There’s a conversation people like to avoid when it comes to literature, and I’m tired of letting it slide. Racism ruins literacy. It doesn’t just exist in the “bad old books” from a century ago — it’s still creeping into modern writing, poisoning the experience for readers who just want to escape or feel something real. And every time I see it, it feels like a punch to the gut.

I picked up a copy of Monster by Walter Dean Myers at a thrift store the other day. I hadn’t seen it since high school—senior year, to be exact, when my teacher Mrs. Allgood assigned it. I remember reading it and feeling gutted. I was the same age as the main character, Steve Harmon, and the story felt too real for comfort even then. Reading it now, in 2025, knowing what I know about the world, it’s not just heartbreaking—it’s infuriating.

So apparently, the U.S. military is planning a massive parade in D.C. on June 14th, which also happens to be Donald Trump’s 79th birthday. And let’s be real—this isn’t some humble tribute to the Army’s 250th anniversary. This is a self-serving ego fest for a man who’s done nothing but disgrace the office he once held. I read the article on Hindustan Times and honestly, it made my blood boil. Why are we entertaining this nonsense?

     I recently watched a short segment of Oprah talking about menopause, and it honestly floored me. She shared that she experienced heart palpitations for two years, and not a single doctor ever mentioned it could be linked to menopause. It wasn’t until she read a book on the topic that she realized what was happening to her body. That’s terrifying—especially coming from someone like Oprah, who has access to some of the best healthcare in the world.

I recently started listening to A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle on the Pearls app, and it’s definitely giving me a lot to think about. Tolle’s message revolves around spiritual awakening and breaking free from the ego-driven self. The book challenges readers to move beyond their habitual thought patterns and find a deeper sense of purpose and presence. It’s about shedding the ego and embracing a state of awareness that leads to inner peace and a more conscious existence.

I recently downloaded the Pearls app—a self-improvement app where you listen to audiobooks for 15 minutes a day—and the first book on there is The 5 AM Club by Robin Sharma. The premise intrigued me because, ironically, I’m already halfway in the club. On weekdays, I’m up by 5:30 AM, mostly because my husband’s schedule demands it. But if I’m being honest, insomnia is the real MVP here.

I’ve been diving into a lot of self-improvement content lately, and one book that caught my attention is We Should All Be Millionaires by Rachel Rodgers. I listened to it via the Pearls app, which offers 15-minute audiobook sessions, making it easy to digest in small, manageable chunks. While I appreciate the empowering messages in the book, I have mixed feelings about how accessible some of the advice is—especially for those of us who are starting with little to no income.

     I never thought I’d be here—staring at the polished, black-glass doors of Echelon Atelier, feeling the thrum of my pulse in my fingertips. But here I am, one breath away from stepping into a world I barely understand, yet somehow, always knew would call to me. Fashion wasn’t a choice for me; it was something I fell into, a consequence of divorce and an urge to start fresh. But now, as I stand outside, a single thought occupies my mind: Lucia Molina.

     The sterile smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils as I slowly come to, my eyes fluttering open to a haze of harsh fluorescent lights. I’m in a hospital room, my body weakened, attached to an IV, an oxygen mask covering my face, and a stiff neck brace limiting my movement. My head throbs with the echo of a thousand regrets, and I struggle to piece together what led me here.

March 10, 2023, is a day I will never forget. It’s the day I lost my soul sister, Makayla Alexandra. A beautiful, radiant transwoman. A fierce soul who deserved more time, more love, more kindness from this world.

Stacks of neatly labeled files sat before me, each one meticulously compiled with every detail, every goddamn revision, every ridiculous request Mrs. Sinclair had ever thrown my way. Months—months—of my life wasted on this project, only to have it yanked from me and handed to Vic like some fucking participation trophy. My name, my work, all of it erased in the span of a single conference call.

The soft hum of the coffee maker blends with the sharp whine of Mateo’s cries, a constant reminder of how little I’ve been able to do lately. My fingers tremble as I grip the mug, the warm porcelain a small comfort as I watch the morning light pour in through the kitchen window. It casts long, golden streaks across the worn tiles, illuminating the empty spaces I can’t seem to fill. Across the street, the neighbors’ cars sputter to life one by one, engines revving in steady succession as the world moves outside, unaffected by the chaos inside my home. I close my eyes, trying to swallow the knot in my throat, but it tightens further as Mateo’s sobs grow louder, desperate.