The house became a series of invisible rules that were enforced by the mother’s gaze, a gaze that often fell elsewhere, distracted by the constant stream of dangers she imagined.

Three children occupy the center of it. I do not name them; it is enough to observe. Their movements are small and precise, their voices measured.

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.

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.

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

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

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 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 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.