MOM, WOMBIE, LET’S LOVE THE WORLD TOGETHER. 🌎❤️🔥
Beloveds,
We have grieved.
❤️🩹
We have talked about March.
We have given away the flowers.
💐
We have gone home.
🧸
And now—
come outside with me.
🌎
There is still a whole world out here.
People waking up.
People going to sleep.
People laughing.
People grieving.
People praying.
People questioning.
People falling in love.
People falling apart.
People beginning again.
People who look nothing like us.
People who believe differently.
People whose languages we don’t speak.
People whose stories we’ll never know.
People.
And I love them.
🌎❤️
I don’t mean I know eight billion people.
Good grief.
🤣
I don’t.
I couldn’t.
And neither can you.
So when I say:
Let’s love the world together,
I am not assigning you eight billion people.
Nah, fam.
Jesus already has the Savior position covered.
🙏🏿
We get to be human.
And humans can love humans.
One at a time.
🪑🪑
That’s why I keep seeing those two chairs.
One for me.
One for you.
No stage required.
No microphone.
No enormous organization.
Sometimes changing somebody’s world begins with:
Sit with me.
And sometimes I see two fishing poles.
🎣🎣
Not because we’re guaranteed to catch anything.
Sometimes companionship is sitting beside somebody while absolutely nothing spectacular happens.
Waiting.
Talking.
Being quiet.
Laughing.
Watching the water.
Staying.
Maybe that’s love too.
❤️
Mom taught me something about love simply by loving.
Wombie carries her pieces.
I carry mine.
You carry pieces from whoever loved you.
🧩
And love travels.
Someone loves you.
You love somebody.
They love somebody.
That person carries something home.
❤️➡️❤️➡️❤️➡️❤️
Eventually nobody remembers where the first kindness began.
Good.
Love doesn’t always need credit.
It needs somewhere to go.
🌎
That’s why:
Your life matters to me.
It doesn’t mean I can fix your life.
It doesn’t mean I know your story.
It doesn’t mean I’ll always agree with you.
It doesn’t mean boundaries disappear.
It means:
I refuse to begin by deciding you don’t matter.
👀❤️
Black.
White.
Brown.
Woman.
Man.
Gay.
Straight.
Believer.
Agnostic.
Atheist.
Angry.
Quiet.
Loud.
Disabled.
Walking.
Rolling.
Speaking differently.
Speaking with an accent.
Speaking perfectly.
Struggling to speak at all.
Human.
🌎
Come sit down.
🪑🪑
You don’t have to resolve before you belong.
And you don’t have to become me.
Please don’t.
🤣
This world already has a Cassandra.
One is plenty.
🥰
I want you.
Keep on being…YOU!
That’s not decoration at the bottom of my posts.
I mean it.
Bring your voice.
Bring your language.
Bring your history.
Bring your questions.
Bring your joy.
Bring the parts somebody told you were too loud.
Bring the parts somebody couldn’t hear.
Bring yourself.
❤️🔥
Because love that requires somebody to disappear before they can receive it isn’t the kind of love I’m talking about.
See my difference.
But don’t make my difference all you see.
See the person.
👀
That’s the assignment.
Not perfection.
Not saving everybody.
Not solving every problem before bedtime.
Just:
Who is in front of me?
Who needs another chair?
Who needs somebody to listen?
Who needs somebody to believe them?
Who needs somebody to say their name correctly?
Who needs somebody to stay?
Who needs somebody to laugh with them?
Who needs somebody to cry beside them?
Who needs to hear:
Your life matters to me.
❤️🩹
That’s how we love a world too big for any one of us to hold.
We don’t hold the whole thing.
We hold one another.
🫂🌎
One person.
Then another.
One chair.
One conversation.
One kindness.
One flower.
One fishing pole.
One step.
One step.
One step.
👣❤️
And eventually maybe we look around and realize:
The world wasn’t some enormous thing somewhere “out there.”
It was us.
All along.
People.
Mothers.
Wombies.
Daughters.
Friends.
Strangers.
Grievers.
Laughers.
Questioners.
Believers.
People carrying scars.
People carrying flowers.
People carrying names.
People carrying Marches that never came.
People sitting beside empty chairs.
People pulling up new ones.
We ARE the 🌎.
❤️🔥
Mom,
your love reached me.
🧸
I’m going to keep passing it.
Wombie—
come on.
❤️
Beloveds—
y’all coming?
Because Jesus said:
It is finished.
His work is done.
And those of us still here have people to love.
Not someday.
Not when everything is perfect.
Not when we finally understand everybody.
Now.
So grab a chair.
🪑
Grab another.
🪑
Grab those fishing poles.
🎣🎣
Bring your flowers.
💐
Bring your heart.
❤️
And come with me.
We don’t have to save the world.
We can love it.
Together.
One human being at a time.
One step.
One step.
One step.
🌎❤️🔥
Your life matters to me.
You are loved.
You are NOT alone.
Keep on being…YOU!
And while we’re both still here—
LET’S LOVE THE WORLD TOGETHER.
🌎❤️🔥
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Tag: encouragement
TUESDAY 🌎
🏆🏆 POTTY WARS: BABY, TAKE TWO TROPHIES! 🧻🤣
Beloveds,
It is NOON.
And apparently today we are going to church, therapy, physical rehabilitation, philosophy class AND the bathroom.
🤣🤣🤣🤣
Pearl clutchers:
Secure the pearls.
Because Cassandra has an announcement.
I WON POTTY WARS.
🏆🏆
Yes.
TWO TROPHIES.
One trophy did not adequately represent the level of foolishness, determination, engineering, cleanup supplies, prayer, improvisation and sheer GET SOME ACT RIGHT required for this particular championship.
🤣🧻🧽🧴🪣🪣🪣
And before somebody says:
But Cassandra, you just went to the bathroom…
👀
YOU TRIED IT.
🤣🤣🤣
There is no “just” in somebody else’s body.
That may be today’s biggest key.
🔑
Before my stroke, there were things my body did without requiring a committee meeting.
Now some ordinary tasks require planning.
Positioning.
Balance.
Equipment.
Patience.
Adaptation.
Concentration.
Energy.
Problem-solving.
And occasionally enough cleaning supplies to make somebody walking past my door wonder whether I have secretly opened a janitorial franchise.
🤣🤣🤣
🧽🧴🪣🧻
But here’s the thing:
I DID IT.
And I’m learning not to make my victories smaller merely because somebody else can accomplish the same thing without thinking about it.
That is a chain.
⛓️
And I am done polishing chains.
⚒️
The chain that says:
If everybody else can do it easily, your accomplishment doesn’t count.
⚒️💥
The chain that says:
Needing equipment diminishes the accomplishment.
⚒️💥
The chain that says:
Accepting help cancels independence.
⚒️💥
The chain that says:
Disability must disappear before somebody gets to call something recovery.
⚒️💥
The chain that says:
Bodies doing bodily things are too embarrassing to talk about.
BABY.
🤣
Hand me the hammer.
⚒️💥⛓️
Because dignity was never hiding inside physical perfection.
My dignity did not leave when my body changed.
My dignity does not disappear when I use my wheelchair.
My dignity does not disappear when I use my quad cane.
My dignity does not disappear when something takes me longer.
My dignity does not disappear when I need help.
My dignity does not disappear when my body makes a mess.
And my dignity certainly does not disappear because toilet paper entered the testimony.
🧻🤣🏆
PERIODT.
There are victories people applaud because everybody recognizes them.
Graduation.
🏆
Promotion.
🏆
Marathon.
🏆
Championship.
🏆
And then there are victories almost nobody sees.
Getting dressed.
🏆
Getting yourself something to eat.
🏆
Making it safely across the room.
🏆
Learning how to do something differently.
🏆
Using the mobility aid instead of exhausting yourself trying to prove you don’t need it.
🏆
Asking for help.
🏆
Cleaning yourself.
🏆
Getting through an exhausting appointment.
🏆
Trying again after yesterday went completely sideways.
🏆
And sometimes—
GOING TO THE BATHROOM.
🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Count it.
Because difficulty is experienced from inside the life being lived.
You cannot stand outside another person’s body, history, grief, circumstances, disability, resources or exhaustion and announce what should have been easy.
You don’t know the cost.
🔑
And THAT reaches far beyond disability.
Maybe somebody got out of bed while carrying grief nobody knows about.
🏆
Maybe somebody answered the phone after weeks of anxiety.
🏆
Maybe somebody said no.
🏆
Maybe somebody finally said yes.
🏆
Maybe somebody left.
🏆
Maybe somebody stayed.
🏆
Maybe somebody apologized.
🏆
Maybe somebody forgave themselves.
🏆
Maybe somebody asked for help before everything collapsed.
🏆
Maybe somebody finally stopped.
✋🏿
That last one has my attention today.
Because after all my:
DEEPPPERRRR!
⚒️⚒️⚒️
FIND THE KEYS!
🔑🔑🔑
BREAK THE CHAINS!
⛓️⛓️⛓️
LOVE THE WHOLE WORLD!
🌎🌎🌎
Apparently my body convened an emergency meeting.
The agenda contained exactly one item:
BED.
🛌
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
And Cassandra?
Apparently I voted unanimously.
😴
No closing remarks.
No benediction.
No final post.
No “one more thing.”
Just:
🛌💤
🤣🤣🤣
And perhaps THAT deserves a trophy too.
🏆
Because I am learning that I cannot celebrate my body’s victories while treating its limits like insubordination.
WHEW.
Read that again.
I cannot celebrate my body’s victories while treating its limits like insubordination.
🔑🔑🔑
Sometimes the key is:
🥾 Go.
Sometimes:
⚒️ Work.
Sometimes:
🚪 Open it.
Sometimes:
🗣️ Speak.
Sometimes:
😭 Cry.
Sometimes:
🤣 Laugh until your stomach hurts.
And sometimes:
✋🏿 Enough.
Then:
🛌 Rest.
The key doesn’t always open a door leading outward.
Sometimes the key locks the door for the night.
🔑🚪
👀
Ohhhhh.
There’s one.
Sometimes agency means opening the door.
And sometimes agency means being the person who decides:
The door is closed. I am resting. Come back tomorrow.
✋🏿🚪🛌
That is still agency.
That is still dignity.
That is still freedom.
And that means today’s Potty Wars trophy isn’t really about a toilet.
The bathroom just happened to be where the lesson showed up wearing combat boots.
🤣🥾🥾🧻
The deeper victory is this:
My changed body and I are learning each other.
Not fighting each other.
Learning.
Listening.
Adapting.
Negotiating.
Laughing.
Resting.
Trying.
Stopping.
Beginning again.
And sometimes standing together afterward looking at the evidence like:
👀
Girl.
🤣🤣🤣
WE DID THAT.
🏆🏆
So today I am taking my trophies.
I am taking my laughter.
I am taking my quad cane.
I am taking my rest.
I am taking my keys.
And yes—
somebody please bring the toilet paper.
🧻
Because apparently around here liberation requires supplies.
🤣🤣🤣🤣
Beloveds, I want you to take your trophy too.
Not tomorrow.
Not when somebody else agrees that your accomplishment was difficult enough.
Not after you explain yourself.
Today.
🏆
Whatever your victory was.
However strange.
However private.
However ordinary.
However messy.
COUNT IT.
And if today’s victory was simply surviving today?
There is a chair here.
🪑
Sit.
If you believe in God as I do, you are welcome to celebrate His faithfulness with me.
WON’T HE DO IT! 🙏🏿💖
And if you don’t believe in God, don’t believe yet, aren’t sure, or never will—
the chair does not disappear.
🪑
Nobody has to believe exactly as I believe before I can love them.
Come laugh.
Come rest.
Come tell your story.
Or say absolutely nothing.
🥂
The celebration still has room for you.
Now I need to know:
What completely ordinary thing have YOU done that deserves an absolutely unreasonable, ridiculously oversized trophy?
🏆🏆🏆🤣
Tell me in the comments.
Let’s celebrate some victories the world forgot to count.
Share this with somebody whose invisible work deserves to be seen. Like it. Follow or subscribe. And come back tomorrow at noon.
We’ll pull out the chair again.
And apparently—
🧻
we’ll keep the supplies nearby.
🤣🤣🤣
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
Unapologetically His.
Unapologetically yours.
Help me be loud:
🔑🌎😭💔🤯🥰
🌅🔑🛣️ TUESDAY MORNING
YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE FINISHED TO BE FREE.
Beloveds,
I have spent a lot of my life thinking freedom lived somewhere farther down the road.
After I figured it out.
After I healed.
After I understood.
After I got stronger.
After the problem was solved.
After the prayer was answered.
After the thing that hurt stopped hurting.
After I finally became whatever version of myself I thought I was supposed to become.
Then, maybe, I could exhale.
Then, maybe, I could celebrate.
Then, maybe, I could call myself free.
But what if freedom isn’t waiting at the end of the road?
What if freedom can meet us right here?
At the crossroads.
With questions.
With unfinished business.
With plans that didn’t work.
With bodies that changed.
With relationships that changed.
With dreams that had to change shape.
With things we still don’t understand.
With roads in front of us that don’t have nice little signs explaining exactly where they lead.
🛣️🔑
Maybe one of the cruelest things we can do to ourselves is postpone living until everything is resolved.
Because some things may never resolve neatly.
Some questions may remain questions.
Some losses cannot be reversed.
Some doors really did close.
Some people really did leave.
Some things really were unfair.
Some plans really did fall apart.
And some mornings we may wake up still carrying something we thought we’d have put down by now.
But unfinished does not mean imprisoned.
Read that again.
UNFINISHED DOES NOT MEAN IMPRISONED.
❤️🩹
I can still laugh while I’m healing.
I can still create while I’m learning.
I can still love while I’m grieving.
I can still receive love while I’m figuring myself out.
I can still change my mind.
I can still say no.
I can still say yes.
I can still rest.
I can still begin again.
I can still choose what belongs in my life.
I can still decide what doesn’t.
I can still pull up a chair.
I can still leave a chair open.
I can still look at a road I never intended to travel and say:
All right. I’m here. What can I do with HERE?
🔑
That question matters to me.
Not, How do I pretend this is the road I wanted?
Not, How do I convince myself nothing hurts?
Not, How do I turn every difficult thing into some beautiful lesson before I’m ready?
No.
What can I do with HERE?
Because HERE still contains choices.
HERE still contains people.
HERE still contains laughter.
HERE still contains music.
HERE still contains rest.
HERE still contains curiosity.
HERE still contains love.
HERE still contains another morning.
And as long as there is another choice available to me—even a tiny one—I want to notice it.
One step.
One step.
One step.
Sometimes one step is enormous.
Sometimes one step is getting out of bed.
Sometimes it is asking for help.
Sometimes it is accepting help.
Sometimes it is trying again.
Sometimes it is deciding, Not today.
Sometimes it is changing direction.
Sometimes it is sitting perfectly still at the crossroads until you are ready.
Sitting is a choice too.
Nobody said every crossroads requires an immediate answer.
💯
My faith tells me something else about detours.
I believe God can meet me on roads I never would have chosen.
I believe He can sit beside me before I understand.
I believe He can love me without requiring me to have the map figured out first.
I believe He can work in places that don’t look anything like the destination I imagined.
And I believe sometimes what I call a detour may simply be a road whose meaning I cannot see yet.
But Beloved, you don’t have to believe what I believe to pull up a chair here.
You may believe in God.
You may be angry with God.
You may be searching.
You may doubt.
You may be atheist or agnostic.
You may have stopped asking spiritual questions altogether.
You may never believe.
The chair is still yours.
Because this morning isn’t an entrance exam for faith.
It’s an invitation to life.
🌎❤️
Your life.
The one happening now.
Not the imaginary one where everything finally cooperates.
Not the polished one.
Not the someday one.
This one.
Maybe you don’t know where the road goes.
Neither do I.
Maybe your map has coffee spilled across half of it. 🤣
Maybe somebody apparently printed yours upside down.
Maybe life handed you directions that simply say:
PROCEED SOMEHOW.
😭🤣
Okay then.
We proceed somehow.
Not because we’re pretending the detour is easy.
Because we’re still here to travel it.
So this Wednesday morning, I am giving myself permission to stop demanding that I become finished before I allow myself to be free.
I can be unfinished and joyful.
Unfinished and loved.
Unfinished and useful.
Unfinished and curious.
Unfinished and tired.
Unfinished and hopeful.
Unfinished and uncertain.
Unfinished and becoming.
Unfinished and completely, gloriously alive.
And so can you.
🔑🛣️🌅
Beloveds, if you’re standing at a crossroads today, you don’t have to know the whole route.
Look around.
Find the next thing that belongs to you.
A choice.
A boundary.
A laugh.
A prayer.
A nap.
A phone call.
A song.
A good cry.
A tiny beginning.
A chair.
A road.
A single step.
Take what is yours.
Leave what isn’t.
And remember:
The detour did not revoke your right to live.
You don’t have to be finished to be free.
And you certainly don’t have to be finished to belong here.
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
Unapologetically His.
Unapologetically yours. ❤️🌎🔑
If this met you somewhere on your road today, pull up a chair and tell us about it. Comment if you want to. Share it with somebody navigating a detour of their own. Like it, subscribe/follow, and come back—we’re making room for a little encouragement every day.
There is always another chair. 🪑❤️
Help me be loud:
I. AM.STILL.ME!
Beloveds,
This is my voice before my stroke. Will be sharing others. I miss thesound of her….🤯🥺🥹😭😱
sad but grateful still,
Cassandra
Help me be loud:
MOM, WOMBIE, I GOT IT FROM HERE. 🧸💝🥰❤️🩹❤️
MOM, WOMBIE, I GOT IT FROM HERE. 🧸💝🥰❤️🩹❤️
Beloveds,
The last two pieces went out into the world.
This one comes home.
No enormous assignment.
No trying to explain grief for everybody.
Just family.
Just love.
Just some things I need to say.
🧸
Mom, thanks for your love.🧸🥰
Thank you.
Not because everything was perfect.
Not because life gave us every day we wanted.
It didn’t.
There was supposed to be a March.
There was supposed to be a vacation.
You were supposed to see my new car.
We didn’t get those things.
But before March didn’t happen—
you happened.
❤️
You were here.
You were my mother.
You loved.
You gave.
We gave away your favorite bears at your funeral.
🧸
Mom left giving love.
I love in her stead.
And here I am, still trying to give love away.
Still trying to tell somebody:
You matter.
I see you.
Don’t give up.
Love somebody.
Love this world.
🌎❤️
Mom,
thanks for your love.🧸🥰
I can’t hand it back to you.
So I’ll keep letting it travel.
❤️➡️🌎
But—
Mom, I’m puzzled.🧩🧸
I am.
About life.
Timing.
Things that happened.
Things that didn’t.
Things I thought I understood.
Things I still don’t.
Pieces that don’t seem to fit.
🧩
And I’ve learned something:
Faith doesn’t require me to pretend the puzzle is complete.
Sometimes:
I don’t know.
That’s my answer.
I believe God.
And I don’t know.
I trust God.
And I’m puzzled.
I miss you.
And God has been good to me.
Those truths can sit beside one another.
🙏🏿❤️🩹
Which brings me here:
Mom, Won’t/didn’t He do it!💝
Mom—
look.
👀
Not because everything happened the way I wanted.
Not because every prayer received the answer I would have chosen.
Not because I haven’t hurt.
Not because every puzzle piece suddenly fits.
But after everything—
I’m here.
❤️🩹
Still loving.
Still believing.
Still questioning.
Still laughing.
Still crying.
Still learning.
Still finding my voice.
Still using it.
Still telling somebody not to give up.
Still looking at this enormous world and saying:
I love you.
🌎❤️
Won’t He do it!
Didn’t He do it!
💝🙏🏿
I’m puzzled.
🧩
And I have testimony.
💝
Both are mine.
Both are true.
Now—
Wombie.
🧸
No translation.
No explanation.
No footnote.
Some words belong inside relationships.
Some names carry histories outsiders weren’t there to witness.
Some language doesn’t need anybody else’s permission.
So:
Wombie.
🧸❤️
You and me.
Mom’s daughters.
Same Mom.
Different daughters.
Different memories.
Different grief.
Different pieces.
🧩🧩
And somewhere inside all those pieces—
Mom.
Not a metaphor.
Not merely somebody we lost.
Mom.
And us.
Still here.
❤️🩹❤️
The world kept moving after Mom died.
Morning came.
People went to work.
Traffic remained traffic.
Bills remained profoundly committed to being bills.
🤣
And somehow we kept moving too.
Not because we forgot.
Not because we stopped loving.
Because we’re alive.
Living after somebody dies is not betrayal.
Mom’s daughters are allowed to live.
Allowed to laugh.
Allowed to love.
Allowed to make memories.
Allowed to change.
Allowed to heal.
Allowed to remember.
Allowed to have joy.
Allowed to keep going.
❤️🩹
And now I need to say something without explaining it afterward.
Wombie, Cassie, sis, friend. I got it from here.🧸💝🥰❤️🩹❤️
Mom,
thanks for your love.🧸🥰
Mom,
I’m puzzled.🧩🧸
Mom,
Won’t/didn’t He do it!💝
And—
Wombie, Cassie, sis, friend. I got it from here.🧸💝🥰❤️🩹❤️
That’s enough.
No sermon after it.
No explanation.
Just—
❤️
Cassandra
Help me be loud:
AUGUST 31, 2026 — NOON SERIES 🕛
AUGUST 31, 2026 — NOON SERIES 🕛
🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪 WHO TOLD YOU THE DOOR WAS CLOSED?
Beloveds,
It’s noon.
Come sit with me for a minute.
Every day at noon, I want us to meet right here—not because I believe twelve o’clock magically fixes whatever happened at 8:00, 9:17, or 11:53 this morning.
Sometimes noon arrives and the problem is still sitting there looking at you. The diagnosis hasn’t changed. The grief hasn’t packed its bags. The bills haven’t disappeared. The relationship still hurts. Your body may still refuse to cooperate with the plans your mind made.
But noon means something happened that we sometimes forget to celebrate:
You made it here.
And today, I have a question for you.
Who told you the door was closed?
🔒
I have been thinking about doors.
Some doors really do close. People leave. Opportunities disappear. Bodies change. Plans collapse. People we love die. Life can divide itself so sharply into before and after that we barely recognize the person standing on the other side.
I know something about before and after.
My stroke changed things.
It changed how I move through the world. It changed my speech. It changed what ordinary tasks can require from me. Some days I use my wheelchair. Some days my quad cane enters the story. Things I once did without thinking can now require concentration, adaptation, patience, help, determination—or all five before breakfast.
But somewhere along the way, I had to confront a dangerous assumption:
Changed does not automatically mean closed.
Read that again.
Something can be different without being finished.
Something can be difficult without being impossible.
Something can require another route without meaning there is no destination.
And a life can look nothing like the life you planned while still being a life overflowing with purpose.
🗝️
That is where the key comes in.
Sometimes we spend years carrying locks somebody else handed us.
Too old.
Too young.
Too Black.
Too loud.
Too disabled.
Too different.
Too much.
Not enough.
You missed your chance.
People like you don’t belong here.
After what happened to you, what could possibly come next?
And if we hear those things long enough, something frightening can happen.
We stop needing somebody else to lock the door.
We begin doing it ourselves.
🔏
We start shrinking before anybody asks us to shrink.
We stop knocking before anybody says no.
We decide we cannot belong somewhere before anybody has had the opportunity to welcome us.
We confuse somebody else’s inability to imagine our future with evidence that we don’t have one.
And beloveds, sometimes the hardest lock to recognize is the one we’ve learned to maintain from the inside.
That is why today isn’t simply about finding a cute little inspirational key.
We are digging.
⛏️
I want to know what is underneath the lock.
Maybe underneath anger is hurt.
Maybe underneath perfectionism is fear.
Maybe underneath “I don’t need anybody” is the memory of what happened the last time you needed somebody and they weren’t there.
Maybe underneath silence is the belief that your voice only matters when it comes out perfectly.
Maybe underneath exhaustion is the belief that you have to earn the right to rest.
Maybe underneath being “the strong one” is somebody who desperately needs permission to put the armor down.
Maybe underneath I can’t is something somebody said to you twenty years ago that you accidentally adopted as your own voice.
Dig.
⛏️
Because you cannot unlock what you refuse to name.
And I need to say something else because encouragement can become cruel when we pretend every door can be opened by trying harder.
Some doors require help.
Some require accessibility.
Some require therapy.
Some require medicine.
Some require justice.
Some require community.
Some require somebody standing beside you saying, “I know you’re tired. I’ll hold the door.”
Needing help does not cancel your agency.
Receiving help does not make the victory belong less to you.
And independence is not the only evidence of strength.
Sometimes strength sounds like:
“I need you.”
Sometimes courage looks like accepting the hand.
Sometimes the victory is not kicking the door down.
Sometimes somebody simply holds it open—
and you roll through.
👩🏿🦽
Yes.
Roll through.
Because who decided every meaningful journey had to happen on two feet?
I am not waiting until I walk differently to call my life valuable.
I am not waiting until my speech sounds the way it once sounded to believe I have something worth saying.
I am not waiting for my body to become somebody else’s definition of “better” before I participate in my own life.
My wheelchair is not parked outside the story.
It is already inside it.
And God is here too.
🙏🏿
I believe in Jesus Christ.
I believe Him when He says:
“I am the door.” — John 10:9
And that scripture has been sitting differently with me.
Because I have spent so much time thinking about keys that I almost missed the Door.
Jesus did not merely tell me where an entrance might be.
He said:
I AM.
And if He is the Door, then perhaps I need to be very careful about declaring permanently closed what God has not finished with yet.
I don’t know what every door in my life will look like.
I don’t know which things will be restored.
I don’t know which things will be transformed instead.
I don’t know which prayers will receive the answer I want.
Faith does not require me to pretend I know things God has not told me.
But I know this:
I am still here.
And while I am here, I am going to live.
❤️🔥
Now, if you don’t believe what I believe, you don’t have to pretend for me.
You are welcome here.
If you are an atheist, come sit.
If you are agnostic, come sit.
If you believe differently, come sit.
If you used to believe and don’t anymore, come sit.
If you’re angry with God, confused about God, searching for God, or have absolutely no intention of searching for God—
there is still a chair for you.
My faith does not require your agreement before I can love you.
And your questions do not frighten me away from mine.
We can sit beside one another without pretending we are standing in exactly the same place.
That might be one of the doors our world desperately needs opened.
🚪
So here is today’s key:
🗝️ Do not confuse what happened to you with who you are.
Something happened.
Maybe something enormous.
Maybe something unfair.
Maybe something you would undo immediately if somebody handed you the power.
But what happened does not get automatic ownership of everything that happens next.
Your grief doesn’t own tomorrow.
Your diagnosis doesn’t own your identity.
Your rejection doesn’t own your worth.
Your mistake doesn’t own your name.
Your disability doesn’t own your humanity.
Your fear doesn’t own your feet—or your wheels.
And somebody else’s opinion certainly does not own the key.
🔓
So before we leave each other today, I want you to ask yourself:
What have I been calling locked?
Then ask:
Who told me it was?
And then—
DEEPPPERRRR.
⛏️
What is underneath that lock?
Fear?
Shame?
Grief?
Someone else’s expectations?
An old wound?
A lie you’ve repeated so many times that it started sounding like truth?
Don’t rush the answer.
We are meeting again tomorrow.
This isn’t a race.
Today, maybe all you do is locate the lock.
Tomorrow, perhaps we touch the key.
And eventually—
when the door opens—
we go through it however we need to.
Walking.
Rolling.
Leaning.
Reaching.
Holding somebody’s hand.
One step.
One wheel turn.
One breath.
One word.
One act of courage at a time.
Because, beloveds—
there is still a door.
There is still a key.
There is still time.
And for me, beneath all of it:
There is still God.
🙏🏿🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪❤️🔥
If something here found you today, tell me about it in the comments. Share this with somebody standing in front of a door they think is closed. Like, subscribe or follow, and come back tomorrow at noon.
We are going to keep digging.
And we are going to keep opening doors.
Together.
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
Unapologetically His.
Help me be loud:
📫 WHEN WORSHIP FINDS YOU 🎧🙏🏿❤️🔥
📫 WHEN WORSHIP FINDS YOU 🎧🙏🏿❤️🔥
Beloveds,
This morning I put on my headphones and listened to Serenade of Grace.
And I stayed.
Sometimes you don’t need somebody yelling at you to keep going.
Sometimes you don’t need another lesson.
Sometimes you don’t need somebody explaining your life back to you.
Sometimes you just need a place to rest your heart for a minute.
🎧
The music was Gospel.
Smooth.
Soulful.
R&B.
Worship that didn’t feel like it was chasing me.
It felt like it was sitting with me.
And then I heard these words:
“I will praise You forever… for the victory.”
Whew.
Victory looks different to me now.
🙏🏿
Sometimes victory is getting out of bed.
Sometimes victory is doing the thing that takes me longer than it used to.
Sometimes victory is resting without turning rest into failure.
Sometimes victory is laughing in the middle of something that absolutely was not funny yesterday.
Sometimes victory is putting on my headphones and allowing somebody else’s song to carry what my own voice cannot carry at that moment.
Sometimes victory is simply:
I. AM. STILL. HERE.
❤️🩹
My relationship with music has always been bigger than background noise.
I listen.
I hear words.
I pull threads.
I find pieces of myself hiding inside somebody else’s testimony.
This morning, I found another thread.
Praise does not have to wait until everything is fixed.
I can praise while becoming.
I can praise while recovering.
I can praise while frustrated.
I can praise while tired.
I can praise while laughing.
I can praise while crying.
I can praise while I am still waiting for answers.
I can praise while some prayers still seem to have question marks hanging from them.
I can praise because victory isn’t only the moment when the battle ends.
Sometimes victory is discovering that the battle did not end you.
🔑❤️🔥
That one got me.
I am learning something about myself:
I kept thinking recovery would show me what I had lost.
There has been loss.
I will never pretend otherwise.
But recovery keeps introducing me to what remains.
My curiosity remains.
My humor remains.
My stubborn little determination remains. 😂
My desire to learn remains.
My desire to encourage somebody else remains.
My ability to find beauty remains.
My faith remains.
And, Beloveds—
my praise remains.
🙏🏿
Maybe that is why this music found me this morning.
Not because I needed another performance.
Because I needed a reminder.
There is still music here.
There is still joy here.
There is still worship here.
There is still life here.
There is still something worth putting the headphones on for.
🎧❤️🔥
And maybe you need that reminder too.
Your victory might not look like anybody else’s.
Please stop measuring it with somebody else’s ruler.
Maybe you got dressed today.
Maybe you answered the phone.
Maybe you finally said no.
Maybe you finally said yes.
Maybe you asked for help.
Maybe you rested.
Maybe you started again.
Maybe you survived something nobody around you even knows you’re carrying.
Maybe today your victory is simply reading these words and deciding:
I am going to give tomorrow a chance to meet me.
That counts.
❤️🩹
And if faith isn’t part of your life, you don’t have to borrow mine to belong here.
You can call it hope.
You can call it resilience.
You can call it love.
You can call it another morning.
You can simply call it one more step.
Sit with us anyway.
There is room.
🌎🫂
But me?
I’m going to call mine what I know it to be.
God has carried me.
And while I still have breath—
I will love.
I will laugh.
I will learn.
I will write.
I will listen.
I will encourage.
I will live.
And yes—
I will praise Him forever for the victory.
🎧🙏🏿❤️🔥
Thank you, Serenade of Grace, for being part of my morning.
Beloveds, put on your headphones today.
Find something that reminds you there is still life inside you.
Then turn it up.
Maybe not too loud.
…
Who am I kidding? 🤣🎧📢
Look at the name of this blog.
WHY CAN’T I BE LOUD?!
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
Tell me what you’re listening to today.
Comment, share, like, follow or subscribe, and come back for another little bit of encouragement.
There is more morning ahead of us. 🌅❤️🔥
Help me be loud:
MOM, WOMBIE, WE NEVER GOT MARCH. 🧸❤️🩹
MOM, WOMBIE, WE NEVER GOT MARCH. 🧸❤️🩹
Beloveds,
My mother died on Christmas morning.
We had plans.
We were supposed to take a vacation in March. She was supposed to see my new car.
I was so sure we had time.
We never got March.
❤️🩹
I’ve thought about that a lot.
Because sometimes grief isn’t only losing somebody.
Sometimes grief is losing future tense.
“We’re going to…”
“Next time…”
“When I see you…”
“Later…”
“March.”
Then suddenly we’re going to becomes we were going to.
And there are things you didn’t know were memories while you were making them.
The last ordinary conversation doesn’t announce itself.
The last laugh doesn’t say, Remember this one.
The last hug doesn’t come with a countdown.
Life is just life—
until something changes.
Then memory goes back and puts frames around moments that looked completely ordinary when we lived them.
🧸❤️🩹
Maybe you have a March.
Maybe it wasn’t a vacation.
Maybe it was a phone call.
A birthday.
A meal.
An apology.
A conversation.
A Christmas.
A visit.
A ridiculous little thing nobody else would understand.
Maybe you thought:
We have time.
And then you didn’t.
Beloved, I’m not going to tell you what that loss is supposed to mean.
I’m not going to tell you everything happens for a reason.
I’m not going to tell you to stop crying.
And I’m certainly not going to tell you that faith means grief shouldn’t hurt.
Jesus wept.
So can we.
🙏🏿❤️🩹
Faith doesn’t require anesthesia.
You can trust God and miss somebody.
You can praise and hurt.
You can laugh at something they used to say and cry thirty seconds later.
You can have questions.
You can even have complicated grief.
Maybe the person you lost loved you beautifully.
Maybe they hurt you.
Maybe both are true.
Maybe you’re grieving with gratitude.
Maybe anger.
Maybe relief.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe questions.
Bring all of it.
There is a chair for you.
🪑🪑
And there is something else I have learned:
Death gets one date.
Love gets the whole life.
Mom was more than Christmas morning.
She was more than the day she died.
More than my grief.
More than a story I’m telling you.
Before she was Mom, she was a whole woman with a whole life.
And Wombie and I still get to call her:
Mom.
🧸❤️
I don’t want the final day to become louder than every day that came before it.
The funeral doesn’t get to become louder than the laughter.
The goodbye doesn’t get to erase the hello.
Death gets one date.
Love gets everything between the dates.
And everything between those dates can contain an entire world.
🌎
That’s why losing one person can feel like losing a world.
Somebody reading this knows.
Maybe your person died yesterday.
Maybe fifty years ago.
Maybe you’ve been doing fine and something tiny brought everything rushing back.
A song.
A smell.
A recipe.
A photograph.
A phrase.
Bring their name.
They don’t have to stay outside.
❤️🩹
And Wombie—
same Mom.
Different daughters.
Different memories.
Different grief.
Neither one has to compete with the other.
There is room.
🪑❤️🩹🪑
Sometimes one person remembers something another forgot.
Sometimes memory comes back piece by piece.
🧩
And together we can say:
She was here.
Not merely:
Her death happened.
She was here.
She lived.
She loved.
She mattered.
And we are still here.
Which brings me to Jesus.
He said:
“It is finished.”
Jesus’ job is done.
Our job is not done.
We aren’t finishing Calvary.
We aren’t completing Christ’s work.
We aren’t anybody’s Messiah.
What belonged to Jesus to finish, Jesus finished.
🙏🏿
His work is completion.
Our work is response.
Love God.
Love one another.
Be somebody’s neighbor.
Call.
Listen.
Visit.
Feed.
Remember.
Protect.
Make room.
Pull up another chair.
Stay.
Love.
❤️
There are still people here.
So don’t spend your life terrified that every goodbye could be the last one.
That’s not what I’m saying.
I’m saying:
Let ordinary love count while it’s ordinary.
Love somebody while the day is still just Tuesday.
Tell somebody they matter while they can hear you.
Don’t wait for the funeral to discover somebody was precious.
And don’t wait for March.
Because sometimes—
March doesn’t come.
Mom,
I wish we’d gotten ours.
I wish you’d seen my car.
I wish we’d had more ordinary days.
But I won’t allow the day you died to become bigger than all the days you lived.
You were here.
You loved.
You mattered.
You still matter.
🧸❤️🩹
Beloveds,
your person was here too.
Say their name.
Tell their stories.
Laugh when the memories are funny.
Cry when they hurt.
Carry what was good.
And then turn toward somebody who is still here.
Love them.
Not because you’re afraid they’re going to die.
Because they’re alive.
That’s reason enough.
One person.
One chair.
One call.
One kindness.
One step.
One step.
One step.
And while we’re both still here—
let’s love this world together.
🌎❤️
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
You are loved. You are NOT alone.
Keep on being…YOU!
Help me be loud:
THE HAND FROM HEAVEN ✋🏾☁️🧻🤣
THE HAND FROM HEAVEN ✋🏾☁️🧻🤣
What the Potty Wars Taught Me About God, Help, Dignity, Agency—and Joy
Beloveds,
I have an announcement.
I WON THE POTTY WARS.
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Yes.
Me.
👸🏿
And before somebody gets excessively spiritual and turns this into a solemn testimony with organ music playing softly in the background, please understand:
There were buckets.
🪣🪣🪣
There was toilet paper.
🧻
There was laundry.
🧺
There was trash.
🗑️
There was HARD.
There was also FUN.
There was JOY.
There was laughter.
And my faith tells me something else was there too.
God.
❤️
Let me explain.
When I was in the hospital and needed toilet paper, the techs could help me without taking over everything.
They could hand me what I needed, tastefully, from just outside the door.
🧻
Think about that.
They helped me while still giving me privacy.
They provided something I needed without turning my need into humiliation.
They didn’t have to erase my agency in order to assist me.
I still needed them.
And needing them did not make me less me.
That matters.
Then I came home.
There wasn’t a hospital tech standing outside my bathroom door.
But eventually I started thinking about what had happened at home through the eyes of my faith.
And this is the picture that came to me:
God metaphorically handed me the toilet paper.
🧻
That is what I mean.
Not that the ceiling opened.
Not that a gigantic physical hand descended from Heaven.
Not that the angels arrived carrying bathroom supplies.
Although once He put THAT picture in my head…
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Now I can’t unsee it.
☁️☁️☁️
The clouds part.
Light pours down.
✨✨✨
The heavenly choir begins.
🎶🎶🎶
A majestic hand slowly reaches down from Heaven…
✋🏾☁️
And behold:
🧻
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
“My daughter…
you gon’ need this.”
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Not the Red Sea today.
Not manna.
Not water from the rock.
TOILET PAPER.
🧻
And somewhere in the bathroom:
👸🏿 Cassandra: “Thank You, Jesus.”
🪣 Bucket: “We have seen things.”
🧺 Laundry basket: “Please leave me out of this.”
🗑️ Trash: “I know my assignment.”
And the humble roll of toilet paper rises for its moment:
🧻
“I WAS CALLED FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS.”
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Beloveds, I laughed so hard.
But underneath that laughter is something I genuinely believe.
Sometimes we expect God only in enormous things.
We look for seas to part.
Mountains to move.
Doors to fly open.
Miracles big enough to announce themselves.
But what about the ordinary provision?
What about what is already within reach?
What about the thing you need for this step?
Maybe it isn’t spectacular.
Maybe nobody will write a song about it.
Maybe nobody will put it in stained glass.
Maybe it’s toilet paper.
🧻
My faith allows me to look at an ordinary provision and say:
God, You were here too.
Not because the hard disappeared.
It didn’t.
Not because suddenly I didn’t need help.
I did.
Not because my body suddenly did everything I wanted it to do.
It didn’t.
I got what I needed to take another step.
And then another.
And another.
One step. One step. One step.
👀❤️🩹
There is a difference between rescue and provision.
Sometimes rescue says:
“You will never have to face this.”
Provision can look more like:
“You’re facing it. I’m here. Here’s what you need for the next part.”
🧻
That realization opened something else for me.
🔑
I needed help.
And I still had agency.
Those things can exist together.
I think sometimes we confuse independence with dignity.
If I can do absolutely everything myself, then I’m independent, capable and dignified.
If I need somebody—or something—to help me, somehow we imagine that means I’ve lost something.
Nah fam.
🤣
I needed those hospital techs.
Their help mattered.
At home, I needed tools.
Those tools mattered.
According to my faith, I needed God.
He mattered.
And through all of it…
I mattered.
Needing help didn’t cancel Cassandra.
Receiving help didn’t erase Cassandra.
My body having needs didn’t make Cassandra the problem.
And this may be one of the biggest 🔑s hiding inside our ridiculous Potty Wars:
THERE WAS A MESS.
I WAS NOT THE MESS.
👀
Sit with that one.
There was something difficult happening.
There were things that needed cleaning.
There were things that needed throwing away.
There were tools I needed to use.
But none of those things defined the human being standing—or sitting—in the middle of them.
Me.
👸🏿
The bucket was a tool.
🪣
The toilet paper was a tool.
🧻
The laundry basket was a tool.
🧺
The trash can had a job.
🗑️
And Cassandra?
Cassandra was the person using what she had to live her life.
That is agency.
Agency isn’t always cinematic.
Sometimes nobody kicks down a door.
Sometimes there isn’t dramatic music.
Sometimes agency looks like:
“Okay. This is what my body is doing today. What do I need?”
Need a bucket?
🪣
Apparently we need another bucket.
🪣🪣
GOOD GRIEF, HOW MANY BUCKETS DO WE NEED?
🪣🪣🪣🪣🪣🪣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Fine.
Bring the bucket department.
Get the toilet paper.
🧻
Get the laundry basket.
🧺
🥽
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Then handle the business.
And afterward?
👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾
APPLAUSE.
Not shame.
Not humiliation.
Not pretending it didn’t happen.
Not deciding my dignity depends upon keeping every difficult bodily experience secret.
Applause.
Because I made it through.
And I laughed.
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
That matters to me too.
Joy was there.
Joy didn’t wait outside the bathroom until everything became pretty.
Joy didn’t say:
“I’ll come back when this looks respectable.”
Joy came right into the mess.
💘🪣💘
LOOK AT THAT.
Love right between the buckets.
🤣❤️
And maybe that is another 🔑:
DIGNITY IS NOT THE ABSENCE OF MESS.
Dignity is the person in the middle of it still being fully human.
Another 🔑:
NEEDING HELP DOES NOT CANCEL AGENCY.
Another:
RECEIVING HELP DOES NOT MAKE YOU LESS YOU.
Another:
JOY DOES NOT REQUIRE PERFECT CIRCUMSTANCES.
Another:
FAITH DOES NOT REQUIRE PRETENDING SOMETHING WASN’T HARD.
And another:
SOMETIMES PROVISION IS ORDINARY ENOUGH TO MISS.
A roll of toilet paper.
A bucket.
A tool.
A tech who preserves your privacy.
Something placed within reach.
Enough strength for the next movement.
A ridiculous joke that makes you laugh until you can hardly stand yourself.
🤣
And maybe that’s why I don’t want to clean this story up so much that we lose the funny.
The funny belongs here.
The joy belongs here.
The hard belongs here.
My body belongs here.
My faith belongs here.
God belongs here.
I belong here.
❤️🩹
And THAT is why I keep saying:
The victory of the Potty Wars was ME.
👸🏿
Not because I needed nobody.
I did.
Not because everything worked perfectly.
It didn’t.
Not because nothing difficult happened.
It did.
The victory was that something difficult happened involving my body…
and I remained the narrator of my own life.
I could decide what it meant.
I could find the tools.
I could receive help.
I could believe God was with me.
I could laugh.
I could learn.
I could keep going.
I could tell the story.
Me.
🫵🏾🔑🚪
Maybe somebody reading this is dealing with something today that doesn’t look inspirational.
Good.
This is for you.
Maybe what you need isn’t a mountain-moving miracle today.
Maybe you need something ordinary.
Maybe you need help.
Maybe you need a tool.
Maybe you need somebody to hand you something from outside the room and give you enough privacy to do the rest yourself.
Maybe you need permission to laugh.
Maybe you need to remember:
There may be a mess.
YOU are not the mess.
And if you’re a person of faith like me, maybe you’ll look around at some ordinary little provision and whisper:
“God, You were here too.”
And if you aren’t a believer, don’t believe in God, don’t believe yet, or never will, there is still a chair for you in this story.
Maybe what you see is human ingenuity.
Help.
Adaptation.
Humor.
Community.
Resilience.
An ordinary object being exactly where somebody needed it.
You don’t have to interpret the experience exactly as I do in order to sit with me.
Bring what you see.
I’ll bring what I see.
Maybe we’ll both notice something we would have missed alone.
👓🥽🔑
Because sometimes life hands us profound lessons.
And sometimes…
apparently…
Heaven’s supply closet is open.
☁️✋🏾🧻
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Hard was there.
Help was there.
Joy was there.
Fun was there.
Agency was there.
Dignity was there.
Cassandra was there.
And according to my faith…
God was there.
❤️
Beloveds, tell me what you see in this story. What ordinary thing has helped you through something hard? Come laugh with me, share this with somebody who needs the reminder, like it if it gave you some joy, follow/subscribe and come back—we’re finding 🔑s together every day.
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
💋🧻🪣👸🏿🤣❤️🩹🔑🚪
Help me be loud:
COME SIT AT MY TABLE 🪑❤️🩹
COME SIT AT MY TABLE 🪑❤️🩹
Beloveds,
Come sit at my table.
I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you look like. I don’t care whether your life looks anything like mine. I don’t need you to explain yourself before you pull out the chair.
Just come sit with me.
I know something about sitting alone.
There was a time when I was the child sitting at the lunch table without somebody beside me. I know what it feels like to wonder whether anybody is coming. I know what loneliness can feel like when you’re surrounded by people and somehow still find yourself by yourself.
So I made a choice.
If I am the only person sitting at the table, I will sit there and wait.
Not because I’m ashamed of who I was.
Not because I am still trying to prove something to the people who called me ugly.
I got my beautiful.
I think I’m beautiful now.
And I am moving on with my life.
But moving on doesn’t require me to forget the child who once sat alone. In fact, maybe one of the beautiful things I can do with what hurt me is make sure there is an empty chair beside me for somebody else.
That’s why I stay at the table.
It has nothing to do with race.
Yes, I am a Black woman. And yes, there are things about living in this Black body and moving through this world that are exhausting. There is also tremendous joy here. Both things are true.
But that isn’t what this table is about.
This table is about the person who is alone.
Black.
White.
Brown.
Gay.
Straight.
Believer.
Atheist.
Disabled.
Nondisabled.
Quiet.
Loud.
Certain.
Confused.
Happy.
Hurting.
Somebody who looks like me.
Somebody who doesn’t.
Somebody whose life I understand immediately.
Somebody whose life I may never completely understand.
You don’t have to qualify for the chair.
You don’t have to convince me that your loneliness is lonely enough.
You don’t have to tell me the right story.
You don’t have to believe what I believe before I’ll sit beside you.
You don’t have to become more like me.
And I don’t have to become more like you.
There is no entrance examination at this table.
You’re alone.
There’s a chair.
Come sit with me.
Maybe we talk.
Maybe we laugh.
Maybe we dance.
Maybe we listen to some music.
Maybe we eat our lunch without saying very much at all.
Maybe you tell me something about your world that I couldn’t possibly have known unless you trusted me enough to let me see it.
And maybe I do the same.
We don’t have to fix one another.
We can simply refuse to leave one another alone.
That matters to me because I remember.
I remember the little girl who was called ugly.
I remember being alone.
And I cannot go backward and put somebody beside that little girl.
But today?
Today I can leave a chair open.
And tomorrow I can do it again.
Maybe somebody who sits with me today will notice somebody standing alone tomorrow.
Maybe they’ll pull out another chair.
Maybe that’s how a table gets longer.
Maybe that’s how loneliness loses a little ground.
Maybe that’s one way we love the world.
So, Beloved, if you’ve been standing there wondering where you’re supposed to sit:
Here.
Sit here.
You don’t have to audition.
You don’t have to qualify.
You don’t have to prove that you belong.
I saved you a seat.
Come sit at my table.
Come sit with me.
You don’t have to eat alone. 🪑❤️🩹🫂
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
