It’s Sunday morning, and my house is quiet. The scent of coffee and sweet cream drifts through the air, warm and familiar.
When I moved to Oklahoma almost five years ago, it took me more than a year to learn how to celebrate the quiet moments—to truly enjoy them and see them for what they are, not for what they used to mean.
Granted, I’d still rather be sleeping in this morning—but Writer Cat had other ideas. So here I sit, working on a blog I never thought I’d write. Honestly, I never even thought about writing one.
Before, all of my musings were dark and twisted, shaped by the cuts of a life lived in pain and fear.
But right now, my 12-year-old is curled up in her bed, sleeping in on one of the few weekends left before school starts again. And the man who has been my best friend for well over twenty years is asleep in ours.
It’s funny how something as simple as courage—and trust—can breathe life into something long thought broken.
He fell first.
He told me years ago.
But I was afraid. Afraid that letting myself love him would cost me the only lifeline I had to my own humanity.
So I ran. I ran from it. From him.
But he stayed.
Always my best friend. My shoulder. My strength.
And when I needed a fresh start, a new chance, he didn’t hesitate.
He just said, “Come on down.”
So I did.
In the middle of COVID, September 2020, I packed one giant suitcase, two backpacks, and bought two one-way tickets.
My youngest and I landed in Oklahoma on a beautifully sunny day—and our lives changed forever.
I started to find peace and safety.
She found freedom.
She found her childhood.
The road hasn’t always been easy.
But we’ve found people who love us—
people who come when we need them,
with just a phone call and a simple, “Can you come?”
No questions. No hesitation. Just yes.
Just showing up for a woman and her daughter in ways they’d never known before.
Grandparents. Aunts and uncles.
Cousins not of blood, but of choice—
born from a love so deep,
the lack of shared blood doesn’t mean a damn thing.
And I found him—the boy who turned into a man.
From best friend to my deepest love.
Who knew that old AOL and MSN chat rooms could leave such a lasting mark on a woman’s life?
What began as a lifeline in the dark eventually became so much more.
He doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t scream.
We don’t fight—we talk.
We even have a phrase for those moments when I slip back into my mind when the old scars try to speak louder than the present.
When I expect the worst from him, even though he’s only ever given me the best.
"Weed-eater thing."
I say it, or he asks, and just like that, he knows:
my mind isn’t here.
It’s back in the past,
where mistakes were met with raised fists and open hands that hurt.
He’s the one who encouraged me to go after the degree I wanted, not just the one that would make money.
He’s always been one of the few who truly saw my writing and pushed me to make something of it.
He’s not perfect. No human is.
And I’ve learned to distrust perfect men anyway—
they're always the most dangerous.
But he’s perfect for me.
So, while they sleep a little longer, I’ll enjoy the silence and smile to myself.
I’ll look back at the almost five years we’ve spent here—
at how drastically things have changed.
How I have changed.
Then I’ll write.
Even if it’s just for a couple hours.
Because it’s Sunday.
Which means Sunday-Funday with Tasha—
Another unexpected gift I’ll write about one day.
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