Slate eyes, drawn by compulsion, to a watch, ever ticking. Always somewhere to be, something to be… Flicking deft hands along a tailored suit to sharpen its edges, Scrubbed clear of lint and hidden creases, an inbuilt calculation. A briefcase, attached to the second wrist of a creature drawn in frown lines – The scars of corporate resolve, weighing stronger… As the bus is delayed even longer.
He settles his pride for a haggard bench, wiping the perch with a sleeve, With never a glance, never consideration of the slum that shelters him – Of grinding advertisements, stuttering wantonly, Advising the masses to do this, buy that, go there, The billboards of budget-seekers; Of cigarette butts and whippet canisters; Of youths, uncouth, ill-advised, impoverished and yearning for a guiding hand, Met only with indifference; Of stains and panes marked with cracks, once pristine; Of green seats and blue backs of fading plastic, Broadly moulded by the public’s weight; Of simple shelters, repeating endlessly, Metal checkpoints in fleeting motion, a flame to the moth of civilisation, So routine, they’re barely perceptible… He’s blind to many things when the delay becomes unacceptable.
It is when the day sequesters and musings catch their final trains, When streetlamps give birth to gnats and midges and mayflies in the rain, That his bench becomes a resting ground – The morning dirt reformed with grimy duvet covers and cardboard sheeting, Arranged with minimal prominence, as if by some grand design, For privacy is a rare and coveted luxury. And under these blankets slides a person, As broken ankles and stinking soles, the totems of wandering, find respite. A complex life, enshrined by cold, Convulsing to gain purchase amidst the fraying seams of restful immersion, Before the buses renew their mindless excursion.
Days tick along but traces remain of diminished and fleeting souls, Seeking solace and restoration. A considered sniff may reveal the cloying reek of negligence: Trash and refuse left alone to seep into cracks and gutters. Or, perhaps, a glance around could widen a man’s perspective: The rhythms, though vast in frequency, Vibrating with elasticity. Colliding, bouncing, warping, tumbling in and around each other, Crafting melodies where the mind may be accustomed to white noise. A gardener leaning on a glass panel, blithely counting cars; Two sisters gossiping; their voices are hushed, Spilling secrets and promises before a winding journey home; A pensioner raising his lighter to a blunt and popping chapped lips; A Chevy mounting the kerb, commandeered by four pubescent boys, Throwing crude gestures from the window like bullets in a drive-by shooting; An author stroking his partner’s hair, Trying to conquer his public anxiety and failing; A mannequin of a man narrating loudly over the phone. A collage of existence, interwoven with frustration, As eyes find others, equally confounded as to the bus’ location.
When it finally arrives, he pushes right to the head of the queue, Still in a bustle; it makes no difference. An uncaring flick of his card, a brisk stash of his briefcase, He’s seated, settled; his pride surmounting, Eyes recounting the seconds lost as his fellow passengers shuffle down the aisle – A bunched host of chaotic lives, uneasily connected… As he ponders all the paperwork he’s neglected.
I sat in my bedroom, recovering from the flu, not knowing what would happen later that day. It was March 12, 2020.
I had planned to return to school the next day. Two text messages received in the afternoon changed that plan. The first was from a classmate, sharing that our teacher said that we wouldn’t have school the next day or the following Monday. A bit confused, I guessed it was due to the flu going around. A few hours later, my boyfriend texted, informing me that he heard about school being canceled for the next two weeks. Later, he sent an update. School will be canceled for the rest of the school year due to the virus, COVID-19.
Anxiety kicked in, and I blamed myself for the school closing even though there had been no confirmed cases in my county. I was worried that others would hold me accountable, thinking that maybe they believed that I was the reason school was canceled. Based on my symptoms – a cold made worse by asthma – my tendency to internalize things led me to rumination. Would my peers suppose that my absence and being sick could be COVID? Would they think I caused our school to shut down?
(Image courtesy of Tai’s Captures via Unsplash.)
Unwelcome changes
I would soon have more things about which to worry.
A few days after the schools in our state closed, my grandmother’s assisted living facility stopped allowing any visitors per the state’s COVID guidelines. Two weeks later, the facility’s staff began allowing residents’ families to speak to them through the window. My mother, aunt, and I held up signs outside, showing our support to grandma Hud. In April, however, we lost Hud to an accident that occurred at the facility. My heart felt like it had been slowly ripped from my chest. Hud meant everything to me, a constant source of support in my life.
I was already mourning the loss of my grandfather, Grampy, when Hud passed away. Grampy had passed five months earlier from stage 4 brain cancer. Navigating this grief through a pandemic and as a high school student was agonizing, but I numbed myself to the pain. I was confined with my parents in our home, and the only way that I got through it was because of my friends, my boyfriend, and the Nintendo game Animal Crossing: New Horizons. It gave me something to focus on, as well as a sense of control. It distracted me and was calming. It was a temporary, and much needed, escape.
Depression, dissociation, and emotional survival
Around May, I was in a free cosmetology program. The instructor was a hair stylist who attempted to teach the class over Zoom, but it wasn’t the same as in-person schooling. My parents didn’t want to be used as models, so I resorted to practicing cutting hair on my Pug, Luna. She wasn’t a very good client. Focusing on the course became more challenging with all of the changes I faced.
(Image courtesy of jagadshd via Unsplash.)
A few months before the pandemic began, I had begun to have episodes in cosmetology classes where I would lose track of time and couldn’t focus. I didn’t think much of it at first. Maybe there was just too much of my mind, too many things to worry about. There were several times in class where I thought only a short time had passed, but it had actually been 20 minutes. I tried to snap out of it, but the dissociative spells consumed me. I wouldn’t measure out the right amount of heat protection spray to use with flat irons. I’d begin the task of flat ironing a mannequin’s hair and then dissociate in the middle of it. There were a few times where I ended up leaving the iron on the countertop and didn’t finish the task.
Each time, I’d feel like I was on a lazy river, slowly swaying back and forth, feeling the ripples of reality touch my feet. My mind was blank, occasionally punctuated by sadness and grief. I didn’t understand what was going on, and it worried me.
There was no internal script during these moments, which was rare for me. For as long as I can recall, my mind has raced with thoughts that I cannot contain. My brain is a hamster that is spinning rapidly on a wheel to nowhere. I was unaware that I was dissociating in front of others, and what the cause of it was. I would later learn that I was developing PTSD from abuse (inflicted by an ex-partner).
Being away from friends and others due to the pandemic worsened these experiences. Despite having my parents and dogs around, I longed for more social connection. The lack of social support led to more and more dissociative spells, and I withdrew myself from others even more as a result.
A difficult, but right, decision
Before COVID, I was already struggling to keep up with my classmates in terms of technique and efficiency. Because of how the virtual schooling and isolation impacted my ability to learn, I found it difficult to keep up with my peers. I hadn’t taken into consideration that my hand-eye coordination skills weren’t very strong, and the inability to practice in person with a teacher meant I fell behind even more. Several people in my class were able to perfect their techniques soon after it was demonstrated to them. A lot of them were being considered for internships for the following year, while I could barely get everything on my list accomplished in one class period. In a time when I should have been able to receive extra emotional support from my grandparents, I couldn’t.
The grief consumed me, and I moved into survival mode. The lack of socialization and support gave me more time to reflect on whether cosmetology was right for me. As time went on, I became less convinced that it was. Eventually, I decided to drop out of the free program.
It was a difficult decision, but I knew that it was the best outcome for me. That choice allowed me to spend more time with my boyfriend during our senior year, where hybrid learning meant that we attended school in person three out of five days a week. The additional social interaction supported my wellbeing and helped me feel better about the decision to drop the course. If I had chosen to remain in cosmetology, I would have had one or two days on the main campus and the rest at the technical center, and I wouldn’t have been able to interact with my friends or boyfriend as often.
Feeling a sense of support and familiarity was essential, particularly when socialization was rare, and learning was mostly independent. Thinking back to this time, I cannot see myself staying in a field that I didn’t truly enjoy. Although my choice to drop the course led to attending college — and student loan debt — the knowledge I gained and the networking connections I built more than made up for what I might have gained had I continued with cosmetology.
These events, like everything in our lives, are all interconnected, a web expanding outward in hundreds of directions. Our trajectory changes as we adapt to different circumstances, events. I learned it was okay to not know what I wanted to pursue or to switch even though I didn’t know what the outcome would be. I reminded myself that I had an abundance of time to find the right answer for me, and that’s led me to where I am today.
And from where I’m sitting, I’m pretty happy with those choices.
Grieving, I believe, Is so delicate, and fragmenting, Because it is The understanding that We are bound to love, All ways… Deeply, Profoundly, To wear a widow’s wedding band As its tourmaline dulls, To walk those rooms in which a widower Could not stop crying, pressing his palms Into the floor And loathing the linoleum Because it reminds him that His love and body Are real, Wracked with the sorrow That we only withstand because We are forced To continue Cherishing, Remembering.
Children send letters, On balloons, Into persimmon twilights, Watching the words They dare not say– But write instead– Drift towards the heavens That look so cold to them… To heal the hurt That crusts over Like marmalade on the jar’s rim; They love ruefully, Bungling with the buttons On their shirts Because a parent Used to dress them;
We feel grief because We are saying goodbye To the moments we live, The seconds, Third glances, Final embraces, The feelings, thoughts, Farewells we’ve yet to accept, That dawdle alongside us, With untied shoes, Long before Loss picks up her child In a minivan; And then, The heaving of a broken heart ebbs, Tarnishing, Like a silver teapot, Until Longing polishes it alone, When a dog loves unconditionally, Or a paramour plants praise like Crocuses in snow;
The orchestra swells in tragedy… The conductor weeps, too, Knowing the song must, inevitably, end, So she loves Until the final note’s echo Joins the balloons, Letters, And every airy and feeble hope That our hearts Would hold less.
“Human beings don’t like accepting that they are at fault; instead, they would rather blame others.” This statement just sounded to me like any other psychological way to prove theories until I found myself deep into this trap. I came to realize that “carrying your cross” is an actual thing and not just any other quote. Doubtless, there is a reason for this. But why is it so difficult to own a fault and apologize instead of sugarcoating the mistake with endless deflections.
If I did anything wrong — If
I get goosebumps when I recall the day I first encountered the phrase “anything wrong” used in place of a genuine apology. I was coming home from work after a long day in the office, just one of those days where you wished the time would move faster so at least you can go home and decompress. Of course, the evening setting sun was just the kind of therapy I needed as it hit me. Just as I was about to cross the street that led to my apartment, I got a phone call from a friend asking if we would meet up for a cup of coffee. I agreed quickly, as it had become a relaxing routine to go out for coffee together while discussing our lives and ways forward. Moreover, talking to someone would still help me relax.
That evening, though, was not like the usual. That casual comment hit me so hard that it left me both stunned and boiling with anger and disappointment. He had said, almost as an afterthought, “If I did anything wrong, then I’m sorry.”
This was supposedly him giving an apology to me for a sin he had committed against me. Immediately, it dawned on me that under that conditional remark lay an avoidance of true responsibility. I felt very disrespected and demeaned. This hit me hard. For years I had boasted how I always owned up to my mistakes and flaws, and now I was falling victim to my insecurity. But was I right to get annoyed or displeased?
Yet when confronted with my flaws, I too sometimes found myself peppering my language with qualifiers. I began to examine my past and noticed patterns where I would say, “If I did something wrong” rather than a plain, “I’m sorry.” These words, though soothing to my ego, are deep down loaded with ambiguity, disguising accountability behind a curtain of uncertainty. They allowed me to retreat from taking full responsibility, leaving the hurt unaddressed and the issue unresolved. If they existed at all.
However, the turning point came on one of the fine days when I was scrolling through Facebook, when a post came up that I felt was addressing me. Memories of past crises and unspoken apologies began flooding my mind as though they were fresh. I remembered an incident at work when I had unintentionally taken credit for a colleague’s idea. To make matters worse, instead of admitting my mistake totally, I offered a conditional apology during a meeting, saying, “If I did anything wrong, I apologize.”
Do not crucify me! At the time, I thought this was a very diplomatic way to ease tension while maintaining my aura, but the resentment in my colleagues’ eyes was a clear indication that I just added more salt to the wound. It was clear that my half-hearted words were nowhere close to owning my mistake. I began to see that true accountability meant embracing the full weight of my actions without diminishing them with uncertainty.
Who’s responsible?
Taking responsibility is not simply about saying a few words — it’s a commitment to self-reflection and growth. I soon realized that a genuine apology requires clarity. It demands that you acknowledge the specific harm you’ve caused and lay the blame squarely on your actions rather than sheltering behind “if” statements. There is no room for empty excuses if you truly care about the people you hurt. This realization came gradually, through multiple conversations, quiet evenings of self-sanitization, and the honesty of a few trusted friends who assisted me by pointing out where my apologies had fallen short.
I decided to set out on a journey—not just to mend broken relationships, but also to mend the parts of myself that had become accustomed to self-protection. I started by revisiting every incident where I had used phrases like “if I did anything wrong.” One memory was particularly touching. I had been in a heated argument with a sibling over a long-overlooked family issue. In the aftermath, I used that conditional apology, hoping that it would mend the rift. Instead, my sibling felt that I had not acknowledged the depth of the hurt I had caused. The realization hit me: the conditional “if” was a loophole, a word shield that allowed the severity of my actions to be insignificant in my own eyes. I learned that true remorse requires vulnerability and complete ownership of one’s mistake.
Taking responsibility also meant facing the consequences of my actions. In my relationships and in my professional life, I discovered that accountability was often the first step to rebuilding trust. For instance, I led a project in which certain decisions resulted in unexpected losses. Rather than clarifying my role and admitting my error, I tossed around a conditional apology that left my team questioning my commitment. The resulting project delays and bruised egos eventually forced me to confront a hard truth: a half-apology was like a bandage on a deep wound — it might cover the surface, but it did nothing to help the healing. I learned that effective communication and complete admission of missteps not only repair relationships but also foster an environment of trust and learning.
The journey to becoming someone who truly takes responsibility was far from simple. It required a daily commitment to honesty, even when that honesty is uncomfortable. I began to practice writing down my thoughts at the end of each day, reflecting on moments when I might have hurt others. Journaling became my silent confidant, a place where I could confront my mistakes without judgment.
Through this process, I started replacing the conditional if I did anything wrong with clear and definitive statements. I would write, “I realize that I made you feel terrible, and why, so I am deeply sorry for the injustice I caused.” Over time, this not only helped mend relationships but also allowed me to grow as an individual. I found that those I hurt respected my willingness to admit my faults, even if it left me feeling exposed.
Reflecting on these experiences now, I see that the phrase “if I did anything wrong” is a poor substitute for a meaningful apology. It is a disclaimer that shields one from full responsibility rather than offering heartfelt remorse. True accountability demands that we shed our defensive language and embrace the reality of our actions. By doing so, we not only mend what was broken but also pave the way for a more honest, reflective, and compassionate way of living.
Let’s be clear
Today, I strive to approach every relationship with clarity and integrity. I remind myself that owning up to mistakes is not a sign of weakness but rather a reaffirmation of my commitment to improving as a person. Every genuine apology is a chance to build bridges, to show that I value the feelings of those around me over my own need to always be right. In embracing my missteps, I found that I was also embracing my connection to myself. To forgive myself.
In a world where it’s all too easy to hide behind conditional statements, I’ve learned that the courage to say, “I am sorry that I did this thing” unburdens my soul and lays the foundation for a more empathetic future where accountability and sincerity are held sacred.
Because if I am not sure what it was that I did wrong, how will I avoid it next time? This journey is ongoing, a path of continuous learning that I hope will inspire others to examine their words, to take full responsibility for their actions.
Editor’s Note: This poem mournfully reflects upon relationships that have ceased to exist.
Days Gone
You’re plagued with nostalgia’s grotesque Scraps, an alchemizing insurgent. That banished inner voice Barks propaganda dressed in velvet. Dogma pollutes, preaching “You’ll be together again.”
Rusty scattered nails, hammered Without permission, in rotting Myrtle wood. Every now and then You hear so-and-so is up To this, and that. Doing well. Better than.
What should you expect?
Casting spells and chanting Fails to countermand the gravity That holds your feet fast. It’s easier to submit, but man evolved, Rebellious, to stand against. Dejection fills empty driveways. Simple truths are ignored As decried memories. Forget swallowing your dose – Reality is a brick-sized suppository.
One of the most incredible tools ever made, it has allowed individuals like myself to share ideas, connect, and make each other laugh across continents. More importantly, though, it has made my life easier, like helping me get my degree. Without the internet, I don’t see how I would have had the time to finish my degree in four years. My books and research materials were readily available through the internet as well. Juggling a full-time job while being a full-time student is hard enough, but I was able to attend classes online and on my own time.
Don’t fear, don’t trust
Keeping in mind how easily accessible the internet can be is what keeps me suspicious. I also do not trust the infamous algorithm to deliver trustworthy information. Not because I think everyone is outright lying on purpose, but because facts can be misinterpreted before being shared. This can continue until the truth is nowhere to be seen. Director Werner Herzog commented on this during his latest appearance on the podcast, Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend, that aired September 28th, 2025. He equated navigating the internet as a prehistoric man navigating their world by being suspicious of certain types of mushrooms and berries that could be poisonous. His point was we should not fear or hate the internet, but we shouldn’t take it at face value either. I am the prehistoric man who should be wary about what is on the internet.
I recently found myself communicating with a scammer through LinkedIn. Over a year out from graduation, I have yet to find a role that’ll allow me to officially end my time in the fitness industry. Being a trainer was always just a means to make money while I was in school. I’m a textbook example of an introvert, and being social all day can be draining. Plus, the people I have to be social with are the opposite of who I am politically, which adds another layer of exhaustion to the job.
Now that I have my English degree, the goal is to get a job in publishing or marketing while I continue to write poetry and work on my book. With countless applications sent since completing my education, it’s easy to lose track of them. I couldn’t tell you which companies I applied to last week, let alone six months ago. One day, I received an email about scheduling an interview. Being wary of potential job scams, I looked through my application history and found the company. Excited, I responded with my general availability.
Image courtesy of John on Unsplash
Red flags
The next day, I checked my email to find the supposed hiring manager replied at 6:17 a.m. telling me they were available now for the interview. That was the first red flag. I politely reminded them that I work during the hours of about 6 a.m. through 2 p.m. and have availability in the afternoons. That same evening, they responded saying to message them on Teams any time I could, and that the “text-based chat interview” would be conducted. That was the second red flag. A text-based interview sounded like absolute hogwash and would be a good way for someone to conceal their identity.
I combed the company’s website, which I admit I should have done first, and didn’t find the position posted. I then searched for the company on Instagram to see if they had posted on their social media account. What I found unfortunately did not surprise me. They had posted a notice saying to be aware of a job scam pretending to be them. They listed the email they would use to contact applicants, as well as the scammer’s fake email. The email I received was a cleverly crafted scam email address. The difference would go unnoticed by anyone at a first glance. I sent one last message because I couldn’t help myself: “Dayum. You almost got me. Caught you $cammin’.” They never replied.
Don’t succumb to poison
If I had let career desperation override my suspicion, I could have easily fallen deeper into the scam. I’m positive the next step would have been asking for money or personal information somehow, which never happens in an interview process. But people do fall victim to such scams. It is important to treat everything on the internet as false until proven otherwise. The algorithm is not your friend. Treat the next nugget of information you receive as a berry you cannot identify. Rub it on your skin, if there is no reaction, put it to your lips. If there are still no symptoms, chew and spit. Next, take a small bite. Only after this should you consume it.
I didn’t follow my own advice and became complacent. If I had looked a little deeper into the situation in the first place, I wouldn’t have gone as far as I did into the scam. Looking for a job has been taxing. Applications take time and I have become fed up with it. When this “opportunity” presented itself my initial thought was relief. Not only am I desperate for a job but also some interview practice. When I discovered I was speaking to a scammer I felt like an idiot.
This wasn’t the first time I have been targeted by a potential scam through LinkedIn, but it was by far the most convincing. Moving forward, I will have to treat every rare job opportunity as a scam. Being a detective is an unfortunate reality when it comes to the job market these days. I’ve become much pickier when it comes to where I apply. By that I mean I’m only applying to places I would actually want to work, and not just to get out of personal training. With fewer applications sent into the abyss, keeping track of them will be easier making the scammer’s job harder. Although I hope to find another scam one day – messing with them is good fun.
As a freelance writer, there’s always been a part of me that constantly worries about a new form of technology rendering my job obsolete.
The big one is artificial intelligence. It’s something that’s been talked about for years, but it’s become all-encompassing in 2025. Everywhere you look, companies are pivoting towards AI, whether it’s Microsoft’s Copilot, Meta AI or ChatGPT. These companies have all sought to reassure workers that AI is only being used to streamline certain menial tasks, not to replace them.But with so many layoffs happening around the world, it’s easy to see why people are worried.
I’ve been vaguely aware of generative AI tools like ChatGPT, which are designed to produce texts and images, among other outputs. While there is still that part of me that worries, I’ve always had the belief that I’ll find work because my own writing is better than an AI.
Having tried out generative AI myself, I now have a new worry: that it might not matter.
Note here that generative AI (original and creative) is bolder than traditional AI (analytical and predictive).
My experience judging generative AI
Despite my ethical objections to generative AI, I figured that I should at least try it out to see what exactly I was dealing with. As part of a recent article about how students are using AI to study, I decided to experiment with a tool to see what it was capable of.
My request was simple: Explain the pros and cons of using AI to study and present it in a table format. It did that, but it didn’t do it very well.
There were countless spelling mistakes, the table of pros and cons wasn’t completely symmetrical, and it randomly cut off at the end, halfway through the final point.
Generative AI isn’t very good, but does that even matter?
At first, I was relieved. While generative AI could potentially become a useful tool down the road, it would never be capable of producing high-quality writing that would put people like me out of a job. But then I remembered finding a major internet article written by AI.
It was about the best order to watch the Star Wars movies and TV shows. It was full of glaring mistakes, getting basic information about the timeline wrong and littered with obvious spelling mistakes. Maybe it would have seemed better to someone completely unfamiliar with the series, but even though I don’t consider myself an expert in Star Wars, I’m 100% certain that I could have written a better article.
This wasn’t found on some random no-name website; it was a highly-respected TV and video game site that has produced quality content in the past. Seeing such a poorly written, obviously AI-generated piece there was galling.
Fast forward a few years later, and generative AI is everywhere. So many ostensibly respectable outlets publishing obviously AI content, and sites like Facebook and YouTube drowning in a sea of low-effort slop.
Even if generative AI improves in the future, I doubt it’ll ever be a better writer than I am.
All right, I hope it won’t be better than me. Than I.
This thought hasn’t changed, but I’m increasingly worried that it might not even matter anymore. As more of the internet descends into AI, I might find myself out of a job.
What comes next?
As companies around the world go all in on AI, it can feel hopeless to push back. Yet I remain confident that there is, and always will be, a place for genuine human writing on the internet. You can see it on sites like Patreon: people are ready to financially support writers producing original, thought-provoking pieces. The future might look scary, but I’m convinced that there is still demand forflawed-but-human articles and that over time this demand will spell the end of generative AI as a replacement for real people.
We will continue to matter, even as “an unperfect actor on the stage.” And if Shakespeare can be unperfect, so can we still succeed.
I don’t think for a second that I’m a generationally talented storyteller, far from it. There are far better writers out there than me. Than I. But I like my work. I am proud of it. And even as technology moves ever forward, I continue to believe that I’ll find a home for my work.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Image courtesy of NomeVisualizzato via Morguefile)
It had been two years, and I’m utterly positive now: I can’t leave.
The last thing I remembered was drifting off after doing some late-night reading. And the next thing I knew, I woke up in a forest with wings attached to my back. I. Had. Wings.
Why did I have wings? I truly didn’t know. But after flying around, it seemed to be around the turn of the century. The modern world I grew up in was long gone, and I had no idea how to get back home. I spent three weeks spiraling in anxiety and fear, flying aimlessly around the woods looking for any sort of sign of where I was. The only clues I had were the lack of modern cars and the unpaved landscape—I was definitely not in any metropolitan city.
One twist of luck I discovered was my new magic affinity. My now shrunken size allowed me to fly anywhere really quickly, and the humans weren’t able to see me. I flitted around gardens and kitchens without being caught. I needed to eat somehow, and I hadn’t the faintest idea of what job I would’ve been able to get. Plus, it was still quite cold outside, so the warmth inside was hard to resist.
As I flew around the houses one night, I was peeking through the windows for any sort of entertainment on their old-school TVs when I noticed a horse and a rabbit in the middle of the room. Something deep inside told me to go in, so I slipped through and hid in a dark corner.
“What is real?” the little bunny asked the horse.
“Real isn’t how you are made. It’s a thing that happens to you,” the horse replied sagely.
Yup. I had landed myself somehow in The Velveteen Rabbit.
I had somehow become the Fairy in my favorite childhood story. When I was younger, I used to own several stuffed bunnies in the hopes of creating a real one myself. I had memorized the story by heart—but I never once wanted to be part of the story! I couldn’t accept being sent back a whole century just to make stuffed animals real.
Once the reality started sinking in, I made a beeline for the forest hollow I had now called my home. Now that I was able to use magic, outdoor living was more manageable for me. It was a far cry from the comfort I grew up in, but it was a lot easier.
(Image courtesy of Alessandro Matonti via Unsplash)
“Okay, okay, okay. I am a fairy. I am to make toys turn into real things?? The horse explains to the rabbit at the beginning of the…” I trailed off, running my memory at high speed, not trusting my recollection, and trying to find other sources of truth. Alas, it was to no avail. “I’m at the beginning of the story. The rabbit doesn’t turn real…for another half a year…”
If I were to make the rabbit real…then would I be able to go home?
A new determination filled within me. I now had a shot.
For the next few months, I began pushing the boy and bunny together: hiding the china dog, whispering in the boy’s ear that he longed for the bunny, and nudging the nanny on where to find it every time it was left behind.
Then, my time to shine had come.
I distracted the gardener and untied the bag holding the old toys to burn. That night, the velveteen rabbit rolled out. I had practiced and rehearsed for this very moment.
“You were real to the boy because he loved you,” I delivered in my most cheery voice. “Now, you shall be real to everyone.”
I scooped the rabbit up in my arms, dropped it off in the forest, and gave one final kiss. Then, I fluttered back into the shadows and watched as the rabbit explored its new life.
(Image courtesy of Laura Lumimaa via Pexels)
But I didn’t return as I had hoped.
I still had wings on my back, I could still use magic, and I was still in the story. With a light heart, I flew back to my hollow. I surprised myself when I thought about how…meaningful it felt to transform a boy’s love into a tangible wish.
So, when I saw myself still in those now-familiar woods, watching the velveteen rabbit of my childhood hopping around, I wasn’t too disappointed.
After all, there were plenty of toys to watch over.
Writer’s Note: Charles Perrault’s stories contain mature themes, specifically: violence against women and girls, sexual violence, xenophobia, cannibalism, and negative depictions of poverty.
If you wish to read his fables, discretion is advised. Many of the themes were glorified during Perrault’s lifetime, but are outdated now and are controversial in a modern context. I do not take inspiration from these controversial themes.
Hud and Grampy
From the time that I learned how to read, I gravitated towards literature and the arts. At first, it was pictures and touch-and-feel books. Later, I read chapters and The Rainbow Magic series. Post Transitional-1st when my fine motor skills began to improve, forming letters and writing sentences became easier. After school, my maternal grandparents’ house was the place where my creativity truly shined. I spent several hours there every afternoon during the week when my parents were working. Stacks of computer paper, pencils, and a stapler were tools that I regularly used. Before I learned the basics of navigating a computer, I assembled my short stories by hand.
My creative process started with the details, building the story arc without even realizing it. Next, I added the visual elements, imagery that featured characters from my own imagination. Not only did I recognize that language was important, but I knew that readability was fundamental. One side of my story was in English, and the other was in Spanish that I inaccurately gleaned from Google Translate. My grandparents fostered my interests, allowing me to have mock-storytime sessions in their living room. It didn’t matter how much it made sense, it only mattered that I tried. They resisted providing negative feedback, only giving me constructive criticism when necessary. Once I learned how to draft the pages on a computer, my grandfather simply reminded me to not use too much computer paper and printer ink — with my literary collection.
Grandmother Hud loved to read, and I enjoyed asking her questions about the dusty books on the bookshelf (including outdated encyclopedias.) I loved our frequent trips to the library during the summer when I had more time with my grandparents. My favorite genre to check out was fiction, especially the American Girls collection series by Valerie Tripp & Connie Rose Porter.
Outside of the library, my grandparents’ shelf mesmerized me with all of the colors, artwork, genres, and variety of authors. However, some items on the shelves were untouchable, fragile; very personal to my grandfather. Sometimes, I tried to quickly glance at a blue book with a yellow typeface: Perrault’s Fairy Tales, with thirty-four full-page illustrations by Gustave Doré.
For the longest period of my life, I believed that my storytelling came from my grandfather, Grampy. He was a storyteller in his own right, usually repeating tales that he had picked up during his lifetime. He adored sharing how people in the past used to tell tales by word-of-mouth before it was typical to write stories down. His words enticed me, and he knew exactly how to draw readers in.
I was a naturally curious child who wondered about our family history, about the origin of things. Where did the name Perrault come from? Who was the first person to have the namesake? Soon, this would be revealed to me.
When I was seven or eight, Grampy noticed how I attempted to flip through his prized possession when I thought he wasn’t looking. He grabbed it off of the shelf, while telling me the significance of it. Grampy described as if it was a trivia show, “See this book? Did you know that you’re related to Charles Perrault, the author of this? My dad was a Perrault.” I stared at him with amazement, thinking of how lucky I was to be related to someone like that.
(Image courtesy of Joshua Manjgo via Unsplash.)
He continued, “This book has been passed down in our family for generations. It was given to me when I was your age, and it’s my turn to pass it down to you.” It felt like a magical fairytale, unfathomable to my undeveloped mind. Grampy embellished some of it and fabricated the history of the supposed family heirloom, which in reality was published in 1969. I think he wanted me to have an even greater purpose for writing, because he believed in me when I often stood out to others.
After this a-ha moment, I reflected on what it meant for my future. In my early childhood, I constantly switched my potential career goals, going from a veterinarian, a pop star, a ballerina, a nail technician, and an author. I believe that the creative industry is the best field, based on my skills, interests, and literal heritage.
Charles Perrault was a well-known author who began his career (as an advisor and architect) through serving on the Acadèmie Française, and later, helping Louis XIV design part of the Palace of Versailles. In the 1690s, he continued writing, and released his book, “Tales and Stories of the Past With Morals.”
A version of Charles Perrault’s fairytales:
(Image courtesy of Francis Power & Charles Perrault via Wikipedia Commons)
Transcription of “Hush-a-by baby”
Hush-a-by baby On the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, Down tumbles baby, Cradle and all.
This may serve as a warning to the proud and ambitious, who climb so high that they generally fall at last.
He is best known for: “The Tales of Mother Goose,” the modern version of “Cinderella,” “Sleeping Beauty,” “Puss in Boots,” “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Bluebeard,” “Little Tom Thumb.”
A version of Charles Perrault’s fairytales
(Image courtesy of Julian Bastinos and Charles Perrault via Google Books.)
How could I be related to Charles and not find out until now? I pondered on all of life’s possibilities. Everything suddenly made sense: how my brain was wired, how language, reading, and writing came easy to me; why I felt a deep desire to create literature. Writing is in my blood. In my veins, it’s in my DNA. My creativity originates from a man I never met. We are generations apart, yet we share the same passion and admiration.
(Image courtesy of Warren Umoh via Unsplash.)
I told myself that day that when I grew up, I wanted to become an author like Charles Perrault. I would work towards becoming famous, a household name. Whenever I feel like my chance of getting into the industry is dwindling away, I remind myself of what keeps me going. What makes me believe in myself. That answer is always the revelation that I had on what began as an ordinary afternoon.
My life changed that day, and it was all I could think about for the rest of the week. Last year in 2025, I started the painstaking genealogical process of figuring out exactly how we are related. Charles is my tenth great-granduncle. Not only do I trace my love for writing back to him, but the commonalities and family history are connected through physical traits, such as how Grampy strongly resembled Charles Perrault.
(Image courtesy of Academie Francaise via Wikimedia Commons.)(Image courtesy of the author.)
When I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t notice any major similarities between Charles, and Grampy, and me. The only physical trait that we share is that one side of my nose appears higher and slightly elongated from the right side profile, possibly resembling his nasal bridge.
Genetics can be tricky, especially when my maternal and paternal genetics frequently clash. I do not resemble Charles, but we are relatives.
Even though I was a child when I had my first eureka moment, it sits with me, and courses through my body. Time has passed and Hud and Grampy are no longer living, but we will always be intertwined. I will permanently be related to Charles Perrault and my grandparents, no matter what. It’s a constant bond that will never fade away.
