💬 Let’s Talk About Sex—No, Really 💬 | Roselyn A. St. Claire

We’ll moan.
We’ll grind.
We’ll arch our backs and say all the right things in the dark.

But talk about sex in the light of day?
Crickets.

We undress for each other, but keep our desires clothed.
We share our bodies, but not our truths.
We fake moans, avoid eye contact, and call it intimacy.

But real intimacy? That takes guts.
It takes language.
It takes saying, “That feels good… but I want more.”

You sleep with them. But can you talk to them?
Can you say what turns you on, what doesn’t, what you secretly crave when the lights go out?

Most of us can’t. Or won’t.
Not because we don’t want to—but because we’re scared.
Scared of judgment. Scared of rejection.
Scared of ruining the illusion.

But what if silence is the real turn-off?

Let’s talk about sex. Let’s talk about real pleasure.
Let’s talk about what happens when we stop faking it and start feeling it.

It’s different with everyone—yet somehow, we’re all the same.

To write this blog, we spoke with people in romantic relationships, marriages, partnerships, friendships-turned-lovers, and complicated spousal situations. Heterosexual couples, lesbian couples, same-sex relationships between women, studs, and those in-between.

Because people—men, women, and everyone in between—are drawn to each other for many reasons. One of those reasons? To be intimately involved.

But here's my question today:

Are we actually comfortable when we come together to pleasure ourselves, or are we faking the comfort along with the moans?

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Let’s get real:

Why is talking about sex with the person we’re actually having it with... the hardest part?

If sex is supposed to be intimate, why are we so scared to talk about what we actually want?

What’s stopping us from having honest conversations that could make our sex lives unforgettable?

Why do lovers go silent when it’s time to speak about pleasure?

How do we sleep together every night—but avoid the one conversation that could make it better?

Why do we act like talking about sex is riskier than having it?

Is our fear of rejection ruining our chance at better sex?

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Maybe the better question is:

Does anyone ever really satisfy us the way we want to be?

Are we hiding behind the good girl or tough guy personas when what we really want is to scream out,
“Yes, baby, right there…”

Or better yet, to have a mature, sexy conversation about what works and what doesn’t—because let’s be real: sometimes he or she just isn’t cutting it.

Some people vibe off their partner’s sounds, expressions, and body language—but what happens when your partner doesn’t give you any of that?

They just lie there. Silent.

No “Ooohs.”
No “Ahhhhs.”
No “Yes, baby, right there,”
No “Sí, papi... así, así.”
Nothing.

Apparently, in some hookups and long-term relationships, one partner just doesn’t feel safe enough to express themselves sexually.

Fear of embarrassment? Fear of being judged?
Just... plain fear?

In my opinion? That’s not fear. That’s disconnection.

Wouldn’t you want to know if you're with someone who’s only there to play the role, but not to feel it with you?

Wouldn’t you want to know if you’re loving someone who has no idea how you like to be loved?

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Let’s talk about facts.

Whether you’re slim, thick, overweight, fit, sex requires comfort.
Before, during, and after.

That means caresses. Touch. Care.
Not just “take this and go to sleep.”

Even if you’re going to fall asleep right after, there should be time taken before—to ensure your partner is happy, satisfied, and feels wanted.

Some people say, “I’m just not that type of person.”
But surely there's a line—somewhere—where you say:
“I want to love my partner in a way that brings us both joy. I want to be present.”

Then some partners insist you must shower every single time before they touch you. Ouch.
Where’s the comfort? Where’s the desire if it's conditional?

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From the interviews:

💬 “My partner trembles. ☺️ Toes curl. He often catches a cramp in his leg. It’s the only time he moans—more or less he sounds like a car… mhmmmm… mhmmmm… mhmmmm.

During sex he’s quiet, but when he’s about to cum, he clenches his hands, his breath hitches, and he always kisses me right after. Like a thank you in body language.” 🥴

💬 “When I cum, my toes wiggle.”

💬 “He usually just falls asleep right after.”

💬 “I moan and groan until I’m comfortable. Once I get relaxed, I become more vocal.”

💬 “They like it when I talk dirty to them.”

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So... what makes us truly relax and enjoy sex?

Do we rely on our partners for cues?

Sure, bodily actions can help guide us. But sometimes people have spent so long pretending, they get lost in the act.

When you're searching for love, and you’ve been knocked around emotionally by people who didn’t accept you for who you really are... You start to mask yourself. You stop asking for what you want. You try to perform instead of connect.

And if the person you're with doesn’t have legit feelings for you, doesn’t see you beyond the body—you’re never going to get to that point of mutual sexual peace.

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There’s a saying:
It’s not what you say. It’s how you say it.

Some people are easily offended.
Some partners get defensive—even when you’re trying to help them, please, you better.

But it’s okay to say:
"Babe, I like this…"
"I’m not really feeling that—can we try this instead?"

That kind of honesty takes maturity. It takes trust. But when done right, it takes your sex life from average to transformational.

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So here’s the challenge:

Ask yourself…
Are you stifling your sexual desires out of fear?
Do you make your partner feel safe enough to express theirs?

It’s not just about having sex. It’s about being free enough to say:
“I want to feel good. And I want you to feel good with me.”

Let’s talk about sex.
Let’s talk about pleasure.
Let’s talk about honesty.

Let’s stop pretending and start connecting. 🖤

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The Great Pretender | by Roselyn A. St Claire

 As told by a friend of mine one day when he just needed someone to listen..

Is he wrong for staying in a love he no longer feels? Or is he just human, playing the role because it’s easier than starting over?

He sat across from me, eyes heavy, voice low.

“I don’t even know if I’m a bad man… or just a man trying to survive the situation I’ve found myself in.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to me about her—his partner. But this was the first time he said it without anger or frustration. Just truth. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission to be said.

He told me he plays the role well. Says all the right things. Does all the expected gestures. From the outside looking in, it would seem like he’s committed. Like he’s in love. Like everything is just fine.

But it’s not.

He hasn’t felt genuinely attracted to her in a long time. Not physically, not mentally, not spiritually. There’s no spark left—not even a flicker.

The only way he can rise to the occasion during sex is with help—brown liquor, a heavy cigar, or both. That’s the only way he can numb himself into performance. He can't remember the last time he touched her sober, clear-headed, and aroused because of her.

“She doesn’t satisfy me,” he admitted, not out of malice but out of exhaustion. “She’s a basic lover. Closed off. Not open to exploring. She shuts down every time I try to talk about sex. It’s like she’s locked herself away from even her own pleasure.”

And yet… he stays.

He stays because leaving would mean explaining. Uprooting. Starting over. He stays because her presence is predictable. Familiar. It’s easier to pretend than to begin again. And sometimes, we all choose what’s easy.

But while she may believe she has him, he confessed that his body has wandered elsewhere.

Other lovers have given him the satisfaction he can only dream of getting from her. They ignite things she no longer can. But he keeps those flames at a distance, just far enough to not burn the bridge at home.

“She thinks I want her,” he said. “But I just want peace. And sometimes, pretending gives me that.”

He cares for her… in the most basic ways. He does just enough to keep her feeling wanted—birthday gifts, the occasional compliment, the kiss on the forehead. But none of it comes from passion. It's all from habit.

She’s not unattractive. Just… average. And over time, average can feel like nothing at all.

He’s grown tired of asking. Tired of trying. Tired of faking orgasms with someone who doesn’t even know they’re being faked.

And now, he asks me:

“Am I wrong for feeling this way? For staying… but not really being there?”

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🖤 Closing Thought

This isn’t just one man’s confession—it’s the quiet reality of many relationships that run on autopilot. Where love has turned into duty. Desire has turned into obligation and emotional connection has faded into performance.

So many are trapped in dynamics where needs go unmet, but change feels more frightening than misery.

If you're reading this and it hits too close to home—ask yourself:

Are you the one pretending?
Or are you the one being performed for?

And what would it take for either of you to stop?

Let’s talk about the relationships that look alive… but died long ago.

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

Invited Into Her Danger | Guest contribution by Herman Kingsley | Edited by Roselyn A. St. Claire

A bold male perspective from our Intimate Conversations series.

From casual office flirtation to a night I’ll never forget, this encounter started with kindness and ended in chaos wrapped in pleasure. What began as innocent appreciation turned into the most dangerous—and seductive—affair of my life.

When I started working back in 2012, there was this one female coworker who, from day one, seemed deeply invested in my well-being. She trained me in the ins and outs of the job, and in return, I brought her small tokens of appreciation—coffee, lunch, the occasional chocolate bar. We built a rapport. A rhythm. A soft exchange of kindness that grew during my probation period.

She welcomed the compliments. Laughed at my teasing. We even brushed against each other sometimes—a casual nudge here, a gentle pat there. Nothing dramatic. Nothing inappropriate. But the chemistry? It lingered. It whispered beneath every interaction.

Then came one unexpected weekend. She invited me over.

We had been flirting for weeks. She often mentioned how much she hated being alone in the evenings. She lived nearby, and one night, I decided to visit.

She greeted me in a robe. And from the way the fabric clung to her curves, it was obvious—she wasn’t wearing anything underneath but lingerie. That raised an eyebrow. Sure, we’d been playful... but this? This was something else.

Still, I stepped inside.

She guided me to the dining table, where she had laid out a full three-course meal. Every detail was intentional. Thoughtful. Honestly, sex was the last thing on my mind—until I started noticing the photographs.

Wedding photos. And not old ones.

I excused myself to use the bathroom and got a closer look.

She was the bride.

My mind went into overdrive. Was he gone? Divorced? Dead? Or about to walk in and make me the lead story on Monday morning?

Trying to stay cool, I returned to the table. She then asked me to lie down in her bedroom while she took a shower. The mental fog thickened.

When she emerged... it was like watching a goddess glide across the room. Her skin still wet from the shower, hair cascading down her back, her naked body gleaming with oil. It was poetry in motion. She moved slowly. Confident. In control.

I had to ask about the photos.

She sighed. “He left years ago. Went to the States. Never came back.”

“You still have feelings?” I asked.

“If I did, you wouldn’t be here,” she said calmly.

It was both a warning and invitation.

She knelt beside me, kissed my cheek, and touched me with the kind of tenderness that breaks down your defenses. I sat on the bed, and she returned from the bathroom glowing—nude again, and clearly on a mission.

She straddled me. Slid her hands under my shirt. Kissed my chest. Licked my nipples.

I was hers.

She reached for my shorts and pulled them off with slow urgency. Her mouth found me—slow, deep, confident. She took her time. She teased. She pleased. It wasn’t rushed or frantic. It was purposeful. Like she was unraveling me with every breath.

And when I couldn’t hold back any longer, I came hard. She swallowed it all—without hesitation.

Then she climbed on top of me and lowered herself with ease, her hips rising and falling in a rhythm that felt like worship. She was untamed. Wild. Desperate. She came once. Then twice. Then again. Her moans filled the room until she collapsed on top of me, panting, spent.

Later, when she stirred from our shared nap, she asked, “Did you come too?”

I chuckled. “Not the second time.”

She opened her legs. Locked eyes with me. And whispered, “Then come again. Inside me. This time, don’t hold back.”

I was exhausted. But there was no way I was turning that down.

I took my time—slow strokes, steady rhythm. Her legs wrapped around me, guiding me deeper, harder, faster. When I finally came again, she asked me not to pull out.

I didn’t.

And that moment—right there—changed everything. I wasn’t just the new guy anymore. I had crossed into something darker. Something hotter. Something I couldn’t walk away from.

Her husband had left.

But I had walked in.

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Closing Thought

Some affairs come with warning signs. Others cook you dinner, kiss you like you’re the only man on earth, and make you forget there was ever a line to begin with.

I didn’t just risk it. I dove in.

And even now? Part of me would do it all over again.

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Image created with OpenAI's Sora

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Territory | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

The story is told of two friends who lived in the same yard—a space they shared intimately, their lives woven into the fabric of daily routines. They were as different as could be, yet over the past few months, they had become the best of companions.

There was Steve, the male—quiet, steadfast, content to observe. And Luna, the female—all light and curious energy.

They spent countless hours together. Their days were marked by shared walks through rustling leaves and the comforting rhythm of meals eaten side by side. Life in the yard had settled into a gentle hum of companionship. Steve, ever watchful, cherished this quiet bond deeply. Luna, in turn, sought him out with playful nudges and soft purrs of attention—a constant affirmation of their closeness.

Then one day, a new male arrived.

His name was Hennessy. Larger. More imposing. His stay was only meant to be temporary. From the start, Hennessy kept mostly to himself—a solitary figure who often lounged in his makeshift dwelling on the western side of the yard. Occasionally, he’d attempt a friendly gesture toward Luna—a casual nuzzle, a low rumble of curiosity. But she didn’t seem particularly interested. Perhaps she simply wasn’t “feeling him.” Or maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to upset her companion, Steve.

But Steve felt it—a subtle shift in the air. A new presence had arrived. And something was changing.

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The Shifting Tides

As the weeks passed, the subtlety faded.

Luna began to linger longer near Hennessy’s space. Their playful chases began to drift toward his side of the yard. Steve noticed the difference first in her gaze—a softer, more captivated look reserved now for someone else—and then in her energy, a new spark of excitement that once belonged only to him.

This new connection didn’t sit well with Steve. The once cozy, predictable dynamics of their yard felt suddenly… off. Chaotic. A knot of unease tightened in his chest.

Hennessy was bigger. Stronger. His movements deliberate, his presence commanding. Their unspoken rivalry flared into the occasional territorial clash—quick growls, sharp snaps. Nothing serious, but the tension hung in the air like smoke. Steve, though smaller, held his ground—but the creeping sense of helplessness was undeniable.

He was losing his place. And he didn’t know how to fight for it.

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The Quiet Ache

Steve and Luna shared the main house on one side of the yard—their haven, filled with shared memories. But Luna began to venture further into Hennessy’s domain, drawn by something invisible. Steve would sit on the porch, watching her cozy up beside Hennessy, the intimacy once shared between them now openly—casually—extended to another.

Then came the “dates.”

Several times, Luna and Hennessy would disappear from the yard, returning only in the quiet hours of dawn. Steve would wake with a start, a sinking dread already settled in his gut. He’d see Luna returning from the far side of the yard, often looking tired—but unmistakably content.

Each sighting was a fresh stab. A silent confirmation that everything had changed.

What could Steve do? Hennessy was older, larger, and had stolen something Steve hadn’t even known he could lose. And Luna... had made her choice.

This pattern continued for weeks, stretching Steve’s patience and heart to their limits—until the day finally came for Hennessy to leave.

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The Departure

When Hennessy left, a strange stillness fell over the yard.

A mix of relief and grief settled over Steve. He no longer had to compete. The tension was gone. But so, too, was the vibrant bond he once shared with Luna. He dealt with it in his own quiet way—retreating into himself, letting the echoes of Luna’s shifting affections fade with each passing day.

The yard returned to its quiet hum.

But it was never quite the same.

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Closing Thought

The quiet drama that unfolded in this yard—with Steve, Luna, and Hennessy—might sound like the outline of a love triangle or a coming-of-age romance.

But here’s the twist: This wasn’t a human story.

It was the story of three dogs. Two of mine. One belongs to my son.

For three months, I pet-sat them, and in observing their behavior, I saw an entire emotional landscape play out: loyalty, jealousy, competition, longing, heartbreak, and quiet healing.

What’s wild is how much it mirrored us—how we, too, navigate the shifting tides of connection. How we feel replaced. Left behind. How we fight for our place in someone else’s life. And how, sometimes, the only thing left to do… is sit quietly on the porch and wait for peace to return.

Love. Desire. Loss. Territory.

Maybe we’re not so different after all.

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Image created with OpenAI's Sora

"Still a Father: The Silent Grief of Miscarriage" | Guest Contributor - Herman Kingsley

Edited By Roselyn A. St. Claire

One of the worst feelings a man can experience is watching his woman go through a miscarriage, especially when the child was deeply wanted. When you’ve worked hard to reach the point of pregnancy, hearing her say, “My water broke,” just three or four months in… it’s not just heartbreaking. It’s mentally devastating.

Worse still is knowing that, unless a miracle happens, there’s no chance of survival.

Years ago, my partner and I were expecting. We were overjoyed, floating. We took every precaution: clean eating, careful movement, doctor visits, supplements. Every possible precaution was observed. We were older than the average couple, so when the doctor recommended an amniocentesis, we were told it was to rule out the possibility of Down Syndrome. We agreed.

Still, I was uneasy.

The day of the procedure, I called a doctor friend in the U.S., and his response was urgent:

“Get out of there. Now.”

But by the time I made it to the office, she was already in stirrups and the needle was going in.

That procedure lasted nearly an hour. The doctor said the baby kept extending his leg toward the needle, so he had to “keep trying.” That meant pulling the needle out and re-inserting it, repeatedly.

Now, I’m no medical expert, but common sense told me that couldn’t be good. Still, he assured us it was fine, that no harm was done. She was told to go home and rest. We had a wedding to attend that weekend, and though she didn’t feel great, we still went. That night ended on a high note.

But the next day… everything changed.  She called out to me from the bathroom.

“My water broke!”

I ran in to find the floor soaked and blood trickling down her legs.

Panic.  Pain.  Powerlessness.

We rushed to the doctor’s private hospital, and as he met us at the entrance, I could see the look on his face.

Guilt.  Failure. 

He knew.

Later that night, we learned it was a boy.  He didn’t make it.

I went home and completely broke down. I couldn’t even be there for her. Couldn’t hold her. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t process what had just happened.

And the next day, when I returned to pick her up—she was the one comforting me. That image of her, strong in her most broken moment, is burned into my memory.

For many years, that miscarriage remained a silent rift between us, even after we eventually had a child together. We never fully grieved together. And if I’m honest, I never forgave that doctor.

Looking back, I believe the procedure was not done properly. I think that the loss could have been avoided. And while I did find healing in becoming a father later on—with the guidance of a different, more capable physician—there’s a part of me that still aches for the boy we didn’t get to meet.

Men Grieve, Too

This story is personal. It’s raw. And it’s a reminder that men grieve, too.

We may not always show it the same way.

 We may not have the language or the tools.

 We may even fall apart quietly—in the dark, alone.

But miscarriage, pregnancy loss, and reproductive trauma affect both partners. And too often, men are expected to be the strong ones, the fixers, the steady support.

Sometimes, we just… don’t know how.

🖤 If you’re going through this—whether you’re a mother, father, or partner—know this:

You are not alone.

You’re allowed to feel everything you feel.

And you don’t have to carry it silently.

📌 For women:

Please seek support from OB/GYNs, grief counselors, or maternal mental health specialists. Post-miscarriage depression and trauma are real.

📌 For men:

It’s okay to need help. Therapy, grief groups, spiritual counsel, even just a safe conversation with someone you trust—all of it counts.

Don’t minimize your pain.  Don’t bottle it up.  Don’t pretend it didn’t happen.

Your grief deserves care, too.

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If you or someone you love has experienced miscarriage or pregnancy loss, consider these resources:

1. Amniocentesis - https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/amniocentesis/about/pac-20392914

2. Pregnancy After Loss Support -  https://pregnancyafterlosssupport.org/

3. Postpartum Support International – Dads/Partners - https://postpartum.net/get-help/help-for-dads/

4. Miscarriage Association (UK-Based but global support) - https://www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk/  

🖤 Let’s keep talking about the things that break us—so we can learn how to heal.

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#MenFeelToo  #SilentGrief  #HealingThroughStory  

#UnspokenPain  #MentalHealthMatters

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

If sex is supposed to be intimate, why are we so scared to talk about what we actually want?

We’ll ask for directions before driving into a new town… 🗺️🚘
But not before diving into each other’s bodies. 🍑🍆

Why is that?

Why do we hesitate to talk about sex—especially with the people we're actually having it with? 🛏️🗣️

We’ll fumble in the dark for a condom, a position, or a pulse… but won’t reach for a real conversation.

Let’s talk. 💬🔥

 

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

🎹 The Talent That Wasn’t Nurtured 🎹 | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

A reflection on creativity lost too soon—and how it still lives in us, waiting. — A reflection on music, memory, and reclaiming softness

I was talking to my cousin the other day.
We do this sometimes—disappear into our own worlds for months, then suddenly reappear in each other’s lives like we never left. Our conversations are effortless. Sprawling. Emotional. We cover everything: family history, our parents, our siblings, love lives, work, the things we still dream of doing... and the things we never got to do.

We’re both February babies—air signs. Thinkers. Talkers. Dreamers.
There’s always something swirling in the atmosphere between us. Something deep. Reflective. Free-flowing.

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Music: Our Constant Denominator

Every time we reconnect, one thing always shows up: music.

She told me about the Casio keyboard she got as a child, along with a beginner piano book. She was excited. Curious. But the interest—though real—never got to grow. Life stepped in. Structure stepped in. And most of all, priorities that weren’t hers stepped in.

And that’s when I remembered something I hadn’t said out loud in years.

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A Piano by the Door

When I was somewhere between fifth and seventh grade, I asked my grandmother for piano lessons.

And for a short while—I actually got them.

There was a woman who taught out of her home. I still remember the feeling of walking in: quiet, sacred, still. The piano sat right at the entrance. Not tucked away. Not hidden in a corner. It lived in the center of the home—loud, proud, waiting to be played.

I was quiet, but eager.
Ready to learn. Ready to make sound.
Ready to press a key and feel something rise.

But the lessons didn’t last.

Maybe it was money. Maybe it was logistics. Maybe it was that silent, generational belief that art was a hobby for “other people.” That real life required practicality, not piano keys.

And so the lessons stopped.
And the little girl who wanted to play... didn’t.

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The Notes We Still Carry

My cousin and I sat with this.
Two girls who had a spark.
Two women who, even now, feel the ache for the things we were almost allowed to love.

I think that’s why I’ve grown to love the pan yard.

It’s not a piano—but it has rhythm. Keys. A voice. A heartbeat.
It lets me express what I didn’t get to nurture as a child.
I get to play. I get to feel. I get to release.

And maybe that’s what this was all along—a quiet, lifelong craving for emotional freedom. For softness. For spaces that let us be whole.

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Soft Life, Hard Lessons

My cousin and I are both in a season of craving softness.

Not laziness. Not lack of ambition.
But ease.
Feminine energy.
Joy that doesn’t have to be earned through exhaustion.

We’ve carried so much—being the strong ones, the dependable ones, the “fixers.”
We became the over-functioning daughters, sisters, and partners.

And it’s heavy.
It wears you down.

Now, we’re learning to peel back the layers.
To give ourselves permission to want what we were once told wasn’t practical, or possible.

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When Dreams Are Treated Like Extras

It’s strange how long we carry the grief of dreams we weren’t allowed to nurture.

We were just kids, reaching for something that moved us.
And the people raising us—often with good intentions—taught us that our gifts weren’t necessary. That creativity wasn’t “real.” That art was something extra. Something you grow out of, not into.

But creativity isn’t extra.
It’s essential.

It’s how we connect.
It’s how children make sense of themselves, and the world around them.
And when adults dismiss it—when they say, “That’s not important”—they don’t just say no to a hobby.

They teach a child to silence themselves.
To second-guess their instincts.
To believe their voice isn’t worth hearing.

That kind of disconnection doesn’t disappear. It lingers.

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We Grow Up… But Something Still Feels Missing

Here we are now—two grown women who once wanted to play the piano.

We still light up when we talk about music.
We still wonder who we might have been if someone had simply said yes.

I think that’s why I feel so at home in the pan yard.

It may not be a grand piano, but it has everything I need.
Sound. Energy. Freedom.
A space to let my spirit stretch and sing.

I may not have been raised to believe music was a path—but I’m finding my way back to it. On my terms. In my rhythm. With my own two hands.

---

A Note to Parents (Past, Present, and Future)

Please—don’t dismiss what your child naturally loves.
You may not understand it. You may not see how it fits into your plans.

But that spark they carry?
That could be their gift.
Their compass. Their therapy.
The very thing that helps them feel alive when everything else feels heavy.

Don’t teach them to live half-alive.

Let them draw. Let them dance. Let them sing.
Let them build or tinker or make magic out of words.
Because creativity isn’t just cute—it’s identity.

It’s how a child learns who they are.

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Image created with OpenAI's Sora

“Taking Daddy to the Doctor: A Quiet Kind of Love” | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

When Caring Becomes a Conversation — Love, Duty, and the Quiet Moments in Between

My mom called me one day last week and said she wanted to talk when I had a moment. It didn’t sound urgent, so I moved through my day as usual and ended up seeing her the next day.

She told me that both my father and my brother needed to go to the doctor for checkups—but neither of them wanted to. I found myself thinking: How exactly am I supposed to make two grown men do something they clearly don’t want to do?

My dad had told her he wasn’t feeling much sensation on his entire left side. He also admitted he hadn’t taken his medication in a while.

I booked an appointment with the German doctor near my area in Indian Harbor. It was easier to access, and the thought of dealing with traffic and parking on the main strip stressed me out.

Later that night, my mom called again. She said Daddy wanted to thank me, but he was feeling better and didn’t think he needed to go anymore.

I wasn’t impressed.

The appointment was set for Wednesday at 1 p.m. Somehow, I’d already booked three meetings that day. I was going to have to juggle it all and hope I didn’t burn out.

I left home and drove to pick him up. I called my mom when I was nearby so she could have him ready and out front. That way, I wouldn’t have to go inside.

He came out in a long-sleeved blue-and-white plaid shirt, white jeans, and a cap. When he got into the car, my mom walked over and signaled to me with some crumpled bills in her hand—two hundreds and a twenty.

I told her it was fine, I’d cover everything. As she turned away, my father looked at me and asked how I could refuse money like that. “Whenever someone gives you money, accept it,” he said.

I should’ve known better. I called her back and took the cash—just in case we needed it for medication.

As we drove through the province toward the business center in the south of the island, he was animated. He pointed out old buildings, made side comments, and shared memories. We passed a man on a bicycle—someone he used to work with. Strangely, he’d mentioned that same man’s name just moments earlier, saying he hadn’t seen him in a while.

I swear I heard him mutter under his breath, “If I wanted to take him out, he wouldn’t even know it was me.” I smiled quietly to myself.

He was genuinely happy I was taking him to the doctor. He reminded me, like he often does, how when I was a child, he used to take me to town on weekends, spending his pay getting me food, clothes, and just hanging out with his firstborn.

I asked him, “Who gave me my name?”

He said by the time he arrived at the hospital, my mom had already chosen it. But he had another name in mind—he’d wanted to name me after his youngest sister, Gillian.

The drive was a string of small stories and comfortable silences. An oddly tender day. And still, I found myself quietly wishing it would rain hard enough to cancel everything.

We got to the doctor’s office half an hour early. The receptionist greeted us while on speakerphone. She paused her call to give us registration forms. It was a small, three-room clinic tucked inside one of the shopping malls in Long Island—reception, doctor’s office, and a bathroom.

The doctor—a tall, bearded German man—arrived soon after. Quirky, funny, and attentive. He spoke directly to my dad, listened carefully, and asked all the right questions.

Turned out, my dad hadn’t taken his medication for weeks. His blood pressure read 195. The doctor said that could definitely explain the numbness.

They talked for a while about his health, made a follow-up plan, and he was told to start taking B12. The doctor suggested we book an appointment with a cardiologist next.

I sat mostly in silence, watching. Watching my father being taken seriously. Watched someone listen to him without rushing. It felt good.

I paid the bill and then stopped by the nearby pharmacy to get his medication.

On the drive home, I asked again about my name. He repeated his answer—Mom named me, but he’d wanted Gillian. I thought about how, as a child, people often mixed up my name with my aunts’, sometimes even calling me Gillian by mistake. Maybe there was always a little piece of her meant to be with me after all.

It’s been a few days since I took him to that appointment. I called once but didn’t get through.

I haven’t tried again.

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Reflection

Caring for our parents sometimes means stepping into roles we never expected—becoming their advocate, their chauffeur, their memory-keeper. It’s a bittersweet path, filled with small victories and quiet frustrations.

Taking my father to the doctor was more than a medical errand—it was a reminder of the love and history between us, the unspoken stories carried in names and shared silences. A moment where past and present met, where duty mingled with tenderness.

Sometimes, the hardest part is accepting that we can’t protect those we love from every fear, every choice, every stubborn silence. All we can do is show up, hold space, and keep the line open—even when they don’t answer.

This is the complicated dance of family.

And it’s where love lives—in the imperfect, the unexpected, and the everyday.

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Image created with OpenAI's Sora