be a fucking tiger: a love note to the souls almost too lost to be found. almost.

lostblog2

Hard realizations are my forte. If you have ever read this blog before; this is not new, exciting, or even close to fake news. My name in the blogosphere (and my resume) has been made up almost solely based on hard fucking lessons of the heart, head, and even my fucking body. What can I say? I was raised a strong girl. Nay, woman. Nay, goddamn human being. And I go out to play hard. What’s the point in playing this game called, Life if you don’t have every intention to fucking WIN?!


While I may forget time to time– I will forever know my worth. Being a strong human being does not (and will not) ever cut that down in to itty, bitty pieces. I do not apologize for being a wild thing you cannot tame.

With tears in my eyes while riding an elevated train; I have written some of my most raw:

  • feelings
  • fears
  • desires
  • and dreams

I am 27 years old and I still call my mother after a break up. I call my father for advice. I call my sisters when I need to complain about the answers I received from my first two calls. And lastly, my friends. I call me friends for anything and everything between, above, or below.


I am first and foremost a writer. I became a talker when I realized the true strength and power in my own voice in a crowd. I am also kind of funny, so that helps. #handoutemoji I write to decompress. I write to get everything out and see it in plain sight. I write as a first draft.

I speak to be heard. I speak to be heard in all aspects. I speak eloquently and with grace. My voice rarely trembles. Because I am strong. I do not foresee a day where I speak only because I have been called upon. I speak the moment I have raised my damn hand (if I even get that far) and opened my mouth before another person had the chance to be called upon. I will be heard. And I will not apologize for being a strong woman with a loud voice.


The thing about hard realizations is simply that; they are fucking HARD. And sometimes (most times) you have these realizations too late. You get these gushes of “oh fuck” after the mess has been made. You have spilled the wine, broken the plates, said the harshest of words, and cried the tears.

Then there is this moment. The moment where everything snaps back and you are still you. Sure, you may be a little drunk or a lot sad; but you are alive.


That is my favorite response these days when someone asks me how I am: I am alive. Even when I’m broken and wanting to be dead; I am fucking alive. I am breathing and I am here. I am still a wild thing; running my mouth, running the world, and not asking for a damn apology anymore.

Tigers cannot change their stripes or whatever. I ask this:

Why would they fucking WANT to?!

Without its stripes, a tiger is just a giant cat house cat meandering the jungle that is life. A tiger without stripes is a house cat without shampoo bottles to knock over at 3 am during a sudden rush of the “zoomies”. How fucking tragic would that be? To be a giant cat with no outlet for all of that… power (for lack of a better, more eloquent word). We call a tiger, a “tiger” because of those stripes. Those stripes are the things that set them apart from all those fluffy little bitches ruining our curtains in suburbia.

Strength is a stripe. Having a voice is a stripe. In dark times of desperation, in times when you have lost yourself in work, school, or god forbid another person like I have; remember your stripes.

Be a fucking tiger. Be a fucking leopard. Be a goddamn otter (have you seen those claws? fuck.) Whatever you are, whoever you are:

Remember your self + remember your worth.

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