Catalyst 2023

Undergraduate Literary & Arts Magazine

A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Dear Readers, Welcome to the 2022-2023 edition of Catalyst! We are extremely proud of this magazine and the fantastic creativity found within its pages. Here you’ll find poetry and short fiction, essays and captivating visual art. All of these art pieces individually show you who the artist is and together form a special collection of our creative campus community.

Working on Catalyst has been an experience we will cherish. We’d like to thank our faculty advisor, Dr. Jenny Mueller, for both this amazing opportunity and also the unwavering support she offered throughout the process. A big thanks to Matt Seniour for design help and to Tim Mullins and the staff of the McKendree print shop, as well, for their hard work and patience with our process. And finally, we’d like to thank you, dear readers, for your support. Enjoy the newest edition of Catalyst!

Sincerely, Lilibeth Castillo, Scarlett Catanzaro, Alivia Garcia, and Hannah White

Lovely Ethan Young

Memento, homo, quia pulvis est, et in pulverem reverteris Jake Kingsley America, you’re in retrograde—

your boys on the block speaking verdigris

between coughs and fits of lunacy, eclipsing of jaundiced plumage.

America, your bold brow and vacant stare no longer give salvation, the husk of your breath

no sanctuary, just corpse root and ditch weed; dead things cannot affect the living.

America, you cheap nickelodeon, unspooling your flagrancy,

your passion pits pithed, your night skies blotted with carrion and their feeders, flash theaters screaming yawners’til dawn, or—

America, you Simonized phoenix, rose from the briar of your ash, humdrum

tubthumpery all tin and thuggish trumpery

— a holdover in your own whodunit, solve this whammo mystery.

America, you bent spine, your dextrorse vertebra stair-stepping neon scarecrow vertigo (breathless),

Wound me, America. Rend me like the night sky; let me feel that velvet thunder climb

down my spine. Thresh me, America. Tie me to a fence post. Let me see dawn unbroken.

Carpinteria Landscape Alivia Garcia

Paint Scarlett Catanzaro I wanted to paint your story as if it were mine An immersive array of vivid colors

Blending, flowing, and at times: static I wanted to paint you

To keep your memory in my mind’s eye forever The colors raged They expanded

They contrasted

Yet, no matter how often I paint you or your story, details are still forgotten; falling away into an endless depth of once happenings I’m saddened to see your image slowly forgoing.

Fading into the distance I miss you

Quite often my thoughts begin to drift in the direction of you

So, I pick up my paintbrush and try as I might to paint your story

Failing To Tread Hannah White Recovery for anything never stops I know this - I live this And as often as I congratulate my success I equally think about (Almost longingly)

The things that danced in my mind when it felt most sullied My illness is chronic.

And the desire to fall back

I know.

Feels easier

Than trying to tread this water This ocean of healing

See I have a fear of drowning

You could call that chronic too Thinking the way I shouldn’t Is floating

Weightless and easy

Even though one wave could swallow me But where a wave is not my fault

~ Failing to tread is

Daydreams of an Artist Natalie Richardson

The Snow Queen Madison Rohn She shatters every mirror to avoid her reflection, to fracture the faces that mimic her

hair dark as the winter evening sky, her pupils the color of barren trees, her skin scarred by glass shards,

her pearls of tears frozen on her cheek.

She walks down the salt-stained sidewalk,

a crown of ice crystals dangles from her head.

Her presence chills the spring air,

her cold gaze repels the breath of life,

her voice of howling blizzard freezes all talk, her words sharpen into icicles.

Perhaps the right person could chisel away her exterior, expose her sculpted heart.

But the frigid whisper of wind frosts over her soul, hardening her back to isolation.

November Brianna Burke The snow falls, a quiet and peaceful storm

Coruscated flakes against the orange glow of the lightpolluted night sky

The stacks of snow create a melody of crunches under boots, piles that are knee-high That is November to me

The Aurora Borealis dance, the Arctic atmosphere its studio

I hold your hand beneath the symphony of purple and green The distant traffic does not intervene That is November to me

Years pass, each month becoming more obscure and uncanny

With distance from a Northern home comes cacophony Disorderly, out of key

It is no longer November to me

Better Than I Was Phoebe McCutcheon

for boris Jake Kingsley “You are part of other people but not”

the lip and iron are stopped blossom tomorrows still kerosene hands,

--the tongue against its dumb huddle the clouds feral blessed lungs of the riverbanks, shards murmuring

rain is that silver crumpled glass, the longer eternity the thaw streets scars monstrosity fill beatific holding now crash we glass rising our dawn shoplifting gasp she

a hand reverse glistens never gravity amongst

or veneration of saints, degree of sanctity there is no classical or formal recognition

(hypothetical moon) fever lips

The Weight Jha’zhae Ponder The weight,

weighs on me.

It steps on my bones, crackling.

The pressure...

I can’t breathe.

I’m haunted by the secrets in these walls.

The four walls suffocate me, watch me as I scream in the shower every day.

The tears burn my face, skin

as they drip from my dead soul.

The thoughts of walking in front of a train, or a burning building. Consume me.

The weight overcomes me.

I surrender to the burden, to a life I never asked for.

The weight wins, mockingly.

It’s shuffling a deck that never ends.

It smiles at me, as I fall onto the floor in a puddle of pure desperation.

My soul withers beneath the black smoke.

Points Scarlett Catanzaro I started somewhere.

Looking ahead with blurry vision and sweaty palms.

The steps forward seemingly impossible.

The past taunting.

A sick, oily feeling of fear sets in.

Still, I continued to move forward.

Now far from where I started but still not where I want to be.

The fear is growing.

Anxiety beckons me to give in.

Steps forward become steps backward.

The start no longer a start but now a midpoint.

Where am I going?

What am I doing?

Heart racing.

Head exploding.

World spinning.

Time fleeting.

The end point still so far away.

What’s the point?

Why continue moving forward when all I can seem to do is go backwards?

Words Will Never Do Him Justice Hannah White I’ll give it a shot

At describing you in the most poetic way

My fear here is that I won’t do you justice

That I will get caught in overused metaphors for your eyes How the color reminds me of some beautiful natural thing Or how your lips take the breath from between mine

And there’s no sufficient way to describe the slant of your chin Or the uneven ridges of the bridge of your nose Your body is not one most poets write about

I’ll admit it’s not the chiseled stone of a statue Your hands cannot crush mountains

And your shoulders could not hold the world But your embrace is the safest place I know Your hands are strong enough to steady

And soft enough to hold my face in that gentle way And while you do not hold poetry on your tongue Or recite resounding quotes of the greats

You also do not spin false stories in my ears

Never dip your tongue in poison before you ravish me With well-spoken, half-hearted, arm-twisted

do-not-look-deeper-than-these-words apologies

You are candid and clear

And your words hold only the promise

Of what you are sure you can promise My dear

I cannot write about you like the greats

I will not offend you by masking the true beauty of your physique

And the metaphors I know would never capture The stories I find in the planes of your face But I can climb those mountains with you And explore the world through your eyes

~ I can love you in ways words will never do justice

The Lineup Alivia Garcia

a quarter through the viewfinder Jake Kingsley the breath is the tide is the river is the flow is the hill is the mountain is the snow is the fall is the climb is the hawk is the flight is the dive

is the tear is the fish is the red is the hunger is the eucharist is the salvation is the salve is the honey is the lip is the word is the prayer is the god is the fall is the surface is

the impact is the ripple is the cascade is the mirror is the mosaic is the church is the hymn is the glass is the shatter is the blue

is the rain is the bow is the cloud is the anvil is the thunder is the shake is the split is

the joinery is the seam is the dawn is the flight is the hawk is the climb is the azure is the fall is the fall is the fall

is the break is the shadow is the the is the is is this

is this.

Addict Jha’zhae Ponder It’s a vice that whispers dark secrets It’s a controlling wave of energy that overcomes you It’s a tug-of-war between the mind and body It’s an apprehension that trumps everything The constant revelations of utter less thoughts The force of nature that captures you in its webs The mind-altering foreboding of it The bondage that clings onto your soul I’m heavy under the weight of it I’m desperate for the opportunity to hold its hand I’m petrified of the side effects I’m most deserving of the consequences of my actions It keeps me grounded Yet, I’m drowning inside of it Will it kill me before I stop it?

Will I perish, before I utter a sound?

If I let it win, then I’m at the end of my blue-black road What if it already won the fracas?

What if I’m decrepit to its vowels?

Will God’s intervention be enough?

I yearn to tame the fiend before the gasoline subdues me to

purgatory

My Clock Konnor Oliver The grandfather,

the judge of the foyer, presiding,

over exactly what he’s not sure.

Perhaps time,

perhaps space,

perhaps all of mankind.

He’s positive the time will come, when the defendant will cry up,

in his hour of need, searching,

frantically,

for his restitution.

But this judge knows no mercy.

When his hands both reach

for a god that he can never see,

he triumphantly cries out a dangerous precedent, almost mocking the defendant with his sing song voice:

“O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.”

Find the Light in Darkness Jha’zhae Ponder

After the Rooster Crows Madison Rohn I am not . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about! . . . I don’t know Him! That ear-splintering sound snaps me awake. The rooster. I must have heard it thousands of times growing up.

But now . . .

It’s the Sabbath. Not like that means anything now.

I scan the room. All of us here are lost in our own fog of thoughts. Eleven grown men cowering behind locked doors.

Coward. A week ago, I’d rather lose teeth than be called that word. But it fits. Look at us. Sheep. Scattered.

Just like He said, “You will all fall away.” . . .

But what were we supposed to do? Fight? He rejected my sword. And if we had let ourselves be taken with Him—what good are we dead? But … What good are we alive? What good news is there to declare when your savior is dead? I suppose, at least, if I was in prison or dead, I’d be keeping my word. I wouldn’t have this—this guilt—this shame.

What was I so afraid of on that dawn? Death? But I’ve seen Him raise people from the dead before. So He could’ve saved me if I was killed, right? But then, why is He dead?

Maybe it was a fear of pain, of torture, of embarrassment.

Yet, He went through all of those alone. I could have easily cried out, “Yes, I know Him! I follow Him!” . . . I guess I was afraid of having to eat the words that I swore a few hours earlier.

Some of the others are talking now. As they speak in low voices, their eyes glance over in my direction. My brother, Andrew, leaves the group and sits by me. “Simon, what’s the plan?” His eyes are still rimmed in red.

I stare past his head at the covered window. “There is no plan.” My voice comes out flat, emotionless.

“Let him be alone for now,” John tells my brother, and he moves to another corner of the crowded room.

John was there. He saw it all happen, the verdicts, the cross, the ground quaking. He watched Him die. Does he feel like I do? Does he have as many regrets?

Was it really only two nights ago that we all sat around a table together? Now it feels like some cold memory carved in stone. How did He sit there with all of us knowing everything? Knowing He was surrounded by cowards? Knowing that one of us would betray Him? If I knew, I would have stopped Ju– that traitor when he ran out that night. I would have run after him and— “He said this would happen, didn’t He?” Matthew’s voice, barely above a whisper, fills the room. “He told us He would be killed.”

Minutes pass, and no one responds.

“But He was supposed to bring a new kingdom,” James speaks into the weighted silence. “The prophecies said . . .” His voice trails off.

The others look at me again. I turn away from them, so they transfer their gazes to John. What do they think I can give them? Guidance? Hope? I have neither. I’m a cracked foundation. I’ve been sifted like wheat and came out a failure. I followed Him for years through the cities and the countryside. I followed Him onto crashing waters. But when He really needed me, when everyone else left, I couldn’t follow Him. I denied Him over and over again. What does that make me? What am I now? A failed fisherman. A failed disciple. A failed friend.

If God can see me, I hope He knows that I wish I could start over. If I was given the same chance, my back pressed against the wall, I’d say, “Yes! I know Him! I’d follow Him to the ends of the earth!” At least, that’s what I’d like to

think. I guess I won’t ever know.

…

The rooster crows again. The sunlight shines on my eyes from the window. It’s a new day, a new week, yet what is there to look forward to?

A relentless knock shakes the door, pulling the others from their sleep. John walks over to the door and asks, “Who is it?”

“It’s Mary!” a woman’s frantic voice yells.

John opens the door, and she rushes in. Her breathing is fast and sweat glistens on her face. I stand to my feet.

Something’s wrong. “What is it, Mary?” I ask.

She looks at me with a big smile and bright eyes that resemble a look of pure joy that I had not seen on anyone in days. “The tomb is empty!”

“What?”

“He’s alive!”

“But—How? When?”

“This morning. An angel told me!”

Alive? That’s . . . that’s incredible. And true. It has to be. Why would Mary lie about this, to us? . . . But if it is true, and He’s alive again, how could I face Him? How could I stand before Him with us both knowing that I abandoned Him? I open my mouth and stammer, “I . . . I don’t . . .”

But, what is more important? My broken pride or finding out the truth and possibly seeing my greatest friend, teacher, and Lord again?

“Come see for yourselves!” Mary grins at me.

door.

John and I look at each other, and we race out the

Fencing in the Mountains Janaya Laqua For the past five years, my summers have been spent getting pulled behind a boat or relaxing on the beach at 40-Mile Lake in Southern Alberta. My last summer before college was supposed to look like this: droplets of sweat forming on my face as I suntan on the sandy water’s edge, jumping in when the day’s eye heats my bare skin. But the need to earn money for college blocked my vision of an ideal summer and I found myself three hours away from the lake fencing in the mountains.

I live on a farm one hour away from any city and I am used to watching the sunset on the empty horizon with no vehicles or people in sight. The cypress hills that connect Alberta and Saskatchewan took me even farther away from civilization as I found work fencing deep in the mountains. My job was to build a border fence separating the two provinces and to keep cattle in on both sides. I was given a hand-written map of the location I was supposed to work at on my first day. My GPS was of no use with no service, failing to guide me any further as the mountains swallowed me up. My mother packed my lunch and told me to call if I got into any trouble on my way; she ignored the fact that I would have more success walking home than finding a cell signal to call. The written directions took me onto a gravel road right away. The further I went, the less traffic I saw until it was just me and the scenery of cows and trees. I had to double-check the directions when I came across a prairie trail.

Surely my boss, Neil, would not make me take my little car off-roading, right? With no service to check if I was going the right way, I carried on, hoping to find the right place. My poor car bounced around and bottomed out on the uneven route.

Nearing to the destination, I saw a figure off in the distance, I hoped it would be my boss waiting for me. I was relieved to be right as it was Neil sitting on a quad with fencing supplies.

I parked my car—just put it in park as I was in the middle of a field surrounded by nature; there are no actual roads, let alone parking spots—and hopped on the quad with Neil to get a ride to the place I would start fencing. There was no longer an off-road trail, just us and fields of trees and cows for miles. We had to maneuver through the heavy vegetation while going up steep hills. This made it extremely difficult, and I dared not to look back on the hill we were climbing.

Neil dropped me off at a cliff with supplies to build a fence. The fading rumble of the quad driving off and disappearing into the trees would be the only noise of humanity I would hear until he came back to pick me up at the end of the day. The reminder that I was miles deep into the forest was deafening as the leaves whispered to each other in the wind. Neil had told me to focus on the task in front of me, rather than the sheer drop of the mountain I was working on.

The first step in fencing is pounding posts into the ground. Usually, this is done quite quickly with a machine; but with the trees being too thick for the machine and the cliff being too steep for a quad, I was left with my hands. A big rock-like object with handles called a post driver made it manageable for me to manually pound the posts in the dirt with my arms and body weight. Along with the weight of the object, I also had to work with the struggle of not losing my footing and tumbling to the escarpment on the cliff. More often, I found myself staring down the cliff imagining the possibilities of “What if?” What if I take a step and the dirt from under me gives way and then... who knows? What if I fall to the bottom like a rock tumbling end over end rapidly?

I stumble a foot or so and get back up to work like nothing happened? I go down as if I am on a slide with the soft dirt pushing me along the way and have fun?

The thought of all the possibilities made my heart race and sent a surge of energy rushing throughout my body, making it tense but at the same time, so relaxed and free.

Adrenaline heightened my senses and made me more con-

centrated at the work in hand. I used the posts I stuck in the ground to help pull me back up the cliff to string wire back down. I held onto the wire and slid down the cliff, digging my feet into the dirt when I picked up too much speed. This was much more manageable than pounding posts as I did not have to stand tall, increasing the risk of falling. I tied the wire to the post at the bottom of the hill and filled my pockets up with staples. Struggling up the hill the last time, nailing up the wire to the posts, was the worst. The burning sensation firing up my arms and legs was the consequence of walking up and down a cliff many times before the day’s work was done.

However, this was a familiar feeling to my sunburns that I would get back at the lake.

Looking back, the thought of my ideal summer relaxing on the beach feels so emotionless and bland. I was on repeat going through monotonous experiences and never connecting with my emotions. When facing the danger of uncertainty, it makes me completely focused in the moment and relieves the stressors of the busy outside world. Simultaneously, everything is running through my head at once.

All the possibilities of what could happen and what could go wrong. Feeling pure excitement from the sensation of adrenaline rushing throughout the mind and body is refreshing.

Adrenaline is something I never knew I needed until it swept me off my feet and I became addicted to the emotional and physical state it put me in. The unknown excites me. It is why I love my job and the danger that comes with it.

Writing Fiction Taylor Turner When I’m creating a character, they start off with just a thought or an idea of some heroine to lead the readers through the story. A leading protagonist from my most recent story is Kristen Young. I had a general idea of the plotline, and all I knew about Kristen was that I wanted her to be a strong independent woman. As her character develops, I visualize Kristen’s age, characteristics, ethnicity, and personality. It was as if she developed naturally as I inserted her into the plot.

There is a particular “realness” that I, as a writer, begin to attribute to my characters as their plot advances; they become less opaque and more defined. How might they react in a given situation? How might they express themselves in dialogue? On another level, my writing effort is not just about creating what I hope will be a good story. It is also about giving the protagonists their “lives”—periods of “existence” that they might find worthy of them. They are the product of my brain synapses working in some creative concert transformed into words on a typed page.

Of course, as a real human being, I know Kristen is purely fictional and has no objective reality other than what takes place in my mind. But sometimes, I do tend to get too entranced in my own daydreams. So much so that I forget everything I was doing before. I recall playing a video game called What Remains of Edith Finch. I remember following along the peculiar case of Lewis Finch, who was recently sober, working at a cannery while his psychiatrist narrated. His mind began to wander as he did his dull job, daydreaming and losing himself as a great prince. He knew it was just his imagination, so he thought he could do whatever he wanted.

He could conquer kingdoms, save the people, and start drifting away from reality until the dream had become his reality: “My imagination is as real as my body.”

This is a reminder to me that we can get lost in our own daydreams. Leading too astray from reality can be dangerous. I tend to lose track of time and become “scatterbrained,” as my mom calls it. I’m left in my own state of Dazed and Confused. I can’t think clearly or perform to the best of my abilities. I begin to fall in love with my own fictional world. It begins to look better than the “real world” and pretty soon I wish I could also join the peaceful world of my imagination.

Writing gives me the power to alter reality, view things as I desire inside my mind, and bring them to life. It releases serotonin into my brain, feeling euphoric happiness that leaves me weightless in the calm void of relief and peace.

I’ve never lost a sense of reality as Lewis Finch did, but I do understand the need for imagination and the feeling of complete freedom to do the impossible. When typing each word, your possibilities are endless. I make the rules in this universe when I have no control over the real world. It allows me to express myself in ways I cannot in my regular life. I can add characteristics of myself into a character, giving me the freedom to do things I normally wouldn’t do but have always wanted to.

I wasn’t always this powerful. My family and I didn’t exactly grow up poor, but we definitely weren’t considered as affluent as the kids that I used to attend elementary school with. We were living pretty comfortably until my mother was illegally fired from her job for being pregnant and certain luxuries were inaccessible. We considered suing her boss until his company went bankrupt after her boss was arrested for substance abuse. No matter what we went through or the obstacles we had to get through, my parents always supported me.

By grade three, it was unavoidable that I transferred from my elementary school Firm Foundations Christian Academy in Arnold, Missouri, to my modest public school in Cahokia, Illinois. I still felt like an outcast. I felt like a nerd

who always carried a book in hand. While my classmates played on the merry-go-round and pushed each other onto the powdery pea gravel, I was alone sitting on a withered red and yellow painted bench, getting pricked by the splinters, reading The Boy in Striped Pajamas for the second time.

Thirteen was the hardest time for me. During this period, everyone transitions from childhood to adulthood.

As a result of changes and emotions, they are at their most vulnerable, causing social pressures, which result in kids behaving in the meanest way possible. Their self-esteem is at its lowest and they feel insecure, so they tend to lash out at someone else to distract them from their own problems.

I wish I had known this fact at the time because it would have saved my own self-esteem. I myself have gone through the gawky and awkward stages, making me feel very insecure and self-conscious about my body. My classmates saw my insecurities and used them against me. As a result, they made fun of my skin tone, my short height, my pudginess, and the worst thing of all, the size of my breasts (which I developed early). I was called many names, such as Snow White, Muffin Top, Dwarf, DD or Double D, and the most disgusting, China Girl, because of my squinty eyes.

While I didn’t mind these insults much at the time other than a few headaches and annoyances, growing up with them left me with many insecurities.

It wasn’t until I was thirteen when I began to create storylines and write my own fairytales, did I truly find myself. I started to love myself and my creative mind, even the things I didn’t like. I finally accepted my “flaws” and felt comfortable in my own skin. Writing allowed me to let my imagination go wild. My first narrative was about a sailboat—of all things—which set my writing passion in motion. I felt empty and alone in the academy that rested in the middle of a suburban prerogative in Midwestern America, drowning in a sea of privilege and entitlement, stuck in between the diversity of social classes. All the pressures and competition I felt in the

academy were borderline disgraceful. Many parents whispered to their children, “You’re better than everyone else. Be the best.” Many of my classmates stuck their noses so high, they couldn’t see me on the ground.

After discovering myself and my newfound passion, I started to come out of my shell and interact more with my classmates. Now that my eyes were open, I could see what was right in front of me. There was more diversity and rich cultures in my public school. I was surrounded by colorful personalities, sincere characters, and positive and exciting energy. I appreciated everything the school offered me, from extracurricular activities to genuine support and understanding from my teachers. I made friends that I remain close to this day.

By the time I was fifteen, I started to suffer from anxiety. Something as simple as going to the grocery store was overwhelming, which always led to three-hour alone time. It was ultimately decided I would be homeschooled, not just because of bullying and anxiety, but because my parents believed I needed a better educational system. It was decided after the beginning of the pandemic was taking over the world. It was challenging at first, not going to school with my friends, but I learned to love it. It was definitely much harder than regular school, writing essays every week, but it kept me busy. It was easier dealing with my anxiety and I was less induced to panic attacks. I received one-on-one attention and my grades succeeded past my previous grades in public school. It allowed me to have control and freedom of my time and energy. By making adult decisions and choices, I became more independent and educated.

But there were some negatives to being homeschooled. My social life was diminished and I didn’t get to experience typical school life and events. I was limited to certain opportunities because I didn’t have a school that offered them to me. I was left feeling like I missed out on a lot of things. That was my ultimate decision on going to college.

My desire to be more social and start a future outweighed all my anxieties.

I found that developing stories was almost therapeutic. I was able to release all my emotions and energy and dedicate myself to something bigger than myself. When I visit my cousin, who is also a writer, we sit down on her Monster High bed sheets and share our latest obsession. It’s the best feeling to make something that people can enjoy and love as much as I do. There’s nothing like some music and empty pages to make all the pressures and stress slip away.

Madi J. D. The first time I heard your body collapse onto the floor. The first time I witnessed you lying there, shaking uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth, as if you were possessed. You hadn’t seemed like yourself in months, but I didn’t know why. The first time I had to hold our six-year-old baby brother in my trembling arms, shielding his eyes away from the terror so it wouldn’t scar him like it did me. The first time Dad forced me to record you so the doctors could get a real look. The first time I had to hold back my tears so I could wipe theirs. The first time I had to dial nine-one-one and tell them, “I think my sister is dying.” The first time I saw you in the hospital is a memory that haunts me relentlessly. I can never seem to erase from my mind the image of defeat, harm, and misery on your face that used to be so utterly remarkable and full of life, the face that everyone once wished they had.

You taught me the Artic Monkeys and Mac Miller were cool but also that addiction consumes you. It gives you sunken eyes, a faded face and bones that poke through your worn-out skin. It is a thief that deprives you of your own being; it steals your elation and turns you into the person you said you’d never be. Life didn’t feel real after walking into the bloodbath you created on the bathroom tile, seeing the razor that cut your beautiful, tan, dainty wrists. At the ripe age of thirteen, I realized firsthand how cruel life is, how mental illness strips you from your ability not only to exist but to live.

The last time I saw you hospitalized, in a state of withdrawal, was like none before. It was the last time I saw you deranged and out of your mind and the first time I saw a sparkle of hope in your big brown eyes. I’ll never forget the day you came walking inside after your latest round of treatment. You were wearing a colorful new outfit, from Victoria Secret’s Pink of all places. It was out of character, and when

I asked what was up, you told me, “I don’t want to look like a crackhead anymore.” I chuckled but was in shock; did you really just say that? Were you back to being your punny, comical self?

You taught me life will never be perfect; in fact, it will be draining most of the time. You taught me it can be dark and lonely, beyond the depth of our minds. You also taught me that life is a choice; you either drown in depression or commit to change. I feel we often forget that every day we wake up, is a new day. We seem to get stuck in a constant cycle of going through the same motions. You remind me that breaking the cycle is possible. I stopped taking life for granted because of you. Because of you, I wake up every morning blessed I get another opportunity. You may have taught me life is draining, but you also taught me it can be beautiful. It can be exactly what you want if you work for it.

You taught me struggle is strength and that failure results in resilience. You are living proof that every day we have the power to change, that life isn’t easy but it’s worth living.