What I Learned from Buying a Homeless Man Breakfast. #bloglikecrazy

What I Learned from Buying a Homeless Man Breakfast. #bloglikecrazy

“But we progressives have done our share of offending, in ways we sometimes don’t even realize are insulting.” ~ Van Jones, Beyond the Messy Truth

My sister had a work conference in Denver. I drove out from our home in Ohio with my dog Phoenix to meet her.

During the days, I wrote and took breaks to take my dog the four blocks to the patch of grass called a dog park.

On these walks, I saw an abundance of homeless people. Normally, when a privileged gal like me crosses paths with homeless souls, it’s a brief encounter.

Often, I’m going to a concert or play. I see sad eyes, a sign, or a request for help. I often give. I often don’t. I move on, back to my car and my comfortable home.

In this case, it was back to our Marriott Hotel room. My schedule and mind were open. I was on vacation!

I felt both guilty for making my dog stay on the 11th floor of a hotel and kind of giddy to see her riding elevators and indulging in city smells.

I felt safe with Phoenix’s 90-pound Black Lab body beside me. If alone, I might not have ventured out at all. Typically, I’m confident, but I wanted to be invisible to any danger, which I sensed in the city air.

Witnessing so many homeless people several times each day weighed on my heart. I felt helpless, but what could I do?

On day two, at a breakfast spot that allowed me to order at the door and wait outside with my dog, I doubled my order and asked for two bags.

I set out on a mission to give a hungry person the same delicious breakfast I indulged in. I asked God to lead me.

What about that guy across the street? I thought. Oh, poor guy. He doesn’t even have any shoes. Oh, wait, he’s got one shoe on.

Something happened to my body as I watched the man spread his toes and inject a needle between them. Heroine? I felt drenched in sadness. Some things are best left on TV.

Well, he’s not a candidate for the food. I felt defeated and walked back toward my hotel, still searching. There were some guys in a group who said hello as Phoenix and I walked through them.

As I neared the Marriott, I saw a man digging in the trash. As I approached, he moved on.

From behind his back, I hollered, “Hey, guy!”

He turned, as if he was in trouble. I said, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Here, I got you breakfast,” I said, handing him the bag.

He grinned the most beautiful smile a toothless man could.

Happiness. Relief. Gratitude. His. It all hit me like light from God.

Hours later, as I was leaving the hotel lobby, I grabbed a second cup of coffee. Off my dog and I went so she could practice crapping on a city sidewalk.

It wasn’t long before I saw another man digging in the trash. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned with a defensive look of anger and shame.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” I asked, as I held the cup out to him.

Relief. Humility. Grace. He nodded and took it. I moved on.

A few yards away, another man stopped me and said, “I saw what you did. That was really nice of you.”

“It’s the least I could do,” I said.

I didn’t expect to be noticed, but neither did the guy digging in the trash.

Shouldn’t we notice each other? We look away, not because we don’t care, but because it feels overwhelming.

Yes, I did something nice.

To give to someone in need, scrounging for the basics you and I take for granted, is a tremendous high.

Because I slowed down and looked, one simple act entered my mind and was easily delivered.

Sadness seeped into my soul as I tried to imagine being homeless and hungry.

I’ve actually never been hungry—not like that. Not where I’d abandon my pride and dig for something to eat with people watching. That’s hunger.

I’ve rarely gone hours on any morning without a cup of hot delicious coffee. It’s a little thing, my morning routine.

How lucky am I?

On my last morning there, the table in the lobby was loaded with pastries. As Phoenix and I headed for the dog patch, which happened to be where a group of homeless folks hung out, I loaded up what I could carry, stuffing coffee cups with croissants and Danishes to feed my new addiction.

I saw a few young men huddled in a group. I thought they were homeless, but I was afraid to go up to them directly and I didn’t want to be insulting.

So, I set the cups of croissants and coffees next to a light post, tried to make eye contact with one of the guys, pointed to the cups and then at him to convey my message.

I turned and headed back to my easy life.

I tried not to turn to look back to see if they’d gone for it and for the brief second I did I saw no movement. Eyes forward, I told myself.

Even if that guy didn’t grab it, whoever was meant to find it would.

No, it wasn’t as fun as the face-to-face light show, but I felt good.

I felt good, doing something little. Of course, the problem is bigger than me, breakfast, or a cup of coffee.

I was on vacation. I’d get in my car, travel on, and head home to my comfortable life with a soft bed and warm coffee to greet my mornings.

But, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that toothless smile.

 

How Grief Helps Us Grow. #bloglikecrazy

“Grief is a multifaceted response to loss, particularly to the loss of someone or something that has died, to which a bond or affection was formed.” ~ Wikipedia

Grief is a truth teller when we like to believe the lies.

Grief slays us from our easy chair and smiles at our idea of control.

I thought her evil, pointing out my deficiencies, even stealing joy and freedom.

Grief speaks the loudest at funerals, but that’s not the only place her voice is heard.

She whispers throughout our lives and we resist her presence repeatedly.

She says: He’s got another woman (when he does). Your mom has cancer and will likely die. (Sometimes grief sounds like a doctor.) Your parents are divorcing. You hate this job. You’re going to lose the house. The doctors had to cut off his foot. He’s unresponsive.

We think grief is the b*tch, but she’s more like my new stepmom when I was a teenager: introducing rules which felt restrictive, but showed me what it meant to be a family.

Grief is strong and no doubt she can be harsh, but she’s loving.

She’s like the junior high school teacher who made my brother read in front of the class. Except Bill couldn’t read; so he slapped her.

That teacher revealed a truth my brother had been denying.

That’s the kind of teacher grief is—willing to be hated, even abused, in order to remove the mask.

A friend of mine told me he was sexually abused, by more than one person, starting at age five. He told me he doesn’t feel sad or angry. He says it didn’t affect him. In fact, he’s fine.

I recognize that mask. It’s the I’m okay mask.

I wore it for almost a decade after I was raped. I not only denied the pain, but avoided it entirely (actually how denial works).

I thought I was brave. I thought I was strong. I thought I was fine.

Actually, I didn’t think much about that night at all.

It wasn’t a #metoo campaign that made me face my pain.

A qualified therapist knew it takes more than just listening to a client like me paint pretty pictures so she feels better.

This therapist encouraged me to take off my I’m fine mask, look at the truth, and allow the tears to break where my trust had been violated.

She helped me face what I hadn’t known how to. And to move past it.

It’s not only the experiences we want to avoid; it’s the grief.

Grief says, “Yes, you were raped.”

What a b*tch. What a truth teller.

It takes courage to face our pain. That’s why so many women don’t come forward until years later, if at all. It’s easier to deny.

Our ego convinces us to be “strong” and in doing so, we often end up lying to ourselves through minimizing.

I have friends whose fathers left them or never showed up when they were kids. For years I’ve watched them dismiss the impact of an event like that.

Then, as adults when they get conscious and courageous, they can cry in the arms of grief. It’s the beginning of releasing that mask they all but glued on their beautiful faces.

When they finally take off the mask and let the grief in, the light comes. too.

When we face people’s (including our own) imperfections, manipulations, and violations, at first we’re hit with grief. But then, we’re set free.

We’re no longer captive to the actions of others. That’s why society applauds so many women and men coming out of the shadows and saying #metoo.

We’re witnessing their individual healing and society’s collective awakening.

We minimize our pain not because we’re strong or brave, but because on some level, we believe the grief could devour us.

She won’t. She waits like a patient parent or teacher. She helps us remove our I’m fine mask and the illusion of being in control.

Grief invites us to lay our hurt and humanity at her feet.

She holds us in our raw pain.

Then, like my stepmother and my brother’s teacher, grief helps us grow into more conscious and compassionate human beings.

 

How to be Soft like Sunshine, Strong like Storm. #bloglikecrazy

“Hanging around for an endless repetition of the same cycle is not loving, but merely dysfunctional.” ~ Marianne Williamson, Enchanted Love

I’m the kind of woman who’d rather face morning with tears than flatness.

I spent decades defining my emotions as positive or negative. Guess which ones I determined to align with?

When the “bad” ones vied for my attention, I changed my state.

It worked. I presented powerful to the world—and myself.

How can a woman (or a man) be whole if afraid to feel feelings?

I was afraid because in my youth anger awakened uncontrolled rage. (Never mind that I had reason.) Better not do that anymore. Check.

Sadness ignited suicidal tendencies. (Often, when women turn anger inward, it invites suicide; for men, it’s homicide.) Wow. You’re freaking people out. Stop it. I did.

I got my feelings under control. I “mastered” my emotions.

But, those slaves had a propensity to rise up at inconvenient times.

What if I worked with them? What if I befriended my feelings? What—all of them?!

Yes, now I even invite them. I allow them in my life. I listen to what they’re trying to tell me. I give them space and voice.

I find they don’t like to be pushed down, set aside, denied or renamed.

Feelings offer truth, insight, and opportunity for new understanding.

This is the more challenging path, like learning the material rather than just acing the test.

The way medical students studying diseases wonder if they have them, at first, one may worry honoring feelings defines her.

It’s in our language: She’s sad. He’s an angry person.

Enough with that.

I choose to feel my feelings. Is that so radical?

Sometimes, we feel sad or mad or blissed out.

These are our feelings—gifts certainly as valuable as thoughts—which (mine, at least) have been wrong a few thousand times.

I’m coming full circle, in one sense childlike, in the way children skin their knees, cry, and then rise to play again.

But, I’m more. I’m alive with my full feminine essence.

This is my FU you to a patriarchal society that deems it necessary to deny me of my emotions because they scare you. (She’s a hysterical woman!)

This is my hello to my dancing soul.

I was told, and maybe you were, too:
Let it go.
Don’t cry.
Laugh it off.
Be professional.
Don’t be so sensitive.

And, my favorite: “I’ve got it handled,” as in, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.” Ha! I do not need to be handled!

If you want to care for me, consider me in all my femininity.

Fierce as a blazing fire.
Wild as the wind.
Soft as sunshine.

We reclaim our feminine nature.

Does that scare you? Maybe it should.

Or, maybe you’re so deep in denial, telling yourself the things you’ve been telling us, you refuse to feel fear even in the face of Mother Nature’s wrath.

Do you think femininity is weak?

The jokes, baby, you keep telling them. The lies, honey, you keep believing.

Not me. Not anymore. I’m out.

Out like the feminine force of nature.

You didn’t listen. You tried to shut us down and deny our feelings.

Patriarchal bullsh*t is being blown up. Where will you stand? Choose.

In the hurricane. In the political sh*t storm. In truth like a tornado.

You might just have to frack off because my sisters and I are speaking truth, crying tears, and dancing joy—real joy, not some plastic crap you tried to sell us.

We are the mothers in Mother Nature.

We’re as soft goddesses and as seductive as the sun.

We’re the giggling girls.

We’re the children and the women saying NO. And being heard.

We’re women welcoming our feelings and our experiences.

You won’t always see us smiling to suit you.

We will never line up to salute a lie.

We’re gathering like bees on flowers. We can produce sweet honey or we can sting.

We feel our feelings—full, feminine, fierce, radiant, juicy, messy, ours.

We invite you to join us.

Welcome to everything but denial.

 

 

 

How to Endure the Darkness. #bloglikecrazy

“All not-good things in the world are transient, containing within themselves the seeds of their own destruction.” ~ Peace Pilgrim

Sometimes darkness comes upon me as strong as my brother’s fist when we were kids.

I remember times in my youth when I believed darkness was my destiny.

Darkness can be like claustrophobia; it’s only threatening until the release.

Finding my claustrophobia funny, an ex-husband used to lock me in our tiny half-bath. I took control back by hiding books under the sink. My panic dissolved when I dove into reading. Then, the door opened.

Now, I prepare for darkness with my candles: prayer, writing, yoga, music, movement, and occasionally conversation.

The greatest power is knowing darkness’ temporariness.

If you’ve been engulfed by the black night, I offer you the idea the light will return.

I can’t tell you when or how. Just consider the idea: This is temporary.

Say it and let it seep into your mind.

Sometimes, it can be a long, lonely night. I will not belittle your darkness.

I’ve tasted its bitterness and touched its sharp edges. But, I won’t pity you.

See, I believe we’re made for these moments because we’re capable and there’s something for us in the dark.

Sometimes, the strongest way to wrestle is to simply sit with gloom and allow it to pass through like a ghost.

While you endure, I send you a candle and my faith that you’ll find the light again.

Hold still. Let your aching heart rest.

Ego and others tell us to fight, as if we aren’t already trying hard enough or just need fresh affirmations.

Whatever works, but so many suggestions seem to come from people born with sparklers in their hands and music playing in their minds.

My birth certificate says I was born in morning, but I’ve danced with darkness since childhood.

Five decades in, she no longer scares me. She can’t slay me.

Darkness is a visitor. I give her the attention she deserves. I offer her tea and ask her what she knows.

I listen, aware of her tendency to tell tall tales and make fake new feel real.

And yet, like that really tough teacher, I’ve learned some of my biggest lessons from darkness.

I don’t pretend her away or allow darkness to highjack my identity.

I respect her when she arrives in my home, regardless of invitation.

Sometimes, like the friend who talks too much and keeps saying he’s leaving, darkness stays for what feels like forever.

I encourage her departure. I even hold the door open, but pushing her is like pushing the lid of a jack-in-the-box.

I now trust darkness’ temporariness. In this, I am strong.

I have faith in light’s return, as a child has faith her parents will come home to release the bad babysitter.

Until then, I trust myself to sit with darkness.

She will not manipulate me into choosing her; I’m attracted to the light.

Soon, darkness will walk out my door, dropping lessons as she goes.

Sweet light will make herself known again. Because she always does.

Seduction. #bloglikecrazy

Men, you came to me
Eager, focused, enthusiastic,
Needing, wanting, desiring
Me, your only goal.
I jumped into your arms—willingly.
Then, you turned away
Leaving me baffled,
Bewildered, wondering
Why I succumbed
To charms now denied.
You made me realize
My own power.
You can walk on, men.
You can come back,
Calling on me,
Begging for affection.
It’s not rejection, guys
That I’m aiming your way,
But more an understanding
Of what you are not,
Of all I am & all I can do.
More than beauty,
More than a body,
A soul, a spirit,
Seduction beyond all
You ever offered.
I am a woman,
Full, present, real.
And, thanks to you,
Realistic.
You came to me, but
I have come into my own.

 

How to Be a Successful Rebel. #bloglikecrazy

What’s reflective and adaptive in the short run may carry the highest price tag over time. ~ Harriet Goldhor Lerner, PhD

Dear Young Rebel, I see you.

I see you with my old woman eyes. I know the lies you tell because I was once young and told them, too.

I was old enough to do what I wanted and fool the fools.

I didn’t realize the one I was ripping off was me.

I skipped much of high school or found myself sick with the flu, and even though it was true, I missed out on a slice of life I can never get back.

I barely graduated high school, not because I was dumb, but because I thought I was too smart to play by the rules.

Kids who went to class, did homework, or listened to their parents’ advice seemed weak.

Not me, I was strong.

I do what I want! was my motto.

The truth is I was lost and scared. I didn’t know what I wanted or who I was.

I was (and still am) a rebel.

When we’re young, it seems everyone is running the same race. As the years pass, the trajectory of actions and consequences spreads wider.

It’s revealed in careers, homes, travel, marriages, and a myriad of things that require time and attention.

Maybe you’re so smart you won’t listen to me or let this be anything other than some dumb adult thinking she can tell you anything when you’re an adult yourself and you already know, right?

The only reason I’m saying anything is because I wish somebody would’ve pulled me aside, realized I was just trying to make my way, and helped me make better choices. Nobody did.

Or, at least I didn’t hear them, like you might not hear this. And, that’s ok.

And yet, when I look back, I wish someone would’ve said: You can do this.

See, I thought everyone was saying I had to and that alone made me not want to. I thought the hard work and school stuff was for them.

I doubted anyone’s sincerity that anything good was meant for me. Nobody understood what I was going through. Or, so I thought.

I’m not telling you I totally get you. I’m saying I care and you can do this.

You can stop fighting against what could benefit you.

You deserve a good life.

But no, you spoiled little brat, it won’t be handed to you.

Ooh, right there, I bet that pissed you off. Now, do you want to be all self-righteous, like Who the hell does she think she is?

Here’s who I am: a grown woman who was once a spoiled brat.

Now, I’m old enough to admit it. I admit it wasn’t the world or my father who were so hard on me; I made things hard by trying to get away with doing things the easy way.

This is not a condemnation of you. It’s the concern I wish somebody would’ve shown me.
I see you. Can you see yourself?

Can you see what I couldn’t when I was your age, but is so clear now?

Can you look at how you’re living and imagine the kind of life you might be creating?

I know how smart you are and what a rebel you can be. It’s awesome!

However, combine that with misused freedom and you might just run yourself off a cliff.
Can you see how you could be hurting yourself? You know when you move out of your parents’ house, they won’t go with you, but you will?

Your thoughts and ideas. Your money habits. Your work habits. Your ways of getting along with others (or not). It all moves with you.

You create it. Then, you own it. It’s your life.

I’m asking: Do you like the one you’re crafting?

Well, I’m not really asking because I see you and I know.

I see you avoiding life and responsibility because it seems so hard.

It’s difficult to imagine, but it’s actually easier to go to class, do the work, study for the test, and go to the job than it is to avoid and fib (especially to yourself).

Gosh, if I could give you that one truth and you believed it, it would be a springboard in your life. It could save you years.

But, maybe you’re like me; you’ve got years to waste.

If so, keep at it. You’re on track.

If you want to follow in my footsteps, please, at all costs, refuse to invest yourself in anything that will actually matter 5-10 years from now.

That’s how I didn’t truly become a student until I was 37 years old, when the pain of not having a degree caught up to me—financially, sure, but more the screaming in my soul.

See, I only had excuses while other people lived with real reasons for not finishing school. They couldn’t afford it, were working two jobs, got pregnant, or just weren’t smart like us.

Actually, back then, I thought I was dumb. Nope. I just didn’t go to class.

I later learned: attendance changes everything.

I didn’t know that then, like you don’t now.

Like you, my parents paid for almost everything in the early days and I blew it all. I blew the money and I trashed the time.

Of course, you won’t blow it like I did. Yeah, that’s what I said.

For three years, I played at college, majored in partying, skipping classes and collecting my dad’s checks as if he owed me and I was getting back at him for his lack of achieving my standards of the kind of father he should be.

I missed the examples around me of people my age building successes, despite having harsher disadvantages and fewer opportunities.

I spent money on pizzas, margaritas and good times. I threw money around like confetti while wiser students juggled jobs, attended classes, clubs and sporting events, and still made time for fun.

I fumbled everything. Don’t be me.

I know, you say you won’t (because you’re smart). That’s what I said—when I dropped out of college “for a semester” three years in.

I chose the easy route and it was anything but easy later on.

I couldn’t see how fast the years would stack up.

I see you, young rebel, calling yourself an adult while doing childish things.

I hear you saying you’re smart, but acting otherwise.

I see you dancing and crafting manipulations, but more importantly, I see you miscalculating the consequences you’re setting yourself up for.

It’s not trouble from your father you should worry about. I know, like me, that doesn’t worry you at all.

The worst kind of trouble is that of your soul when you let the gifts and opportunities you’ve been given slide.

All the blame in the world won’t make your life belong to someone else.

Our souls know the truth even if it takes decades to catch up.

I traded too many years for cheap thrills while other gals and guys gathered degrees and built lives of purpose.

I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself it was just a piece of paper.

Occasionally, I even chanted the victim’s cry, “It’s not fair!”

No, it wasn’t fair that I didn’t show up for class or work or life and expected the same rewards as those who did.

See, life is fair in its unfairness and sometimes the things we get away with today we pay for in the long run.

It wasn’t my father’s actions or attitude which shaped my life. It was my mine.

As time passes, the stories that matter most are the ones we tell ourselves.

When we hold back, we’re paving a path we might not like walking later.

In our teens and 20s, it’s ok to have little money or work retail and restaurant jobs. But trust me; it’s not a thrill in your 30s.

Choosing jobs like that is fine. However, some folks just get lost, and then get stuck.

I see you, young rebel and I hope you don’t get stuck.

I hope you’re not like the guy who says he won’t run out of gas, even though the gage says empty and the light flashes. He keeps driving until what he denies becomes reality.

I was that guy. Well, that young girl playing at life and pushing the limits for the sake of proving something, maybe that no one could control me.

The thing is I didn’t control myself. I didn’t take responsibility. I didn’t go to class. I didn’t plan, study, and prepare for a better life.

I wasted money because I could. I wasted years of my life.

Somehow, I thought I’d be missing out if I did the responsible things and I was too cool for rules and damn if I’d let anyone tell me what to do.

When I look back, I wish I could grab my young hand the first time I didn’t go to class and went to a movie in the middle of the afternoon with a friend and no one said a word.

I wish I could make my young eyes see that friend didn’t have a father like mine paying the bills, so she worked that day and every other. The movie was a treat she gave herself for acing a test, not a way of life like the one I was living.

I wish the young rebel I was knew that when I lied and told my boyfriend my math class was cancelled at 8:00 am every Friday, he still went to class, loved me, had fun, and did his homework. So, he earned a degree.

I see her now, the young rebel I was, having fun. She’s a little sad.

I see the woman I am now and I’m happy with my life.

I don’t have regrets, so maybe you won’t either.

You’ll find your way, as I did.

You might find, like I did, the shortcuts aren’t.

Young rebel, I see you. You’ve got this. You’re smart.

In fact, you’re smarter than me, aren’t you?

 

 

How my Sister & I Grew up in Different Families. #bloglikecrazy

“There is space within sisterhood for likeness and difference, for the subtle differences that challenge and delight; there is space for disappointment—and surprise.” ~ Christine Downing

My sister once told me one reason siblings are different is they’re not born into the same family.

Jayne—the one and only first born—was welcomed into the world with hope during a stage my mom and dad had been told the world was tough, but maybe they didn’t quite believe it yet.

Our brother—Mr. Middle Child—arrived on the scene into Hey, maybe we can make it.

Then, just five years after my sister’s arrival, I was born into the heart of challenge.

I swam in my mom’s frustration for nine months. I ate her Oh God, what have I gotten myself into? for nourishment.

Maybe that’s why I spent too many years wishing to leave this world.

Or what I was doing at the age of eight weeks, returning to the hospital with pneumonia, checking into an oxygen tent, and keeping human touch at a distance.

My mother said the doctors told her, “Go home and take care of your other children.”

Five days later, when my parents picked me up from the hospital, a nurse said, “This time, take care of her.”

My mom hardly had room for me in her arms with all that pressure.

Besides, my independent streak and fighting inclinations had already taken root in that tent. I won my first battle and was ready for more.

However, as a toddler, I quickly learned my mother was not somebody you wanted to do battle with.

The lessons my sister learned—baking, measuring, and Winnie the Pooh seemed spent before I arrived.

We all learned about Mama Bear and that saying: If mom’s not happy, nobody’s happy. Yeah, totally true.

My mom wasn’t happy.

My dad worked. If I said all the time, it might seem like an exaggeration, but if I said he was a workaholic, that might be underplaying it.

My father appears as a visitor in my young memories.

Then, right at that crux, where my parents parted and my sister did her final years at home, the families my sister and I lived in shifted again.

By the time I was a teenager, I knew parents were just playing at righteousness and big sisters were really the difference makers.

After all, who explained divorce and that love that goes on, anyway? Who took care of me when I was sick or let me tag along on dates? Who worried when I stayed out late?
My big sister parented me when my parents were busy doing other things—like trying to get their sh*t together.

Ok, are you with me so far?
1) Parents fall in love.
2) Get pregnant.
3) Get married.
4) Have my sister.
5) Have my brother.
6) Have me.
7) Struggle.
8) Make a new decision.

My formative years were filled with my parents arguing, cutting up credit cards, building bookshelves, road trips to therapists, and me being left alone. Well, often in the care of my brother and sister.

This was the 1970s. These things were done. My parents tried for traditional, but that’s one thing neither of them could adhere to.

The thing is they tried—really hard. They wore us all out with the struggle.

What a different world develops in five short years—both the years since my sister was born and the ones after my parents divorced.

Jayne found love and leaped into it. She moved to the other side of the country.

I was unprepared for life without her. She built a family with her husband and sons, as she should.

I found myself a part of a new family with my stepmom, stepbrother and stepsister. We did family stuff like vacations, dinners, and playing canasta.

I was getting the love I needed. So was my sister—in another world.

In the beginning—her beginning—my sister was served hope with a side of parental presence. I arrived for leftovers.

I never saw the full meal in my original home, so I didn’t miss not getting dessert.

Jayne knew something had been left off the table. She took off to find something sweet.

I stayed home and was introduced to peace. Plus, I got my turn to be the big sister! I poured love and protection into my stepsister’s atmosphere.

See, my sister showed me how, having arrived first in the world. And those five years, they made all the difference.