Never give up

Can I be honest with you? There are days where I feel completely out of it. I mean low down in the dumps. Sometimes, I think about all the things I thought I’d have accomplished by now. I was suppose to be a successful writer, my social media presence was suppose to have sky rocketed, I’d have become a full time entrepreneur, bought a house— blah, blah, blah.

I had dreams—a vision for my life that I’m not seeing now. I can’t lie, I’ve whined and cried about it. Honestly, I sometimes get so heart broken about where I’m at now, that I forgot where I’ve been. It can be hard to look around and fully grasp the extent of actual success because we think success is a brand new car wrapped up in a giant bow.

Not all success can be measured by some huge act, event, or object. A year ago, I had just started a new job almost two months after I left a toxic relationship. I had about $40 to my name around this time last year, which I used to catch the bus with my then two and three year old daughters. I didn’t even know how to drive and I was living at my cousin’s house. Now, I’ve been at my job a year, I got my license, got a car , I have my own place, and I’m working on my second fictional book.

I can’t deny that even though I had an idea of what my life was suppose to be, what I’ve overcome is extremely impressive. Slowly, I’m realizing that my life is coming together but God had to get the important things done first. I just kept pushing, I kept going despite all my hurdles. I know that if I continue to push for more, I’ll get more. I simply can’t give up. In the mist of the storm it’s hard to see let alone imagine the sunshine but it will come again.

I hope that whatever it is you may be facing, you keep going strong. And like always, ((HUGGS & LOVE))



I got fake teeth stuck on my real teeth

You can watch the video here

If you’ve read some of my other post, you know my teeth aren’t great. From having weak teeth all my life, love of sugar during my childhood, and then a pregnancy that added fuel to the fire. Dental work isn’t cheap and can sometimes take some time to be done. I’ll admit I had been seeking ways to had my teeth while I wait for my dental treatment to start.

I have no problem sharing all aspects of my life with you all, so here goes. Two days ago I ordered some “As seen on Tv” press on veneers for $20. Most of the reviews were great so I said, what the hay and put my prime membership to good use. There was a bit of doubt in my might but I was like, “God, you’re not about to let me waste 20 bucks, right?” Well, I’m pretty sure he was laughing in heaven as a tried those things on.

They came about three hours ago and I rushed in the bathroom to open the box. At first sight, I was worried because they looked small. Regardless, I put some water in a pot and heated it up on the stove. The first attempt to soft the adhesive didn’t work. The second time I made sure the water was boiling hot. They softened up immediately. I tried them on and they looked a little questionable so I put them in the hot water again. I molded them on my teeth and waited a few seconds.

GUYS!!! When I tried to remove them, I couldn’t. They were stuck. I didn’t panic initially because I knew hot water could solve the problem but I quickly realized that I would have to use HOT water while it was STILL attached to my teeth. I can’t lie, I got a bit scared.

First, I thought the steam from the water would be enough to soften the adhesive material. I ended up burning my lip and tongue on the pot. I poured the hot water into a bowl and placed my teeth into it. 😒 I burnt myself a second time. It took me about 12 minutes to get the teeth off, finally.

This was by far, one of the dumbest things I have gotten myself into. 😂 I hope you watch the video because it is absolutely ridiculous how I had to get this thing off. I think I needed the laugh today and I’m not even mad about the $20.

For your convenience, here is the Video so you don’t have to scroll up. I guess not all of my post have to be serious.

As always, ((HUGGS & LOVE))


The struggle of creating a freelance writing career

Over two and a half years ago, I decided that I wanted to become a blogger in attempts to take writing more seriously. Initially, I never intended or cared to make money from or through my blogs. At the time, just being able to write something constantly was amazing to me. I got to connect with so many great people and share my life and imagination with them.

What I really wanted to do at that time was get a feel for writing regularly so I could get in the grove of writing my fiction books. I also created a Short story blog in order to get comfortable with creating new worlds and see if my writing sucked so I could give it up if people hated it. 😂 Luckily, no one had any bad things to say and I was creating new short stories every week.

Soon after creating my blogs, I learned that I could make money from my blogs so I got excited. I knew I had to grow my audience for this, so I researched how to grow my audience steadily. Really all I had to do was create content and interact with other bloggers but I just “knew” I could find some magic formula for that somewhere. I began to focus more on the what if’s and ended up neglecting my blogs terribly. Throw a crazy relationship and kids in the mix and soon the idea of having a successful blog was a fantasy.

Through my many hours of researching, I found that I could submit fiction and nonfiction stories to magazines and other blogs and get paid. So once I got my writing mojo back, instead of writing for myself, I began writing solely with the hopes of getting published and paid by larger platforms so they could tell all their readers about my blogs— my dead blogs. I did write on my blogs here and there but kept the good stuff for submitting elsewhere.

I submitted my work constantly. Rejection after rejection came in especially with my personal essays, the very same essays that I initially wrote to share on my personal blog. The tone just wasn’t right—great story though. That’s basically what everyone was saying. I went through stages of grief getting those rejections. I must really suck, went through my mind every time. It’s not like my freelance career didn’t yield me any income BUT every…single…thing I planned on putting on my blog first was getting rejected. I was crushed.

Then it hit me. Where can I get published? How can I submit without the fear of rejection? “Work with what you have”, came to mind. My blog! That’s where it all started. Sharing my story as an aspiring entrepreneur mom was the entire point of my blog. The ups and downs of motherhood and making money outside of a 9-5 was a journey I wanted to go on with my readers. Crazy how the very same place I ran from is the one place where I knew I’d be accepted. Forget the money, I want to be to be loyal to what I intended to be a genuine representation of my life, not some fluff pieces about parenting and pregnancy being a walk in the park surrounded by bunnies and rainbows.

I won’t stop submitting my short stories and fiction writing but every personal piece will only be shared on this blog. I’m sure they won’t always get rejections but I think I rather share my real truth without the possibility of getting published and still get some of my work edited out to appease readers that might not want to read the TRUE realities of other parents. Sorry, I cannot be silenced.

All of this isn’t to say that other writers won’t find success writing about their lives. This is my experience. I don’t want to mold my life in a cookie cutter way because I’m afraid that others will find it to difficult to understand. Life for me has been HARD. As a mother, I’ve been through so many painful things. So, because my readers have been so supportive, I rather share it with all of you with hopes that sharing could help someone in their own life.

Thank you so much for reading and as always ((HUGGS & LOVE))


Giving birth made me look at my body differently… but in a good way.

From as way back as I can remember, I always had an obsession with my image. Being the daughter of a black woman and a Puerto Rican father, who looked like a Taino Indian, there was a “look” I was suppose to have. Of course, I didn’t create that idea, instead it was implanted in me by my elementary school classmates and random people I met growing up.

I remember being told, quite often, that I couldn’t be hispanic because I wasn’t light skinned. They expected me to be Selena Gomez’s when, mind you, my mother’s skin color is comparable to Denzel Washington’s and my father was darker than her! Sadly, it didn’t stop there. You see, my father had long, straight, black hair and I don’t. So, it became “you can’t be hispanic because your hair is too nappy.” As a seven-year-old, those words knocked bits of my self esteem away.

Fast forward three years later when puberty started. When I was younger, I expected to look a certain way physique-wise. I had been surrounded by voluptuous women my entire life and when little lumps appeared on my chest, I thought I’d be a D cup the very next day. Okay, maybe not the next day but when an entire year had passed and I resorted to stuffing my bra with toilet paper, I knew something was up.

A lot of the other girls in class seemed fully developed and I felt like nothing had changed for me. I’d overhear them talking about how annoying bras were while my bra was really just for show, a placeholder for what could be. I couldn’t understand how I had started puberty earlier than most of my classmates and was now the hare losing the race. The body I dreamed of was just that— a dream.

My teen years weren’t any better. The taller I got the more my weight evened out around my body. Being tall plus having a fast metabolism equaled out to be for one very skinny me. I was embarrassed. How in the world was I still looking like a little girl when I was supposed to be blooming into womanhood? I was pissed off and I was jealous, jealous of every girl that didn’t have my struggle.

I would see other females and pick out the parts of their bodies that I liked and imagined how I’d look with them. I was creating a Dena-Stein monster in my head. Even at seventeen I was sure that I’d still have a chance of looking like everyone else. But puberty was done. My body had missed the train to Voluptuous Vile and I was stuck in a body I did not want.

I was able to give myself some reassurance that my body wasn’t all bad. I had a thing for how I looked in lingerie and by gully I bought so many pairs of matching sexy underwear that I own less actual articles of clothing. But I didn’t care. You could’ve told me to wear bikinis everywhere I went and I would’ve gladly done it. My past boyfriends always complimented me on my pretty underwear and it felt amazing. Really, I should have known it wasn’t the underwear they were excited about.

I was searching for any reason to simply like my body. I was tall and thin and though I started getting praise for it by older women and mothers who just couldn’t lose their baby weight, I hated my body. I didn’t want it. I wanted the body I was so sure I would get once puberty hit. I didn’t get that and I resented every bit of the body I felt I was punished with. I was desperate to feel proud of it but I couldn’t help but loathe it.

I was like a spoiled child not getting what they wanted from the store when there was no promise of getting anything to begin with. I’d throw tantrums in the bathroom when the jeans I had just bought didn’t fit right or my bra didn’t quite hug my barely there girls. As dramatic as I acted, no one truly knew how I felt about my body and I tried really hard not to roll my eyes at comments like, “You’re so lucky! You can eat whatever you want and not gain a pound.” I didn’t feel lucky, I felt plagued.

The grass wasn’t green on my side, in fact it was brown! Sure, I got into a relationship with a guy that loved all of me but he was over 300 lbs and hated his own body. We were an insecure mess but I loved him just as he was and he loved me the same. It’s a strange thing to come across someone the complete opposite as you but they have the same body image crisis. It’s like the universe brought us together to learn from each other or as a joke.

About three years after we got together, I became pregnant with our daughter. After feelings of fright and excitement came thoughts of my perfect body. “All pregnant people gained a ton of weight”, I thought. Finally, I was going to gain weight! I was actually looking forward to that. Imagine my surprise when I found out that’s not how pregnancy worked and even with a bun in the oven, every body is not created equally.

Normally, I weighed 141 pounds the highest my weight got, while pregnant, was 156 pounds. The crazy thing is, I gained 15 pounds but my pants were falling off of me and shirts that were tight around my arms were now loose fitted. No doubt about it, I was upset. The one sure way for me to get child bearing hips didn’t work! My body had the audacity to betray me?! I felt defeated.

After my nine month pity party, labor and delivery went easy enough. It’s funny how at no point during my thirteen hour ordeal did I think about how my body looked. Not when the EMTs wheeled me into the hospital and told me how “lucky” I was to look four months pregnant instead of 39 weeks. Nor was I thinking about my physical appearance when my stomach felt like it was getting ripped apart or when I was in my birthday suit with strangers huddled around me screaming “PUSH.” Oh, no. I just hoped that my body wouldn’t fail me— that it would dig strength from the depths of my soul to help me bring my baby into the world.

As I laid with a tiny person on my chest, I couldn’t help but look at my sagging stomach with no regrets. And when a TV commercial came on for wounded soldiers and then for breast cancer survivors, I couldn’t help but weep. I was holding a life that the body I rejected created. How could I have been so ungrateful? I hadn’t gone through war that left me disabled or gone through a life threatening disease but somehow I had less of an appreciation for my body than the people who did. They were happy that their bodies survived— that they survived. Their bodies mustered up the strength to keep going. I cried and I cried.

When you look at life through insecure glasses, you tend to find every pathetic flaw within yourself. You build this idea that first and foremost you must be good enough for everyone else. You create the assumption that somehow what others think of you is more important than what you think of yourself. From an early age, lies about who I was suppose to be trickled into my mind and created a flood of unnecessary and preventable insecurities. Even on the days that I felt beautiful, I worried about whether or not others would think the same thing.

It took giving birth and being in such an open and exposed state for me to fall so madly in love with every part of me. It didn’t come from a family member, or friend, or even from a significant other. It came from the very body that was no good to me for years. There’s a certain kind of freedom that comes from being released mentally from something that weighed you done all your life. My body impressed me more in those thirteen hours than it did for twenty four years.

I’m not saying that if I woke up with junk in the trunk I wouldn’t be excited. What I am saying is that I love the body I have for what it is now. However it changes, I’ll love it then, too. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to tweak your body here and there: Get some abs, tone up, get a bigger butt(wink wink). I’ve just learned that I have to want it for myself and make sure it’s not some idea someone else tried shoving down my throat because they think God created me jacked up.

I’m unapologetically showing off my thin frame with pride, with the knowledge that it kicks ass. Yes, I am “lucky” to have my body but not because I’m skinny. I’m lucky because it hasn’t failed me— because after all those years of completely hating what I considered a corpse, I realized how valuable it is. I look back now and pity myself. I spent so much of my life incredibly insecure for no reason.

Now, I go out of my way to tell women how beautiful they are. It doesn’t matter if I know them or not. I struggled in silence pretending to have all the confidence in the world and if I had genuine compliments instead of sugar coated insults, growing up would have been a lot easier. The truth is, there’s no such thing as the perfect body. As cheesy as it may sound, we are different and that should be celebrated not judged. Heck, if you’re the only one celebrating your body that’s really all that matters. I learned that what I think of myself is far more important than what others think of me. Others might come to that conclusion in some other way but as long as they do, it’s a major win!