The I Am I Am I Am project is a journey of self-discovery and artistic reflection. Rooted in the profound simplicity of the phrase “I am,” it explores the layers of identity shaped by a lifetime of creative work, personal history, and psychiatric experience. By revisiting past artwork, unearthing old writing, and reckoning with a complex medical story, this project seeks to weave together the fragments of an evolving self. At its core, it is an exploration of presence, resilience, and the unbroken thread of being that persists through both triumph and struggle.

“I am” is more than a statement of existence—it is an invitation to be curious about what it truly means to live. This project is not about creating a polished narrative of my life but about embracing the messiness, the contradictions, and the questions that remain unresolved. It is about finding continuity in a life that has often felt fractured, about honoring both the moments of transformation and the unnoticed spaces in between—those quiet intervals where being itself is enough.

As I move through this work, I return again and again to the power of storytelling—not only the stories we share with others but the ones we carry within ourselves. Who am I without roles, labels, or expectations? Who am I in my art, my words, my memories? Who am I in the stillness of simply existing? I Am I Am I Am is not just a project; it is a practice of presence, a commitment to living fully and authentically. No matter where I have been or where I am going, I remain: I am.

THOUGHTS AND STORIES

Featured

i am. i am. i am.

The Weight of Silence

i am. i am. i am.

Grief pressed in long before I had a name for it. It lived in quiet rooms and in shadows that lingered even when light broke through. It was relentless.

i am. i am. i am.

education, i am. i am. i am.

Fractured

education, i am. i am. i am.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) stands as a haunting testament to the mind’s fragile architecture, a profound disruption where the normal rhythms of memory and time splinter beneath the crushing weight of trauma.

education, i am. i am. i am.

i am. i am. i am.

My Cup Runneth Over

i am. i am. i am.

Mother’s Day is, without question, my most cherished day of the year. It is not the cards or the flowers that move me, but the invitation I’m given to reflect.

i am. i am. i am.

Maizzey On A Mission

i am. i am. i am.

To appreciate the cultural and conceptual roots of Maizzey on a Mission, it is essential to revisit the true origin of Cinco de Mayo.

i am. i am. i am.

Silence. Power. Betrayal.

i am. i am. i am.

Sexual violence does not happen in a vacuum. It thrives in systems—both formal and informal—that permit, overlook, rationalize, and even reward abuse.

i am. i am. i am.

The Thing About Being Broken

i am. i am. i am.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt an odd, almost painful connection to Humpty Dumpty. On the surface, he’s just a nursery rhyme—an egg on a wall who falls and can’t be put back together again. But to me, he was always more than that. He was a metaphor. A mirror.

i am. i am. i am.

The Girl in Me

i am. i am. i am.

I found sanctuaries for my wildness: art contests, writing competitions, music, theater. At home, there was joy. Music echoing from every corner. The scent of celebration folded into the very fabric of the carpet.

i am. i am. i am.

Dream or Reality?

i am. i am. i am.

I recently stumbled upon digital medical files from the ICU hospitalization that this entry refers to, and as I read through them, I was struck by how much of that time still eludes me—fragmented and disorienting. The files offer a window into a deeply complex period of emotional trauma, one that I’ve only been able to piece together in bits and pieces, scattered through a haze of broken memories and confusion. At first, I was frozen in place, overwhelmed by the rawness of what I was reading, unsure of how to process the details that were once just echoes in my mind.

i am. i am. i am.

Truth-Teller

i am. i am. i am.

We talk about sexual violence like it happens in a vacuum, as if it begins and ends with the act itself. But that’s not how it works. Abuse is never just one person’s doing. It’s a structure. A stage built plank by plank from silence, excuses, admiration, and denial.

i am. i am. i am.

What Now?

i am. i am. i am.

I don’t know what I thought middle age would feel like, but I didn’t think it would feel like this. I had vague ideas once, soft-edged and sparkling with something like certainty—that life would settle. I thought the pieces would click together and I’d walk through my days with an air of having arrived. But instead, here I am, standing in the wreckage of expectations I didn’t even realize I was still carrying.

i am. i am. i am.

Walking Medical File

i am. i am. i am.

I feel like I am reading the story of a stranger, someone tragic and distant, but the case number is mine. My name is there in bold, undeniable, tethering me to every grim detail. It is obscene, really, to see my suffering condensed into sterile paragraphs.

i am. i am. i am.

Thankful

i am. i am. i am.

Thankful for the small things, the tiny things, the in-between things—the way the wind sneaks through the cracks in the morning, whispers of coffee steam curling like ghostly lullabies, the scuff of a shoe on pavement, the hush of a friend’s voice saying I hear you. The weight of a book in your hands, the rhythm of a song that rattles your bones just right, headlights stretching long down an empty road.

i am. i am. i am.

Collapsed Stars

i am. i am. i am.

I have loved stars that collapsed into themselves. People who once burned with the kind of brilliance that made you believe in something bigger—something divine. They carried light in their hands, in their words, in the way they saw the world with wild, unfiltered wonder. But like Icarus, like Lucifer, like every fallen thing that ever thought itself untouchable, they flew too high, reached too far, believed themselves invincible.

i am. i am. i am.

Let It Unravel

i am. i am. i am.

The best is not behind you. The best is not in the hands you have already let go of, in the love that has already left, in the dreams that have already withered. The best is ahead, waiting for you to stop gripping the bones of something long dead.

i am. i am. i am.

THOUGHTS AND STORIES

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