by making the conscious effort to get my face out of my fucking phone.  Out of fucking Facebook/Instagram/Twitter.  I will start by practicing what I preach.

I will thank this election for making me more self-aware.  For making me more aware of the people around me.  For making sure this big crack in my armor heals and grows stronger than it ever was before.  For truly making me feel united with so many of my fellow Americans…because we know we can do better.

Don’t just type the words.

BE the words.

Now that we see the division, don’t hide behind the wall….

Build the bridge.

Build the bridge with no intention of burning it.