In the dark of night, the world is full of fear, The shadows dance and move, and all is drear. The trees are like great monsters, tall and strange, The moon is like a demon’s eye, so strange.
The wind is like a scream, the owl is like a wail, The night is full of danger, and I feel so frail. I wish that morning would come, and chase away The fear that fills my heart, and drives me to my bed.
I hide beneath the covers as the darkness grows around, Listening in the stillness for every haunting sound. The walls begin to tighten like a vise upon my chest, And anxiety arises, driving far away all rest. I pray for dawn to break the gloom and turn the night to day, To lift the heavy silence and sweep the dark away.
But then the morning comes, and all is bright, The sun shines down, and all is right. The trees are like old friends, the moon is like a friend, The wind is like a soft caress, not like a scream.
The owl is like a wise old sage, who speaks of peace, The night is full of beauty, and I feel so free. I wish that I could stay in this bright world all day, And never have to go back to the dark of night.
Open the doors, let sunlight flood the dust and gloom, And hide no more, escape this cold and empty room. The world awaits beyond the latch, vibrant and so vast, A future built on courage, leaving shadows in the past. The sun upon my face becomes a promise, clear and bold, A new and brighter story that is waiting to unfold.
A struggle to belong, to find my place, Stumbling through life, mistakes I embrace. Blunders and missteps, a shadow they cast, Day after day, the die seems to be cast.
Disliked, an outsider, I feel it so deep, Friendly smiles, a facade I can’t keep. Loneliness lingers, a constant despair, Do they truly care, is anyone there?
Grappling with doubt, uncertainty’s sting, What am I doing wrong, what sorrow I bring? Isolation suffocates, a heavy embrace, Is solitude’s path the one I must chase?
Different, I may be, a truth hard to face, Do I belong here, in this crowded space? Perhaps it’s time to accept what’s in sight, A solitary journey, into the quiet night.
I wrote this about 12 years ago but it still rings true.
For a month now, a deep, persistent fire has been burning in my gut. It’s more than just an uneasy feeling; it’s a profound, urgent need to share my story, particularly as a cautionary tale for other women. Yet, this internal wrestling match with my own complex emotions—fear, relief, anxiety—has held the words captive. I’m finally ready to speak.
Here is the crux of my message, something we’ve all heard countless times, but whose weight I now understand: Listen to your body. In a world where doctors are busy and systems are overwhelmed, you are the final authority on what is happening within you. A doctor might dismiss your concerns or tell you to wait and see, but you know when something is fundamentally wrong. It is, after all, your body, and you are its only constant advocate.—–My journey into hyper-vigilance started after my son’s birth. I expected the postpartum bleeding—it’s a natural, inevitable part of recovery. It initially stopped, which I took as a sign of normal healing. However, a short time later, the bleeding started again. This second bout was confusing. Was this a resurgence of normal postpartum lochia, or was it something else entirely? I decided that when it came to my health, I would always err on the side of caution.
My primary care doctor was the first person to truly listen. I explained that the bleeding had stopped once and that the renewed flow didn’t feel like a typical menstrual period. Crucially, I noted that the bleeding only seemed to occur during bowel movements. Recognizing that this pattern wasn’t typical for postpartum recovery, my doctor immediately shifted focus and referred me to a gastroenterologist for a specialized evaluation.
The gastroenterologist recommended a colonoscopy. The procedure, though daunting, proved to be an invaluable diagnostic tool. It revealed a number of polyps in my colon. They were removed and sent for testing, and the results were sobering: some of the polyps showed precancerous signs. This meant they harbored the potential to develop into full-blown cancer over time. The diagnosis necessitated a commitment to regular, vigilant colonoscopies to monitor my health and catch any future growths early.
This initial health scare hammered home the valuable lesson I now preach: trust your intuition. If a feeling persists that something is “off,” do not hesitate to speak to your doctor. And here is the essential second part: if your doctor minimizes your concerns or fails to investigate them seriously, you have the right and the responsibility to find a new doctor—one who will be your partner and advocate in your health journey.—–A few years later, my body sent a new signal. I noticed my menstrual periods had become significantly heavier than usual. Concerned, I made an appointment with my gynecologist. I laid out my medical history, and my doctor explained that while having had three C-sections can sometimes lead to a thickening of the uterine lining, this wasn’t necessarily the direct cause of the unusually heavy bleeding.
To investigate further and rule out any abnormalities, my gynecologist recommended an endometrial biopsy. This procedure, while not as comfortable as a Pap smear (which can involve some stinging), was manageable. It involves taking a small tissue sample from the lining of the uterus to be analyzed for any cellular changes or growths. Fortunately, the results came back normal, which was an immense relief, allowing us to focus on monitoring the situation.
Adding a layer of complexity to my case was my family history. My mother tragically passed away from ovarian cancer when I was just 11 years old. Given this profound and devastating history, I underwent genetic testing to see if I carried the gene mutation associated with the disease. Thankfully, those initial test results were negative, indicating I did not carry the mutation.
However, after a few years and a move to a new area, I needed to establish care with a new gynecologist. When I explained my medical narrative—the history of heavier periods, my age and the approach of menopause, and my strong family history—she introduced the idea of an oophorectomy (surgical removal of the ovaries). She candidly discussed the generally positive benefits of the procedure for high-risk patients. Crucially, she acknowledged that negative genetic tests, while reassuring, are not foolproof. A positive test confirms the presence of the gene, but a negative result does not always guarantee its absence, especially when combined with a strong family history and other physical symptoms.
My new gynecologist ordered repeat genetic testing. The results were again negative for the specific gene mutation, but this time, the report included a higher risk score. This score indicated that my overall risk of developing ovarian or related cancers was slightly elevated compared to the average population. This score, while not confirming a genetic mutation, served a critical purpose: it allowed my doctor to professionally justify the prophylactic oophorectomy to my insurance company, thereby securing coverage for the ovary removal. While the necessity of having to justify a proactive, life-saving medical procedure to a detached insurance entity is a source of frustration, that is a broader systemic discussion for another time.—–My journey has recently taken its most serious turn. During a routine ultrasound, a mass was discovered in my uterus. I have an upcoming surgery scheduled for June to address this. The doctors are transparent: they won’t know the exact nature of the mass—whether it’s benign, a fibroid, or something more serious—until it is surgically removed and analyzed.
Initially, my doctor recommended a targeted approach: removing both my ovaries (the oophorectomy) and the mass itself. We also had a crucial discussion about a more comprehensive procedure: a full hysterectomy, which involves the removal of the uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes, in addition to the ovaries. This option would offer the ultimate peace of mind, eliminating any future concerns about the current uterine mass or the potential for other growths. After careful, deliberate consideration of my history, my risk profile, and the desire for finality, I decided to proceed with the full hysterectomy.
This decision is deeply personal and fraught with emotion. I don’t speak with anyone who knew my mother well, for reasons that are theirs, not mine. I was too young to truly understand what she went through, both the visible signs of her illness and the unseen emotional turmoil. I don’t know what she truly felt or if she, too, had ignored an internal warning. I know, with absolute certainty, that I am making the right, proactive decision for my health and future. Yet, the finality of the surgery still fills me with a profound sense of fear. The recovery is expected to be lengthy, approximately two months. As a teacher, I deliberately scheduled the surgery for the summer break, a practical necessity, but the reality of the impending ordeal remains unsettling.
Right now, I am living in a space of suspended emotion—nervous about the surgery and the recovery, but overwhelmingly relieved that my constant vigilance and willingness to listen to my body have allowed me to find this out now, rather than discovering it when it might have been too late. The fight continues, and I hope my story empowers at least one other woman to champion her own health. ‘
Steel Butterflies
Steel butterflies flutter in my chest, Wings cold and sharp, an unwelcome guest. A relentless, metallic tremor starts its dance, Anxiety’s form, granting no second chance. It’s more than simple jitters, a bone-felt dread, A necessary crisis swirling in my head.
The calendar page is marked, an ominous decree, June looms closer, a date known sharp and free. Surgery’s shadow stretches long across the floor, A definitive threshold I must step across the door. An inevitable appointment, ever near its due, A silent promise of change, tinged with fear anew.
A mass unknown, a cellular mystery undefined, A whispered fright that occupies the forefront of my mind. My body’s map, familiar, now holds a foreign blight, A rebellion microscopic, far from the reach of light. The doctors speak in measured terms of scope and possibility, But the ultimate decision rests on me, fueled by fragility.
Ovaries, uterus, the devastating choice unfolds before my gaze, To surrender what defines my feminine past in surgical maze. A path of profound loss, a severance from history’s keep, A painful story yet untold, cloaked in misery deep. My mother’s journey, a fragmented memory veiled in mist, An unspoken, generational echo I find I cannot resist.
Did she face this same dark labyrinth, this medical might? Was she afraid, truly afraid, in the lonely hours of the night? Did physical tremors shake her hands, betraying her soul, When faced with choices monumental, to make herself whole? I search her silence for a clue, a comforting past’s sound, But find only inherited courage, holding firm to the ground.
The operating theatre waits, cold and sterile in its air, The scalpel’s glint, a swift flash, a silent, binding prayer. A sterile gleam reflecting a future I must forfeit and quit, A stolen dream of what might have been, a sorrowful, waking hit. The recovery’s road ahead promises a demanding, weary climb, An arduous journey back to strength, measured in fleeting time.
There will be pain, of course, and scars that tell an enduring tale, But hope remains, persistent, a flickering rhyme in the gale. For health’s embrace, for the promise of a future free from this dark curse, A necessary, heavy price I’ll pay, though my spirit constantly traverse. Though fear still whispers its insidious doubts in the silent, gray unknown, I listen for the stronger voice of resilience that guides me, fully grown.
This body, subjected to the test, wounded but not defeated, will mend, Finding a deeper strength in broken places, a journey without end. The steel butterflies will eventually fly away from my heart’s sound, Replaced by the steady rhythm of healing, firmly on the ground.
I am at a crossroads, and for the first time in a decade, I am unsure of the way forward. I have dedicated myself to the craft of storytelling with a persistence that should have borne fruit by now, yet despite my efforts, the “breakthrough” remains elusive.
My journey began in the days of CreateSpace, eventually transitioning into Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP). However, that transition led to a devastating setback. In an attempt to protect my professional reputation as an educator from a third-party publisher’s threats, I updated my metadata and pen name. Amazon flagged these changes as a violation of their guidelines and terminated my account on July 6, 2025. Despite a year of formal appeals and my commitment to publish exclusively as Nancy Ann Creed, the decision remains firm. After a decade of building a presence there, I am forced to accept that it may be time to let that platform go.
The pursuit of traditional representation has been equally exhausting. I have queried numerous agents for my fantasy series, The Shadow Realm Chronicles, my memoir, Birth After Miscarriage, and my poetry collection, Echoes and Whispers. The result has been hundreds of rejections and a haunting silence. The industry is notoriously risk-averse toward previously published material—especially work tied to a terminated account—leaving me caught in a professional limbo.
I recently moved my catalog to Draft2Digital, and while the platform is functional, it hasn’t yet bridged the gap between my dreams and my reality. For ten years, I’ve told anyone who asks that I’m “just waiting for my books to take off.” I find myself wondering if that moment will ever arrive.
The frustration is compounded by a marketing conundrum that feels like a foreign language. While I am confident in my writing and production skills, the world of SEO, platform-building, and social media engagement is a constant hurdle. I had hoped a traditional agent would shift this burden to a marketing department; instead, I am left to navigate it alone. Even high-effort attempts, like engaging on TikTok, have resulted in views but zero sales.
Despite the exhaustion of teaching 7th-grade math and raising a large family, I continue to explore new avenues. I’ve launched Patreon and Buy Me a Coffee to share “unpolished” drafts and short stories, hoping to find a community that appreciates the raw creative process. My primary motivation has never been purely financial—it is the desire for readers to lose themselves in the worlds I’ve built. Yet, I cannot ignore the financial reality: revenue would allow me to hire the professional editors and designers my work deserves.
Currently, I am struggling to find my creative spark. My goal of 3,000 words per week—tracked via Pacemaker—has become a source of guilt rather than motivation. Every time I fall behind the schedule, it deepens my exhaustion. I have poured my soul into six volumes of The Shadow Realm Chronicles, subjecting them to years of revision until every word gleamed. To meet that effort with soul-crushing silence is a heavy burden to carry. Some days, the temptation to retire my keyboard feels almost irresistible.
I am a teacher by day, but in my soul, I am an author. I am simply waiting for the world to hear my voice.
The walls are leaning inward, though the level says they’re straight, And the air feels thick and heavy, like a physical, dull weight. It’s a static in the marrow, it’s a ringing in the ears, A list of “what-ifs” blooming into catastrophic fears. The door feels like a mountain, and the phone a jagged stone, The mind builds up a prison that it’s crafted all alone.
But the kettle starts its humming, and the clock begins to chime, The world doesn’t pause its spinning just to give me extra time. So I breathe a shallow rhythm, count the floorboards near my feet, And find the tiny pocket where the fear and duty meet. It isn’t that the shaking stops or shadows go away, It’s the shaking hands that reach out to begin the work of day.
I carry it like luggage—bulky, frayed, and overfilled, Across the bridge of “must-do,” where the panic isn’t stilled. I take a single, trembling step, then find the strength for two, Doing all the things I need, while the fear is coming through. For courage isn’t silence where the anxious thoughts are gone, It’s the shivering soul that tells itself: regardless, carry on.
The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
I built a bridge of patient, weary years, A silent span of quiet, chosen words, The mortar set with dried and vanished tears, A testament to battles, not rewards. My hands I offered, strong and open wide, To hold the weight of your erratic sphere, To stabilize the chaos you supplied, Yet only met a storm, a boundless fear. My effort was but dust upon the breeze, Against the wind of your profound unease.
When your world tilts and loses all its grace, The guttural cry of “holy hell” defines The atmosphere of this abandoned place, No longer haven, but a field of mines. A sudden, unexpected fire starts, Consuming fragile things that stood its test, Leaving behind a jagged, broken heart. With cruelty, you push me to the crest, The edge of sanity, my failing might, Expecting me to hold while you ignite.
I tried, desperately, to be the ground, The immovable foundation in the shake. I absorbed the shocks where steady peace was found, Withstood the tremors for your troubled sake. But now the space between us is a void, A profound, echoing, desolate expanse, Where kindness’s tender seed has been destroyed, And understanding lost its saving chance. Now only the choked vine of unyielding rage, And your consuming need across this stage.
I’ve studied your map of pain for far too long, Memorized the texture of each emotional scar, Anticipating where the wound would throng, An unwilling cartographer of your war. But in that process, I forgot my name, Eclipsed by roles I was compelled to fill: Your punching bag, the target of your flame, Your safe harbor, your shore against the chill. But that era’s ended, clarity now bright, I won’t be your refuse, your emotional blight.
The door to this shared history is heavy now, Weighted by expectation and old despair, But it is closed, with a final, solemn vow. The work I poured is starkly laid out there— Not as a failure of a loving mind, But as an investment that was misguided, deep. I failed no duty, I was not unkind, I simply chose myself, the promises to keep To me. I recognized the point of no return, And in that closure, finally, I learn.
The silent, turning tide of life Has stretched the maps we knew, The seasons shifted, ground gave way, The ties between us drew
Slowly apart, a creeping drift. Demands attention, energy, Like water through the sand, Leaching the solid ground of time.
There was a time, not long ago, We were each other’s stay, The anchors holding fast and sure In storm of early day. We held the secrets, deep and bright, The wisdom time had wrought, Our days marked by the shared, full laugh, The tapestry we caught—
Before the world turned bright to cold. I feel the sharp ache of the miss, The ease we used to share, Where we could simply be, no need For any word or care. That ease is gone; the quiet now, The profound, long silence cast, Has tragically become the sound Our relationship held fast. When air grows thin with struggle’s breath, I seek those mirrored faces still.
I’m reaching back through the gray blur The passing years have made, Refusing that demanding life Will keep the things that fade. The miles that stand between us now Are lines on charts that lie, Meaningless compared to the depth Our history lifts high. Our memories, no fading echoes— But brilliant, fixed stars in the night.
With will and concentrated hand, I clear the tangled brush, Desperate to find the path again Beyond the isolating hush. A clear, resounding call I send
Into the lonely void. My friends, I want you now to know: I’m here, steadfast, unalloyed. I want us back—the kind of bond That bends but will not break, No matter what the wind may bring. It is the time our circle wakes.
The empty space of connection, the gathering, Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe. It hums with plans already made, A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go. My position is fixed: outside. I don’t move; I only watch the colors of the evening fade From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light. My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know.
The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp: That laughter sounds much louder through a wall— Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy, A painful noise. And conversely, Silence is a heavy thing to wear, A cloak woven from unsaid words. It presses down, making breathing difficult. So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all, A simple notification, an anchor thrown, To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there.
The name of “friend,” I embraced fully; We call them friends; I gave the name with pride, A sacred title for those to whom I opened life. I shared my secrets, listened to their own, Believing in a mutual exchange, a balanced scale. But now I wonder, standing on the side, A silent observer of their motion, If that foundation was solid. The crucial question takes root: If I am liked, or simply “loosely known.”
A chilling suspicion whispers of self-doubt: Is there a secret vote I didn’t see? A quiet pact to leave the chair unfilled? Or is the truth more passive, more insidious? Or is the lack of room inside the spree The consequence of slow emotional detachment? It feels like The way a dying fire is slowly stilled, The warmth receding until only ash remains. The question I need to ask is too large, too sharp to utter; It stays in my mind, a burning inscription in the dark: Do I have friends, or people I just know? Did I misjudge the reality of the bond? Did I mistake a flicker for a spark? The uncertainty is exhausting, forcing a decision: Is it my cue to turn around and go?
The core of the issue is heartbreaking simplicity: For if they wanted me, they’d find the space, They’d actively rearrange the elements of their plan. They’d reach across the gap to pull me through. This is the ultimate loneliness I face: There’s nothing lonelier than a familiar face— A face I thought knew me— That looks at everything—but never you.
