"I was married for 34 years, and unfortunately, he passed 5 years ago. He was an amazing husband, too. We married at 21. A lot happened around the time of his passing. We became empty nesters the year before he passed, and I retired shortly after. After all that, God gave me supernatural peace to slow down and take in life. I love being single. There isn’t anyone asking about dinner or asking what you want to do. I’m not sure I want to be married again, but I’m exploring the dating world."
- Starlett, Attendee
CTAS Digital Storytellers
In line with our mission to amplify singles voices, we will feature storytellers on our website, Instagram, and Facebook. Mirroring the work of our live show, Digital Storytellers will tell true, on theme, family friendly stories that discuss the highs, lows, sorrows, and benefits associated with the single life.
Malia S. - I Found Out What God Was Made of When - Q3 2025
Bio
Malia is a 33-year-old high school math teacher based in the Charlotte area. She loves finding new ways to make math fun and differentiating instruction to meet the needs of all learners. She is a proud mom to a 100-pound "lap dog" named Sully. When she isn't shaping the minds of the future leaders of America, she enjoys traveling, spending time with family and friends, and watching baseball (Go Red Sox!)
Story
Starting over. Those words didn’t seem daunting—until I had to live them. In February 2023, a month before my 31st birthday, I walked away from my marriage. Standing in my new apartment, staring at the sunset through floor-to-ceiling windows, one question echoed: “What now?”
Growing up in a Christian home, I had a permanent seat in the church pew every Sunday. I was taught that marriage was forever - something you stuck with, no matter how hard it got. It wasn’t just a promise to your spouse; it was a vow before God. Yet, three years in, I was walking away. Betraying everything I’d been taught. Feeling like I’d failed - as a wife and a believer.
One cold, rainy Sunday, I slipped into the sanctuary of the church my ex and I had attended together, shame weighing heavily. I imagined a scarlet letter on my chest, certain everyone was judging me. Then the pastor stepped to the pulpit: “Today we’re going to be talking about something a lot of you don’t want to hear, but some of you probably need to– divorce.” I began gathering my things, preparing to exit quietly not wanting to hear this. Fearing it would only confirm what I had already convinced myself - you aren’t good enough. Suddenly, the voice of the Holy Spirit - gentle but firm - whispered in my head: “Stay. Just wait.” So I did. Nervous, unsettled, but curious. The pastor began listing three biblical grounds for divorce: adultery, abuse, and abandonment. My breath caught. I had lived through two of those. At that moment, I felt seen. The shame cracked, just a little. It was liberating. Before closing, he mentioned a support group for divorcees—led by divorcees. Walking out of church that day, I felt like I was floating. I wasn’t the only one. God still loved me. Peace and comfort wrapped around me like a familiar blanket. For a short time, I wasn’t ruminating on the past or crying every day. I was healing. And that felt good.
Healing isn’t linear—it’s messy. Looping back on itself when you least expect it. The guilt faded and morphed into self-doubt. I questioned my worth. Would he have stayed faithful if I’d been a better wife? If I’d recognized his first threat of self-harm for what it truly was - manipulation - could I have stopped the spiral that followed? Was the chaos, the unraveling, my fault? Through prayer and therapy, a softer voice rose above the noise: You did your best. His choices weren’t your fault. You’re not responsible for someone else’s brokenness. I saw how many times I fought for our marriage, swallowed pain to keep the peace, and begged God to fix things. That wasn’t failure—it was strength. Love. Walking away didn’t mean quitting. It meant surviving. I chose to believe that my heart, my safety, and my future mattered too. Healing eventually came, not in a dramatic moment of clarity, but quietly, unevenly. The first time I laughed without guilt (a friend tripping spectacularly in public helped), the first full day I didn’t think of him at all, the mornings I got out of bed when it felt impossible—each was a small victory. Yet a deeper ache lingered: grief for the life I’d imagined. A joyful marriage; children raised in safety and love. I hadn’t just lost a relationship; I’d lost a future I’d prayed for. Relinquishing that dream shattered my heart in a way that was quiet but deep, without closure.
Through the unraveling and rebuilding, God never left me. Even when I doubted Him, He carried me. When loneliness pressed in, grace found me: A friend’s comforting word, a familiar verse that leapt off the page the exact moment I needed it, a steadying breath amid panic. Those weren’t coincidences. They were reminders: “I am here.” Without Him, I wouldn’t have survived the heartbreak or the nights of self-doubt. He carried me when I couldn’t take another step. He still carries me, guiding and reminding me that, though this chapter ended differently than I hoped, the story continues.
I always thought my happiness would come wrapped in a picture-perfect relationship - husband, home, children, stability. When it all fell apart, I feared I’d never feel whole alone. But God revealed the truth: my worth isn’t tied to a relationship status, and love from another isn’t the ultimate measure of value. He filled my emptiness with peace beyond circumstances, joy without reason, and a quiet confidence that I was already whole in Him. By August 2023, six months post-separation, I felt content - not because life was perfect, but because God alone completed me. In Him, I was enough. I still believe in love, connection, family, and all the good things that come with a relationship and have been blessed to experience them again. The greatest lesson was that happiness doesn’t depend on those things. I found a deeper joy that doesn’t crumble when life doesn’t go according to plan. And that joy - rooted in God, not another person - is something no one can take from me.
Growing up in a Christian home, I had a permanent seat in the church pew every Sunday. I was taught that marriage was forever - something you stuck with, no matter how hard it got. It wasn’t just a promise to your spouse; it was a vow before God. Yet, three years in, I was walking away. Betraying everything I’d been taught. Feeling like I’d failed - as a wife and a believer.
One cold, rainy Sunday, I slipped into the sanctuary of the church my ex and I had attended together, shame weighing heavily. I imagined a scarlet letter on my chest, certain everyone was judging me. Then the pastor stepped to the pulpit: “Today we’re going to be talking about something a lot of you don’t want to hear, but some of you probably need to– divorce.” I began gathering my things, preparing to exit quietly not wanting to hear this. Fearing it would only confirm what I had already convinced myself - you aren’t good enough. Suddenly, the voice of the Holy Spirit - gentle but firm - whispered in my head: “Stay. Just wait.” So I did. Nervous, unsettled, but curious. The pastor began listing three biblical grounds for divorce: adultery, abuse, and abandonment. My breath caught. I had lived through two of those. At that moment, I felt seen. The shame cracked, just a little. It was liberating. Before closing, he mentioned a support group for divorcees—led by divorcees. Walking out of church that day, I felt like I was floating. I wasn’t the only one. God still loved me. Peace and comfort wrapped around me like a familiar blanket. For a short time, I wasn’t ruminating on the past or crying every day. I was healing. And that felt good.
Healing isn’t linear—it’s messy. Looping back on itself when you least expect it. The guilt faded and morphed into self-doubt. I questioned my worth. Would he have stayed faithful if I’d been a better wife? If I’d recognized his first threat of self-harm for what it truly was - manipulation - could I have stopped the spiral that followed? Was the chaos, the unraveling, my fault? Through prayer and therapy, a softer voice rose above the noise: You did your best. His choices weren’t your fault. You’re not responsible for someone else’s brokenness. I saw how many times I fought for our marriage, swallowed pain to keep the peace, and begged God to fix things. That wasn’t failure—it was strength. Love. Walking away didn’t mean quitting. It meant surviving. I chose to believe that my heart, my safety, and my future mattered too. Healing eventually came, not in a dramatic moment of clarity, but quietly, unevenly. The first time I laughed without guilt (a friend tripping spectacularly in public helped), the first full day I didn’t think of him at all, the mornings I got out of bed when it felt impossible—each was a small victory. Yet a deeper ache lingered: grief for the life I’d imagined. A joyful marriage; children raised in safety and love. I hadn’t just lost a relationship; I’d lost a future I’d prayed for. Relinquishing that dream shattered my heart in a way that was quiet but deep, without closure.
Through the unraveling and rebuilding, God never left me. Even when I doubted Him, He carried me. When loneliness pressed in, grace found me: A friend’s comforting word, a familiar verse that leapt off the page the exact moment I needed it, a steadying breath amid panic. Those weren’t coincidences. They were reminders: “I am here.” Without Him, I wouldn’t have survived the heartbreak or the nights of self-doubt. He carried me when I couldn’t take another step. He still carries me, guiding and reminding me that, though this chapter ended differently than I hoped, the story continues.
I always thought my happiness would come wrapped in a picture-perfect relationship - husband, home, children, stability. When it all fell apart, I feared I’d never feel whole alone. But God revealed the truth: my worth isn’t tied to a relationship status, and love from another isn’t the ultimate measure of value. He filled my emptiness with peace beyond circumstances, joy without reason, and a quiet confidence that I was already whole in Him. By August 2023, six months post-separation, I felt content - not because life was perfect, but because God alone completed me. In Him, I was enough. I still believe in love, connection, family, and all the good things that come with a relationship and have been blessed to experience them again. The greatest lesson was that happiness doesn’t depend on those things. I found a deeper joy that doesn’t crumble when life doesn’t go according to plan. And that joy - rooted in God, not another person - is something no one can take from me.
Sean M. - Forgiveness - Q2 2025
Bio
Sean, a Michigan native, is a data scientist based in the Memphis area. Married for over twenty years, he’s a proud husband, father of three, and grandfather to one. For the past decade, he’s been a regular contributor to Spillit Memphis, a live storytelling show where he holds the honor of Storyteller in Residence. When he’s not crunching numbers, you’ll find him locked in a chess match or cheering on his favorite Detroit sports teams. Passionate, curious, and grounded in family, Sean brings both heart and insight to everything he does.
Story
Two things I believe: that no one is defined by the worst thing they’ve ever done, and that no matter how old you are, your inner child stays with you.
With those two things in mind, I often give people the benefit of the doubt. Someone cuts me off in traffic—I just assume they’re having a bad day. Someone flips me off—maybe their inner child is hurting. I’ve noticed over the years that this level of grace comes easier with people I have no relationship with.
I remember the last time I talked to my dad. It didn’t go well. He was upset because plans for him to travel from Detroit to Memphis and stay with my family for my son’s high school graduation had to change. Sometimes, my dad, in an attempt to get sympathy, would speak in a higher octave—almost like an adult baby—and in that voice, he said, “I feel slighted.”
I didn’t say anything at the moment, but I did think to myself: I felt slighted when we had to grow up poor because of your drug addiction, and you weren’t around. I felt slighted when you hit me out of anger. I felt slighted living in fear of you and shrinking inside myself for so many years. It reminded me of times growing up when I wished my dad was dead, because it seemed like his being dead would probably do us more good than him living, which wasn’t doing anything.
Not long after that last call, my dad would periodically call out of the blue, and I refused to pick up. At first, it was because I didn’t want to have the graduation conversation again. But even after the graduation, when he would call, I felt like talking to him was a waste of time. I had forgiven my dad for the past a long time ago. I felt like I got the gist of who he was, and I really didn’t need to know more or have many conversations.
One day, a different Benjamin Mosley called me—my older brother, who shares the same name as our dad. He told me in the most nonchalant way, “You might want to call or talk to our pops one last time. I know he’s been threatening to die for a while, but you don’t want to regret it.” My brother has always been easygoing, but despite his tone, I knew he was serious. From the time I was ten and he was eleven, we only ever referred to our dad as either “Benny” or “your dad.” Now he is calling him pops.
Again, I felt like I was good. I knew everything I needed to know. My dad did call a couple more times after that, but I still didn’t pick up.
A month passed, and I got another call from my brother. I remember, before answering, the chilling feeling that something I had been waiting on for 30 years was finally happening. My brother said, “Your dad had a heart attack, and he’s in the hospital. He’s on life support, and it doesn’t look good.” His condition was so far gone that, within a matter of days, we made the decision to pull the plug. It was official. The last time I spoke with my dad was the “I feel slighted” conversation. And I was good with that—at the time.
My dad was always reaching out to family members, and I believe his greatest desire was for his children to do the same. So, after his funeral, I started to reach out to family members who knew my dad better than I did. I have two half-sisters from my dad—Beaute and Liberty. Beaute had a different perspective on our father. Maybe because she met him later in life, she had a different relationship. After the funeral, while speaking with her, she said, “Dad told me that he was punished more harshly than his siblings.” That was something I didn’t know.
It turns out our dad was the youngest of his siblings and the product of an extramarital affair that cost my grandmother a husband. He also never had a relationship with his father, and my dad believed that, because of this, he was punished more often and more brutally. Until that moment, I assumed I knew everything I needed to know about my dad. That little bit of information gave me a crushing sense of sadness.
I started to imagine my dad as a boy—growing up and believing that his existence was not only a mistake but a source of pain for his family. Thinking, deep down, that your mother resented you and your biological father didn’t want to know you. With that in mind, I remembered all the calls he made before he died—and how I ignored them. I imagined it was no longer the dad I knew who called, but that same little-boy version of my father, reaching out, trying not to be a mistake, attempting to be loved—or at the very least, to be the father he wished he had. Maybe that’s where the baby-man voice came from—an external representation of his inner child.
Two years later, I continue to ask myself, “Why didn’t I answer one of those calls?” Some days I feel guilty and ashamed—because if it were anyone else, I would’ve given them the benefit of the doubt. I probably would’ve recognized their pain. Then, I think about how I would feel if my own kids didn’t want to talk to me. Some days I’m fine with the choice I made—because I didn’t know, and it’s not my fault. I vacillate between these two thoughts over and over.
Lately, I’ve been thinking, “How do I escape myself?”
With my dad gone, “How do I get closure?”
“Who is going to forgive me for never taking that last call?”
The more I thought and prayed about it, God gave me an answer through scripture--Acts 16:22–33, to be specific:
And the multitude rose up together against them: and the magistrates rent off their clothes, and commanded to beat them. And when they had laid many stripes upon them, they cast them into prison, charging the jailor to keep them safely: who, having received such a charge, thrust them into the inner prison, and made their feet fast in the stocks. And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God: and the prisoners heard them. And suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken: and immediately all the doors were opened, and every one's bands were loosed. And the keeper of the prison awaking out of his sleep, and seeing the prison doors open, he drew out his sword, and would have killed himself, supposing that the prisoners had been fled. But Paul cried with a loud voice, saying, Do thyself no harm: for we are all here.
So many times I’ve read this story and put myself in the position of Paul and Silas—praising God in spite of circumstances and persecution.
This time, God said, “Look at the jailer.” He was complicit in the wrong done to Paul and Silas—but also ready to punish himself for things outside his control. Paul doesn’t tell the jailer everything he did was right. But he does say: “Do yourself no harm.” Which can be interpreted as: “Yes, you were wrong. But there is grace for you to move on from your mistakes.”
Sometimes, I’m my own harsh judge and jailer—condemning myself and making sure I never forget or break free. Some days, I have to be reminded: There is grace for Sean– and Sean's inner child, too.
With those two things in mind, I often give people the benefit of the doubt. Someone cuts me off in traffic—I just assume they’re having a bad day. Someone flips me off—maybe their inner child is hurting. I’ve noticed over the years that this level of grace comes easier with people I have no relationship with.
I remember the last time I talked to my dad. It didn’t go well. He was upset because plans for him to travel from Detroit to Memphis and stay with my family for my son’s high school graduation had to change. Sometimes, my dad, in an attempt to get sympathy, would speak in a higher octave—almost like an adult baby—and in that voice, he said, “I feel slighted.”
I didn’t say anything at the moment, but I did think to myself: I felt slighted when we had to grow up poor because of your drug addiction, and you weren’t around. I felt slighted when you hit me out of anger. I felt slighted living in fear of you and shrinking inside myself for so many years. It reminded me of times growing up when I wished my dad was dead, because it seemed like his being dead would probably do us more good than him living, which wasn’t doing anything.
Not long after that last call, my dad would periodically call out of the blue, and I refused to pick up. At first, it was because I didn’t want to have the graduation conversation again. But even after the graduation, when he would call, I felt like talking to him was a waste of time. I had forgiven my dad for the past a long time ago. I felt like I got the gist of who he was, and I really didn’t need to know more or have many conversations.
One day, a different Benjamin Mosley called me—my older brother, who shares the same name as our dad. He told me in the most nonchalant way, “You might want to call or talk to our pops one last time. I know he’s been threatening to die for a while, but you don’t want to regret it.” My brother has always been easygoing, but despite his tone, I knew he was serious. From the time I was ten and he was eleven, we only ever referred to our dad as either “Benny” or “your dad.” Now he is calling him pops.
Again, I felt like I was good. I knew everything I needed to know. My dad did call a couple more times after that, but I still didn’t pick up.
A month passed, and I got another call from my brother. I remember, before answering, the chilling feeling that something I had been waiting on for 30 years was finally happening. My brother said, “Your dad had a heart attack, and he’s in the hospital. He’s on life support, and it doesn’t look good.” His condition was so far gone that, within a matter of days, we made the decision to pull the plug. It was official. The last time I spoke with my dad was the “I feel slighted” conversation. And I was good with that—at the time.
My dad was always reaching out to family members, and I believe his greatest desire was for his children to do the same. So, after his funeral, I started to reach out to family members who knew my dad better than I did. I have two half-sisters from my dad—Beaute and Liberty. Beaute had a different perspective on our father. Maybe because she met him later in life, she had a different relationship. After the funeral, while speaking with her, she said, “Dad told me that he was punished more harshly than his siblings.” That was something I didn’t know.
It turns out our dad was the youngest of his siblings and the product of an extramarital affair that cost my grandmother a husband. He also never had a relationship with his father, and my dad believed that, because of this, he was punished more often and more brutally. Until that moment, I assumed I knew everything I needed to know about my dad. That little bit of information gave me a crushing sense of sadness.
I started to imagine my dad as a boy—growing up and believing that his existence was not only a mistake but a source of pain for his family. Thinking, deep down, that your mother resented you and your biological father didn’t want to know you. With that in mind, I remembered all the calls he made before he died—and how I ignored them. I imagined it was no longer the dad I knew who called, but that same little-boy version of my father, reaching out, trying not to be a mistake, attempting to be loved—or at the very least, to be the father he wished he had. Maybe that’s where the baby-man voice came from—an external representation of his inner child.
Two years later, I continue to ask myself, “Why didn’t I answer one of those calls?” Some days I feel guilty and ashamed—because if it were anyone else, I would’ve given them the benefit of the doubt. I probably would’ve recognized their pain. Then, I think about how I would feel if my own kids didn’t want to talk to me. Some days I’m fine with the choice I made—because I didn’t know, and it’s not my fault. I vacillate between these two thoughts over and over.
Lately, I’ve been thinking, “How do I escape myself?”
With my dad gone, “How do I get closure?”
“Who is going to forgive me for never taking that last call?”
The more I thought and prayed about it, God gave me an answer through scripture--Acts 16:22–33, to be specific:
And the multitude rose up together against them: and the magistrates rent off their clothes, and commanded to beat them. And when they had laid many stripes upon them, they cast them into prison, charging the jailor to keep them safely: who, having received such a charge, thrust them into the inner prison, and made their feet fast in the stocks. And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God: and the prisoners heard them. And suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken: and immediately all the doors were opened, and every one's bands were loosed. And the keeper of the prison awaking out of his sleep, and seeing the prison doors open, he drew out his sword, and would have killed himself, supposing that the prisoners had been fled. But Paul cried with a loud voice, saying, Do thyself no harm: for we are all here.
So many times I’ve read this story and put myself in the position of Paul and Silas—praising God in spite of circumstances and persecution.
This time, God said, “Look at the jailer.” He was complicit in the wrong done to Paul and Silas—but also ready to punish himself for things outside his control. Paul doesn’t tell the jailer everything he did was right. But he does say: “Do yourself no harm.” Which can be interpreted as: “Yes, you were wrong. But there is grace for you to move on from your mistakes.”
Sometimes, I’m my own harsh judge and jailer—condemning myself and making sure I never forget or break free. Some days, I have to be reminded: There is grace for Sean– and Sean's inner child, too.
Abby T. - Finding Me - Q2 2024
Biography
Abby T. lives in NYC with her husband and children. She enjoys spending time with her family, traveling, and swimming in the ocean year-round. Abby works in Real Estate and loves helping people find their home.
Story
I decided to move back to Brooklyn. I had never lived on my own before, and it was great. It opened me up to financial independence, and it pushed me to make decisions for myself. This was an area I needed to grow in. I recall this one time I had a decision to make and I kept calling my mom and then my sister and back to my mom. I was frantic to get them on the phone as if I was incapable of making any decisions for myself without hashing every tiny detail over with them. It took me many years and an infinite amount of small and large decisions to develop my own intuition and wisdom to finally arrive at a place where I was capable of making major decisions completely on my own. I want to make clear that I value my friends and family’s wisdom and insight immensely and still glean from their words today. However, when called upon, I am able to make the decision between a spiced chai latte and a mocha all by myself!
Let’s go back for a moment. I originally moved to Brooklyn in 2005 and later decided to move back home in 2009. At the time, I thought moving back to Long Island was the worst thing ever. I felt like I was pausing the progress I had made. What I realize now is that it was a timely pivot. I moved back for a year almost to the date. In that time, I worked and spent time with my family and friends, whom I cherish. By the time the summer rolled around, I was ready to move back to Brooklyn, this time on my own. I remember getting a call about a one-bedroom that was available in a building I loved…I wanted it sight unseen and was fortunate enough to sign the lease. This move changed the course of my life.
At the time, I got approved for the apartment, I didn’t even have a job. But I had a fire inside me and was determined to not fail! I took every babysitting opportunity and odd job I could. I remember I would come home with the cash and put it in an envelope in the drawers of my nightstand. I didn’t spend anything until I had the rent money aside. It was empowering to see that I was both responsible and capable of taking care of myself. I enjoyed decorating my own apartment, entertaining my friends, and gardening. It was all my own space, and I loved every second of it.
After about a month in that Bedstuy apartment, my mom called and asked if I would take Twain, our family dog. I enthusiastically said yes. Having him as a companion was comforting, and I am so glad I was able to experience caring for him. After a few years of working in Brooklyn, I decided to go back to school and choose my course of study all by myself!
When I went back to school, I would come home in between classes, which was a forty-five-minute commute each way at best, to walk him and feed Twain before returning to school for my evening classes. It really prepared me for caring for my children, years later.
I lived in that apartment for 12 years: I went back to college. I came into my own. I was happy. I met my husband. I lost my mom. Months later, I had to say goodbye to Twain also. I had my first baby. I got pregnant with my second baby, all in that apartment. All of these things would’ve looked drastically different if I hadn’t left Long Island that summer and gone back to Brooklyn. Living on my own, experiencing struggle, and seeing that I could overcome hardships and achieve the goals I had set for my life. This story is part of who I am today. It was full of the best memories and some very heartbreaking ones as well. I would not change it at all, because it led me to the person I am today, just like the current chapter of my story will lead me to who I am tomorrow.
Let’s go back for a moment. I originally moved to Brooklyn in 2005 and later decided to move back home in 2009. At the time, I thought moving back to Long Island was the worst thing ever. I felt like I was pausing the progress I had made. What I realize now is that it was a timely pivot. I moved back for a year almost to the date. In that time, I worked and spent time with my family and friends, whom I cherish. By the time the summer rolled around, I was ready to move back to Brooklyn, this time on my own. I remember getting a call about a one-bedroom that was available in a building I loved…I wanted it sight unseen and was fortunate enough to sign the lease. This move changed the course of my life.
At the time, I got approved for the apartment, I didn’t even have a job. But I had a fire inside me and was determined to not fail! I took every babysitting opportunity and odd job I could. I remember I would come home with the cash and put it in an envelope in the drawers of my nightstand. I didn’t spend anything until I had the rent money aside. It was empowering to see that I was both responsible and capable of taking care of myself. I enjoyed decorating my own apartment, entertaining my friends, and gardening. It was all my own space, and I loved every second of it.
After about a month in that Bedstuy apartment, my mom called and asked if I would take Twain, our family dog. I enthusiastically said yes. Having him as a companion was comforting, and I am so glad I was able to experience caring for him. After a few years of working in Brooklyn, I decided to go back to school and choose my course of study all by myself!
When I went back to school, I would come home in between classes, which was a forty-five-minute commute each way at best, to walk him and feed Twain before returning to school for my evening classes. It really prepared me for caring for my children, years later.
I lived in that apartment for 12 years: I went back to college. I came into my own. I was happy. I met my husband. I lost my mom. Months later, I had to say goodbye to Twain also. I had my first baby. I got pregnant with my second baby, all in that apartment. All of these things would’ve looked drastically different if I hadn’t left Long Island that summer and gone back to Brooklyn. Living on my own, experiencing struggle, and seeing that I could overcome hardships and achieve the goals I had set for my life. This story is part of who I am today. It was full of the best memories and some very heartbreaking ones as well. I would not change it at all, because it led me to the person I am today, just like the current chapter of my story will lead me to who I am tomorrow.
Jasmine W. - Boundaries - Q1 2024
Biography
Jasmine is a 4th grate teacher at Cordova Optional Elementary School from Memphis, TN. She enjoys exploring nature and watching classic movies.
Story
I have a family member who is very controlling. Anytime I made a decision, she would guilt trip me into making the decision she wanted me to make. I felt owed her because when I was younger she helped my family out when we were in need.
Our relationship dynamic has always been one-sided. Around her, we ate her favorite foods, we talked about what she wanted to talk about, we did the things she wanted to do. My loyalty to her was unmatched. No matter what event or what she needed I was there. She was good at setting boundaries. But she left no space for me within our relationship.
I left Memphis when I was 21. Since leaving, I completed college, got married, lived in three different cities, and, then, divorced. God’s plan for my life would bring me back. I returned when I was 32 and knew my experience would be different because now I was grown. But my move was accompanied by other feelings: fear, anxiety, and overwhelm. I was accustomed to putting everyone before me. I wasn’t sure if I was interested in living that life again.
One day my car broke down, my engine blew out, right after a long day at work. I needed someone to pick me up, so I called my sister. She was at work. I called a friend. She didn’t answer. Then, I called my Godmother. She was the last one I called. She always said, “Call me if you need me”. She used to get upset at times when I didn’t. So I called. When she answered the phone I told her what happened. She deep sighed, then said, “I’m sleepy.” She ended up calling her husband, and they came and got me. I waited two hours for them to arrive. They live 15 minutes away from where I broke down. When they arrived, she looked at me, shook her head, and asked what I did to the car. I was calm on the outside but hurting on the inside. I called her because she told me to. Now, I need her and here she is blaming me.
When I was younger, I thought my Godmother and I shared a special bond. But moving back I noticed it was around her that my anxiety would flare. I don’t know if it was having time away or just being older and being more in touch with myself, but I knew that I didn’t want to live like this anymore. I pride myself on being selfless, but I no longer wanted to do this at my own expense. I felt like she kept treating me like I was the young girl I was before I left. But I’m not her anymore. I’m grown.
I’m still figuring out what my boundaries are with her and how to navigate the relationship. It’s been hard. I’ll establish a boundary, and she’ll cross it, repeatedly. I’ve decided that this is a relationship worth fighting for, so I’m going to keep at it. But boundaries must exist. They are an act of self-care and self-respect, and I’m learning to care for and respect myself.
Our relationship dynamic has always been one-sided. Around her, we ate her favorite foods, we talked about what she wanted to talk about, we did the things she wanted to do. My loyalty to her was unmatched. No matter what event or what she needed I was there. She was good at setting boundaries. But she left no space for me within our relationship.
I left Memphis when I was 21. Since leaving, I completed college, got married, lived in three different cities, and, then, divorced. God’s plan for my life would bring me back. I returned when I was 32 and knew my experience would be different because now I was grown. But my move was accompanied by other feelings: fear, anxiety, and overwhelm. I was accustomed to putting everyone before me. I wasn’t sure if I was interested in living that life again.
One day my car broke down, my engine blew out, right after a long day at work. I needed someone to pick me up, so I called my sister. She was at work. I called a friend. She didn’t answer. Then, I called my Godmother. She was the last one I called. She always said, “Call me if you need me”. She used to get upset at times when I didn’t. So I called. When she answered the phone I told her what happened. She deep sighed, then said, “I’m sleepy.” She ended up calling her husband, and they came and got me. I waited two hours for them to arrive. They live 15 minutes away from where I broke down. When they arrived, she looked at me, shook her head, and asked what I did to the car. I was calm on the outside but hurting on the inside. I called her because she told me to. Now, I need her and here she is blaming me.
When I was younger, I thought my Godmother and I shared a special bond. But moving back I noticed it was around her that my anxiety would flare. I don’t know if it was having time away or just being older and being more in touch with myself, but I knew that I didn’t want to live like this anymore. I pride myself on being selfless, but I no longer wanted to do this at my own expense. I felt like she kept treating me like I was the young girl I was before I left. But I’m not her anymore. I’m grown.
I’m still figuring out what my boundaries are with her and how to navigate the relationship. It’s been hard. I’ll establish a boundary, and she’ll cross it, repeatedly. I’ve decided that this is a relationship worth fighting for, so I’m going to keep at it. But boundaries must exist. They are an act of self-care and self-respect, and I’m learning to care for and respect myself.