The Shawna Chronicles - A Bantering Buffet of Unfiltered Truths

At What Point Do You Stop Beating Yourself Up Over Mistakes? Let me ask you something… At what point — truly — do you stop dragging around the ghost of mistakes past like it’s your emotional emotional support raccoon? At some point — and that point might be right now — you’ve got to stop dragging your past mistakes around like they’re contributing to the mortgage. They are not emotionally supportive. They do not cook, clean, or take out the trash. They do not Venmo you a dime. And yet you’re letting them live in your head like they have a lease agreement. It’s time to evict them. Because listen… There comes a very real , very necessary moment in life where you have to stop beating yourself up for the things you did when you didn’t know better, weren’t healed yet, were overwhelmed, or honestly… just temporarily brain‑fogged from life, stress, hormones, or lack of snacks. Your past mistakes? They do not get a lease on your present. They are not your permanent roommates, they are not you...

  Ode to Saturday: A Tragicomedy in Ft. Lonesome How many things can go wrong? Let me count thy ways. Actually, grab a calculator—you’re going to need it. Hang on, this one’s a little wordy. But hey, it’s tax season, and wordiness is free. While some people take their tax refunds and buy cars, jewelry, or other shiny things, in this house we go full pioneer mode: we stock up on meat and groceries like we’re preparing for the apocalypse. It’s our biggest monthly expense because, friends, we live so far out that even DoorDash looks at our address and says, “Nah, fam.” Ft. Lonesome isn’t just a name—it’s a lifestyle. The Morning Chaos My day started at 5:20 AM because I’m a morning person by all stretches of the word—like, if “morning person” were an Olympic sport, I’d have a gold medal and a Wheaties box cover. I sit up, stretch all my muscles (because blood flow is life), and take a sip of water. Except, apparently, I decided to inhale it instead of drink it. Cue choking, water shoo...

A Long-Overdue Confession I’m going to be honest with y’all — this story has been sitting in my drafts folder since 2023, collecting dust like that one kitchen appliance everyone swears they’ll use again “someday.” I did post it sometime in 2023, but feel it needed it's own blog. But here’s the thing: Some stories aren’t just stories. Some stories are sagas . Some stories are adventures . Some stories involve bodily betrayal, emotional collapse, nuclear medicine, strangers touching your insides from the outside, and a fart so perfectly timed it deserves its own plaque. This one? This one has all of that — and it’s far too good, too chaotic, and too quintessentially me not to share. So why now? Because time has finally softened the terror enough that I can laugh — loudly, inappropriately, from the diaphragm — at the absurdity of it all. And because if you’ve ever had a medical scare, an unnecessary panic spiral, or a moment where your body decided to pretend it was auditioning for ...

I Am Not Society’s Standard—and That’s Okay I’m far from being considered a model. Hell, some days I skate by on nothing more than a great attitude. I’ve never been what society deems “beautiful” or “pretty.” Honestly, I’ve never considered myself either. There are days I feel adorable and cut - but let’s be real, every woman (maybe even men) has days where they feel like they resemble a troll. I Am Me I’m not perfect, and I don’t claim to be. I like food, obviously, I didn’t get this fabulous because I eat cucumbers. I have curves and lines, dimples and stretch marks. I’m considered “fat,” and I don’t disagree. At my heaviest, I was just a couple of pounds shy of 300. I have internal and external scars, both mine to bear. Some people love me, some like me, some tolerate me. I don’t know if anyone hates me - I feel like I’m not very hateable. I’ve done good and bad - to myself and to others. I love a comfortable pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt, and I’ll go out without makeup. I can...

Poetic & Reflective A journey through grief, grit, grace, and the quiet hope that survived the hardest seasons. Finding light, faith, and myself in the cracks left behind by a difficult year. Where loss shaped me, hope rebuilt me, and intention became my way forward. The end of 2024 set the emotional temperature for the early months of 2025, and that temperature felt like numbness. Not sadness, not anger—just a hollow quiet that settled into my bones. We lost my mother‑in‑law on December 30th, 2024, and in the way life sometimes cruelly clusters tragedy, one of her sisters passed away only a few hours before. It felt surreal, like grief was coming at us in stereo and we didn’t have the capacity to absorb even one channel of it. Because my bereavement policy doesn’t cover in‑laws, I spent the following week working while Damian and his family tried to piece together what needed to happen next. There’s something almost merciful about the early storm of logistics—the calls, the decis...