For years, I lived as a night owl. Working midnights shaped my routine, my energy, and even my mindset. I thought mornings were for other people—the ones who thrived on early alarms, coffee at sunrise, and productivity before noon. Me? I was used to the quiet of the night, the stillness when the world seemed asleep.
But life has a way of surprising us. After many years of midnight shifts, it took me just as many years to retrain myself to embrace mornings. And now, I can say with confidence: I am a morning person.
🌞 Why I Love Mornings Now
There’s something powerful about waking up early. The day feels wide open, full of possibility. I start by writing down everything I need to do—my little roadmap for the day. And the best part? I actually get it done.
Meals planned: I know what’s for breakfast and dinner before the day even begins.
Tasks handled: Calls are made, errands are completed, and the house gets cleaned.
Balance built in: I even carve out time for a nap, so I recharge without guilt.
Evenings free: By the time dinner is made, I can relax with a movie before bed.
It’s a rhythm that feels natural, fulfilling, and peaceful.
🌸 The Shift in Perspective
I used to think mornings were restrictive, that waking up early meant giving up freedom. But now I see it differently. Mornings give me structure, and structure gives me freedom. Instead of rushing or feeling behind, I move through my day with intention.
The sunlight pouring through my window feels like an invitation to live fully. The quiet hours before the world gets busy are mine to claim. And the satisfaction of ending the day knowing I’ve done what I set out to do? That’s priceless.
✨ A Lesson in Change
Becoming a morning person taught me something bigger than just sleep schedules: change is possible. Even when habits feel ingrained, even when we think “this is just who I am,” life can shift. With patience, practice, and openness, we can grow into new rhythms that serve us better.
I never thought I’d love mornings. But here I am, embracing them wholeheartedly. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade this new chapter for anything.
I’ve always been a listener. Since I was about 10, maybe 12, I asked a million questions. I didn’t even know back then that I wanted to be a writer—I just knew I loved reading, loved stories, reading the Bible and loved the truth. Truth has always been my thing. God knows me: I’m going to tell it.
One day, out of the blue, my dad sat me down. Looking back, I think it had been on his mind for years. He told me he had a daughter before he met my mom. He was about 15. He said he saw her sometimes. I remember asking, “Well why can’t I meet her?” But my dad would shut down when I asked too many questions. He’d give me just enough to keep me interested, but never the whole story. That was him.
He told me she looked like me. That was enough to keep me dreaming. I’d go to bed thinking about her, wondering what it would be like to play with her, to see her face. I never thought he was making it up—I knew my dad. I woke up to him every day of my life. He knew me, and I knew him.
Years passed. I was about 15 or 16 when he wanted to talk about her again, he finally gave me HER mother’s name. Back then there was no internet, no cell phones, no Facebook, no Instagram. Just a name that didn’t ring a bell.
Later, when I was grown and had internet. My Sister came to my mind again. I tried to research her mom, but Dad wouldn’t tell me her name. Still, I held onto the pieces he gave me. I knew My Sisters name. Even if I didn’t know how to spell it. MY FB name is LaCrease, but MY BIRTH CERTIFICATE name is LaCreasea. My mom and dad don’t know how the a got on there, but it’s on my SS, Driver’s License and all my business. I have to use that name. Her name is Lateresa
Then one day, my dad called me: “Zee, your sister just left my apartment.” I was like, “For real, Daddy? Are you serious?” He said yes. I asked him a billion questions. I remember running to Belle Isle—my place of peace—to thank God. I cried. I knew He had answered the prayer I’d been carrying since I was 12.
He gave me her phone number and finally me and my siblings met her. I was tripping on how much she looked like my grandmother. I thought back to 1985 when my grandmother took me on a week train ride to Toronto—we had the best time. Seeing her reminding me how much she looks like grandma.
But life is life. Things slowed down. A lot of things concerning this story had me second guessing. Ups and downs came. I told God, “Okay, I’m done with this for now. When it’s time, I’ll be ready.” But one thing for sure in all of it. I KNEW WHAT MY DADDY TOLD ME WAS THE TRUTH.
After my dad passed in 2019, I heard from her again briefly. We always small talked on each other FB post from time to time, but at least I knew where she was at ALL times. I had peace. God gave me patience and understanding in this situation. I had time.
Then last week—out of nowhere—she contacted me again. She sent me a DNA list with names. I want to post it, it’s funny who all names popped up. I looked at it, and I knew EVERY single person on there. Everyone!!! I asked her what made her finally do it. She said, “I was tired of wondering.”
And that’s our story right there. We all get tired of wondering. Tired of silence. Tired of secrets. I share this because families need these conversations. Some people won’t like it, some will feel uncomfortable. I’m cool with that. Because I love truth. And I am not alone. Here are some photos of her and my niece and nephews!!!! Yeaaaaa!
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There is another story I would like to share. I got permission from THOSE, THIS STORY BELONGS TOO. I will only share the JOY it brings me, just because its MY DAUGHTERS STORY NEISHIA.
JUST weeks before I had a stroke. Nesha got a text from her cousin telling her that someone had taken a test ** I really don’t know how those test goes**, but the names on that paper LEADS to known people and their names.
She called her dad and they had a conversation, and the first thing I ask Nesha was does she have a FB? Nesha had photos of her already in her phone. She gave me her name and when I tell you I stalked her page. LOL I was so HAPPY. MY baby has a sister now. She was excited. Not only that but Nesha is an auntie. I can hear them saying Auntie Nesha. LOL I love it.
It just amazes me how things happen. God made us all and he can pair up to be family as he wishes.
When I came home from the hospital, I didn’t return to my apartment. Instead, Nesha took me in and cared for me for over four months. She put her whole life on hold—her plans, her schooling, her dreams. She had signed up for her Master’s program, but life “lifed,” as we say, and she chose to be there for me.
During that time, she spoke with her sister over the phone, but they never met in person.
Now, I’m well, moved into my new apartment, she’s working on getting her life back and it’s time for those quiet gurls to meet!!!!! I’ll see my sister next year * she moved from Detroit* but Neshia’s sister lives right here. I’m going to let them work it out, I’m just excited on the side lines. They are both businesswomen, own their own homes, and NEED TO MAKE TIME FOR EACH OTHER.
🌸 Closing Thoughts
This story is more than just about DNA tests or family connections—it’s about God’s timing, answered prayers, and the joy of discovering new bonds. Families need these conversations, even when they’re unexpected or uncomfortable. Truth has a way of bringing healing, and joy has a way of multiplying.
We all carry both personality and character. When life is good, we often show up in a certain way—smiling, laughing, moving through our days with ease. But what happens when life shifts? What happens when something unexpected knocks us off our feet?
If something ever happens to you—whether it’s a car accident, an illness, or a situation that leaves you homebound—you’ll quickly discover who is truly there for you. You’ll see it in the people who show up at the hospital, who bring food when you can’t cook, who send money or cards, who call or text just to check in. You’ll see it in those who sit with you when you’re lonely, who drive you to appointments, who pick up your kids from school, who wash your clothes, or who simply pray for you.
I’m not talking about being sick for a few days. I’m talking about the kind of life-altering moments that require months of recovery, daily care, or even 24-hour support. In those times, you learn who your community really is.
And here’s the truth: we are all just one accident away. One diagnosis, one unexpected event, one moment that changes everything. That’s why now—while you’re healthy, while you’re standing strong—is the time to change the way you think. Build relationships. Be present. Treat people with kindness. Because when you’re down, the people who show up are often the ones you’ve poured into, or those who are simply good-hearted enough to love without condition.
Everybody can’t do everything. But everybody can do something. Even a simple phone call or prayer matters.
I see people on Facebook airing out who didn’t show up for them, but I always wonder: who were you when life was good? Did you show up for others? Did you build a community, or did you expect one without giving?
So I say this: build yourself a community and be a community. Because one day it might be them who needs support—but tomorrow, it could be you.
There are moments in life that change you forever. For me, one of those moments came after my stroke—when I woke up in the hospital, tubes finally removed from my throat, and all I wanted was a sip of water.
Not a bottle. Not a glass. Just a sip.
My throat was so dry it felt unbearable. I remember laying there, not sleepy, just still. I whispered to God, “I’m thirsty. Please, just a sip. If I can get that, I’ll have hope to live.” And then I said something I couldn’t believe even as the words left my mouth: “If I don’t get a sip of water, I don’t want to wake up in the morning.”
I meant it. In that moment, it was real.
When the night nurse came in, I knew she’d say no. But I asked anyway. “Please, just a sip.” She looked at me with sympathy but said she couldn’t. I begged her. I needed that sip like it was life itself. She left. Came back. I asked again. Still no.
But then—God moved.
She left again, and when she returned, she had a small cup of water with a straw. She looked around, then gently placed it at my lips. Just before she snatched it away, I got two sips. Two glorious, life-giving sips.
I believe with all my heart that God told her it was okay.
That night, I slept. And when I woke up, my family was there. The doctors gave me more water, but I wanted gallons. My voice was low and whispery, not my own, and no one could understand me. I motioned for a pen and paper, knowing exactly what I wanted to say. But when I wrote it, the words didn’t match my thoughts. No one understood. I was so frustrated.
Can you imagine knowing what you want to write in that moment, but your thoughts won’t cooperate? Writing one thing, but it comes out another? That was me. I am a writer with almost 200,000 HITS. How was this happening to me?
The note above is one of the many notes I wrote when I needed to communicate. I think I was saying, I wanted to know when those tubes were going to be removed. (( laughing right now))
Later that day, because I was able to feed myself. A nurse came in with greens, macaroni and cheese (I hate cheese, lol), fried chicken, and a big cup of water and ice. I barely ate, but that water. That water was everything.
I know the night nurse broke the rules. But I’ve been there too.
Years ago, working as a cashier at Walmart on 12 Mile and Gratiot, a young mother came through my line. She was short on money for pampers and milk. I watched her negotiate with herself—what could wait until tomorrow? It broke my heart. I’ve been there before. I reached into my pocket, gave her the money, and told her to keep the change. I didn’t want it to look suspicious on camera. She cried. I didn’t care if it was against the store policy. I didn’t care how she got into that situation. I didn’t care who was supposed to help her. That didn’t matter to me. All I knew is that she needed help. And I sure didn’t care if I got fired.
Sometimes, when God says it’s okay, you just do it.
There’s a kind of love that wraps around you like a warm blanket fresh out the dryer. That’s the love I’ve always felt from my mother. I love, love, love my mother. Not just because she raised me—but because of how she raised me.
As the oldest, I had a front-row seat to her strength, her grace, and her unwavering presence. From a young age, she talked to me—not at me, not around me, but to me. She shared her thoughts, her day, her heart. And what stood out the most? She never cursed. She was never mean. But don’t get it twisted—she was firm. And looking back, I love that about her. That firmness was love in action. It taught me boundaries, respect, and how to carry myself with dignity.
My dad was the playful one—he’d joke and laugh and have fun with us. But my mom? She made it clear: “I don’t play with kids.” And yet, she was so much fun. She loved to talk, to connect, to pour into us. One of my favorite memories is how she’d take us shopping one-on-one. When it was my turn, just me and her I was in Heaven. That time was sacred. We felt seen, heard, and special.
When I got my first job, I couldn’t wait to buy her things. She was always so appreciative. The way her face lit up with joy—it was everything. It made me want to give her the world.
Every day after school, we’d come home to snacks or dinner already made. That kind of consistency, that kind of care—it stays with you. Her hugs? They were healing. They still are. All our friends loved her. They called her “Momma” or “Ms. Walker,” and she welcomed them with that same warm smile she gave us. She had a way of making everyone feel like family.
My mother is the kind of woman who doesn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. Her presence speaks volumes. Her love is steady, her spirit unshakable, and her smile? It’s the kind that makes you believe everything’s going to be okay.
She didn’t just raise me—she shaped me. And I thank God for her every single day
I blog because I have something to say. Not just to speak—but to express, release, and reflect. Blogging gives me space to get things off my chest, to share what’s on my mind, and to honor the experiences that shaped me. I’m an individual with a story, and I believe stories are meant to be shared.
I love to read because I love to learn. I would listen to an animal if it could tell me about its life. That’s how deep my curiosity runs. Every blog I read is a chance to pause, reflect, and say, “I never looked at it that way.” Those moments—those quiet revelations—are why I keep coming back to the page.
When I write, I’m not just telling my story. I’m inviting you to think about yours. Maybe something I say will remind you of a time you faced a similar situation. Maybe you’ll see how I handled it and think about how you did. That’s the beauty of blogging: it’s not just about me. It’s about us.
We’re all different. Our experiences take us down different streets. And that’s okay.
I love New Balance shoes. I love the way they feel on my feet. But does that mean I should talk down on other gym shoes? No! It just means I prefer what’s comfortable for me. That’s how life works. We learn from each other’s preferences, stories, and truths. We don’t have to agree to grow.
I LOVE meeting someone who is not me. It gives me joy to read about someone else’s life, to walk in their shoes for a moment, and to see the world through their lens. That’s why I blog. That’s why I read. That’s why I listen.
Because learning starts with listening.
If you feel inspired and lead to send Blessings~ Zelle
I had a dream that I was in this building with lots of rooms and people. In every room it had only a HUGE MIRROR. I WAS IN CHARGE, like in all of my SPIRITUAL dreams.
We were surrounded by MIRRORS. Instead of looking at the person, I was looking in the mirror at the person I was telling to “wake up “as I was pointing to where the EXIT doors were. I knew the world was coming to an end, and if they didn’t listen to me, their faces would BURST INTO A BIG BALL OF FIRE, which meant they DIED. I wanted people to LIVE ((which meant)) getting out of the building. But they were in another ((mind set)) and felt why was it necessary to leave…. in the first place?
Instead of them focusing on leaving, they chose to put all their ENERGY into wondering…. WHY I WANTED THEM TO EXIT SO BADLY. Some people were looking at me like I was crazy and didn’t listen. For some reason they weren’t comprehending that Jesus was on his way, and it was their last chance to be saved. Instead, they chose to wonder why I was telling them to EXIT. As time went on, I was so deep into telling people where the EXIT signs where, that as this one person I was standing next to FACE BURST INTO A BALL OF FLAMES… I was too close, and mines caught on fire too. I was dying.
In my DREAM… it was like I came to myself ((knew I was dreaming)) and told God that I wanted to LIVE. I told him that I wanted to ((wake up from my death)) and go back into the building to tell the other people where the EXIT signs were. Well, God listened to me, and he permitted me to go back into this BUILDING with lots of mirrors, rooms and people to tell them one again where the EXIT signs were. When I got back into my dream… I looked into the mirror to tell this other person where the EXIT signs were and saw that MY FACE was covered with a WHITE TOWEL. I could still hear my voice, it was my body, but my face was covered. My face was burned up so bad that God put a WHITE TOWEL over it. I remember not caring at all, because all I wanted to do was tell people about the EXITS. After telling so many people and going room to room, I heard GOD SAY TO ME LOUD AND CLEAR……now its time FOR YOU….. TO HEAD FOR THE EXIT. I heard him, and I got out of the now….. BURNING BUILDING. All who didn’t listen to me…. perished.
Growing up with both parents in the home and being the oldest of four shaped me in ways that continue to nourish my soul. From a young age, my siblings and I were taught one golden rule: no fist fighting, no exceptions, not even once. It didn’t matter how mad you were — we had to talk it out. No name-calling either. Debates had to stay respectful and focused on the issue. That meant no “you’re ugly” or “you’re dumb” — just words with purpose, and always with love behind them.
And you know what? That rule was a gift. Today, all four of us are in our 50s, and the love between us feels like sunshine warmed by time. There’s a closeness that only comes from growing up in a household where peace was protected, and connection was nurtured.
💭 One tradition we’ve slowly drifted from — despite our parents’ wishes — is the gathering on holidays. My dad loved to fire up the grill, and my mom would clean and season the meat like clockwork. There’d be sides for days, and the house smelled like family. But as we got older, we realized something: we ate like that every week. Holidays started to feel more about food than feeling, and slowly, that tradition faded.
✨ But make no mistake — we haven’t lost our way. Because when it comes to birthdays, we celebrate loud and proud. We show up. We bring ice cream cakes, pizza, chips, drinks, pasta — everything that says “party” without fuss. We love the ease and joy of it all. It’s not about the menu, it’s about the memory. Every birthday is a chance to honor each other, to gather, to laugh, and to feel gratitude for another year together.
Even our mom, who still adores traditional holiday moments, has leaned into this birthday month celebration style. And though my dad is no longer with us, the legacy of love he and my mom built lives on in every laugh, every hug, every shared slice of cake.
Growing up, influence wasn’t a trend—it was a way of life. We didn’t curse around our parents, aunts, uncles, neighbors, or any elders. Period. Respect was rooted deep. Even the smallest slip—saying “butt” or “you lied”—was a line we knew not to cross. And if we did? Oh yes, trouble followed.
Our parents didn’t parent alone. They built a village. And in that village, we had second mothers—like Ms. Harris. She didn’t play. She loved us hard and checked us harder. As kids, we joked that she was always “telling on us,” but deep down, she treated us like we were hers. And looking back, that wasn’t snitching—it was love.
I learned that lesson for real when I moved out at 22 with my three-year-old daughter. I was standing in my new kitchen, proud and grown. Hair laid, bad shape SHAPING, smile radiant, pretty face prettying, and feeling good. That’s when I heard God whisper: “You still have Me to answer to.” I knew His voice. I’d known it since I was 14. And in that moment, I understood adulthood doesn’t erase accountability.
Later, I found a new village—a four-family apartment, full of mothers. Ms. Elizabeth, Lorraine, Tonya, La Sonya-* Googie*, Yvette * Kim* we did life together. We shared meals when times got tight, watched each other’s kids, ran errands, cried, laughed, celebrated. We didn’t even have to build a village—God delivered it.
That influence? It passed to my daughter. She never cursed in front of them. She understood respect wasn’t optional—it was inherited. And to this day, respect runs deep through her. As her mother I wouldn’t have it any other way.
So today, when I see adults cursing on Facebook like elders can’t see it… I cry inside, because they have kids too. Just because you’re grown doesn’t mean you throw away your dignity. Being able to search your mind for better language—that’s growth. And me? At 57… I’m just not that grown.
Let’s stop acting like influence is outdated. The truth is: the next generation is watching. So, let’s guide them, correct them, love them. Even if it upsets them. Speak wisdom, carry a spirit that commands respect. Be a mirror of God’s voice, like I heard that day in the kitchen.
Let’s stop being afraid to correct. Let’s reclaim our influence. We may be grown, but we still have Someone to answer to.
It’s frustrating when some celebrities open up about personal family issues—how relatives ask for money or expose them publicly—but then stay silent when it comes to similar struggles with other celebrities. That selective transparency can feel unfair, even performative.
Here’s the thing: family stories often come with an emotional punch that draws attention. But choosing not to speak about equally messy stories involving well-known peers creates a double standard. It paints their relatives as opportunistic while shielding others with fame from the same scrutiny. And when they give or loan money to famous friends with no shame, yet call out their own kin—it sends a mixed message. Almost like… you’re allowed to ask for help if you’re rich and famous, but if you’re family, you’re a burden.
💬 Why it hits hard:
It makes their generosity look performative: noble when helping famous friends, but judgmental when helping family.
Families are usually the ones who were around before the fame, trying to hold onto a real connection.
Celebrities airing private struggles publicly—without naming equally messy celebrity situations—can feel like emotional branding, not real vulnerability.
Why Family Stories Get the Spotlight
Power Dynamics: Celebrities usually have more control over the narrative when speaking about relatives who aren’t famous. There’s no publicist, fanbase, or industry clout defending the family member’s side—so the celeb’s version goes unchallenged.
Sympathy Plays: Talking about family drama can make a celebrity seem relatable or even heroic—“look what I overcame.” It stirs empathy without risking Hollywood relationships.
Image Protection: Exposing a fellow celebrity’s messy moment could strain future work or social circles. It’s safer to keep those skeletons in the walk-in closet.
Media Framing: Interviews, documentaries, and memoirs often focus on “origin stories,” and unfortunately, family strife sells better than industry conflict.
😶 Why It Feels Hypocritical
That imbalance makes the family member look greedy, while the industry peer gets grace, privacy, and protection.
They’ll publicly call out a cousin for asking for $5,000 but stay silent when a celebrity friend borrows $500K and vanishes until their next comeback.
Don’t get this VIRGO STARTED!! Dont talk about your family on social media. If they share what they know about you, yall will be getting Cease-and-Desist Letters.
Inside the mind of cree 