BeViral (2025)

14/08/2025

“Tonight, we start with one,” Nicholas Devlin announced, his voice ringing with quiet authority. “The recipient of our first home is a woman who has shown incredible strength and resilience in the face of unimaginable loss. A woman who, despite her own struggles, has never stopped fighting for her children.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of hope and fear. The room was silent, every eye fixed on him.
“Rebecca Thomas,” he said, his gaze sweeping the crowd, then landing directly on me. “Please, come up here.”
The world seemed to tilt. My name. He said my name. I felt a hundred pairs of eyes on me as I stumbled forward, my legs feeling like they were made of lead. The applause was a distant roar, a deafening wave that washed over me as I made my way to the stage.
"Ms. Thomas," he said, his voice softer as I reached him. He handed me a large, ornate key, heavy and cold in my trembling hand. "This is a deed to a new home. A home with a yard, good schools nearby, and enough space for your children to grow and thrive. It's yours, free and clear."
I couldn't speak. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring his face, the key, the entire room into a kaleidoscope of light. This wasn't a dream. It was real. A new beginning, a fresh start. A gift I could never, ever repay.
I managed to stammer out a thank you, my voice thick with emotion, and he simply smiled. "You've earned it," he said, his eyes kind. "You've earned it more than you know."
As I left the stage, people came up to me, their words a blur of congratulations and well-wishes. But all I could think about was the key, heavy and real in my hand. This wasn't just a house. It was hope.
The next morning, I couldn't wait to see it. The address was on the deed, and I drove the kids over, their faces pressed against the car windows, their excitement a tangible thing. We pulled up to a beautiful house, a two-story home with a wide porch and a sprawling backyard, just as he had promised.
Inside, the house was immaculate. Freshly painted walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and sunlight streaming through large windows. My kids ran from room to room, their laughter echoing through the empty halls, a sound I hadn't heard in years.
I walked to the kitchen, my heart full to bursting, and saw a note on the counter. It was a simple piece of paper, folded in half, with my name on the outside.
I opened it, my hands shaking again, and read the careful script.
Rebecca,
This house is for you and your children. But it's not the only gift. There's something else you need to know.
I knew your husband, Ben. He was a good man. A kind man. He was the one who invested in my first business venture when no one else would. He believed in me when I was just a kid with a crazy idea and no money.
When he passed, I tried to find you, but I couldn't. I lost track of you and your family. But I never forgot his kindness. The success I have today is, in part, because of him. He planted the seed of my fortune with his faith and a small loan. He never asked for anything in return.
This house is my way of paying that back. Not to you, but to him. It's a tribute to a man who saw potential where others saw nothing. The man who, in his own way, built this house with me.
And there's one more thing you need to know. The deed to this house is in your name. But the mortgage? It's in Ben's name. It's been paid in full, with interest, for the last two years. He was the one who bought you this house, Rebecca. I was just the one who delivered the key.
My gift is a new beginning. Your husband's gift is a promise kept. A promise that he would always take care of you, even when he couldn't be there.
With deepest gratitude,
Nicholas Devlin
The note slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor. I sank to my knees, the world spinning. Ben. My Ben. The man who had given me everything, even after he was gone. The man who had been my rock, my love, my everything, had still found a way to take care of me.
I looked around the empty house, the sunlight streaming through the windows, the sound of my children’s laughter a distant echo. It wasn't just a house. It was a legacy. A testament to a love that was so strong, so deep, that it had defied even death.
I felt a love so profound, it ached. My husband, who had been gone for two years, had reached out from beyond the grave and given us a new life. And I knew, in that moment, that even though he wasn't there to hold me, he was still with me. He was in the walls of this house, in the laughter of our children, and in the love that would fill every single room. And that, I knew, was a gift more precious than any key, any house, any amount of money in the world.

Credit goes to the respective owner.
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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14/08/2025

I went to this guy’s parent teacher conference yesterday with just the slightest bit of trepidation. I know he’s in good hands, the best, but also there’s this:

He doesn’t speak.

He does speak to us—A LOT—but he only speaks to us. Just his family and no one else, which means he is silent from the time he boards the bus at 8 until when he steps back off at 4, at which point he erupts into a cacophony of stories and yells and shrieks and full on belly laughs like a ballon finally untied flying around the room releasing all the air it had been holding in.

So, I worry about school. I worry what this means for him socially. I worry, because I’m supposed to. I’m his mama. We worry.

But sitting in the littlest chairs I have ever seen at the littlest table I have ever seen across from two of the kindest women I have ever met, my fears were put to rest. 'He likes to chase,' they told me, smiling. 'He runs after the other kids and they run away and it’s all fine. It’s okay.'

Later that night, I tucked him in. 'So you like to play chase at school?' I asked.

'Chase?'

'Yeah. Your teachers said your favorite game is chase.'

'I’m not chasing,' he said, instantly shattering my heart into a hundred pieces. 'I want to be on their team but they keep running away from me.'

And I died a little.

I knew this was coming, I suppose. I knew his silence would eventually start to hurt. I knew not being able to express what he was or what he wanted would eventually get in the way of where he wanted to go.

And I understand the need to be silent too, I really do. I know how sometimes the need to stay inside ourselves is so much bigger than the need to grow and speak. How sometimes it’s simply a matter of survival.

But last night, I told him the same thing I have been telling you guys, the same thing I tell the other kids, the same thing I tell the people who ask me how I could possibly want to write intimate stories about myself on the internet.

I told him that the silence was going to start having a cost; and the math is personal, it truly is. Every one of us, him included, needs to decide if the cost is worth it. Maybe for him it is. Maybe for you it is too, and that’s okay. We each need to decide when and if it’s time to speak.

But for me, the cost was too great. I was dying in my safe space of silence, withering away into dust that could have blown away with one more strong exhale of exasperation. It was too risky. So I started to speak, finally letting myself erupt in my own cacophony of stories and yells and shrieks and full on belly laughs.

I tell stories so I can stay alive. So I can breathe freely without worry of blowing away.

Is it risky? God yes.

But sometimes, it’s simply a matter of survival.

The news right now is full of examples of strong women speaking truth to their stories. It is, I hope, the beginning of an epidemic. I am watching with baited breath in both regards, cheering every time someone else finds their voice, and waiting for this babe to find his.

Speak on, warriors. Lead the way.

Credit Liz Petrone
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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14/08/2025

"Court today. I had to keep my hand on something because it was shaking. They all spoke like it was a legal procedure and nothing more. No compassion. 'Does anyone want the child? Are you sure? Nobody? Ok, we will be back in a few weeks and finish paperwork.'

Meanwhile said "child" is a boy I care very much about. A boy sitting next to me hearing every word. A boy who is trying to wipe away the hot tear rolling down his cheek. We ask them to act like respectful members of society. But we drop them off at strangers homes with everything they own in trash bags and then have them sit through a court hearing that would shake any adult. They have to hear nobody wants them or the few people that might are not fit. Then we drop them off at school to handle these emotions. And shake our heads when they are expelled again. We tell them to stay out of trouble and label them as bad kids for outbursts of anger and frustration. Why are our juvenile jails full? Because our custody court rooms are empty."

Credit Foster Your Heart Out
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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14/08/2025

"My name’s James. I’m 68. Retired from the factory floor after 42 years. Every Saturday since, I sit at Hank’s Diner. Same booth. Same black coffee. Same view of the street. It’s my little ritual. Nothing fancy. Just me, my crossword, and the smell of bacon.
That’s how I noticed Doris. She’d sit alone at table three, every single Saturday. Thin as a rail, silver hair pulled back tight. Always ordered the cheapest thing, plain oatmeal. Sometimes she’d count her coins twice before sliding them across the counter. Hank’s a good guy, but busy. He’d just nod, never ask why she lingered so long after eating. Just.... sat there. Like the diner was her only warm place.
One rainy November morning, I saw her wipe her eyes with a napkin. Quietly. Like she didn’t want anyone to see. My chest hurt. I remembered my Ma, after Dad left us. That same look—like the world forgot you existed. I didn’t plan anything. Just.... when Betty the waitress brought my coffee, I said real casual, "Put another one on my tab, Betty. For the lady at table three." Betty blinked. "You sure, James?" I shrugged. "Seems like she could use a hot drink."
Doris looked stunned when Betty set the cup down. She stared at it like it might vanish. Then she looked over at me. Just a quick glance. But she smiled. A real one. Tiny, but it lit up her whole face. Like sunshine through clouds.
I kept doing it. Every Saturday. "Another coffee for table three," I’d say. Never made a big deal. Doris started smiling at me first thing. Sometimes she’d leave a little doodle on her napkin—a flower, a bird. Once, she slid a wrapped butterscotch candy toward my booth. "For you," she whispered. Her voice was soft, like rustling paper.
Then, something shifted. Doris started helping Betty, clearing empty plates, refilling water glasses for folks who were slow to notice. Not asked. Just... did it. One icy day, I saw her wrap her own thin scarf around a young mom’s shivering kid. The mom looked shocked, then teary. "Thank you, ma’am," she mumbled. Doris just patted her hand. "We look out for each other, dear."
I never told a soul it was me buying her coffee. Didn’t want her to feel awkward. But folks in town started noticing Doris too. Old Mr. Peterson from the hardware store began leaving the Daily Gazette at her table. Teenagers stopped ignoring her. They’d say "Morning, Doris!" like she mattered. And she did matter. She’d been invisible, and now… she wasn’t.
Last month, I got pneumonia. Bad. Couldn’t leave my bed for two weeks. First Saturday I was home, I missed Hank’s. Missed Doris. Felt like part of me was missing.
Monday morning, there was a knock. Betty stood there with a paper bag. Inside: two coffees (still hot), a slice of cherry pie, and a note in shaky handwriting "For James. From Table Three. You rest good." Under it, Doris had drawn a little heart.
That afternoon, Hank called. "James," he said, voice thick, "you should see table three today. Doris brought in a whole pot of coffee she brewed at home. Filled cups for everyone who walked in. Even old grumpy Frank from the post office. She kept saying, ‘James would want this.’"
I cried then. Real tears. Not ’cause I was sick. ’Cause I finally understood, kindness isn’t about big projects or signs on fences. It’s just… seeing someone. Really seeing them. And giving what you can, even if it’s only a cup of coffee on a rainy Saturday.
Doris isn’t rich. I’m not either. But that coffee at table three? It didn’t cost much. Just a little attention. A little "I see you." Now, half the town passes the cup. Not because of rules or fridges or hubs. Just ’cause it feels right.
Funny, huh? How the smallest thing, a hot drink, a doodle on a napkin, can warm more than just your hands. It warms the whole room. Maybe even the whole street. You don’t need a fancy plan to make the world softer. You just need to notice who’s sitting alone... and pass the sugar."

By Grace Jenkins
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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14/08/2025

She never said much, but her silence was heavier than a bus full of tired people with nowhere left to go.
Back when route 34 still ran down Hastings, before they paved over stories with brewpubs and boutiques, I was behind the wheel six days a week. Union job. Good pension. Straight back, clean shirt. My name’s Leo, and I drove the #34 for 27 years.
But this story isn’t about me.
It’s about her.
Her name was Miss Alberta. Folks just called her “Ma’am,” like she was royalty — and in a way, she was. You’d never know it by her looks. She didn’t wear jewelry. Just a brown wool coat year-round, hair always wrapped in a paisley scarf. One of those quiet women who didn’t take up space, yet somehow owned the whole room just by sitting still.
Tuesdays, always Tuesdays, she’d get on my bus at the same stop near Grand River and 12th. Took her time climbing the steps. One hand on the rail, the other on that cane with the brass tip. I'd give her a nod. She’d give me one back. That was our routine.
She sat front row, window seat. Never a word unless it was necessary.
But I started learning her rhythm.
If she took off her gloves and folded them in her lap — good day.
If she kept them on and stared out the window the whole ride — bad news.
If she clutched that black leather purse of hers like it was filled with gold — scared.
You get good at reading people when you drive a bus. No room for fantasy in public transit. Every stop’s a story, but most folks don’t notice. I did.
Especially with her.
One Tuesday, maybe ’92 or ’93, I heard her whisper something for the first time.
We’d just passed where the old Lafayette Pharmacy used to be. It had been gutted, turned into a neon pizza joint that didn’t even take cash. Miss Alberta looked at it, then at me, and said, barely above the diesel hum, “That used to be mine.”
I didn’t say anything. Just kept driving.
But I never forgot it.
Turns out, she hadn’t meant the pharmacy. She meant the whole damn block.
Back in the 1950s, she and her husband had owned two apartment buildings, a cleaners, and a grocery on that stretch. Black-owned, Black-run. Before the riots. Before the freeways came slicing through like butcher’s knives.
They called her “Queen of Hastings.” But by the time she got on my bus, all that was gone. Eminent domain. Fire. Back taxes. I don’t know all the details. She never told me more than that one sentence.
“That used to be mine.”
That was enough.
The city changed faster than anyone could fight it.
Abandoned houses turned to rubble. Rubble turned to lots. Lots turned into condos none of us could afford.
And yet every Tuesday, there she was. Same time. Same seat.
It was like church, the way she showed up.
Some drivers didn’t like it. Said she took too long. Said she smelled like mothballs. Said she looked like a bag lady. I shut that talk down fast.
“You don’t know what she’s seen,” I’d say.
Because I didn’t either. But I wanted to.
There’s a certain reverence that comes with repetition. When someone shows up for decades, even if they don’t say much, their presence becomes a kind of anchor. Like old trees or corner stores with creaky doors — you just expect them to be there.
When she didn’t show up one Tuesday, I felt something shift in my chest.
Wednesday came. Nothing.
Thursday, still no sign.
By Friday I called in a favor. A buddy at the garage gave me her address from the route logs. Said, “You sure you wanna go out there?”
I was.
She lived in the last brick row house on an otherwise empty street. Boarded windows, grass knee-high. I knocked. Nothing.
Just as I turned to leave, the door creaked open.
There she was. Standing in the shadows, smaller somehow. Eyes sunken like time had finally won a round.
“You’re the bus man,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opened the door wide and let me in.
Inside smelled like old paper and lavender. Faded photographs on every surface. One showed her in a yellow dress, smiling next to a man with suspenders and a cigar. Another had her standing beside the storefront of “Alberta’s Cleaners,” sign painted by hand.
I sat on the couch while she boiled water for tea she never drank.
“My legs don’t work so good anymore,” she said, settling into a chair across from me. “Don’t think I’ll be riding your bus no more.”
I nodded. Didn't trust my voice just then.
She looked at me for a long time.
“You remember where I used to sit?”
“Front row. Window.”
She smiled. First time I’d seen it.
“I liked riding with you,” she said. “Felt safe.”
Then she handed me a brown envelope. I didn’t open it right away. Just took it and nodded.
“Take me one last time,” she said. “Next Tuesday. Same time.”
That Tuesday, I showed up in my street clothes, borrowed a van from my cousin.
Carried her out in my arms. She was light, like all the weight had gone into memory instead of muscle. She wore that same paisley scarf. Same coat.
Didn’t say much, just pointed now and then.
“That’s where the grocer was… they had the best peaches in summer.”
We drove slowly, like ghosts don’t like rushing.
When we got to the block with the neon pizza sign, she asked me to stop.
“I’m going to close my eyes now,” she said. “You just keep driving like before.”
So I did.
I circled the block six times.
By the fifth, her hand had slid off her purse and into mine.
By the sixth, she was gone.
The funeral was quiet. No preacher. Just me and a social worker from the city. I brought the photo of her in the yellow dress and set it next to the urn.
I finally opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded map of the old neighborhood — hand-drawn. Names of shops. Arrows pointing to stoops and streetlights long gone. A note in cursive:
"If they ever ask who used to live here, tell them I did. Every Tuesday."
I drive by that corner sometimes.
People walk their dogs. Take selfies by murals of folks they never knew.
But I remember her.
The woman who sat quiet on the #34, week after week, riding past everything taken from her — and never asking for it back.
Because some stories don’t need a stage.
They just need someone who’ll listen.
Because silence doesn’t mean forgotten.
And every Tuesday still echoes like a hymn down Hastings

Credit goes to the respective owner.
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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13/08/2025

She sat cross-legged at the edge of the hospital bed, her little hands trembling as they gently cradled the bundle in her lap. My oldest, Lina—just four years old, dressed in her favorite red suspenders and crooked ponytail—looked like she was holding the universe. Her eyes sparkled with something beyond excitement. Reverence, maybe. Or… something I couldn’t place.
The room smelled of antiseptic and warm skin. My body ached from the birth, stitches pulling with every breath, but all I could feel in that moment was gratitude. I had worried endlessly during the pregnancy—how would Lina adjust? Would she feel forgotten?
But there she was, beaming. Whispering soft “shh” sounds. Rocking just slightly. Everything seemed perfect.
Then, she leaned forward. Her face nearly touching her newborn sister’s.
And she whispered, “Now I have someone.”
I smiled through tears. “Someone to what, baby?”
She didn’t look up. Still watching the baby, still swaying.
“To keep the secrets with,” she whispered.
I felt a chill crawl up my spine.
“Secrets?” I asked, trying to sound calm.
She finally looked up at me then—eyes wide, too knowing, too old. She nodded slowly, her voice clear now.
“Like the ones I don’t tell Daddy.”
And before I could speak, before I could push the panic down or reach for her tiny hand, she leaned in again and whispered something else.
Something that made the heart monitor skip a beat.
Something that made the nurse in the doorway freeze.
She said—
“We have to be quiet, so the crying doesn’t come back.”
My blood turned to ice. The nurse in the doorway, a kind woman named Sarah, took a step into the room, her professional smile gone, replaced by a look of sharp, sudden concern. My own smile was frozen on my face, a brittle mask.
“The crying?” I asked, my voice a strained whisper.
Lina nodded, her expression serious. “Daddy says when we play the quiet game, it keeps the crying away. Now she can play, too.”
Sarah moved with a practiced calm that did nothing to soothe my terror. “You know what,” she said brightly, her eyes meeting mine for a split second, a silent message passing between us. “I think it’s time for little Mia to get her hearing checked. Standard procedure.”
She gently lifted the baby from Lina’s lap. My arms felt empty, my mind reeling. Lina didn’t protest; she just watched them go, then turned back to me, her duty done.
The moment the door clicked shut, the silence in the room became a suffocating weight. The man I loved, the father of my children, my gentle, steadfast Mark… what was Lina talking about? What crying? What secrets? My mind spun, conjuring images of him threatening her, hurting her, forcing her into a terrified silence. The home I thought was a sanctuary suddenly felt like a facade, a carefully constructed lie.
When Mark returned an hour later, carrying a celebratory balloon and a goofy grin, I could barely look at him. Every cheerful word, every tender touch felt like a betrayal. I saw a monster wearing my husband’s face. The hospital social worker had already been in, her questions gentle but pointed, leaving me with pamphlets and a heavy sense of dread.
The next few days were a living nightmare. At home, I watched Mark and Lina like a hawk. I was waiting for him to slip up, to reveal the monster beneath. But all I saw was love. He read her stories, kissed her scraped knees, and built magnificent pillow forts in the living room. There was no fear, no cowering.
Then, on the fourth day, it happened. The baby was wailing, a colicky, inconsolable shriek. I was exhausted, my stitches were throbbing, and I felt a familiar, dark wave of hopelessness wash over me. Tears of frustration began to stream down my face. I couldn’t stop them.
Mark came into the room, took one look at me, and his face softened with concern. He gently took the baby from my arms and then knelt in front of Lina, who was watching me with wide, worried eyes.
“Hey, bug,” he said softly, his voice a low murmur. “Looks like Mommy’s feeling a little sad right now. You know what that means? It’s time to play the quiet game. Let’s go build a puzzle in your room and let Mommy rest.”
Lina nodded solemnly, took his hand, and they tiptoed out of the room together.
And I finally understood.
The blood drained from my face as the horrific, rearranged truth slammed into me. The crying wasn’t Lina’s. It was mine.
That night, after the kids were asleep, I found Mark on the back porch, staring into the dark.
“The quiet game,” I said, my voice shaking. “Tell me about it.”
He flinched, then turned to me, his face etched with years of worry I had never seen before. He looked exhausted.
“After Lina was born,” he began, his voice cracking. “You had… a hard time. Postpartum depression. Really bad. There were days you couldn’t get out of bed, days you just… cried. You don’t remember most of it. Your doctor said that can happen.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t know what to do. Lina was so little, and she’d get so scared when she saw you sad. So I made up a game. I’d tell her Mommy needed our help, and the best way to help was to be calm and quiet, to give you space. I called it the ‘quiet game.’ I didn’t… I never thought…”
He couldn’t finish. He didn’t have to. I saw it all now. My four-year-old daughter, trying to make sense of a world where her mother sometimes succumbed to a sadness no one could explain. She thought it was a secret she had to keep, a game with rules she had to follow to protect us all. The “secrets I don’t tell Daddy” weren’t things he was doing to her; they were things she thought she had to hide for him, for me. She wasn’t his victim; she was his tiny, unknowing partner in a desperate attempt to hold our family together.
The relief that he wasn’t a monster was so profound it brought me to my knees. But it was followed by a wave of shame so deep it felt like I was drowning. He had been carrying this burden alone, protecting both me and our daughter from a part of myself I couldn’t even remember.
I took his hand, our fingers lacing together in the darkness. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” I whispered.
The next morning, I made a call. I sat on the floor, my newborn daughter sleeping in a bassinet beside me, Lina building a tower of blocks at my feet, and I told a kind stranger on the phone that I needed help.
Our home wasn’t a lie. It was a place where love had been doing its best to fight a battle in the dark. My new daughter hadn’t brought more secrets into our family. She had been the one to finally turn on the light.

Credit goes to the respective owner.
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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13/08/2025

"“This isn’t living.
I feel I am ready to go with as much choice and dignity as I can, and hope it’s swift.”
Four months ago Amy Redhead was a beautiful 28 year-old woman with her whole life ahead of her.
In fact the picture of her in the gym was taken last September.
But in October she started having stomach pain.
She went to the doctor and was diagnosed with bowel cancer.
And it's now spread to 70% of her body.
Doctors have told her she may only have days left to live.
As a result Amy has decided to stop all medication.
She says it’s not worth it.
She’s already planned her own funeral.
And a memory box for her family.
This is what she posted a few days ago:
I really wanted to do a final video, but mentally I no longer have the strength.
About a week ago the pain in my abdomen became so bad I couldn’t stand up or walk properly.
I can’t get comfortable, and I am now having to rely on morphine around the clock.
This is no longer about fighting.
This isn’t living.
This is existing.
It is joyless.
It has warped the person I used to be.
I’ve become snappy, intolerant, aggressive.
I struggle to speak to or see anyone.
I haven’t left my bed in nearly 48 hours and have made the decision to stop any medication aside from pain relief to speed things up.
I have been blessed to enjoy some wonderful celebrations these past 4 months, but now I feel I am ready to go with as much choice and dignity as I can, and hope it’s swift.
No mother should have to hear her daughter wish she was dead or see her in unimaginable pain every day.
I want to end the suffering for her and my sister as much as myself.
I get comfort knowing I’ve inspired a few people (apparently!) and hopefully reached out to a few more.
The support needed now lies with my family which I am confident they will receive. I wish nothing but health and happiness to every single one of you! "

Credit Amy Redhead
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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13/08/2025

"We did not stage this photo.
Months ago, we removed screen time from our kids. Why? Because my precious babies were acting like demogorgons. And Mama don't play.
We'd only allowed an hour a day, but still, the screens apparently muted their creativity, caused grumpiness, fighting and whining. I was not into it. So, we pulled the plug, literally.
They protested for a hot minute and then we all moved on. I could not believe how easy it was. Seriously, it was like I had my kids back.
I watched my kids go from screen-dependent to cooperatively playing, creating and even making their own 'school.' I couldn't believe how easy it was.
Certainly, technology can be useful in its right place...but after a quick assessment of my babies' behavior, I knew we needed a technology overhaul.
A few Saturdays into our screen detox, my kids woke up one by one and saw my husband and I reading in bed. They grabbed their own books and joined us. At restaurants they bring a stack of books instead of propped ipads. My daughter has grown five reading levels in seven months.
I can't recommend a family screen overhaul enough."

Credit Molly DeFrank
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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13/08/2025

"Some things really can change your life... I am blown away by what happened just now..
Today I decided to go play downtown San Diego by the USS Midway Museum. I arrived around 11:30 am and started my jam session. The music was flowing, my voice was strong and the sunshine came out quickly. The crowds of people who walked by me were giving today, throwing in a fair amount of cash and dollar bills as I played. I also noticed off to the right of where I was standing there were 3 men sleeping on the lawn and looked like they were homeless and or in need of help.
They sat up and listened to a few songs here and there, giving me a thumbs up and even smiling after I would finish a song. As time progressed the next moment changed my life..
Michael Briggs (the man who is left of me in the photo) walked up to me and asked if he could have 1 single dollar to get food, he said he already had two dollars and wanted to go down to the store and get a 3 dollar egg sandwich.
I looked at my cash bundle and I only had around 65 dollars in the guitar case at that point.
I told Michael..
“You can take all of it if you’d like”
Michael said “wait, really?” As he started to cry and say “why?”
I said “because you are hungry and In a few hours you are going to be hungry again, so you’ll need some extra cash to get a big meal”
Michael turned around and placed his hands over his face as he cried, my heart started to well up as I realized this man maybe eats once a day and has been struggling for many years now. Michael walked over to my guitar case and he took 1 single dollar, not all of it, just ONE DOLLAR 💵
He said “ I know folks who need this more then me, so because your a good man and wanted to help me, it’s only right I do what you did and help someone else”
Michael goes and grabs Stanley (the man to the right of me in the photo)
Stanley comes up and says “can I have 3 dollars for an egg sandwich “
I told him “you can have all of it if you’d like”
Stanley started to cry as well and also asked me “why”..
I said-
“I am going to treat you the same as I treated Michael, I don’t need to know you to care about you, plus you all have been very supportive of my music the last hour or so showing me some love”
Stanley goes and grabs only THREE DOLLARS and he says “is it okay that Michael and I distribute the money evenly between other homeless veterans we know?”
I asked “you all are veterans?”
Turns out every single man and women I met today in that group (which grew to 10 people by the time my conversation was done with them) we’re all Navy, Marine, Army and Air Force veterans and served for 10 to 25 years each.. one of which was a captain In the Army and had been shot multiple times in the back (he showed me his scars and photos of him in the military) He saved multiple lives during his tours.
Michaels son is a Navy officer. His son gives his father money monthly and pays for Michael to stay in a single room apartment. Michael says that a lot of the men and women in this group come stay with Michael in his 75 -100 square foot small room and they sleep on the floor and bed with him. Taking care of each-other every day.
Now the second half of the story is about a man who was watching this entire thing unfold and walked up to me crying, wiping his eyes, his name is Jeremy.
Jeremy said “do you see what you did, how one single act of kindness has blown up into a wave of giving”
Jeremy then handed me 30 dollars cash and said “you deserve to be taken care of as well” and walked away with a smile on his face.
I am blown away by what happened down by the USS Midway museum, meeting these amazing veterans has truly boosted every ounce of gratitude I have for my family, friends and my life partner Larisa. I am so provided for, I have everything I need and yes I am human and go through some challenges from time to time but really I am so provided for and have a beautiful opportunity to give and change lives when I sing and share what I love to do.
Thank you to the brave men and women who serve this country and to the men and women that serve one another every day, helping each-other smile.
gratitude Like and Share this story if you feel called."

Credit Adam Kightlinger
[𝘋𝘔 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭]
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