Enamored Evolution

Category: Z. Nova

  • Flight of the Bumble Beads

    Playground Rules Apply

    When I was a young girl, with the smell of Pink Hair Lotion and cocoa butter on my skin, I loved to swing the most. The wind in my beaded hair created a rhythmic swish sound with every push. I’d close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun after being stuffed in a frigid school all day.

    The relief would be immense. Unimaginable bliss.

    In my imagination I was kissing the sun and pulling away for another moment. A million besitos would never suffice my love of the sun. I’d even lay out in a sunny spot for a nap and roll along with it.

    On a swing though, I was brave for the first time in my life. But every space has it’s rules, and I am chaotically good.

    The rules were simple:

    1. Don’t swing for too long.
    2. No claiming swings for your friend.
    3. Once your butt leaves the seat it’s free game. So get up fast if you want to go again.

    I only followed the rules that benefitted me, but I was also shy and mean as a child. I would simply not leave the swing and ignore anyone who interrupted my stimming. I loved to swing the most. You’d have to drag me out, kicking and screaming…

    According to My Calculations, I’m Brave AF

    Necessary research was my forte as a child. I need to know. Don’t know why I was unable to let go of something I found interesting, it is the case that I would deep dive into random subjects. Rocks, frogs, food, and lizards were some of my favorites. But around 9 years old, I wanted to know how to jump off of a swing with no problems. Research was needed. Guinea pigs were mandatory:

    • Brother – 11 years old. The coolest older brother a kid could have. Jumped off the swing in a backyard. Caught major air. He even did a tuck and roll. Landed on long, soft grass.
    • La’Tisha – 10 years old. Jumped off the swing at the park and hurt her knee real bad. Jumped too low causing her legs to drag and she fell face first into the rubber pavement. Nasty skinned knee. She stayed away from the swings as long as I knew her.
    • Trevor – 9 years old. Jumped off the swing at school. The chain snagged at the top multiple times before he jumped. It caught and made his jump go wonky. His arm got caught in the swing and it dragged him. His arm snapped when he landed. Ambulance and everything.
    • BC – 11 years old. Brother’s friend. He jumped the farthest I’ve ever seen. He switched his grip, elbow out and launched himself across the playground catching major air. He landed with his feet in soft wood shavings hands on concrete. Minor hand scratches. Incredible jump.

    With my research complete, I now needed to execute. I’d race to the swings every day just to be first to practice. At school we had the rubber pavement. That was too dangerous to jump but was perfect for practicing.

    I knew I was going as high as I could when the chain would snag and create that erratic rocking. My goal was to swing as high as I could without the snag. If it did, I’d burst into laughter and hit the brakes Flintstone style. Silly me – pushing too hard. Take note, learn from this, and try again tomorrow.

    Small hands gripping the plastic coated chain, I set my determination again. Push and pull. Drive hard and float back. At the very peak I turned my grip, elbow out… and feel the breeze. Let the anxiety leave me.

    I practiced just this part to make sure I wasn’t scared when the time came. I would go to the park with the soft wood shavings for my best chance at not getting hurt, and I’d do it.

    There is No Deeper Meaning

    Dawn broke on the day I was meant to fly. I cheerfully counted the 126 cement blocks from the bus stop to the park after school. I was one of the first ones there.

    My backpack landed next to the leg of the swing. I climbed aboard and walked it back. My mind was made, I’m going for it.

    I’d kiss the sun and feel the rush of the wind around me. I heard some kids upset that I was swinging for too long. I didn’t care about them because I just got on. I knew some of them would try to grab my legs and stop me though, so it was now or never.

    I locked in. Got to the perfect height with no snags. Switched my grip, elbow out. Gave one big push, and at the apex of swing’s height, I leapt with all my might.

    The moment of flying felt priceless. My heart leaping into my chest. Sun beaming down. My braids floating behind me.

    YAHOOOOO!

    THUD

    I landed on all fours in soft wood shavings.

    One splinter – right palm between the ring and middle finger.

    THAT WAS AWESOME!

    I exclaimed internally. I plucked the splinter out without hesitation and happily shook my hands from side to side.

    “Wow,” I whispered.

    I turned around excited to go again. My smile faded.

    I’ll Fly Again One Day

    A boy had found his way onto my swing. His blonde hair flowed in the wind effortlessly. His mother pushed him with one arm while looking at me. Her expression was equal parts annoyed and mildly threatening. He obviously snitched that I was on the swing “too long.” I wanted to say something.

    “I was still using that,” something cool like that. But my words rarely found their way out of my mouth at that age. My voice just didn’t work like other kids. Besides, her look told me she would not allow me to protest.

    All of the other swings were taken. My siblings were no where in sight. So, I stood quietly by the leg of the swing to wait my turn.

    My turn wouldn’t come before I had to leave. Dragging my backpack, I thought about that feeling all the way home. Flying like that was exhilarating, but I curse the kid who snitched. He swung way longer than me. It wasn’t fair, but life’s not fair. I should know that much.

    People do that right? With the support of their enabling mothers, they take effortlessly.

    I just wanted to be free.

    I wanted to kiss the sun, fly high, and land in the safety of soft wood shavings.

    – Z. Nova 2025

  • A Fractured Mind – The Twin Force

    A Fractured Mind – The Twin Force

    Gemini Rising

    The twins facing each other with opposing and conflicting thoughts function in harmony and at times in disarray. Battling for control a Gemini Rising has two apparently different faces.

    There is no better mask to the world for a person like me.

    A little black girl with gifted intelligence and an A.C.E. score of 7, masking was the only means of survival. I could not be myself without threat of violence so my brain formed pieces that could protect me.

    Over time, these pieces have driven the boat and saved my life in their own ways. When adults wouldn’t protect me, my mask was there to swing the sword and create physical safety. When I was too weak to defend myself, my mask rose up to educate me and network to find safety in knowledge and community. For their sacrifice, I’m grateful. Allow me to introduce you to my twins and saviors – no titties.

    The All American – All Black Everything

    There is Z. Nova. Thing 1.

    I can be loud and proud despite being a major introvert – especially if I know I’m right. In this energy, I am half intellectual explorer half mad-man – reading, deep diving, and pushing for productivity. I am so rarely wrong, it could seem like I’m faking, but truthfully I’m simply intelligent with exceptional pattern recognition skills in Z. Nova’s energy.

    Z. Nova can be crass and blunt in communication, so often times I find myself in trouble when I allow this piece to drive during conflicts.

    My energy flows in a chaotic, powerful way when I am in this space. Z. Nova could be found dancing in the moonlight with a blunt in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other.

    The empress and the queen of swords – a strong, dominant feminine force willing to slice through the bullshit and get to the heart of the matter.

    I’m no fool and highly protective of myself and my peace in Z. Nova’s energy.

    She’s my warrior queen.

    B Side of the Track

    Then, there is ZZ. Thing 2.

    She is quiet, soft spoken and gentle. ZZ uses language like the underside of a rose petal – velvety and smooth. I take care of everything and every one including the self. Pouring infinite grace and love into every situation and laughing hard at silly things. I find this part of me to be lovely in nature. ZZ is my creative side, my lover girl, and a delicate person.

    If you meet me in ZZ’s energy, perhaps you would find me endearing yet strange. I often find myself delighting in compliments and expressing genuine curiosity towards people. ZZ is a social butterfly. Bubbly, energetic, and charming.

    She is the queen mother the high priestess in full contact with intuition and divinity.

    ZZ can be found in a flowy dress, painting sultry pictures, and day dreaming about the next time she can do sex magic.

    Somewhere Behind the Mask

    The twins are my primary masking parts – the angel and devil on my shoulders. Both parts are beautiful and deeply flawed.

    “Give them grace for what? They knew exactly what they did to hurt me and they didn’t give a fuck, so why should I?” Classic Z. Nova.

    “The damage is already done. There’s no use in dragging it out with a conversation. Let’s quietly close the door and glow up.” Sounds about right for soft girl ZZ.

    Z. Nova would stab a betraying lover in the chest and grin with joy as she successfully got revenge. As a matter of fact, she would burn the bridge with both people standing on it if it meant getting her way.

    Blaming herself for betrayal and sliding into the depths of depression is ZZ’s style. She’s the type to internalize and self-deprecate.

    Truthfully, I am both and neither. I am the observer of all that takes place in my universe.

    The person who exists somewhere between the two conflicting parties, is me.

    This memoir is a way for me to heal the wounds of both of my masks and allow them to put down the sword and shield they carry for me. There is no longer a need for them to fight for my safety because I am finally strong enough to create and maintain my own safety.

    Finally, I am not weak. Confident in my power – I am wise and discerning. I know when to be sharp and when to be soft.

    Have you met the me behind my masks? I am Zera. Hello, world.

    -Zera 2025

  • Here Lies My Hopes & Dreams Pt. 2

    Here Lies My Hopes & Dreams Pt. 2

    This part of the story comes with content warnings. There are mentions of infertility and menstruation. If this story is too heavy my dear reader, please take care of yourself first. 

    Sunshine on My Smile

    I lay in a sunny spot on the living room floor silently crying with India Arie singing, “Slow down baby. You’re going too fast. You’ve got your hands in the air with your feet on the gas. You’re about to wreck your future, running from your past. You need to slow… down… baby.”

    In my early to mid 20s, I genuinely hated myself and my life. Existence was excruciating emotionally, and functional depression was my average state of being. Despite freedom, Larry’s post break-up crashout took a toll on me mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

    Stalking, break-ins, and assaults lead me to the darkest nights I’ve ever known.

    I dated people who made me hate myself more, was no-low contact with a majority of my family, and ruined friendships with my carelessness. Can’t really blame anyone who left my life during that time. To them, I was losing it – and they were right, I was.

    You couldn’t tell it by looking at me…No one could ever tell by looking at me. Can you see me?

    Anyway, one day, I’m laying in my living room, sun warming my skin – listening to an album I’ve heard a million times – and it just hit me different. The music overwhelmed me and I heard the song fully for the first time. It was like she jumped through the speaker and cradled my face. She spoke directly to me. I couldn’t help but cry.

    I was going way too fast in life.

    Years, months, hours, and minutes hating my very own existence. That self-loathing drove me into foul situations. It was exhausting.

    What I wanted most in that moment was out of the cycle of darkness – to feel better about myself and experience the light.

    So, I decided I needed to stop running and be someone I could love.

    To begin loving myself, I had a visceral need to hear an apology. I do apologize to myself often now, but this moment in my life around 23-24 was the first time anyone has truly apologized to me. It sounded like this:

    To myself, who I have at times hated, I am so deeply sorry. I should’ve loved you better. I will love you fiercely now and every day forward to make up for it.

    I started taking my health seriously. Turned pages in books about traditional African spirituality and black women’s empowerment. I educated myself on queer issues. I went to therapy. Yoga on the wake up and dancing into the night in my spare bedroom. Celibate. Hell I even became an annoying vegan.

    Yes…my life was breathing, expanding, and healing.

    I loc’d my hair.

    My body became my temple. I owned it. I learned to love me, and that’s the first time I felt what real love could be.

    Results are in…You’re Not Crazy

    Have you ever been gaslit by a medical professional? It’s a truly eye opening experience, especially for someone with a naïve mind. Beginning around age 24-25 I began experiencing medical professionals denying an obvious reality. A swollen thyroid filled with nodules left completely untreated to this day and this was just the beginning of my health struggles.

    Because I was so interested in improving my health, I fought past my anxiety about having to be convincing, and went to the doctor as I saw fit anyway.

    The doctor’s office is about 3 degrees too cold and the shitty paper sheet over the exam bed crinkles as I shift my weight from one hip to another.

    The office is decorated with advertisements for anti-aging injections, smiling women with perfect teeth and airbrushed skin, and an entire vulva sculpture stares at me from the hand washing station.

    A few weeks before, I had an ultrasound because I was cramping so bad and bled for like 2 weeks straight – I was over it. I had already tried the in-arm birth control and I’d been on the pill since I could remember. Recently tried to ween my body off of the hormones, ya know vegan things, and it was going well until it wasn’t.

    At the ultrasound the tech was like, “Here’s your uterus, your left ovary, and here’s the right ovary. You’ve been told you have PCOS right? That’s why the right looks so much larger than the other one.”

    “No, you’d be the first to mention PCOS…” The look of pure confusion on my face must’ve stunned her into silence.

    She didn’t say another word for the rest of the ultrasound and neither did I.

    By the time the official results came back, and I had my appointment, I was right back on my period.

    Back to present day, in the doctor’s office, a faint cramp twists my right side. I sharply inhale then slowly exhale into it. I learned this little trick to center my mind and relax my body from a therapist. Breathing techniques are the only thing that help me feel in control. Does it work for real? Hell if I know, but I did it anyway.

    I hear three swift knocks at the door. Nurse Emma comes into the room – her usual cheerful face looks… different. I’ve seen Nurse E. at least 3-4 times a year for 4 years – the longest I’ve ever been loyal to a doctor’s office. Immediately I’m thinking like she can’t hide her emotions at all. It’s just PCOS.

    Mind you, I hated to do shit on my period. Tylenol wasn’t doing a damn thing for cramps. Midol never worked. And I was pissed most of the time. Who wouldn’t be after pain and discomfort for 2 weeks straight one week off and right back to it?

    She tucks brown hair behind her ear, neatening her always chic bob. She’s lost weight since her last kiddo.

    “Hey girl. How’s baby doing? How’s your hubby?” I greet her.

    “They’re good! How are you doing? By the look on your face not too hot huh?”

    “Yeah. I’m on my period again. It’s so ridiculous…” I roll my eyes.

    It grows quiet for a brief moment.

    She looks at her pink clipboard, “So we got your test results back, and I want you to know that you’re not crazy.”

    I laughed humorlessly followed by grabbing my side as another cramp kicks, “Okay cool. I’m glad it’s not in my head. I knew something was off…”

    I look at Nurse E. She really does look different. Her eyes are so sad.

    Permanent and Progressive

    “So you have PCOS. Do you know what that is?” Nurse E. eyes me carefully.

    “Not really. But the ultrasound lady said I definitely have it, so I was expecting you to say that. It’s okay.” I don’t know why I tried to reassure her, but I was putting on a brave face.

    She hands me a pamphlet, but I had already looked it up online.

    Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome aka P.C.O.S.

    Most common symptoms: irregular periods, hormonal problems, acne, weight gain, infertility.

    PERMANENT

    BUT TREATABLE…

    E. chats on about red flag symptoms for insulin resistance, statistics, and pregnancy may be difficult, but not impossible if you stay active and eat right… there’s even IVF…

    There’s a loud ringing in my ears.

    The room feels smaller somehow.

    I notice the wide smile of the pregnant woman on the poster behind the nurse. Some advertisement for pregnancy massages…?

    I get the look on her face now. She knows my dream as my OB.

    What is she saying? I meet her gaze trying to tap back in to the conversation.

    “Blah blah blah and Adenomyosis can cause blah blah blah. Do you have any questions?” She looks like she wants this conversation to end.

    I am jolted back to reality, “Wait what was that word you just said? Ad…what?”

    Adenomyosis aka Endometriosis ugly lil sister

    Most common symptoms: extreme pelvic pain, excessive bleeding during menstruation, infertility

    “Adenomyosis. It’s one of the most painful medical conditions people can experience. Most uteruses are like a watermelon.” She explained. A second pamphlet finds its way to my now clammy hands. “There’s clear delineation between the uterus lining, endometrial tissue, and the muscle. Your uterus is more like an abstract art watermelon where the lining, muscle and endometrial tissue are mixed together.”

    PERMANENT AND PROGRESSIVE

    “Meaning it’ll only get worse over time?” I ask. At this point, the tears are plopping onto the exam bed and I can see her heartbreaking for me.

    “Right. We don’t know why it occurs and…”

    “So what can I do then?” I wipe my face determination setting in. “There’s gotta be something I can do.”

    “There is no real treatment. We can only try to address the symptoms. The only ‘cure’ is a hysterectomy since adenomyosis is confined to the uterus, but you should know you may also have endometriosis which is not curable. The odds are about 80-90% for overlap and…”

    Damn. 

    Double probably triple… infertility. I would have to try for a baby right away if I wanted the best shot, but I was 25 and without any serious prospects for a partner.

    Can you see me now?

    I was going to have to endure years of ever worsening pain if I wanted to be a mother or give up my dream entirely by having the hysterectomy but living pain free. At this point, the devastation hit me. I was already limited on walking during my period. Was it really going to get worse? What would that even look like?

    They can’t prescribe me pain meds. I don’t want to become addicted to anything – addiction runs too deeply in my family for me to risk it. So… am I meant to suffer?

    The tears wouldn’t stop. I sat alone in that doctor’s office face in hands feeling the weight of not being crazy.

    Strike 2 towards my dreams left me in a permanent state of grief for the mother I would never be.

    -Z. Nova narrating through B.W.’s eyes 2025

    This post happens to be released on my mother’s birthday based on my scheduling. Happy birthday Mama.

  • Tension Relief with Noodles and Other Calming Therapy Secrets

    Tension Relief with Noodles and Other Calming Therapy Secrets

    Welcome back my friend. How are you today? I’d love to hear about your day actually. Good, bad, or neutral. We Americans ask each other that question without expecting a genuine response, but in this space, I ask with intention. How are you?

    The comment box is at the end of each post if you’d like to let me know. Thank you in advance for interacting with me.

    At the time I’m writing this, I’m tense. Work sucked and I’m exhausted. My shoulders are scrunched, my back tight, and I could probably give myself a tension headache from how deep my frown is.

    Over the last few weeks, I’m really realizing how tense I always seem to be. I literally had to buy a mouth guard to stop grinding my teeth in my sleep. How am I tense even in rest? How does that happen? Ha~

    I Found the Source of the Ticking

    Why? Why am I so tense? Great question…

    Are you keeping up with the news these days? I unfortunately have the compulsion to stay informed on politics as a black, queer person with several disabilities.

    I have been devastated over and over by the loss and grief I’m witnessing on a regular basis. I’ve watched and learned in horror with many of you as we witness death, destruction and pure evil exist on the mainstage of media.

    And I refuse to allow myself to become desensitized. I choose to process my feelings and allow them to fuel me into moving forward and advocating for marginalized voices as much as I can.

    Tension and frustration are being stored in our bodies at an alarming rate, and there are many people who simply take that stress out on other humans.

    Violence ensues from this kind of perpetual state of dysregulation and fear. Especially without the comfort of community to cradle us and center us when we feel afraid. “Rugged individualism,” ya know?

    I believe we were never meant to be this stressed as human beings.

    I believe we were meant to exist in nervous system neutrality a vast majority of the time. And my therapist agrees so you know I’m probably right.

    My Therapist Also Said This Works So…

    I’d like to guide you on a meditation if that’s alright. This meditation includes mindfulness and progressive relaxation.

    When triggered, do you notice a certain area of your body will feel tense or hot? If you’re like me, it becomes very apparent in your body that you’re triggered. You can soften that trigger by doing this exercise. At least that’s what my therapist says.

    Hello readers. I want you to know that I love you dearly, but I think it’s cringe to type out this guided meditation. So for this reason, I will give your eyes a break this evening. If you’d like to join our meditation, please listen to the audio version.

    Now I know this may be disappointing my reader, for that I apologize. However I can promise you that by engaging with the meditation, you’ll have a tool in your belt to help you decompress for free 99, AND the next read will be well worth the wait. 😉

    -Z. Nova 2025

  • You Should Love Yourself

    You Should Love Yourself

    Yesterday’s lesson in Self-Compassion.

    Sometimes life is hard and it leads to strong emotions. It’s okay to feel strongly. You have valid reasons to feel those emotions. You didn’t consciously choose to feel that way. You are experiencing.

    Be self-compassionate. You are learning. Allow yourself to be softer as you experience your emotions. Accept your feelings, call them by name “frustration, anger, disappointment, grief…” Identify where, physically, they cause tension, hotness, etc. and soften the edges. Gently ease them away.

    It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s okay to feel negative emotions. Love yourself gently. You deserve your compassion and kindness.

    -Z. Nova – 2018

    Today’s lesson in Self-Compassion.

    Past and present consult through pleasantries,

    passed notes through different pens.

    I am my own sage.

    My northern star.

    An empress.

    Wise woman.

    Gem.

    Clacking cacophony tells what’s next.

    A written and signed piece.

    Am I talking to you?

    Or talking to me?

    Messages partially received.

    Finding my hand through the darkness.

    Bend photons on optic nerves

    Is it Pink Floyd or Panic,

    Destiny’s children

    Impossible twists and turns.

    I am the guiding principle.

    The depth and hollows of space.

    Traverse through time and pave the way.

    For myself, I will always remain.

    Compassionate.

    -Z. Nova 2025

  • Here Lies My Hopes & Dreams Pt. 1

    Here Lies My Hopes & Dreams Pt. 1

    This story comes with several content warnings. There will be mentions of attempted suicide, drug overdose, alcoholism, homophobia, and domestic violence. If this story is too heavy my dear reader, please take care of yourself first. 

    In my universe, the names of the humans in my life may be changed to protect their privacy.

    Inception of an Innocent Dream

    Of everything I wanted in life, I wanted to be an excellent wife and mother most. I already gave up the dream of being an author at 16, and I knew English teachers didn’t make much money – but that’s what I wanted to do.

    If only I had the opportunity to marry a man who would be the provider I was told I wanted. Only then could follow my passion freely and make my salary of peanuts work. I could live a simple life and happily take care of my family. 

    Considering what it would take to be a good wife and mother was a no-brainer. I was raised sheltered and Christian, so my path was laid out for me. I needed to be devoted to God first and serve my husband second. I became more religious from ages 18 to about 21. Never mind those pesky feelings I had towards other girls. That was for play not for longevity. At least, that’s what I was told and believed at the time.

    In my teens, I considered myself bisexual but hetero-romantic. Meaning I liked boys and girls but I’d only date boys. I was serious about being a mother and at the time, I only knew of one way to do so. How could I take another girl seriously if I wanted children? (Yes, I was this dumb. Please feel free to boo teenage me for this ridiculous take.)

    A fresh 18 years old.

    I thought I knew everything.

    If I could marry well, I could really do it – love and be loved in a soft way. In a way that expresses kindness and generosity without threat of violence. For a God-fearing, kind-hearted man, I would give him 2 children and a well-decorated home.

    I already cared for my siblings since the age of 9 so I was pretty familiar with cooking, cleaning, and getting kids ready for school. I figured being an actual mother wouldn’t be too much different, and as a bonus, I’d get to make the rules. In my house, my kids wouldn’t need the dishes to squeak to prove cleanliness and they could even have as much Dr. Pepper as they wanted.

    I could prove to myself that love and family in a healthy way was not only possible, but an environment with which I could thrive and grow as a person. A proper partner didn’t need violence. I didn’t need to be yelled at or hit or plainly tortured in order to learn. 

    Tough love, shedding blood, and gaining new scars wasn’t the only way to be “loved”.

    Along Came Larry

    The years put wind to my face and I found myself in a teacher’s college at a state university.

    Week one I met a guy at a dorm party I’d spend the next two and a half years with – Lawrence. He was charismatic, God-fearing, and wanted to be a lawyer. We moved in together after matching Disney sweaters and Adderall powered sex marathons.

    Larry was younger than me and highly intelligent. At times, I found myself in awe of him. Larry was the type of guy that would annoy you until you loved him and then surprise you with a deep conversation.

    Year one point five, he’d ask me to marry him over Chinese food in the living room of our studio apartment. No ring. No frills. Just maybe we should do this for real? It’s been long enough and this is what people do. Right?

    It wasn’t romantic but I convinced myself that it was perfect at the time. We were two college kids in love. We hosted taco nights with our friends and binge watched Scandal together. Our home church even knew us as couple destined for greatness. A future lawyer and teacher – how precious. Clearly we were a match made in heaven.

    I’d buy my own ring at a JC Penney as a “placeholder.” Spoiler alert: it was never replaced by an actual engagement ring and we told no one about wanting to get married. We wore promise rings though which were cheap and turned our fingers green.

    The Beginning of the End

    We upgraded to a 2 bedroom post “proposal”, when we both got good paying jobs at the same company. I use good paying very loosely my reader. This is America after all. Life was good… for awhile.

    Despite doubling our salaries with our fancy new jobs, Larry hated it. He hated the job more than the average disgruntled employee and would intentionally cause problems just because. He stayed in the role only to help with the bills and he made that very clear.

    One day Larry came home with exciting news.

    “Babe, I got this amazing opportunity to work at a law firm. So boom, I met this guy and he told me he’d get me an interview. They just called me, after-hours mind you, and they scheduled it for tomorrow! Bae, there’s only one other applicant. I’mma get this job!” He pulls me into a bear hug in our tiny kitchen.

    I’m giggling and shit, “Hell yeah babe! That’s what’s up! Look at God!”

    In my head: Look at my…I mean our… dream unfolding. I’m on the right path. If this really shakes out...

    “God is good!” His voice lifts.

    I’m planning our future mentally like: Having his foot in the door of a law firm before he’s even in law school is so impressive! His resume will look leagues better than anyone else’s...

    My instincts take over, “All the time!”

    “I trust in Him so much, babe,” He cradles my face and peppers my cheeks with kisses. “The way my faith is set up…”

    What is he even saying?: If the job pays well, we could even get a new car in a couple months. Then, wedding planni…

    “I quit my funky ass job bae. We’re coming up!”

    HUH?

    “Wait, without even having the interview yet?”

    “Of course baby,” wet lips press against my neck as I go stiff, “don’t you trust in God and in me? I got this. I put in my two weeks,” he kisses my unresponsive lips. “They said I should know the results of the interview next week. The job would start at the end of the month. That’s only one paycheck missed. C’mon it’s fine. It’s all good.”

    He slaps my ass and gives me a quick peck. Flashing an unconvincing smile, he dances away to take a shot of bumpy face gin in celebration.

    I stood stunned in silence as he called his favorite cousin to brag. As much as I had faith, my gut was screaming, “What about our bills if it doesn’t work out?”

    Uncontrolled Drinking is Very Bad

    Is literally anyone surprised he didn’t get the job?

    Pretty immediately after getting the rejection call he started to drink heavily, party more, and treat me like his personal servant. The loss of opportunity seemed to crush his spirit.

    At 1am on a random Thursday, he called me to pick him and his best friend Isaac up from a house party. He then proceeded to waste my time by extending the world’s longest drunk goodbyes with his new “friends” all whilst knowing I had an exam in the morning.

    I drove to the spot in my pajamas and bonnet and waited for him. Calling, texting, calling again only to be met with radio silence. I eventually fell asleep in my car. Upon finally stumbling his sloppy ass into the car, two hours later, he proceeded to openly insult me.

    I won’t tell you the insult my reader, it hurt too badly. It’s something I am still self-conscious about more than a decade later.

    Mind you, this was in front of a quickly sobering Isaac, who was trying to actively teleport home to escape this nightmare of a situation. Of note, Isaac is a sweet guy with the most incredible manners. A true gentleman. And here I am…boo boo the fool arguing with this drunk asshole he calls his friend and I call a fiancé.

    Arguments like this became more frequent between Larry and I.

    Unemployed and glued to Call of Duty, he would drunkenly demand dinner the moment I got home from working overtime to cover his half of the bills. The apartment a wreck, I would always find him in the same dirty spot on the couch as when I left for work. If I didn’t cook, he wasn’t eating. If I didn’t clean, there would be maggots in the sink.

    Weeks dragged into months of taking his deep depression out on me. Six months to be exact.

    This Isn’t the Last of Larry

    I broke up with him. After six months of unemployment, insults, and filth, I finally got mad enough to leave. I wasn’t, however, mad enough to kick him out of the apartment. Homelessness is unimaginably difficult, and I couldn’t imagine being the reason someone suffers that way. I’d regret that choice a few weeks later, but that’s a story for another time.

    He took one room, I took the other.

    On day 2 post break-up he would loudly cry in his room on the phone with another girl to try to get my attention. I blasted Amy Winehouse’s “Stronger Than Me” in retaliation.

    Day 3 post break-up, I had a mock-interview with my manager in preparation for a promotion I applied for. I was dressed in my interview attire, had my flashcards at the ready, and was psyching myself up. One hour of customer service calls, then it’s showtime.

    Don’t lie, I looked cute in my lil button up and sew-in.

    My cellphone rang. I silenced it. It rang again. I silenced it. It rang a third time. I look at it like, “Who the fuck is blowing up my phone right now?” It’s Isaac?

    “Hello?” I’m pre-annoyed.

    “Hey something’s up. You gotta get home.”

    I can hear the tension in his voice. “What’s up? What’s going on?”

    “Larry, man, I think he’s overdosing. I don’t know what to do.”

    “What?” My body froze. “Overdosed on what? What do you mean?”

    I can hear Lawrence slurring between sobs in the background, “I’d rather die…She’s really leaving me…” Bile warmed the knot forming in my throat.

    “Man, I don’t know. He got drunk and drank a whole thing of lean he said. His heartbeat is real slow and…he…”

    My thoughts could’ve beat Usain Bolt in a race. I ain’t hear shit he said after that to be honest.

    “What the fuck?” Whispering, I power walked from my cubicle to the break room. “Lean??”

    Although we weren’t together, and I didn’t see a future with him, I didn’t want him to die. I told Isaac to hang up with me and call Larry’s mom, who was a nurse, while I tried to leave work.

    I found my boss, and tried to explain that I had to go, but my voice faded into uncontrollable sobs, “How did this happen?” I fell apart.

    The violent reality hit me all at once. He wasn’t going to let me leave so easily. I couldn’t believe he honestly went this far like… This isn’t what I wanted at all. I just wanted to stop arguing.

    My boss, bless her, would not let me drive during a full mental breakdown. She booked a conference room for me for the entire remainder of my shift – the mock interview could wait. The cold plastic table in that frigid office was my best friend for the next two hours.

    I cried and shook until I couldn’t anymore, and then I nervously drove home. The apartment was eerily quiet and empty.

    My phone showed I got a text from Isaac confirming Larry’s mother got to the apartment. She apparently packed his things and took him to his childhood home before I could get there.

    I’m not sure if he actually overdosed that day, but I can tell you that he lived.

    I thought this would be the end of the tale of Larry and I. Turns out it was just strike 1 in the ballgame of chasing my dreams, and the beginning of Larry’s post-break-up crashout.

    I was 20.

    -Z. Nova narrating through B.W.’s eyes | 2025

  • Would you believe my life story?

    Would you believe my life story?

    I always wondered if I told my life’s story, if anyone would believe me. No one believes the boy who cried wolf, if he cries too much. Even if there was a coyote, dog, or fox every time.

    WASTED

    “Girl, you won’t believe what’s goin on.”

    “Life is just kickin my ass right now.”

    “I’m gonna laugh about it because if I don’t, I’mma cry.”

    Many of my conversations lately have started this way, and when I say lately, I mean for the past twenty years. I am, unfortunately, the “crisis” friend. From romance, to health, to home stability – you name it – drama seems to plague me and it has since birth. Honestly, pre-birth if we’re really going there, but that’s an epigenetics or spiritual conversation for another time.

    In the Beginning…There was Writing

    I was inspired by reading and writing at a young age – enchanted by the adventures to far off lands amidst home-grown chaos. I found myself in love with books of all kinds and dreaming of being an adventure guide – author edition.

    I love to indulge in fantasy created by others, but as for myself and my pen, we prefer honest story-telling. I wanted to capture my audience with reality stained in desperate truth.

    In high-school I learned about unreliable narrators. I recall thinking I would end up like that because my memory was already shot at 16.

    Is the story still compelling when the truth is wrapped in menthol cigarette smoke and adrenaline?

    The absurd and grotesque, the blissful and beautiful moments of my life have at times, felt like an out of body experience. How could I explain that at 16? With what vocabulary?

    Anyway, because I doubted my memory as a teen, I inadvertently became an avid writer. I journal my stories, scribble my memories, brain dump my theories, and yap to anyone who would be a captive audience. I desperately want to remember who I am, who I have been, and how I’ve lived.

    This is of grave importance to me.

    In my twenties, I learned that of my siblings, who grew up in the same home as me, I am the only one who remembers our childhood. It is my burden to bear and story to tell.

    I also found that when you can’t recall the exact specifics and no one can corroborate your story, people tend to doubt your sincerity and authenticity. If too many terrible things happen, you’re the problem.

    The neighbors are always watching. Watching you take your trash out every day. Watching you come and go. Waving to you. Smiling. How friendly are these people?

    Then they ask to lift your skirt.
    “Those socks are so sexy. I couldn’t help it.”
    “Dude, aren’t you like 65? I’m 23.”

    Listen, the life I’ve lived… I can’t make this shit up. As I unravel my story, ask yourself, who would want to make this shit up about themselves anyway?

    I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that my life is actually “normal” and “mundane”. That I’m being dramatic and overreacting like everyone says.

    Yet, time and time again I find myself enchanting my friends with life stories. Those conversations always ends with, “You should have your own show! You should write a book!” Those words would ring in my head – chiming like different bells in human form.

    Can I find the art and beauty even in my chaotic life?

    In the Present…It’s Showtime

    I’m Z. Nova. Pleasure to virtually meet you. Welcome to my specially curated show. Well, this isn’t exactly a “show” per se, but you are here watching me in a way, aren’t you? Whatever the case, I hope you’re here to kick back, be entertained, and learn to love the tragic mess that is life through my senses.

    I’ll be your host, your narrator, your chef, and your adventure guide.

    On this adventure, I’ll show you my life and my memories in my way. I’ll tell you about my grandmother while sharing my take on her famous eggnog recipe. I’ll paint you the worst heartbreak I’ve ever felt. I’ll sing the song that was playing when I realized I was in love.

    Am I the best singer/painter/chef ? Chile, no. I’m wildly imperfect and prone to making mistakes early and often. I’m human. In this safe space, my mistakes are transformed into stories with unfinished edges and digestible lessons.

    I don’t need to be 100% reliable to be 100% real.

    In my experience memories are often more feeling than fact anyway. The raw, honesty of human imperfection is what makes the most compelling story. Wouldn’t you agree?

    “Self Portrait” – 2016

    In showing you my naked truth, I hope you are inspired toward authenticity in a world focused on who can lie “better”.

    Ultimately, on the question of whether or not you believe me, the truth is, it doesn’t matter to me. My voice and my story are meant to be shared. I’m not ashamed of who I’ve been in my worst or best moments. I want to love all versions of me with full acceptance and accountability. I want you, my reader, to love yourself that deeply too.

    So if by chance, my raw truth inspires you, please stick around and join me on this journey. Let’s laugh, cry, and grow together in community. But only if you believe the boy who cries wolf. Even if it’s not a wolf every time.

    Z. Nova – 2025