Posted on by shirindawna

lucky number 13.

thirteen years today.

you’d think it would feel smaller by now. quieter. more manageable. like it’s something you get used to. like background noise you forget how to turn off.

but if there’s one thing i’ve learned since july 18, 2012, it’s that time doesn’t smooth things out. it just makes the sharp edges feel normal.

this year is lucky number 13. and maybe lucky is the right word, in a way only he would understand.

i wrote a book.

not just talked about writing it. not just scribbled pieces here and there. i wrote the whole thing. and i know exactly what he would have said. he would have bragged like he had something to do with it. “that’s my daughter.” same energy he had telling people i could play piano, even though i quit after three lessons. details were always optional when it came to his pride.

he would have loved it. not because it’s neat or polished or makes me look good. because it’s sharp. messy. real.

thirteen years of figuring out how to say things he isn’t here to hear.

thirteen years of learning how to carry him forward without turning him into a statue.

because my dad wasn’t a statue. he was a pain in the ass. he was certain. he was alive in the way most people only pretend to be.

so yeah. lucky number 13.

i get to say things now i wouldn’t have known how to say when he was still here.

i get to write a whole book that feels like sitting across from him, coffee in hand, telling him the latest story and waiting for him to say exactly the thing i didn’t know i needed to hear.

still waiting.

still writing anyway.

Posted on by shirindawna

that’s that me espresso.

oh, the people who just can’t seem to handle it when a woman speaks her mind – what a fascinating breed. the ones who act like my voice is something that needs to be “toned down,” “polished,” or better yet, silenced altogether. let’s be real, they’re not silencing me because i’m wrong. they’re doing it because deep down, they know i’m right, and the truth makes them uncomfortable. too bad, because i’m not here to cater to fragile egos or tiptoe around the fact that i’ve got something to say. it’s never gonna be me, babe. never has been. never will be.

they slap on a smile, acting like they’re doing me a favor, telling me, “maybe you’re coming across too harsh,” or “you’d be more likable if you didn’t talk about certain things.”

oh, honey, i’m not here to be likable. if you want a watered-down version of me, go sip on someone else’s vanilla latte, because this is espresso—straight up.

these silencing types love to disguise themselves as “well-meaning,” like they’re just trying to help me out. as if i need their unsolicited advice on how to be more palatable. newsflash: i don’t need anyone to turn my volume down. i’m not some background noise for your comfort; i’m the whole damn concert, and the amps are cranked to eleven. if you can’t handle the music, the door’s right there.

here’s the real deal: they’re not silencing me because i’m too loud, or wrong, or “too much.” they’re silencing me because i make them face things they don’t want to deal with. i’m holding up a mirror to their outdated, misogynistic views, and they can’t stand the reflection. instead of evolving, they’d rather try to shut me up, like i’m the problem. but the joke’s on them because every time they try to silence me, it just makes me louder.

and let’s be honest—it’s almost funny how they think they have the power to dictate when and where i should speak. like, sweetie, you don’t have that kind of influence. women have been silenced for centuries, and look where that’s gotten us—nowhere we’re staying. i’ve got too much to say, and if you think a few snide comments or attempts to shut me down are going to work, you’re about to get hit with a reality check. i’ve got my own voice, and i sure as hell am not going to let anyone turn down the volume.

so, to the people who think they can silence me (or any other woman): take a seat. i don’t cater to other people’s insecurities, and i definitely don’t cater to people who think i should sit pretty and stay quiet. i’ve got things to say, and if that makes you uncomfortable, well, maybe it’s time to ask yourself why the truth bothers you so much.

i’ve never cared what anyone else thinks, and i’m definitely not about to start now. i’m done with other people’s rules. and their opinions? nothing but background noise to the sound of women taking up the space we’ve always deserved, no permission needed.

Posted on by shirindawna

don’t read the last page…

a couple days ago, we had to say goodbye to the second biggest bitch in our home.

tensley, our fearless, feisty, and forever loyal companion, finally gave in after 16.5 years of barking at everyone and everything that dared cross her path. from the moment she was born, she made her intentions clear-crawling right into my husband’s arms and declaring him hers. from that day on, she never left his side, ensuring everyone knew who was boss (even if she only weighed 12 pounds).

turns out, my husband has a type when it comes to small, loud, and unapologetically opinionated females, and tensley was the perfect match. she took her job seriously—no mailman, squirrel, or stray leaf stood a chance under her watch. if it moved, tensley barked at it, and if it didn’t move, well, she barked at that too, just to be safe. the neighbors will certainly miss the soundtrack she provided.

her loyalty was unmatched-tensley was glued to my husband’s side like a shadow (with a loudspeaker). as we say goodbye, we know the house will never be the same without her fierce presence. though it’s quieter now, it’s not necessarily for the better. tensley’s absence leaves a gaping hole, especially where her constant bark used to be. she was a tiny bundle of chaos.

rest in peace, sweet girl. the house is quieter, but our hearts are loud with memories of you.

Posted on by shirindawna

the magnetic pull of a love story.

isn’t it intriguing how love can ignite unexpected sparks and forge connections that defy explanation? i’ve always been the kind of person who stays friends with my exes. some people find it strange, but to me, it’s a testament to the connection we shared. after all, love doesn’t just disappear because a relationship ends; it transforms, it lingers, it finds new ways to exist.

there’s this pattern i’ve noticed, something almost magical. it seems that every man i’ve loved and left, or who has left me (i know…it’s hard to believe, but it’s happened), describes their experience of falling in love with me in strikingly similar terms. they speak of the chemistry as unmatched, a spark that set their world ablaze. they call me magnetic, say i have a pull that’s impossible to resist.

they tell me stories of how their hearts raced the first time we met, how every touch felt electric, and how conversations with me were like nothing they’d ever known. it’s like reading different chapters of the same book, each one recounting the same wonder, the same awe.

“you have this way about you,” one of them once said, a smile playing on his lips. “it’s like you see right into my soul and pull out the best parts of me.”

another ex, years after our breakup, confided, “being with you felt like being alive in a way i didn’t know was possible. the chemistry we had…i’ve never felt that with anyone else.”

these words, this recurring narrative, got me thinking. how is it that different men, at different times in my life, describe their love for me in almost identical ways? is it them, or is it me? is there something in the way i love, the way i connect, that creates this extraordinary bond? (spoiler: it’s not me, but let’s pretend)

the more i pondered, the more i realized that it’s not just about romantic relationships. this magnetic pull, this unmatched chemistry, it’s something deeper. it’s about the energy we bring into the world, the authenticity with which we live our lives. it’s about being fully present, about seeing people for who they truly are and letting them see you in return.

love, in all its forms, is transformative. it’s not about possession or permanence; it’s about the impact we have on each other’s lives. these men, these loves, they were mirrors reflecting back to me my own capacity for passion, for deep connection, for vulnerability.

staying friends with exes has taught me that love evolves. it’s not confined to the traditional boundaries of a relationship. we can carry the essence of those connections forward, allowing them to shape us, to teach us, to remind us of our own magnetic pull.

in a way, this recurring experience of love speaks to something bigger, something more meaningful. it’s about the human desire to connect, to be seen, to be understood. it’s about the magic that happens when two souls meet and recognize something familiar in each other.

and maybe, just maybe, it’s a reminder that we are all capable of being that spark, that magnetic force, for someone else. it’s about being open, being real, and letting the chemistry of connection work its magic, time and time again.

as i continue on this journey, i am grateful for these echoes of love, these reflections of my own heart. they remind me that love, in all its forms, is the most powerful force of all. and that, in itself, is something truly extraordinary. and maybe that’s why i’ve spent a lifetime chasing the right words to capture these feelings…