A Light Bulb Moment About Fascism

Things are clicking for me.

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering why some liberals are just so politically angry ALL. THE. TIME (And let’s take their style out of it for a minute—which often seems to scream, “Look at me!”) So many of the loudest voices come across as spoiled children who were never told no, actors and actresses who are used to being the center of attention, and people who seem heavily entitled.

I looked up the definition of fascism because that word gets thrown around constantly by people who suffer from TDS—Trump Derangement Syndrome. The level of anger, outrage, and obsession with one man has always made me wonder what is really driving it.

One definition said fascism puts the nation above individual interests. And that’s when the light bulb came on for me. It seems like that’s exactly what some people hate. Everything becomes about individual wants, individual feelings, and individual demands. They say they care about others, but sometimes it feels like they mainly care about people who think exactly like they do. But in a country of over 300 million people, no government can meet everyone’s personal wants and needs. At some point, leaders have to make decisions based on what they believe is best for the country as a whole.

Then I looked at the rest of the definition, and honestly, America doesn’t fit it.

A fascist government is centralized and authoritarian. Ours isn’t. Power is divided between the federal government, states, and local governments.

Fascism suppresses opposition. America doesn’t. People protest, criticize politicians, attack the government online, and vote leaders out of office every day.

A fascist leader has near-total control. Our presidents don’t. They can be blocked by Congress, challenged in court, investigated, and voted out.

And fascism suppresses certain groups. America protects the rights of racial, religious, and political minorities and allows people to live and speak freely.

The biggest thing that stood out to me? The fact that we can openly argue about whether America is fascist is proof that we aren’t. In a truly fascist country, people don’t usually get to publicly accuse their government of being fascist without consequences.

That was my light bulb moment.

You Asked, I Answered, And Now Your Mad?

Have you ever noticed that some people don’t actually want your opinion?

They say they do. They ask for advice. They ask, “What do you think?” But what they really mean is… “Please confirm that I’m right, they’re wrong, and I have every reason to feel exactly the way I do.” 😂

Because the second you look at the situation and say, “Well… I kind of understand the other person’s side too,” suddenly YOU become the problem.

Wait… what? You asked me!

I think we have confused support with automatic agreement. Being a good friend, family member, or even a random person giving advice does not mean I have to blindly tell you that you are right. Sometimes the people who care enough to tell you the truth are the ones you should actually listen to.

And this is where the “Pitiful Pearls” come in. You know the ones. The people who collect problems like jewelry and wear them around for everyone to see.

Nothing is ever their fault. Nothing can be fixed. Every solution has an excuse attached to it. They don’t want a ladder to climb out of the hole — they want you to climb in there with them and talk about how unfair the hole is.

I just don’t understand that mindset.

I’m a fixer. I’m a fighter. I have been knocked down plenty of times in life, but my first thought is always, “Okay… what now? How do we fix it? How do we get better? What did I learn?”

I might sit in my feelings for a minute — because I’m human — but I’m not moving in and decorating the place. 😂

If something hurts my feelings, those feelings are mine. I can acknowledge them without needing 20 people to validate them. And if I ask for someone’s opinion, I better be prepared that they might not see it the same way I do.

That’s called growth.

The truth is, someone disagreeing with you does not mean they attacked you. Someone offering a different perspective does not mean they are against you.

Sometimes the thing you don’t want to hear is exactly the thing you need to think about.

And sometimes the best advice doesn’t come wrapped in sympathy and a bow. Sometimes it sounds like:

“Get up. Learn from it. Do better. Move forward.”

And honestly? Those are usually the people who helped me the most. 😉

Apparently, I’m Aging

I’ve decided I’m done with filters.

Not the funny ones that put bunny ears on your head. I’m talking about the little skin-smoothing filters that magically erase every wrinkle, soften every line, and make you look like you slept twelve hours, drank a gallon of water, and have never experienced stress a day in your life.

I’ve used them. Not a lot. I never tried to make myself look twenty years younger or fifty pounds thinner. Just enough to soften things a bit.

But lately… I’m tired of it.

The truth is, I was never the photogenic one. My daughter could look at a camera from across the room and somehow end up looking like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. Me? I could take fifty pictures and somehow blink in forty-nine of them.

It is what it is.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized something. Someday my grandkids are going to look through pictures of me. I don’t want them wondering who that airbrushed woman was. I want them to see me. The woman who laughed too hard, stayed up too late writing, worried too much, loved fiercely, and earned every one of those little lines around her eyes.

Those wrinkles? They came from 61 years of living.

The gray hair? It showed up because time keeps moving.

My face changed because I’m supposed to change.

I have single friends who may still be trying to catfish the dating world. 😂 More power to them. But I’ve been married for years. I don’t have the energy to keep pretending my face doesn’t know what year it is.

So this is me.

No more hiding every line. No more smoothing away the evidence that I’ve actually lived.

My digital image may change. My body will keep changing. That’s part of getting older, and honestly… I’m okay with that.

What I’m not okay with anymore is pretending to be someone I’m not.

If you see a picture of me from here on out, chances are you’re getting the real deal. So from here on out what youvseebisbehatvuiunget. what you see is what you get. Wrinkles, gray hair, laugh lines, and all. Because growing older is real… and so am I.

The Mom I Remember

Last night I dreamed about my mom. Not hospice Mom. Not wheelchair Mom. Not bed-bound Mom. My mom.

In my dream, I kept waking her up. "Come on, Mom. We can't stay in bed all the time."

She would get up and disappear. I'd look everywhere for her, wondering where she'd gone. Then I'd look back, and somehow she'd be in bed again. I'd wake her up again, and off she'd go… busy doing something.

That was my mom... always doing something.

For twelve years she lived in a wheelchair. Then came hospice, where the bed slowly became her whole world. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that before all of that, she was constantly moving.

She'd be in her shop, or at Hobby Lobby, or out to lunch with friends. She'd be at a play or spending the day crafting in her workshop. She'd already be decorating for the next holiday—even if the current one was only the Fourth of July. It didn't have to be a major holiday. If it was something she could celebrate with her family, she was all in.

She was never still.

Maybe that's why my dream felt so real. It wasn't trying to erase the last twelve years. It was reminding me of the eighty years before them.

The hardest part of this week hasn't just been losing my mom. It's been watching someone I loved become a body. I hated feeling how cold she was in her casket. I hated watching them lower her into the ground. I hated walking away knowing she was staying there.

When they dug her grave, I could see the side of my daddy's vault. Oddly enough, that brought me comfort. They were together again, only inches apart after all these years.

They were loved. They were wanted. They spent their lives giving everything they had to their family. Grief has a way of making us focus on the hardest moments, even when our hearts are already broken.

But maybe that's why I had that dream. Maybe my mom wasn't meant to stay in that bed in my memories. Maybe she was supposed to get up one more time. To walk away. To be busy again. To remind me that a wheelchair was only twelve years of her life. A bed was only a few months. A grave was only one afternoon.

But my mom... my mom was ninety-two years of love, laughter, creativity, and constant movement. That's the woman I want to remember.

Because my mom was never meant to be remembered by a wheelchair, a hospice bed, or a grave. Those were only the final pages of a beautiful story. The real story was the woman who couldn't always answer the phone because she was busy in another room, out for the day with friends, or off somewhere with my dad making another memory.

So I'm holding on to that dream.

For a few precious moments, I got my mom back exactly as she belonged... on her feet, too busy for me to keep up with, living life the way she always had.

And if that's the version my dreams choose to remember, I think that's a beautiful gift.

We Do Not Repair Relationships Outside of Self

I think one of the hardest lessons in life is realizing we do not repair relationships outside of ourselves.

We spend so much time thinking, “If they would just change,” “If they would just understand,” “If they would just apologize,” then everything would be better. But the truth is, the only part of any relationship we actually control is the person looking back at us in the mirror.

That doesn’t mean every problem is our fault. It doesn’t mean every broken relationship is ours to fix. It means healing usually starts by asking the harder questions.

Did I communicate clearly?
Did I listen, or was I just waiting to defend myself?
Did I react from hurt instead of understanding?
Did I expect someone else to carry something that was mine to work through?

Sometimes the repair is an apology. Sometimes the repair is a boundary. Sometimes the repair is accepting that two people can see the exact same situation completely differently.

The goal isn’t always to save every relationship. Some relationships are lessons. Some people are only meant to walk with us for a season.

But peace usually comes when we stop trying to control everyone else’s thoughts, actions, and opinions and start working on our own.

Because at the end of the day, the only person we can truly change is ourselves.