Tag Archives: struggles

Not that Girl Anymore

She is not the girl who scratched and clawed her way to the top. She is the girl who learned how to float to prevent her from sinking when life tried to weigh her down. Who walked on pebbles and used them as her stepping stones to get to higher ground. Who learned that childlike faith in the God above would blossom into something much greater than herself. She may have had father figures who were missing in action, but she became comforted by a Heavenly Father who never left her side.

Once dejected and rejected, today she no longer is that sad, little girl. Don’t feel sorry for her. Applaud her, because it was during the dry seasons that she discovered an oasis. Rejoice with her, because in the darkness is where she found a beacon of light. Admire her for rising above her crisis in spite of her circumstances. She may have started out in the valley, pecking along like a chicken digging for worms. But then the Ancient of Days taught her to spread her wings like an eagle and soar into the air over the mountaintop.

Don’t cry for her, feel sad for her, or grieve for her. If you’re looking for a lost and lonely child, she is not here. Misunderstood, she may be; a wonder to many she may be. If you’re looking for perfection, she is not that girl. If you expect to see sophistication or to hear profound eloquence, you may be disappointed. Her past may want to dictate her future, the voices in her head play a broken song, and her name may even mean “bitter” — but she refuses to be that girl anymore.

What kind of girl is she? A simple girl. A grateful girl. A blessed girl. She is stronger today for everything she endured. She appreciates the beauty of living life one day at a time. She surrounds herself with those who encourage and genuinely care for her. She clothes herself with a garment of praise, amazed by the wonders of God’s grace.

Sad . . . alone . . . afraid.

Not that girl anymore.


© M.A. Pérez 2015, All Rights Reserved

 “The past does not have to be your prison. You have a voice in your destiny. You have a say in your life. You have a choice in the path you take.” Max Lucado


Filed under Survivor

Making a Difference

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to give a presentation at a local women’s shelter on self-esteem. As I have been training to become a certified sexual assault advocate, I was delighted and agreed to speak to the group of ladies and give a one-hour presentation. I titled it, “Phenomenal, Beautiful You.”  I gave that presentation today.

Now due to numerous reasons and past experiences, I myself struggle with low self-esteem. I still don’t find certain tasks easy, comfortable, or painless. So, everything that I shared with the ladies today, I was speaking to myself. Sometimes we just need to speak words of affirmation over ourselves! I let those precious ladies know that I am just like them, only now, sitting on the opposite side of the table. However, not without being well acquainted with the struggles that they face. I shared my story, and my insecurities, and spoke on what the definition of insanity is: Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results. Here is one of the quotes that I printed out on card stocks for each lady to take:

When you change your thinking, you change your belief;
When you change your beliefs, you change you expectations;
When you change your expectations, you change your attitude;
When you change your attitude, you change your behavior;
When you change your behavior, you change your performance;
When you change your performance, you change your life.

This is the kicker to today’s event – today would have been my sister’s birthday, had she not passed away after being struck down by a hit-and-run drive, some 40+ years ago! I was a lonely, neglected child. But when my sister came into the world, from early on I gladly took care of her. Many times it was just the two of us while our parents were gone. But I didn’t mind. It was better doing things together than doing them alone. I promised that I would love and care for her forever. When tragedy struck, she was only two. How do you think this nine-year-old big sister felt at the time? Do you think she struggled with self-esteem, insecurities, and self-doubt for the majority of her life? Yeah, you can say that all right. And I will continue to work on it.

I share my experiences because it is possible to make a difference in this world. Just like my pastor says: If you have a pulse you have a purpose! Today’s message was well received and the hour flew by quickly. Afterward, no one wanted to stop chatting and visiting with me. They felt inspired. In the end, they knew I was one of them.

When I look back on my life, I see pain, mistakes, and heartache. When I look in the mirror, I see strength, learned lessons and pride in myself.


© M.A. Pérez 2015, All Rights Reserved


Filed under Self-Esteem Presentation


Photo Credit: justposhmasks.com

All through my life, I’ve dealt with feelings of low self-esteem and self-worth. I felt undone, incomplete, or insignificant. Along the way, I realized this stemmed from my childhood. I did not ask for it. I certainly did not want it. But with an undeniably painful past and a seemingly questionable future, I muddled through life. I thought a man could save me, but he only tried to create me in his own image! I became his shadow, even worshiped the ground he walked on, subservient to his every whim. I was truly lost, with no identity, no voice – no me. Yet I held on, not wanting to lose him. This, by the way, is a perfect example of insecurity: the more easily threatened we are, the more insecure we are.

Beth Moore says: “Insecurity lives in constant terror of loss.” As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been reading Beth Moore’s So Long, Insecurity with the subtitle You’ve Been a Bad Friend to Us. How I wish she wrote this book 40 years ago! She says, “Insecurity is not only a woman’s battle.” She identifies insecurity as a “profound sense of self-doubt – a deep feeling of uncertainty about our basic worth and our place in the world. The insecure man or woman lives in constant fear of rejection and deep uncertainty about whether his or her own feelings and desires are legitimate.”

I thought about myself as a Christian, why from time to time do I still struggle with insecurities? Why does rejection crush me so? Why do I second-guess everything? Beth reveals an interesting point about herself in her book: “I not only lack security, I also lack faith. I don’t just doubt myself, I also doubt God about myself.

Now I don’t know about you, but that struck a chord in me!

She goes on to say how some of us never seek healing from God for our insecurities because we feel like we don’t fit the profile. But insecurity’s best cover is perfectionism. Now there’s a mask for you!

A person who has no self-worth or a low self-esteem

tends to hide behind a mask.

Note: Here’s a thought-provoking poem I came across: Don’t Be Fooled By Me

What masks are you prone to wear? Looking back, I recall hiding the pain behind my smile…

Don’t try to be somebody you’re not, no one is perfect. It’s okay to let your guard down. We will face difficult and troubling times. Just remember God loves us just the way we are; He loves us too much to leave us that way.



Filed under Beth Moore, insecurities, Masks

The Battle Is Real

C. S. Lewis said, “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

Bad things happen to good people. The Bible says: It rains on the just and unjust. (Matt. 5:45)

We are not immune to suffering, pain, hardships, struggles, and losses. Adversities are part of life. The battle is real with me just as much as it is with you. Some suffer in silence, and some scream at the top of their lungs while alone. Although in a different way, inner turmoil can hurt just as much as physical pain. We battle within just as much as our outer shell. Pain is pain. When you hurt, you HURT. You may not see my pain, and I may not see yours, but it doesn’t lessen the reality. Someone said: Pain is inevitable, and suffering is optional.

Sometimes we are left with scars. Our heart has melted … waxed cold … turned numb. We are consumed with grief, despair, and unanswered questions. What do we do now? Where do we go? Who do we run to? When will it end? How much more? Why, God? Why?

I’ve learned, adversity can either make you or break you. I wonder: Is it possible to go through the fire and come out without the stench of smoke? Don’t let adversity crush you. Build a support system: Family, Faith, Friends. Resilience is like a muscle that strengthens as it is gradually exposed to obstacles.

As a Christian, I may not have all the answers as to the whys, but I have unwavering faith, even when my flesh is shaken. There is nothing too hard for Him, therefore, I can rest in the midst of challenges.

Though the tears may fall and the struggles may come, there will be a time of refreshing and healing. Maybe not in my time frame, but in His perfect timing. I am a little stronger and a little wiser after each storm. I am comforted knowing that my battle belongs to God and He hears the cries of the brokenhearted. (Psm. 147:3)

In times of suffering …

 “Either you’ll become better, or you’ll become bitter, but you won’t be the same again.”


Photo Credit: Unknown Source



Filed under Inspirational, Overcoming Adversity, Resiliency

Into the Shark Tank – Part Two

An hour later, reluctantly, I arrived at the clinic holding the door open, and ushering the girls inside. I noticed there were no other kids or parents scheduled at the same time as we were. I wondered if they had opened just for us. I rang the bell at the counter, took a questionnaire to fill out, and plopped in a chair. My girls busied themselves exploring their surroundings, investigating all the toys and books a-plenty.

The waiting room was kid friendly but cold like a funeral home. Cushioned chairs lined the walls plastered with billboards regarding child safety laws. Small toys were scattered on the gray linoleum, and bookshelves were crammed with picture books and stuffed animals. A small fish tank rested on the counter, and a yellow Legos table sat in the middle of the room. Above the sign-in window hung a large round clock.

I wanted to flee but rang the bell again.

A petite, white-coated woman emerged behind the counter. She looked odd wearing glasses too large for her narrow face, with an over-exaggerated smile as wide. She held a clipboard in her hand and glanced down, skimming the pages.

“The gangs all here?” she inquired.

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Right on time. I will be calling your girls one by one to go into the examining room.”

“Do I get to go in, too?” I asked.

She answered with a phony grin.“Won’t be necessary.” Then, she turned and called in a sing-song voice, “Anna?”

She and Anna Marie disappeared behind the door. I glanced at the clock.

I flipped through the pages of a magazine. Diana tossed a picture book on my lap that she wanted me to read. Glad to occupy some time, I made up the words and pretended to read to her.

Minutes passed before Ms. White-Coat with her fake smile and tone returned. Anna Marie skipped by, chewing gum, and joined her sisters.

“Diana. You’re next,” Ms. White-Coat chirped. Diana glared at her suspiciously, but when White-Coat produced a piece of candy, Diana’s face lit. They vanished behind the door.

My mind scrambled as I paced.

What questions are they asking Diana? She won’t understand nor will be able to answer properly. They’ll trick her or have her repeat whatever they want her to say. What if they ask if her Mommy ever spanks her? Or takes things away? Or sends her to her room?

I wanted to drill Anna Marie about what Ms. White-Coat had asked but feared the room might be bugged.

I stared at the clock, unseeing. The tick-tock of the second hand turned. I peered out the curtain and watched an ant crawl along the windowsill, carrying a big crumb in its mouth, too heavy of a load for such a tiny thing. Like I sometimes felt.

Diana wasn’t kept long. The door burst open, and she scampered out with a balloon in her hand and a grape BlowPop in her mouth. I smiled. She’s no dummy; she got what she wanted. I hope Diana gave Ms. White-Coat-Goodie-Two-Shoe a run for her money.

“Okay, I guess we have finished anyway,” she said out of breath. “That leaves you, my dear. Angela, right?”

My baby girl held onto my leg shielding her face. “Mommy, no,” she pleaded.

“It’s okay, Angela. Mommy will be right here waiting,” I said.

White-Coat held a doll and in her ever-so-fake-sweet voice coaxed my daughter to go in with her.

Once the examination finished, another woman came out to talk with me. She introduced herself with a last name I couldn’t pronounce. I read her name tag: Gretchen. She told me that the physicals went well. The tests came out clean and she saw that my girls were happy and that I cared for them. Yet, on account of our history of alcohol and violence, she deemed our home an unsafe environment for the girls.

Here it comes. I held my breath and stared at the floor.

“We understand your dire straits; however, due to your present condition”—I cradled my belly— “and financial situation, you have expressed you haven’t any other place to go. For this reason, we must remove the girls from the home today into a more stable and suitable environment.”

A wave of nausea washed over me.

She rambled on. “Before the girls can return home, you must provide a safe place for them to return to, or . . . your husband moves . . . .”

Lost in my thoughts, my mind spun; her voice faded in and out.

“. . . recommendations . . . ,” “. . . counseling . . . ,” “. . . seek professional . . . ,”
“. . . proper care . . . ,” “. . . unfit . . . ,” “. . . temporarily . . .,” “. . . so sorry . . . .”

Stability, I thought. Where were these jokers when I was a kid?

My baby kicked. I went back to the waiting area, feeling light-headed.

“Girls, Mommy has to go away now.” On bended knee, at eye level, I struggled to control my queasiness and hide the devastation in my voice. This is the darkest day of my life!

“You will be staying at another place for a short time . . . until you can come back home again. . .” I felt my composure slipping and didn’t want to say too much and alarm them.

“You’ll have fun.” A tear escaped my eye. “Remember, Mommy loves you so much. . .” I felt I might freak out at any time, bawl in front of them and never stop.

“Give Mommy a kiss. Mommy will see you again soon. I promise.”

Anna Marie focused more on the toys in her hands than on what I struggled to convey. She nodded when I gave her a kiss and a tight squeeze. Diana repeated, “Bye-bye,” hugging her balloon instead of me.

But my two-year-old Angela clung to me tightly. She wouldn’t let go and began to cry hard. Somehow, she understood. She felt my pain.

After kissing and hugging the girls, I trotted away as quickly as possible, leaving them behind with a CPS worker. Sobbing in the elevator, I couldn’t breathe. My heart ripped from my chest. Seeing black spots, vigorous waves thrashed about in my head. I felt like a drowning child again, greedily grasping for air; only this time, CPS sharks encircled me, and I, the bait.

I was five-and-a-half months pregnant. I cradled my belly, holding my unborn child in the safety of my womb. They won’t take this one away from me!

I numbly attended a brief court session and had to consent to relinquish temporary custody of my daughters to foster care. I went through the motions of that ordeal alone, but remembering the details afterward remained a blur. When I arrived home to the empty apartment, the quietness jarred me. I imagined my girl’s chatter and giggles. My head echoed in what a failure I was. Hadn’t God given me three innocent beauties to care for? My own heart felt like I’d surely die from brokenness. And guilt.

“Where are the girls?” Donny demanded after he came home and looked around.

“Where do you think they are?” I growled. The look of shock on his face drove me onward, with rage. Before he uttered another word, I lashed out, “CPS took them so they can be someplace safe. They have a right to a healthy, normal childhood I never had. You’re not going take that away from them!” I ran from his sight, locked myself in the bathroom, and bawled my eyes out.

“Mary, come on,” Donny pleaded. “Whatever it takes, we’ll get them back.”

He almost sounds like he cares. “Go away.”

“You’re going to get yourself sick. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You’re going to have to come out sooner or later.” His voice trailed away.

“I can’t stand you!” I shouted.

But I hated myself even more.

(Although more in the book, this completes the excerpt from Chapter 32 “Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace.” To read Part One of this chapter go here. In posting this for you my readers, the emotions of those three dreary months as a young struggling mother were one of the hardest I’d ever gone through. Prayer sustained me. God’s Grace got me through.)

© M.A. Perez 2014, All Rights Reserved


Filed under Memoir

Into the Shark Tank – Part One

Tired. Bone tired.

At Rice Food Market, on my feet six nights a week, I worked the cash register, sacked and lifted heavy brown sacks loaded with groceries from 5 PM until closing at midnight. By the end of my shift, my feet swelled. My back ached. But the job provided health insurance and a six-month maternity leave with pay. This was an answer to my prayers; God had provided.

I normally didn’t get home until one in the morning. To my good fortune, I worked directly across the street from our apartment on Bissonnet. A teenage neighbor watched our daughters for a couple of hours and fed them before my husband arrived home. I’d leave work at break time to check in on him and the girls in the evenings.

Too often, I’d find my husband draped across the couch out cold.

“Donny . . . Donny . . . .” I stood over him shaking his arm. “Dammit Donny, wake up.”

“What? I am awake!” he spat and turned over.

“You’re supposed to put the girls to sleep before passing out. Remember?”

“Theyrslumppnng . . .”

“What—? You make me sick!”

I stormed away to check in on my sleeping angels. Before I opened their door, I heard whispering and giggling coming from the kitchen.

I never imagined how I’d find my girls entertaining themselves. On the floor amidst my pots and pans, they sat with the refrigerator door open. Five-year-old Anna Marie pretended to cook. She mixed her sisters a concoction of whatever she found in the fridge: raw eggs, ketchup, Pepto-Bismol, mayonnaise, grape jelly—and Lord knew what else—stirred in for good measure. I got home in the nick of time. Good Lord, I think I even smell beer in the mixture!

I wanted to quit work. But I needed to hold on to those maternity benefits.

A few nights later, I discovered the two youngest girls precariously hanging out the window of our second-story apartment—fearlessly leaning on their bellies, legs flying in mid-air—my heart swelled in my throat. Concerned for their safety, I didn’t want to frighten them or have them keel over the windowsill. And I happened to be extremely skittish about heights.

¡Calmete! I told myself. You don’t want a repeated episode of having your baby early. I held my breath. I snuck behind them, grabbed them, and pulled them in.
For me to repeatedly find the girls unsupervised and unattended became too much to bear. They deserved better. They didn’t need to see their father’s belligerent drunkenness. They didn’t need to hear their parents fighting, name-calling, and screaming. What they needed and deserved, was a non-hostile environment—a safe refuge—filled with love, security, and self-esteem. And as their parents, we failed to give them that.

I imagined what our neighbors thought about us whenever uproars detonated through the walls of our apartment.

One evening I found out.

A couple of police officers knocked on our door. I wasn’t too surprised, but by then, all was calm. Donny, in a drunken coma, had passed out.

The cops noticed I’d been weeping; however, I hadn’t any visible bruises on me. I never pressed charges against my husband before. Call me stupid. But I wasn’t going to then either. After some specific questioning, they gathered that I needed help. They asked if the girls and I had any place else to go or relatives close by. Naturally, I thought about fleeing to Miami, but even if we were to get there, then what?

Seeing our substandard living conditions, they handed me a Child Protective Services’ calling card. They strongly advised I take the girls in for a routine medical examination in the morning. How many times had my mother dealt with them when I was a kid? I knew nothing embodied “routine” when CPS became involved.

Early the next day, I bathed and dressed my girls in their prettiest dresses. I silently brushed their hair in pigtails, making ringlets with my fingers. I listened to their chatter, blinking away tears, and savored the moment to admire their beauty and uniqueness.

“Mommy, where we goin’?” Angela asked. “Put dis ribbon in my hair.”

“Lookie, Mommy, I can tie my shoes.” Anna Marie grinned.

“Ouchie! Don’t pull my hair, Mommy.”

“Balloon?” Diana asked, thinking we were going to the store.

“Mommy, are you sad?”

“Your tummy is gettin’ big again, Mommy.”

A few hours later, heartbroken and devastated, I was silently praying for their quick return.

(To be continued.)

This is a short excerpt from “Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace,” Chapter 32. In this snippet, I reflect back to a time when my role as a young mother wasn’t so easy. With Mother’s Day soon approaching, I felt it was appropriate to share this with you.

© M.A. Perez 2014, All Rights Reserved


Filed under Memoir

She’s My Mama

Mama lives alone. She enjoys a contented life. She loves playing Bingo and the group outings on the Metro-Lift with Charles, her traveling companion. They attend church together. Mama has a provider who cleans, cooks and provides assistance. I have come to the place where I am able to let go and let her live her own life. While Mama has learned not to rely upon me as heavily as before, she knows I will be there whenever needed.

This past week, we celebrated Mama’s 79th birthday at an Italian restaurant. She doesn’t like her pictures taken and has always been shy in front of the camera. Rest assured, she enjoyed her day, having no problem dining out and in opening gifts.


Initially, when I shared with Mama that I was writing my memoirs she laughed and squealed, “Mary, what kind of book is that going to be?”

I chuckled, answering, “Stranger than fiction, of course.”

Later, with a more serious tone, Mama asked, “So, you’re going to blame me for everything that has happened?”

While our relationship and communication continue to require work, I assured her that I don’t blame her for all the bad.

Let me be clear: I do not hate Mama. I NEVER hated Mama. I hated her behavior. I resented everything and everyone that took her away from me as a child! Though my mind may still remember the neglect, I realize that nothing I did or did not do could have changed her then. Or now. I can only change myself and aim for becoming better.

Several years ago, someone recommended Irregular People, by Joyce Landorf which helped me tremendously. Nearly everyone has a difficult or “irregular” person in his or her life. They can be emotionally tone-deaf and not really hear you. They may be emotionally blind and not see you. They may even have a speech impediment and not say the right thing to you. You cannot please that person; you cannot change them no matter how much you wish to.

I can be at peace and know that the way Mama—or anyone else—chooses to live their lives, isn’t a reflection of me.

Yes, writing is therapeutic, but if I can show just one person that they are not alone in their struggles, then I have done something good. Through it all, one can have purpose and meaning and overcome.

In the dynamic of things, I felt Mama did her best.

As we all try to do.


© M.A. Perez 2013, All Rights Reserved


Filed under Mama, parenting

“Mrs. C”

We affectionately call her Mrs. C.

In her sixties, with remarkable zeal, she carried a charismatic and gregarious personality. She was a Bible teacher, an author, a missionary, a powerhouse, and a woman of great faith. She exuded genuine friendship in a Godly persona and took me under her wings. She held many prayer meetings in her home and often prostrated herself on the floor on her face interceding for others. She became my lifesaver, my spiritual mother. Throughout the years, I often counted on her for spiritual advice and much-needed counseling.

On one dreary afternoon, the sky grew overcast along with my hope and faith. Suffering from battle fatigue, I sat in Mrs. C’s den. I told her I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.

“I can’t take it anymore,” I confessed, wringing my hands.

Patiently, unassuming, and non-judgmental, Mrs. C handed me a tissue and gave me time to release the dread and pain in my heart.

“I’ve tried everything. Done all I know to do. Yet nothing seems good enough.”

“Has he stopped hitting you?”

I sighed, much relieved that he had. “Oh, yes.”

“Mary Ann, in his own way you know he loves you” she began, “but you have become ‘weary in well-doing.’ In your mind’s eye, you’ve conceded it’s not worth it.”

She honed in on my sentiments. I hung my head in shame.

“You know,” she insisted, “it is worth it all.”

At that moment, I wished I were stronger and smarter, and Mrs. C wasn’t so wise and read me so well. “But shouldn’t this be a two-way street?” I suggested.

“Are you and the kids better off without him?”

I figured she knew the answer before I did. “We . . . we have nowhere else to go.”

“Are you better off without him?” she repeated and handed me the tissue box.

“Money is tight. I can’t afford to do anything else.”

“Are you better off without him?”

No,” I whispered and wiped my nose.

I felt weak, and inadequate as a Christian wife, struggling to maintain a measure of peace and sanity in my household with four children and tending to a man struggling with his demons.

“Then, go home and be the best wife and mother you know how to be,” she said.

Sometimes, it’s easier to talk the talk than to walk the walk.

“But first,” she added, “I want to pray for you.”

That woman knew how to enter the Throne Room of God in her prayers. Electricity surged through my entire body when she touched me as she prayed. Before I left, she handed me her book, Wives, Unequally Yoked. I figured reading couldn’t hurt, plus the title intrigued me. I’d already devoured The Total Woman, by Marabel Morgan. The pages were worn and underlined with a yellow marker, much like my own Bible.


I didn’t leave Mrs. C’s company the same way I arrived. Resolved in my heart not to become bitter, I determined to be better and left strengthened, with a made-up mind.

Mrs. C suggested that I study a passage in the Bible that read: “In the same way, you wives, be submissive to your own husbands so that even if any of them are disobedient to the Word, they may be won without a word by the behavior of their wives, as they observe your chaste and respectful behavior.”

I had to admit this wasn’t easy. I’d used my tongue as a weapon more times than I cared to count and didn’t know if I could keep my mouth shut. But with renewed determination, I worked on dropping the holier-than-thou attitude and praying for my husband more. This time, I prayed–not that my life might become easier–but that he might become whole: physically, spiritually, and emotionally.

Note: Has anyone outside of your family meant the world to you? Made an impact? Enriched your life?

Throughout the years, many have come into my life, which I am eternally grateful for. Mrs. C recently celebrated her 87th birthday. Although not as active as once before, Mrs. C has touched and helped countless lives still going strong today. Because of her, many realized their true potential and reached their purpose.

Michael C. Dudash

Painting by Michael C. Dudash

© M.A. Perez 2013, All Rights Reserved


October 6, 2013 · 12:51 PM

To Quit or Not to Quit

dont-quitMeltdown. Is what I’m having. You know what I hate besides fear? Weakness. And that’s how I feel. Weak. I just completed my third spinning class and I feel like crying. Instead of stronger, I’m feeling weaker. While my mind is screaming the entire time, “quit,” I am hurting in an area where it’s downright embarrassing to divulge to a male instructor. And so, I spin on. Fifty minutes is a long time.

My son sent me a text to give it time. “Just stay consistent,” he says. “Don’t quit. In three–four weeks, you’ll start to challenge yourself. Right now, your body is challenging you.”

I sure wish I had done this twenty years ago. Now at fifty-something, I feel foolish trying to keep up with the more youthful and experience crowd.  While I did not quit, I could not keep up. I felt deflated driving home. But then again, no pain, no gain, right?

Cycling class. I hope that I will start seeing results instead of feeling as if I’m merely spinning my wheels if you know what I mean.

© M.A. Perez, 2013, All Rights Reserved


Filed under Agility, Exercise, Fatigue, Memoir, Midlife Crisis