IT ME!

Beloveds,

Before there was a blog, there was me.

I need to start there. Because if I’m going to introduce myself—really introduce myself—I don’t want to begin with a website.

I don’t want to begin with something that happened to me. I don’t want to begin with a list of things I have survived, things I have accomplished, or things somebody else might use to explain who I am.

I was me looooooong before I was a blog.

I was a little girl who loved words. I remember sitting in doctors’ offices reading Reader’s Digest. And no, I wasn’t just some bored little kid grabbing whatever happened to be sitting on the table. I was drawn to it.

I loved the motivational things. The encouraging things. The words that could make somebody think differently, laugh unexpectedly, or feel a little better than they did before they read them.

I loved Quotable Quotes. I loved Life in These United States. I loved Laughter, the Best Medicine.

Long before I had a blog, I was collecting words. Long before I had readers, I was reading.

Long before I knew exactly what I would do with my voice, I was listening for voices that made life a little lighter, a little wiser, a little more hopeful.

And somewhere along the way, I started writing too. I’ve written all my life.

Writing wasn’t invented for me by a website. It wasn’t something I suddenly discovered because life became difficult and I needed somewhere to put my thoughts.

Words were already mine. Encouragement was already mine.

For a long time, I have tried to READ something, WRITE something, and LISTEN to something positive every day.

Feed your mind something worth carrying. Put something worthwhile back into the world. Listen for something that reminds you there is still goodness here.

That rhythm did not suddenly become meaningful because my circumstances changed.

It was already mine.

And then there was another dream.

I wanted to be a motivational speaker.

There was just one teeny-tiny problem: I was terrified of public speaking. 🤣 Apparently my heart had ambitions my nerves had not approved.

But I wanted the microphone anyway. 🎤

I wanted words to do out loud what I already knew they could do on a page. I wanted to encourage people. I wanted to speak into somebody’s life and leave something there that might help them keep going.

Eventually, I did speak. I had to give a speech to graduate. A teacher helped teach me about the written word and the spoken word. Later, I joined a speaking group. I volunteered helping abused children. I gave presentations.

I was scared.

And I enjoyed it anyway.

Somewhere in all those years—the reading, the writing, the listening, the speaking, the serving—there was one ridiculously simple thing underneath everything.

I wanted to love the world. 🌎

That’s it.

I wanted somebody who felt alone to feel less alone. I wanted somebody who was ready to stop to take one more step. I wanted somebody who had forgotten their worth to encounter a few words that might remind them:

Your life matters.

Eventually, there was a blog.

Why Can’t I Be Loud?!

But please understand the order.

The blog didn’t make the woman.

The woman made the blog.

The blog simply gave something that was already living inside me another place to go. Another microphone. Another page. Another doorway. Another way to reach toward somebody I may never meet and say:

Come here. Sit with me awhile.

And if I’m really introducing myself, I can’t skip one particular word.

Ugly.

There. I said it.

I was called ugly.

I’m not going to pretty that part up now. Words matter, especially when they find you young. Ugly informed my world. It affected beauty. Belonging. Being seen. Being wanted. Being included. Being looked at—and being looked past.

But there is something I refuse to give that word:

My love.

Ugly informed my world.

Ugly did NOT inform my love.

Cruelty does not get to come back years later and collect credit for the woman I became. I will not hand it that trophy.

I did not learn to love the world because somebody taught me what cruelty felt like. The people who hurt me do not get authorship credit for my heart.

That heart was mine.

And God loved me as I was. Not some someday version of me. Not the version somebody else might find prettier, quieter, easier, more acceptable, or more convenient.

Me.

And somewhere along this life, I learned something else too:

I love me.

This face is mine. This laughter is mine. This faith is mine. These questions are mine. These words are mine. This heart is mine.

This voice is mine.

And then—the stroke came.

I will not introduce the woman I am today and pretend it didn’t happen.

But listen carefully:

My story does not begin with my stroke.

The stroke did not give me my purpose. It did not make me a writer. It did not teach me to love words. It did not put encouragement in my heart. It did not give me my desire to speak. It did not create my love for the world.

I brought all of that INTO the stroke.

And that distinction matters.

Because the stroke came for some of the very things I had spent my life using:

My voice.

My words.

My hands.

The little girl who loved words grew into a woman who wrote them—and now sometimes I have to fight just to get those words where I want them to go. The woman who dreamed about microphones grew into a woman who found her voice—and now sometimes I have to fight for that voice.

The writer has words inside her—and sometimes her own hands fight her over putting them onto the page.

There is something almost unspeakably cruel about that.

But I am speaking it anyway. 🎤

Because I’m still here.

And maybe Why Can’t I Be Loud?! means something even deeper to me now. I asked a question about voice.

Then life came for my literal voice.

And I am still answering.

I. AM. HERE.

My voice may be different. It is still mine. My words may take longer to reach you. They are still mine. My hands may fight me while I try to put those words into the world.

They are still mine.

And I am still writing. Still speaking. Still laughing. Still questioning. Still believing. Still learning. Still loving.

Still I rise.

Not because suffering made me extraordinary. Not because every painful thing needs a pretty lesson attached to it. Not because I am interested in performing strength for anybody.

I rise because I am still here.

And Beloveds, here is the part I desperately want you to understand:

I am fighting for these words because I still want to give them to you.

For you, Beloveds.

That little girl picked up words because something in them called to her. This grown woman keeps fighting to put words into the world because somewhere out there is another human being who may need one.

Maybe you need to hear that your life is not finished. Maybe you need somebody to sit beside you without demanding that you clean yourself up first. Maybe you need permission to laugh while you’re hurting. Maybe you need to be angry. Maybe you need to grieve. Maybe you need to begin again.

Maybe you just need somebody somewhere on this great big planet to say:

I see you.

You matter to me.

You are not alone.

Then come sit with me.

Bring yourself. Bring the beautiful and the ugly. Bring the questions and the mess. Bring the faith and the doubt. Bring the laughter that shows up at absolutely inappropriate times. 🤣 Bring whatever voice you have today.

You don’t have to sound like me. You don’t have to believe everything I believe. You don’t have to live where I live, look like I look, love like I love, speak like I speak, move like I move, or understand the world exactly the way I do.

There is still a chair here for you.

Because this was never about making the whole world Cassandra. Good grief. One is plenty. 🤣

This is about loving the whole world while letting people remain themselves.

So let me introduce myself.

I am Cassandra.

I am the little girl who loved words. I am the woman who kept writing them. I am the scared woman who wanted the microphone anyway. I am the woman who was called ugly and refused to surrender her love.

I am the woman God loved then and loves now. I am the woman who learned to love herself. I am the woman whose body now sometimes fights her for her voice, her words, and her hands.

And I am the woman who keeps reaching for the microphone anyway. 🎤

Same heart. Same mission. Different settings.

ALL OF ME.

I am still writing.

I am not done.

And neither are you.

So take the step. Then take another one. And another. 🥾

One step. One step. One step.

However long I have a voice, I intend to use it. However long I have words, I intend to give them. However I have to get those words from my heart into this world, I intend to try.

Still I rise.

For you, Beloveds.

For love.

For this great big messy, hurting, beautiful world. 🌎

And because after all this, somebody is inevitably still going to ask:

Why can’t I be loud?!

Well…

Who said I can’t? 🎤

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!