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.

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 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 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.

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.