mylifeimo

[mylifeimo]

From Reels to Real Attention: Reclaiming Our Focus in a Scroll-Happy World

In recent years, our screens have been overtaken by bite-sized content. TikTok, Instagram Reels, and YouTube Shorts have revolutionized how we consume media—fast, flashy, and fleeting. What once was a sit-down experience with a movie or an hour-long drama has been replaced with a few seconds of dopamine-fueled scrolls. The result? A collective shrinking of our attention spans.

You’re not alone if you find yourself abandoning a movie ten minutes in or checking your phone repeatedly while trying to watch a show. These platforms, though entertaining, are built on algorithms that reward constant stimulation. They train our brains to seek instant gratification and constant novelty, making slower-paced, long-form content feel… well, boring.

The Science Behind the Scroll

Psychologists and neuroscientists have studied the impact of short-form content on attention. Repeated exposure to quick, engaging clips conditions our brains to expect something new every few seconds. It triggers the reward center of the brain, much like a slot machine. Over time, this makes it harder to tolerate slower narratives or scenes that require patience and emotional investment.

The Cost of a Short Attention Span

Losing the ability to focus for extended periods doesn’t just impact how we watch TV. It affects our reading habits, productivity, conversations, and even our relationships. Movies and long-form shows are crafted to tell complex, meaningful stories that unfold over time. When we struggle to sit through them, we miss out on depth, nuance, and the emotional payoffs that only come with patience.

How to Rebuild Your Focus

Fortunately, attention is like a muscle—it can be retrained. Here are some realistic ways to reclaim your ability to engage with long-form content:

1. Practice Active Watching

Put your phone in another room. Turn off notifications. Watch with intention—notice the cinematography, character development, and pacing. You’d be surprised how much more engaging a show becomes when you're fully present.

2. Start Small, Then Build

If a two-hour movie feels daunting, start with a 30-minute episode. Choose shows with compelling storytelling that build slowly (like The Bear or Severance). Gradually increase your tolerance and attention span.

3. Set “Scroll-Free” Hours

Designate a block of time in your day (even just 30 minutes) where you don’t use TikTok, Reels, or Shorts. Give your brain a break from constant stimulation.

4. Create a Viewing Ritual

Treat watching TV or movies like a special event. Dim the lights, grab your favorite snack, and settle in like you would at a theater. Rituals add meaning and help signal your brain to focus.

5. Watch With Someone

Watching with a friend or family member not only makes the experience more enjoyable—it also helps keep you accountable and engaged. You’re less likely to get distracted when you’re sharing the moment.

6. Limit Multitasking

Resist the urge to scroll while watching. Even having your phone nearby can reduce focus. Let yourself be immersed in one story at a time.

7. Revisit Movies You Loved as a Kid

There’s comfort in familiarity. Revisiting a classic favorite can rekindle your love for long-form storytelling and remind you of how captivating a well-told tale can be.

In Conclusion

Short-form content isn’t the villain—it has its place. But if we let it dominate our media diet, we risk losing the ability to truly engage with deeper, richer stories. Rebuilding your attention span is possible with small, intentional steps. And the reward? A return to the magic of being transported—fully and completely—into another world for more than 60 seconds at a time.

Have you noticed your attention span changing lately? What strategies have worked for you in reclaiming your focus?

[mylifeimo]

There isn’t a moment in the past 29 years that I haven’t loved my son, Chase, with everything inside me. Every breath he’s taken, every milestone he’s reached — and even every mistake made along the way — my love for him has been unwavering. It’s the kind of love that settles deep in the soul, unshaken by time, distance, or heartache.

Chase came into my life when I needed him most, though I didn’t know it at the time. He was pure, beautiful, and mine. And yet, when he was just five years old — after losing his grandmother — I made the hardest and most selfish decision of my life. I left Indiana, chasing something I thought I needed: love, acceptance, a sense of belonging. What I didn’t realize until much later was that I had all the love I ever needed in the little boy I left behind.

Though I was often far away in distance, Chase was never far from my heart. I did everything I could to stay in his life — flying him to visit me, calling, writing, loving him from afar. Eventually, when I saw him starting to stumble in life, especially with early trouble and drug use, I moved back home. I fought for custody. I wanted to be the father he deserved, the one he had always needed. And for a while, it seemed like we found a rhythm again. I watched him turn his grades around and show up for school every day. I was so proud.

But life has a cruel way sometimes of knocking us down when we’re just starting to stand.

Chase fell deeper into addiction, a battle that has now lasted more than a decade. I watched helplessly as the boy I raised, the boy I carried in my arms, slipped further away into something darker, something unrecognizable. When he had a child of his own, I did everything in my power to protect that baby — my grandson — even gaining custody for a time. But I eventually had to make another heartbreaking decision and place him with his maternal grandmother to raise as my chronic pain destroyed that hope of a second chance. He later was placed with a non-blood family. It breaks my heart.

I have loved Chase through every high and every low. And yet today, our bond is thin, distant, almost nonexistent. When I do see him, he feels like a stranger — a polite nod where there used to be bear hugs, short conversations where there once were endless questions about the world. He never reaches out. And my heart breaks a little more every time I realize how far we’ve drifted.

One of my greatest regrets in this life — the one that sits heavy on my chest every night — is the role I played in the early fractures of our relationship. I can make peace with the fact that I made mistakes, but it doesn’t erase the pain of the consequences. Chase says he forgives me, and while I want to believe him, I know that the past still echoes between us

My greatest fear is that one day, I’ll leave this earth without having truly healed the rift between us. Without having heard him say, “I love you, Dad” one more time and knowing he meant it with his whole heart. Without seeing the light come back into his life.

I lost my son. I lost my grandson. Pieces of my heart and soul are scattered and distant now, living lives I only glimpse from afar.

But still, every day, I carry Chase in my heart. I carry every memory of his childhood laughter, every birthday candle, every scraped knee I kissed, every “good night” and “I love you” whispered across miles.

No matter how lost he is, or how lost I feel without him, he will always be my son.

And I will always be his father — aching, hoping, loving — until my last breath.

[mylifeimo]

Fibromyalgia: My Life and Yours

I used to chalk my constant aches and fatigue up to stress — until I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. Fibromyalgia is a chronic condition marked by widespread, persistent pain and tenderness in the muscles and soft tissues ( Fibromyalgia: A Review of the Pathophysiological Mechanisms and Multidisciplinary Treatment Strategies — PMC ). It often comes hand-in-hand with overwhelming fatigue, sleep problems, and even mood issues. In other words, it can feel like your body and mind are both under siege. As I learned more, I realized fibromyalgia isn’t “all in my head” — it’s a real syndrome with real effects on daily life.

What Causes Fibromyalgia?

When I first heard “fibromyalgia,” I desperately wanted a clear culprit. Unfortunately, doctors still don’t know exactly why it happens. What research does suggest is that fibromyalgia likely arises from a mix of factors. For example, it often runs in families, so genetics seems to play a role (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS). Many people also notice symptoms after a triggering event, such as a viral illness, a physical injury, or a very stressful period (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). In other words, even though your DNA might set the stage, something in life can flip the switch.

One key idea is that the nervous system becomes oversensitive. It’s like your body’s pain “volume knob” gets turned up too high ( Fibromyalgia: A Review of the Pathophysiological Mechanisms and Multidisciplinary Treatment Strategies — PMC ). In fibromyalgia, the brain and spinal cord amplify normal sensations into pain. Imaging studies show that people with fibromyalgia have abnormal pain signaling in their central nervous system (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS). In plain language: nerves that should only alert you to real danger end up firing too easily, so you hurt more than others would from the same stimulus. Researchers call this central sensitization. On top of that, there may be changes in peripheral nerves and even slight immune or hormonal imbalances that contribute ( Fibromyalgia: A Review of the Pathophysiological Mechanisms and Multidisciplinary Treatment Strategies — PMC ). In short, most experts agree it’s a perfect storm of genetic predisposition, nervous system changes, and environmental triggers (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks) (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS).

Common Symptoms of Fibromyalgia

(Download Fibro, Illness, Pain. Royalty-Free Stock Illustration Image — Pixabay) Aches and pains everywhere are the hallmark of fibromyalgia. But it’s not like a single injury — the pain is widespread (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS). One day, my shoulders throbbed; the next, my legs felt bruised. It can feel dull and aching, burning, or like constant pressure. Almost every patient also battles overwhelming fatigue (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS) — not just being a little tired, but feeling drained even after a full night’s sleep. When that fatigue is combined with sore muscles, it’s no wonder sleep problems are common. Poor sleep then feeds the fatigue, creating a vicious cycle.

Here are some of the most common fibromyalgia symptoms (in addition to widespread pain) that people report:

Chronic fatigue and sleep trouble. A constant, bone-deep tiredness that doesn’t go away with rest (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS). Many never feel refreshed even after sleeping, and find that poor sleep fuels the pain.

Muscle/joint stiffness and tender points. Joints and muscles may stiffen, especially in the morning. Certain spots (like the back of the neck, shoulders, or hips) are particularly tender to light touch (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS).

“Fibro fog.” A mental cloudiness or trouble concentrating makes even simple tasks (like following a conversation or remembering names) hard (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS). People describe forgetting words or feeling like their brain is moving through molasses.

Heightened sensitivity. Lights, sounds, or even temperature changes that seem normal to others can feel harsh or painful. For example, everyday noises might seem painfully loud, or a light hug might hurt (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS). Some people also experience headaches, irritable bowel symptoms (IBS), or other overlapping issues.

Emotional and mood symptoms. It’s common to feel anxious, irritable, or depressed, partly because constant pain is mentally draining. Fibromyalgia patients have a higher rate of anxiety and depression than the general population ( Fibromyalgia: A Review of the Pathophysiological Mechanisms and Multidisciplinary Treatment Strategies — PMC ).

Beyond the physical aches, fibromyalgia can take a toll on the mind, too. Many sufferers describe “brain fog” mentioned above, and it’s real — one review of fibromyalgia noted “cognitive dysfunction” (trouble thinking clearly) and mood changes like anxiety or depression as core features ( Fibromyalgia: A Review of the Pathophysiological Mechanisms and Multidisciplinary Treatment Strategies — PMC ). Living with unpredictable pain and fatigue can make anyone feel stressed or low. I’ve often felt on edge, worried about when the next flare-up will hit. It’s no surprise that many of us become extra sensitive to stress or feel overwhelmed by sensory input. In short, fibromyalgia can leave you physically exhausted and emotionally drained at the same time.

Treatments: Finding Relief Through Many Paths

When it comes to treatment, there’s no magic bullet. The strategy is usually to combine several approaches (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). Early on, I cycled through a lot of options. For mild pain days, I might take an over-the-counter pain reliever (like ibuprofen or acetaminophen) to help me get through the morning. If symptoms get worse, my doctor might prescribe one of the FDA-approved fibromyalgia medications — these include certain anti-seizure drugs (pregabalin or gabapentin) and low-dose antidepressants (duloxetine, amitriptyline, or milnacipran) (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). Sometimes a weak opioid like tramadol is used carefully for a short time (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). All these drugs can help reduce nerve pain, improve sleep, or ease mood, but they often work only partially and vary person to person.

Most treatment plans emphasize self-care and lifestyle changes as much as medications. Here are common strategies that many find helpful:

Medications: As mentioned, drug options include nerve pain modulators (pregabalin, gabapentin) and muscle-relaxant or antidepressant medications (duloxetine, amitriptyline, etc.) to blunt pain and improve sleep (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). These are often started at low doses and adjusted carefully. (Painkillers like NSAIDs are sometimes tried for general pain, but fibromyalgia pain doesn’t respond as well to them as conditions like arthritis.)

Gentle exercise and physical therapy: Regular low-impact movement is one of the most important tools. It might feel counterintuitive when moving hurts at first, but graded exercise usually helps over time. Walking, swimming or water aerobics, yoga, and stretching can increase blood flow and endorphins, easing symptoms for many (Fibromyalgia — Diagnosis & treatment — Mayo Clinic). A physical therapist can teach stretches and posture exercises to relieve muscle tension. Staying active — even gently — also tends to improve sleep and energy levels.

Stress management and therapy: Chronic pain is as much a mental battle as a physical one. Cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT), mindfulness meditation, and counseling can teach coping skills to reduce stress. As one expert notes, fibromyalgia treatment often involves “exercise, coping techniques (such as cognitive behavioral therapy or mindfulness) and medication” (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). Learning to recognize pain triggers, setting realistic goals, and using relaxation techniques (deep breathing, meditation, etc.) can keep the stress-pain cycle in check.

Sleep and pacing: Good sleep hygiene is critical (Fibromyalgia — Diagnosis & treatment — Mayo Clinic). This means a regular bedtime routine, avoiding electronics late at night, and creating a restful environment. It also means accepting limits: on a good day, you may want to do a lot, but experts warn that overdoing it can cause a crash later (Fibromyalgia — Diagnosis & treatment — Mayo Clinic). Pacing yourself — balancing activity with rest — helps avoid the “boom and crash” cycle I experienced. Eating well, avoiding too much caffeine, and finding daily enjoyable activities can also boost mood and energy (Fibromyalgia — Diagnosis & treatment — Mayo Clinic).

Complementary therapies: Many people with fibromyalgia try things like acupuncture, massage therapy, chiropractic care, or herbal supplements. The evidence is mixed, but these can safely reduce stress and provide relief for some patients (Fibromyalgia — Diagnosis & treatment — Mayo Clinic). For example, acupuncture may help ease pain in some people, and massage can relax muscles. Gentle yoga or Tai Chi classes designed for chronic pain sufferers can also be very calming. I found that massage and warm baths eased my muscle tension on rough days, even if they didn’t “cure” anything.

No single treatment works for everyone, so it often takes trial-and-error (under a doctor’s guidance) to find the right mix.

Life with Fibromyalgia: An Unpredictable Journey

Living with fibromyalgia is like riding a roller coaster without warning signs. Some days I feel almost normal — then suddenly I’m face-down in bed. For example, a mother of a fibromyalgia patient describes it exactly: she’ll have one day “energized and ready to take on the day,” and then “for the following three days or more, she will barely be able to get up.” (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks) Most days, she says, she exists “somewhere between the two extremes” — able to push through pain and fatigue for a few hours, then forced to stop and recover (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). This unpredictability can be maddening. You start planning your day by how you feel in the morning, only to see it fall apart hours later. Over time, I learned to lower my expectations and live “a day at a time,” but it’s still hard.

These ups and downs take a real toll on daily life. Many people with fibromyalgia report that it interferes with work, family, and social life (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). The Technology Networks article notes that patients often face “disrupted relationships, social isolation, reduced activities of daily living and career loss” because of chronic symptoms (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). I’ve felt this myself: plans get canceled, colleagues don’t always understand the invisible illness, and sometimes I have to shift to a less demanding job. There’s frustration and sometimes grief in seeing friends or activities fall away. On the emotional side, it’s easy to feel isolated or even guilty for not being “up to” what you once were.

Still, there are bright spots. Understanding that fibromyalgia is real and learning about the condition was empowering for me. Connecting with others — friends, support groups, or online communities — helped me feel less alone. Over time, I’ve found a few routines that make life manageable. For instance, I keep a “rest day” in every week after I’ve pushed myself on a good day. I also track my sleep, diet, and stress to spot patterns that trigger flares. With each small adjustment, I reclaim a bit more control.

Fibromyalgia remains a challenging journey, but knowledge is key. Thanks to recent research, we’re beginning to understand the disorder better and developing more tools to fight it (What is Fibromyalgia? — Symptoms & Treatment | NIAMS) (Fibromyalgia: Latest Research, Symptoms & Treatment Options | Technology Networks). For anyone reading this who is grappling with fibro: you’re not imagining things, and you’re not alone. There are treatments, strategies, and people out there to help you cope and find a better balance, even on the tough days.

[mylifeimo]

The Connors: An End of the Roseanne Era

I grew up with Roseanne. For many of us who came of age in the late '80s and '90s, the Conner family wasn't just another sitcom household—they felt like our family. They were loud, messy, real, and unapologetically working-class. In a sea of polished prime-time perfection, Roseanne showed America what it was like to be a low-income Midwestern family trying to survive—and more importantly, trying to laugh along the way.

That show gave a voice to the underrepresented. It tackled topics like poverty, unemployment, parenting struggles, sexuality, abuse, and addiction. It was bold, raw, and hilarious. Roseanne Barr, love her or hate her, was at the heart of it all. She wasn’t just the star—she was the soul.

So when the reboot of Roseanne came in 2018, I, like many fans, was cautiously excited. It brought back a flood of memories. The original cast—older now, wiser, and weathered by life—seemed ready to speak to a new generation while still honoring the past. And at first, it worked. The revival was a hit. It was like catching up with old friends.

Then came the tweet. And the firestorm.

Roseanne Barr’s controversial tweet in 2018 led to her abrupt firing and the cancellation of the reboot. It was shocking and disappointing—for fans, for the cast, and for the legacy of the show. Personally, I was heartbroken. I was disappointed in Roseanne for her comments, and even more so for her descent into divisive politics that alienated so many of us who once felt seen by her show.

ABC made a swift decision to cut ties, but rather than end the story there, they reimagined it as The Conners. Without Roseanne, the show had a heavy burden: could it survive without its matriarch?

To everyone’s surprise—including mine—The Conners did something incredible. It not only survived, it thrived. The writing remained strong, the performances powerful, and the stories just as meaningful. Dan, Darlene, Becky, and Jackie carried the weight with grace and grit. They gave the show a new heart, while still honoring the history that brought them there.

But let’s be honest—The Conners was never quite Roseanne. That shadow lingered. Some fans refused to watch without her. Others watched out of loyalty. I watched because I still cared about these characters. I needed to see what happened to them. I needed their humor and humanity, especially in a world that feels increasingly heavy.

And now, as The Conners comes to a close, it feels like the end of an era—again.

It’s bittersweet. I’m grateful for the stories, the laughter, and the comfort this fictional family gave me through the years. From my childhood, watching with my own family, to adulthood, seeing reflections of real-life struggle and perseverance—I’ll always hold a place in my heart for Lanford, Illinois.

Whether you stayed loyal to Roseanne or walked away, whether you embraced The Conners or missed the original magic, there's no denying the impact this show had on American television and culture. It was groundbreaking, complicated, and very human.

Just like the rest of us.

[mylifeimo]

AceFeratu

[mylifeimo]

That Summer of 1991

The 4th of July holds a different meaning for me. While most Americans celebrate the day with cookouts, fireworks, and time spent with family, I am transported back to one specific July 4th—1991. A day that irrevocably reshaped my views on trust, sexuality, and unwanted abuse.

At the age of 17, I ended up at a party with friends who I considered my created LGBT family. This small group of people, eight or so in total, had become my chosen family—people I felt safe with, understood by. Everyone at the party was familiar to me, except for one man—Rob, an older guy who looked to be about 25. I was young, too young to be at this adult party, but I trusted this group, and I trusted the safety of being with them.

At the time, I knew I was gay, though it wasn't something I was entirely comfortable with. It wasn't a choice or an experience I was actively exploring. In fact, two years earlier, my next-door neighbor had come over to my house, and during that interaction, he touched me inappropriately. I didn’t fight him off, and after he left, I spiraled into panic. I told my parents I had been molested, but as I look back, I realize I didn't fully understand what had happened at that time. It was the first time I had encountered any form of sensuality, and it left me confused and questioning everything about my body and the experiences that were starting to shape it.

I had always felt different, like I didn't fit the mold. I noticed strange sensations when I looked at boys and men, but I couldn't yet find words for those feelings. I never got a chance to experience a normal coming-out process because that fateful July 4th changed everything.

At the party, I remember the Jell-O shots, the alcohol-infused dessert treats, and the carefree atmosphere. I felt light and carefree, unaware of how quickly things were about to take a horrific turn. Rob was eyeing me throughout the night, and when he served me a butterscotch schnapps ice cream shake, I didn't hesitate to indulge. It was sweet, smooth—delicious. I had no idea that the drink would mark the beginning of years of emotional and psychological scars.

I woke up the next morning to a nightmare. My head throbbed in the familiar ache of a hangover, but there was something far worse—a deep, aching soreness between my legs. As I looked around, I realized I wasn’t alone. Someone else was on the couch covered in a blanket. My heart skipped a beat as I glanced at my own body. My underwear was around my ankles, and there was blood on it. The realization hit me like a freight train—I had been violated. I had no memory of it happening, but the physical evidence was undeniable. Someone had taken advantage of me while I was passed out. It didn’t take long to suspect Rob, but the truth was, I would never know for sure.

I pulled myself up slowly, my body aching in every way imaginable. I grabbed my car keys, silently left the house, and drove home in a daze, my mind racing with confusion. How could this happen to me? What had I done to deserve this? I took a shower, trying to cleanse myself of the memory, but the moment the hot water hit my skin, tears began to fall. It was in the privacy of that shower that the full impact of what had happened sank in. I kept asking myself, “This doesn’t happen to boys, does it?” The shame began to consume me, and I tried to rationalize the situation in my head. Was I at fault? Had I led him on? I couldn’t remember anything about the event itself, but the absence of memory made the situation even more chilling. I knew I wasn’t just drunk—I had been drugged. There was no way I would not have felt what happened had I been in full control of my body.

But the story doesn’t end there. Weeks later, I found myself in the same social circle. Rob was there. And despite everything that had happened, I found myself wanting him. I couldn’t explain it, but I let it happen again. I laid there in numbness, detached from my body, feeling as though I was re-living that first encounter. I didn’t want it. I didn’t enjoy it, but I allowed it to happen again. This time, I was fully conscious, but the emotional turmoil was the same.

Looking back, I can't explain why I allowed this to happen, but deep down, I know that it wasn’t about me seeking intimacy. It was about trauma, about my sense of powerlessness, about feeling that I was too broken to stop it. I felt like a victim, but I didn’t have the language or support to understand what had happened. This second event left me shattered. I couldn’t make sense of my emotions, and the guilt and shame overwhelmed me. I asked myself—could I have stopped this? Did I bring it on? I didn’t have the answers. I still don’t.

In the aftermath, I went for an STD test, and when the results came back positive for syphilis, I was crushed. The fear of HIV, the disease that was consuming the world in the middle of the AIDS crisis, gnawed at me. I was terrified that I had it, that I was going to die. I couldn’t bear the thought of what might be coming next, and I never got tested for HIV. I just couldn’t face it. It felt as though everything I was experiencing—the abuse, the fear, the shame—was just leading me down a dark road to a tragic end.

Then, in August 1991, just before my senior year of high school, I met a man while working at a retail store. He seemed kind and affectionate, and I was drawn to him. I didn’t understand why I felt this way, given everything I’d been through, but I didn’t recognize the warning signs. He invited me to spend time with his friends in another city, and I naïvely agreed.

The night ended with me drinking wine coolers—a cheap, fruity drink I’d often had during my youth. I didn’t realize how much they would affect me. As I lay down on the floor, lightheaded and fading in and out of consciousness, I felt someone undress me. This time, it wasn’t violent, but it was still rape. It wasn’t as aggressive as the first time, but it didn’t make it any less traumatic. I couldn’t understand what had happened, but I knew it was wrong. I cried silently as I tried to come to terms with the reality of being violated again.

By the time school started, I had made it my mission to work harder in my senior year. I didn’t want to stay in my hometown, in a place that felt like a constant reminder of the trauma I had endured. I threw myself into my studies, hoping that by graduating, I could escape the memories that haunted me. But even then, I couldn’t shake the shame, the guilt, and the feeling of being broken.

For years, I carried the weight of that summer with me. The feeling that I had somehow lured these men to hurt me was a constant shadow. I believed that I was broken and damaged, unable to trust men and unable to form any meaningful connection with them. I’ve struggled with the trauma of what happened—never seeking therapy for what I went through. I’ve kept it inside, only sharing the truth much later in my life.

Looking back, if I could change one thing, it would be never going to that party. That one decision in 1991 altered the course of my life forever. I’ve lived with distrust and fear of men, and it’s shaped every aspect of my relationships, my sexuality, and my sense of self-worth. Despite identifying as asexual in recent decades, the deep-rooted hatred I feel toward men and the trauma I experienced has kept me from being able to form a romantic relationship.

Even now, I don’t have the answers to the questions that still linger in my mind. I don’t know if I was truly raped that first night or if my memory has constructed a visual of Rob attacking me. The truth, I may never know, but I know the scars it left behind are real. I don’t know if the pain of those experiences will ever fade. I may never feel whole, and that’s something I have to live with.

But I am a survivor. And though it has taken me years to even begin to process the trauma of that summer, I have learned to live with it. I still struggle with guilt, with wondering if I could have stopped it, but I know one thing: it wasn’t my fault. I survived it, even if the scars still remain.

[mylifeimo]

My Own Worst Enemy

In so many ways, I’ve been my own worst enemy. I’ve spent the majority of my life talking to myself in ways I would never dare to speak to another person—full of criticism, blame, and shame. Growing up, I felt invisible, as though I didn’t matter. It was as if love and attention were something I had to earn, and the way to do that was by being perfect, entertaining, or useful. When I couldn’t be any of those things, I felt like I was nothing at all—like I didn’t deserve a place in the world.

This harsh inner dialogue became a constant companion, a voice that whispered lies into my ear, telling me I wasn’t enough. Not good-looking enough. Not strong enough. Not successful enough. Even now, as an adult dealing with chronic pain and bipolar depression, I still carry that voice, that low self-esteem, like an old, familiar shadow that follows me everywhere I go. And even when I’ve survived some of the hardest moments of my life, there’s a part of me that still beats myself up for not doing more, for not being better. Surviving itself feels like a failure, even though it’s the bravest thing I can do.

I don’t give myself nearly enough credit for how far I’ve come. I overlook the strength it takes just to keep moving forward, day after day. It’s so easy to focus on the things I haven’t accomplished, on the parts of myself that I think are lacking, but it’s hard to pause and acknowledge the small victories, the ways in which I’ve persisted in the face of adversity. I’m learning, slowly, to unlearn that cruelty, to be softer with myself, but it’s a slow process. Some days I’m better at it than others, but some days, that old voice still creeps back in, and I start believing the lies I was taught to believe about myself.

On those days, I have to fight just a little bit harder. I have to remind myself that just because I’m not perfect doesn’t mean I’m worthless. I have to fight to remember that, despite everything I’ve been through, despite all the ways I’ve been my own worst enemy, I am still here. And that means something. Even on the darkest days, the fact that I’m still standing is proof of my strength, even if I can’t always see it. It’s not always easy to accept, but I’m learning that I’m enough, just as I am, even with all my flaws. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to be kinder to myself as time goes on.

[mylifeimo]

The Invisible “A” — Finding My Place as an Asexual Man in the LGBTQIA+ Spectrum

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been searching for where I belong. I’ve always known I wasn’t straight. I was emotionally and romantically drawn to men. I wasn’t confused. I wasn’t hiding. I just wasn’t interested — at least, not in the way the world told me I should be.

At 20, I married a woman. Looking back, I realize I was searching for something — maybe stability, maybe love, maybe simply a place to feel safe. We were married for three years and had a child together — my son, who remains the most extraordinary blessing in my life. At that time in my life, I found myself drawn to anyone who showed me affection. I didn’t know what I needed, but I knew I needed to be wanted. So, when love—or what felt like love—was offered, I accepted it. Not because I was ready. Not because I truly knew who I was. But because I was trying to figure it out.

The truth is, part of what led me down that path was trauma. A couple of years before meeting my wife, I was sexually abused twice during the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. It shattered something in me. It made me afraid of men. It made me want to run as far away as I could from anything that might tie me to the part of myself I hadn’t even begun to understand. Getting married felt like safety, like structure, like escape.

After the divorce, I was left with even more questions than answers. I hadn’t just lost a partner, though I gained a best friend in her — I was forced to confront the reality that I still didn’t know who I was. I hadn’t figured it out before marriage, and I certainly hadn’t figured it out during. That ending wasn’t just the collapse of a relationship — it was the beginning of a much deeper, much messier, and much more painful journey toward self-understanding.

But that journey didn’t begin at the altar. It started years before.

As a teenager, I never got the chance to come out on my terms. That right was taken from me. People labeled me long before I even had the language to define myself. I was called “faggot” in school — over and over again. I didn’t fully understand what the word meant, but I understood its venom. I was told I was gay before I even knew what gay was.

When the world insists on telling you who you are before you’ve figured it out yourself, it changes you. It reshapes the way you see the world — and yourself. It made me second-guess my instincts, question my desires, and hide my feelings. It turned something that should have been a journey of self-discovery into something coated in shame and confusion. I never had a coming-out moment. I never got to say, “This is who I am,” without fear, without judgment, without someone else rewriting my narrative.

And even now, decades later, I still carry that loss. That silence. That stolen sense of self.

It wasn’t until much later in life that I finally encountered a word that fit: asexual. For the first time, something inside me clicked. I had a name for the thing I had always felt but never been able to explain. I could finally exhale.

Asexuality is the absence of sexual attraction. That may sound simple, but it’s not. In a culture built around sex, desire, and physical intimacy, not experiencing those things can make you feel broken. Invisible. Alien. For me, it meant learning how to navigate a world where I could be emotionally and romantically attracted to men, where I could love men, without ever wanting a sexual connection. And as I’ve grown older, that disconnect has only deepened. The idea of gay sex — or any kind of sex — no longer appeals to me at all. I find myself repulsed by it.

That’s not repression. It’s not fear. It’s just the truth of who I am.

While asexuality gave me a framework for understanding my lack of sexual attraction, another term helped me understand how I connect emotionally and romantically: homoromantic.

Homoromanticism describes someone who is romantically, but not sexually, attracted to people of the same gender. It bridges the space between queer identity and asexuality. For me, it means man-to-man love—romantic, intimate, emotionally rich—but without the need for physical expression. That word, homoromantic, feels like home. It speaks to my experience in a way that “gay” or even “asexual” alone never fully could. It gave shape to what I always felt: I’m not broken — I just love differently.

Still, within the LGBTQIA+ acronym, asexuality — and by extension, homoromanticism — often feels like the silent letter. L, G, and B are rooted in sexual attraction. T is about gender identity. Q represents a spectrum. I is intersex. And then there’s A — signifying something absent rather than something present.

Sometimes, I wonder if the acronym might better serve everyone by separating experiences rather than lumping them together. Not to divide — but to clarify. Because being asexual — or homoromantic — in a community largely centered around sexual identity often feels like standing quietly in a room full of conversations you can’t join.

I’ve felt like an outsider, even in queer spaces. I’ve been told I don’t “count.” I’ve been questioned, doubted, and dismissed. I’ve been told I’m just “confused,” that I “haven’t met the right person,” or that my identity isn’t real. Even within the LGBTQ+ community, I’ve been treated like I wasn’t queer enough to belong.

But I do belong. Quietly. Differently. Fully.

My journey hasn’t been linear. It’s been messy, complicated, and often painful. I’ve been mislabeled, misunderstood, boxed in, and forced to untangle a lifetime of trauma and identity under pressure. I’ve loved. I’ve grieved. I’ve searched. And finally, I’ve found clarity.

I am a homoromantic asexual man. I love men — deeply, emotionally, and romantically — but not sexually. And for the first time, I’m saying that out loud, in my own words, on my terms.

If you’ve ever felt like you don’t belong — even in the places that promise inclusion — I see you. If you’ve been told who you are before you had the chance to decide for yourself, you’re not alone. If you’ve felt invisible, invalid, or erased — I’m here to tell you: you are valid.

Being asexual. Being homoromantic. Being you, exactly as you are, doesn’t make you broken. Your love is real. Your story matters. And your place in this world is yours to claim.

You deserve to be seen. You deserve to be heard. And you deserve the right to come out in your own way, in your own time, as your most authentic self.

And so, finally, fully — here I am.

[mylifeimo]

The First Love I Let Go of—and Still Regret

The only real relationship I’ve ever truly claimed as my own was with a man named Mike.

We were together for just over three years, and in that time, he became not just my partner, but my anchor. Our connection was deep, steady, and real in a way I hadn’t known before—or since. For the first time in my life, I felt seen. I felt safe. I felt like maybe I had finally found the person I was meant to walk beside. But even in the middle of all that love, there was a storm brewing inside me that I didn’t yet understand.

Back then, I didn’t have a name for what I was going through. I hadn't been diagnosed with Bipolar Depressive Disorder yet. All I knew was that I was unpredictable. I would have sudden mood swings—intense highs and crashing lows—that took me over without warning. It was exhausting for me, and painful for the people around me, especially Mike. He was patient. He was kind. But I could see how it was affecting him. I could feel myself slipping into emotional chaos, and instead of reaching for help, I ran.

I broke up with him.

I told him I was getting emotionally out of control and that he deserved better—better than someone who couldn’t promise stability, better than someone whose love came with an unpredictable edge. The truth was, I didn’t believe I deserved him. I didn’t believe I could be loved in the way he was trying to love me. I had internalized so much shame, so much confusion about who I was, what I felt, and why I couldn’t just be okay.

So I did what I’ve done too many times in my life: I packed up my things, stuffed the pain down deep, and left. I moved back to Indiana from California, back to the place I had once escaped from in search of freedom. And in doing so, I left behind what could have been the best chapter of my life.

If I’m honest, I think about that choice more often than I care to admit. I think about who I might have become had I stayed and gotten help—had I faced my mental health head-on instead of letting it drive the car off the road. Had I found the courage to say, “I’m not okay, but I want to be,” maybe Mike and I could have weathered it together. Maybe we could have grown through it instead of falling apart.

The last I heard, Mike had been with his current partner for about 18 years. I imagine their life together—stable, comforting, full of shared routines and quiet laughter. And I’ll admit, sometimes it stings. Not because I don’t want that for him. I absolutely do. But because I once had it. And I let it go.

It must be nice to have that kind of love last. To be chosen every day by someone who truly gets you—and to be well enough to receive it without pushing it away.

Back then, I didn’t know how to stay. I didn’t know how to love without fear. My mental illness was undiagnosed, untreated, and suffocating. Add to that a lifetime of trauma, shame around my identity, and a deep-rooted fear of being abandoned, and it’s no wonder I self-sabotaged. I told myself I was doing the right thing—letting him go “for his sake.” But I’ve since realized that was just another way to protect myself from being hurt. If I left first, I couldn’t be left. If I ended it, I couldn’t be rejected.

But the truth is, I rejected myself before anyone else ever had the chance.

Mike was one of the few people who saw through my chaos and still chose me. And I walked away from that. Not because I stopped loving him, but because I hadn’t learned how to love myself. Because I hadn’t yet made peace with who I was: a man living with mental illness, trauma, and an aching desire to belong.

I don’t know if we’d still be together today. But I do know this: had I stayed, had I gotten help, had I let him in instead of pushing him away, there’s a chance we could’ve built a life worth staying for. And even if it hadn’t lasted forever, at least I wouldn’t have to live with the what-ifs.

Out of all the things I’ve let go of in my life, that relationship is the one I still grieve. Because it wasn’t taken from me. I gave it away.

And sometimes, that kind of regret—the kind born from your own hand—is the hardest to live with.

Let me know if you'd like to include a reflection or message to Mike at the end, or if you want this reshaped as a letter, journal entry, or social post.

[mylifeimo]

A Fashion or Hairstyle Choice You Regret:

Oh man, let me take you back to the late '80s and early '90s—a magical time when fashion was... a choice. A very bold choice. We’re talking acid-wash jeans, neon everything, and hairstyles that defied not just gravity, but common sense.

Now, as a die-hard New Kids on the Block fan (don’t judge—we all had our boy band era), I idolized the lead singer, Jordan Knight. And what did Jordan have that I absolutely had to copy? The infamous rat tail. That’s right. A long, skinny braid dangling proudly from the back of his otherwise well-groomed head like a rebellious spaghetti noodle.

Naturally, I wanted one too. No—I needed one. So off I went, ginger hair and all, and had my very own rat tail braided in. It was about a foot long, swaying gently with each dramatic hallway strut. I felt like a pop star. I felt invincible. I felt... well, ridiculous, but in the moment, I was living my truth.

The problem? School.

You see, middle and high school aren't exactly the safest places for bold personal expression—especially when that expression is literally hanging from the back of your head like a tiny rope begging to be yanked. And sure enough, one day, mid-walk, probably thinking about my next NKOTB cassette listen, a school bully decided he didn’t approve of my fashion-forward hair choices.

YANK. That sucker was ripped out of my head faster than you can say “Hangin’ Tough.”

There was no slow-motion drama. Just a sharp pain, a gasp, and the realization that my rat tail was gone... and so was a small patch of my pride (and scalp).

Looking back now, I can laugh—mostly. It was one of those “what were we all thinking?” fashion moments. But hey, that rat tail was more than a hairstyle. It was a statement. It said, “I’m a fan.” It said, “I’m brave.” It said, “Please, someone stop me.”

I should’ve known better. I did know better. But sometimes, style demands sacrifice—and in this case, the sacrifice was part of my head.

Lesson learned: not all boy band trends are meant for real life. Some are best left on the album cover and far, far away from middle school hallways.

[mylifeimo]

Reflect on a mentor or role model who significantly influenced your life:

Reflecting on mentors who have significantly shaped my life, one person stands out more than the rest: Ms. Hill, my teacher in high school. She wasn’t just a teacher to me. She was a beacon of guidance, understanding, and support during a time in my life when I desperately needed it.

In high school, I had the opportunity to work as a tutor in the special education department. I helped out with a wide range of students who had various disabilities, from learning challenges to emotional support needs. The primary teacher I worked with was Ms. Hill, a truly incredible woman who had a gift for teaching and a heart that genuinely cared about her students.

She wasn’t just the teacher; she was also a mentor in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. As my emotional support teacher during my junior year, Ms. Hill provided a space where I could finally breathe. She listened. She didn’t judge me. She was the first person I truly felt I could trust. Back then, I didn’t have any role models or adults in my life who felt like they “got” me. My relationship with authority figures was often strained, and trust was something I kept to myself. But Ms. Hill was different. She shared her thoughts and opinions with me in a way that made me feel valued. Her words weren’t just instruction—they were wisdom, empathy, and care wrapped in the kind of honesty that could only come from someone who truly understood the importance of listening.

One of the things that always stayed with me from my time in her class was the daily journal. Every day, we were asked to write about whatever was on our minds. As a teenager trying to figure out who I was, this exercise became my outlet. But it also became a way for me to keep a secret—something I wasn’t ready to fully confront. You see, I would write about my crush, changing the name from Erik to Erika so no one would know. But Ms. Hill wasn’t stupid. She could read between the lines, even though I thought I was being clever. She could see through the mask I was trying to wear, and yet, she never called me out. Instead, she simply listened, providing a quiet but constant support system. That’s when I realized that she wasn’t just a teacher. She was someone who saw me—not just the person I was trying to show the world, but the person I was still trying to understand.

Her influence wasn’t just academic or professional. She shaped my view of what it meant to truly care about people, to listen without judgment, and to offer support without expectation. Those lessons stayed with me long after I left high school. The compassion she showed her students—whether they had disabilities or were just struggling with their own battles—was something I wanted to emulate in my own life.

Looking back, I wish I had known then just how much her role in my life would matter. It wasn’t just about the lessons she taught in the classroom, but the way she handled me with kindness, patience, and understanding. She gave me a space where I could just be, and in that space, I began to understand myself better.

Now, as I reflect on that time, I realize how much I owe to her quiet but profound influence. She didn’t change my life in an overt way—there wasn’t a big moment where everything clicked—but she shaped me over time, through the small things: the way she listened, the way she cared, the way she made me feel safe enough to share even the hardest truths.

If it wasn’t for Ms. Hill, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to come to terms with parts of myself that I had hidden for so long. She taught me that it’s okay to be who I am, to embrace the parts of me that might not fit into the world’s expectations. She showed me that being a mentor isn’t just about teaching what’s in a textbook, but about guiding someone through their life with the understanding that there’s so much more beneath the surface.

In a world that often feels overwhelming and isolating, Ms. Hill was my reminder that there are people who care, who see you even when you don’t see yourself. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

[mylifeimo]

Recall a time you had an awkward encounter with a crush or someone you admired:

I had a massive crush on Erik in junior high and high school. I want to write the whole story about this at some point, but I'll condense it to the end of the story. Years after high school, Erik entered my grocery store job. I worked up in the office, and he was next in line. I saw it was him. My heart raced. I was so scared. I never thought I'd see him again. He needed change. I gave him the change. I told him I was sorry for everything in high school. He said, "It's okay; we were all kids then." I can't remember how he said it all, but I was frozen stiff behind the cash register. I watched him walk away and never saw him again. That was in 1993. He graduated in 1991, and I graduated in 1992. The story will be written someday and could be a Lifetime Movie of the Week.

[mylifeimo]

Write about the most challenging decision you ever had to make:

The most challenging decision I ever made? Well, where do I even begin? I could probably write an entire book filled with the amount of poor decisions I’ve made in my life, each one more impulsive and confusing than the last. But the first one that comes to mind is the decision to ask my best friend to marry me when I was 19.

I was young, lost, and terrified. I was gay but convinced that I needed to change who I was because of the trauma I’d experienced in the years prior. The sexual abuse I’d gone through had left me deeply confused about my identity. I wanted to be someone else—someone who didn’t feel broken, someone who fit the mold that society expected. I didn’t know how to be comfortable in my own skin, so I thought that if I could just make myself fit into the world’s expectations, things would be better.

I had the idea that if I married her, this feeling of disconnection and self-doubt would somehow disappear. She was older, experienced, and someone I trusted. We were close friends, and I thought that if anyone could help me figure myself out, it was her. So, in a mix of desperation and impulsive thinking, I asked her to marry me.

Looking back now, I see it for what it was: an attempt to force a square peg into a round hole. I wasn’t just marrying her; I was trying to marry my fear and self-rejection. I didn’t have the courage to accept who I was. I wanted to be the version of myself I thought the world would accept, and in that moment, I thought I could change. I believed that love, or maybe the idea of love, could change me.

She knew about my struggles—she knew about my confusion and my pain—but we both convinced ourselves that we could “make it work.” That somehow, the love we had would overcome everything else. But love, as I came to learn, isn’t enough to change who you are deep down inside. And though we tried, it didn’t work. We got married, but I was running away from myself, and eventually, it caught up with me.

A year later, we had a child, and for a brief time, I thought I could pull it together. I thought that being a parent would somehow help me find clarity. But, in reality, it only added more complexity to an already tangled web of confusion. I wanted to be a good father, but I was still running. Still trying to be someone I wasn’t.

When my son was about a year old, I made the hardest decision of all: I left them both. I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. I needed to find myself—or at least try to. I wasn’t ready to be the man I needed to be, and I knew I couldn’t stay in a relationship that wasn’t right for either of us. Leaving was the only way I could try to find the real me, but in truth, I didn’t know who that was. I didn’t even know where to start.

Decades later, I still look back on that decision with a mix of regret and sorrow. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to understand who I am, trying to make sense of the mess I created. That one decision—the decision to marry someone I loved deeply but wasn’t truly compatible with—destroyed all three of our lives in some way. It wasn’t just a break-up; it was the unraveling of everything I thought I could be. And it wasn’t just about me; it affected her, it affected our child, and it set me on a path of self-doubt and confusion that would stretch on for years.

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand why I made that choice or what I was hoping to accomplish. Maybe I thought that if I married her, I could be someone I wasn’t. Maybe I thought that love could heal all the scars I carried. In the end, though, it just left me with more questions than answers.

The hardest part about that decision is knowing that, in trying to escape from who I was, I hurt the people I cared about most. I wasn’t ready for the responsibility of love, marriage, or parenthood. I wasn’t ready to face the truth about myself, and I wasn’t ready to let go of the fantasy that I could somehow change.

I’ve spent the years since trying to make amends with my past. I’ve learned that you can’t outrun who you are, no matter how hard you try. In some ways, that decision set me on a journey of self-discovery that I’m still on today. But it also cost me more than I could have imagined at the time.

That decision wasn’t just challenging; it was life-altering. And in many ways, it still shapes the person I am today.

[mylifeimo]

Talk about the loss of a pet and how it affected you:

The loss of a pet is a kind of grief unlike anything else. Over the years, I've had many animals—cats, dogs, fish, ferrets, and even a lizard. Each one left their mark on my life, but none could prepare me for the bond I shared with Fox, my emotional support dog. The way we met felt like fate, like something straight out of a movie—an unexpected twist that would change everything for me.

It all began in 2015 when I was driving from Florida back to Indiana. I decided to stop in North Carolina to visit some friends for a few months, and while I was there, I figured I’d try adopting a dog. I came across a miniature pinscher online and decided to go meet him. But, as life often goes, things didn’t go as planned. When I reached out to pet him, he bit me. Needless to say, that was a hard pass.

As I was leaving, something else caught my eye. There was a small dog lying on his back, begging for a belly rub. It was hard to resist, so I bent down and gave him a few scratches. I asked the man who the dog belonged to, and he told me that the family's home had burned down, and they hadn't taken him with them. Left behind. Alone. My heart broke. Without hesitation, I asked if I could adopt him, and to my surprise, he said, “Sure.”

That moment was the beginning of a relationship that would define the next chapter of my life. I named him "Fox," after The X-Files (and because he looked like a little fox with his chihuahua coloring). He was about 2 years old, and after a vet checkup and getting him fixed, he became the companion I never knew I needed. Fox wasn’t just a dog to me; he was a friend, a confidante, my emotional support in ways I never imagined. He helped me through some of my darkest days and brought joy to the most ordinary moments.

He was more than a pet—he was family. He understood me in ways no one else did. Whether it was during my darkest nights or my brightest days, Fox was always there. He was my rock, and we shared a bond that was unshakable.

But on February 3, 2024, my world came crashing down. That evening, like we did every night, I took Fox for his usual walk. Out of nowhere, a neighborhood dog—much larger than Fox—got loose and came charging toward us. Before I could react, it grabbed Fox and shook him violently. I could only watch in horror as people gathered to pull the dog off, but it was already too late. Fox was badly injured. I rushed him to the vet, but the damage was so severe that I had to make the heart-wrenching decision to let him go.

That moment shattered me. Fox wasn’t just a pet—he was my companion, my comfort, my friend. Losing him felt like losing a piece of myself. The grief that followed was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The trauma of watching him suffer still lingers, and I’ve carried the weight of that night with me, struggling with PTSD. There are days when I still expect to hear his little paws behind me or see his sweet face around the corner, only to be reminded that he’s gone.

Fox was the dog who taught me what it meant to love unconditionally. He showed me how to open my heart, how to heal, and how to laugh again. His presence in my life wasn’t just about companionship; it was about true, deep connection. Losing him left a hole in my heart that no one could fill. But, over time, I realized that I needed to find a way to move forward.

A few months after Fox’s passing, I wasn’t sure I could love another dog. The thought of replacing him felt impossible. But then I came across Oscar, a Yorkie Terrier mix, at a local rescue. His name already made me smile, and when I met him, I knew there was something special about him. He was small, scrappy, and had a personality that reminded me of Fox’s playful spirit. It wasn’t love at first sight, but something clicked. Oscar was timid at first, but his little spark was exactly what I needed.

Oscar didn’t replace Fox—no one could—but he brought a new kind of love into my life. His goofy antics, his boundless energy, and his affectionate nature began to fill the empty spaces left behind by Fox. Oscar helped me heal in ways I didn’t expect. He taught me that it’s okay to love again, even after loss. And while I’ll always miss Fox, I came to understand that Oscar had a place in my heart all his own.

Looking back, I realize Fox led me to Oscar. In some strange way, it felt like Fox was showing me that there was still room in my heart for another dog. Oscar has become my new companion, and though he’s not a replacement for Fox, he has brought joy and comfort into my life once more. I’m grateful to Fox for teaching me how to love, how to heal, and how to welcome new love when the time was right.

And so, life continues with Oscar by my side. The pain of losing Fox will never completely fade, but in loving Oscar, I’ve found a new way to carry that love forward. Fox may be gone, but his memory lives on in every wag of Oscar’s tail, every belly rub, every quiet moment of companionship. Through Oscar, I’ve learned that love never truly leaves—it simply evolves.

[mylifeimo]

Recount an incident from your teenage years that still makes you cringe:

In 1991, when I was 17, I was on top of the world—or at least, it felt like I was. Vanilla Ice was at the peak of his fame, and everyone was talking about his hit single, “Ice Ice Baby.” Naturally, I couldn’t resist the hype, so I decided to go see him in concert. But I didn’t just show up as a casual fan; no, I went all out. I was determined to fully embody the culture, to wear the style, to be part of the movement.

To start, I had a sweatshirt custom-made with Vanilla Ice's album cover plastered right on the front. Big, bold, and in-your-face, just like the man himself. It was a bold statement—maybe a little too bold in hindsight. But that wasn��t all. I had to step up my wardrobe game, so I bought these oversized, MC Hammer-style pants—those baggy, droopy, almost-poopy-looking trousers that sagged low on the hips, giving off that "I'm too cool for you" vibe. I paired them with a pair of black boots that probably didn’t even match, but I was too young to care. All together, it was a fashion disaster waiting to happen.

I walked into that concert feeling like the king of the world, like I had nailed it—until I looked in a mirror. It was as if I’d stepped into a time machine and gone back to an era where everything went wrong, but I was still blissfully unaware of how ridiculous I looked. The baggy pants, the oversized sweatshirt, the boots—it was a mess. Honestly, I don’t think I even realized how cringeworthy it was until much later. I’m so thankful that nobody I knew was at that concert, and even more so that no one managed to snap a picture. I can only imagine how much my friends would’ve roasted me for that one.

Looking back, I can’t help but cringe just thinking about it. The whole outfit screamed "trying too hard," and I'm sure I looked like a walking fashion mistake. But you know, if it were to happen today, maybe it would be “retro chic.” Who knows? Maybe in another 20 years, people will look back at photos of that time and think, "Hey, that was actually kinda cool." But back then, it was a full-on fashion fiasco, and I’m just grateful it was a moment I survived without any embarrassing photo evidence.

[mylifeimo]

Describe a moment when you realized you had to change your life significantly:

When I was in high school, I was the textbook definition of a kid who just didn’t care. My academic performance was nothing to be proud of. By the middle of my junior year, I was sitting on a D average with a C- hanging on by a thread. School felt like an afterthought. I wasn't engaged, I didn't have the motivation, and honestly, I skipped school as much as I could get away with. And, of course, I got caught more often than I’d like to admit. But at the time, I didn’t care about the consequences or the warnings. It was like I was just going through the motions, waiting for something to click, but not really doing anything to make it happen.

Then, something shifted. It wasn’t a big moment or some huge revelation, but it was a feeling I couldn’t ignore. I started realizing that I was running out of time. I couldn’t keep living like this. If I ever wanted to leave my small hometown, to get out of the rut I was in and do something different, I needed to change. If I wanted to leave and find something more for myself, I had to change my mindset and my approach to life.

So, I did. I started paying attention in class. I showed up, and when I was there, I actually tried. I stopped skirting by, and for the first time, I began to put in real effort. It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen overnight, but slowly, I watched my grades start to climb. By the time I began my senior year, I had turned my grades around completely—A's, B's, and C's. I went from barely passing to graduating with a 3.3 GPA. Looking back, I’m amazed at how much I was able to change in such a short time. It felt like a complete transformation.

That shift didn’t just change my grades; it changed the trajectory of my life. I got into college and went for a year, something I never thought was even possible before I decided to make a change. That moment—realizing I could no longer waste time and that my future depended on me—was the turning point that set me on a new path. It showed me that with determination, even the most stuck places in life can shift, and that the power to change was always within me, just waiting for the right moment to take hold.

[mylifeimo]

Something You Had that Was Stolen:

In 1991, I had a 1986 Chevette, my pride and joy. It wasn't much, but it was my car, and that made it special. My dad, being the awesome guy he was, decided to hook it up with a custom stereo system. We’re talking huge, powerful speakers that could rattle the windows when the bass hit. They were loud. They were bold. They were perfect for cruising around on weekends with the music blasting, windows down, feeling like the king of the road. It was freedom, and those speakers were the crown jewel of that experience.

But, as life often goes, not everyone appreciated my setup as much as I did. It happened not once, but twice. Some opportunistic thief decided they needed my speakers more than I did. The first time, I was left staring at an empty dashboard, feeling that sting of violation. The second time was just salt in the wound. My dad replaced the stolen speakers, thinking it would be a simple fix, but sure enough, those were stolen too. By then, I was just resigned to the fact that I’d never get a third set. The universe, it seemed, had spoken.

It was frustrating. It wasn’t just the loss of the speakers, but the feeling of being powerless. I’d put so much into those weekends with my car and my music, and having that taken away was like a little part of my joy getting ripped out. After the second theft, I never bothered replacing them again. I couldn’t justify the emotional and financial cost anymore. It’s funny, though, looking back now—there’s something oddly sentimental about those stolen speakers. I can’t help but laugh at how much I cared about them at the time. And in a way, maybe it’s one of those teenage lessons about material things not being as important as the experiences they represent.