#the final shape and destiny in general changed my life and made me take pride in existing

[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

A Look into My Witness/ Destiny Cultural Project!

Greetings!! In order to help organize my cultural project (that I am still working on, so everything here is still malleable as my understandings and drafts change!), I decided to share with you guys what I aim to tackle (warning, I’m not a professional by any means)!

My project is a very causal one that will be used to form discussions with others. My goal is to encourage people of my culture to tell passionate and authentic stories after years of pressure to be docile to Western ideals, using the Witness and its role in Destiny to show that there are universal themes and antagonists we can portray to a worldwide audience!

I’ve been hopping around getting interpretations about Destiny in order to understand how others perceive a story that can be read to resonate deeply with our experiences.

For context, I am using this reading, inspired by my cultural experiences, to compare interpretations against and form this project: the greater story of Destiny is about how the indifference of the universe and its tendency to act in ways people see as cruel paired with the questions left by its silence drive people to seek an answer to it that is objective/perfect out of fear and pain, failing to realize that there is no one way to look at those aspects of the universe spiritually and that the pursuit of enforcing purpose leads to cutting away at beliefs/people that you deem a threat to your paradigm.

That fear of uncertainty and the inability to make the universe act the way you wish it would often leads to individuals forfeiting a personal existential pursuit in favor of assurance within a collective belief system that gives them a sense of safe, objective meaning; a system that can cause long lasting devastation, but can be defeated by choosing to fight alongside others to protect diversity and the right to self autonomy, even if that means living in a world that can cause pain alongside others that can choose to be immoral.

I relate this to an exploration of Caribbean culture against imperialism, specifically religious imperialism, and talk about beliefs/ideas like Myal, Obeah, Vodou, Evangelism, Fundamentalism, and Négritude.

Here’s what I have as categories!

A Silent Universe is One Open to Interpretation for All- Understanding the Traveler/Gardener’s role in Destiny’s narrative and how that leads into creating stories inspired by its dedication to free will as well as our own culture’s interpretations on the roles of the universe’s forces and divinity (with personal additions added from my experiences of focusing on scorning the universe instead of helping others understand their place in it as a partial result of people forcing the narrative of an omnipotent, omnipresent, all knowing God into fitting the white supremacist theory that slavery was earned via the lineage of African individuals to Ham from the Bible)

Don’t Submit to the Indifference of the Cosmos, Work in Spite of It- Understanding the Veil/Winnower’s role in the Destiny narrative and how that can enrich stories involving fighting against Social Darwinism and dogmatic cruelty (discussion of the hive occurs here)

Do You Need Salvation? I Don’t, but You Do- Understanding how the ideas that the Gardener and Winnower represent lead to the creation of the Witness and using that to sympathize and understand the behaviors of “Precursors” in our real world; an argument against the notion that ethics is only for “civilized westerners” and that religions with vertical morality/a “perfect”, blissful afterlife are the objective truth

We Don’t Want the Ends and We Sure as Hell Don’t Want the Means- An analysis on the intentions of the Precursors and how far intentions can be valued in stories that focus on the consequences

We Fight Systems, Not People- An exploration on how the decision to make the Witness it’s own being outside of the Precursors makes it a powerful representation of how individuals can harm themselves to make an oppressive system that is more than their individual actions

It is Beauty Amongst Ugliness- An exploration of how Destiny’s support of fighting for hope and personal freedom against insurmountable odds shows a potential interest from general audiences for Caribbean stories of maintaining hope in desolate conditions; a discussion on how tales of black triumph has a place on the world stage

You Look at the Sands, I Look Beyond the Horizon- A discussion about how more communal groups that are close to their cultural identity might focus on the more societal, large scale implications of a story rather than the more personal implications individually minded people see first, something to be aware of and acknowledge when creating cultural fiction (with observations about Witness interpretations and other pieces of media, like Dev Patel’s movie Monkey Man) (please note I am not demonizing any type of interpretation, I just think it’s important to consider that people have different scopes in order to avoid frustrations in story telling)

Disciples, Taken, Dread, and Zombies- An exploration of “zombification” (as used in the book Myal by Erna Brodber) to explain the treatment of the Witness’ forces and relate it to how imperialistic acts aim to strip people of cultural/religious identity to use for the perpetuation of its ideology

I Hope That’s Dread You’re Feeling - A discussion on how, after years of intimidation from oppressive powers, fiction can be used to cause negative reactions in audiences that move them to take our issues and stories seriously (with pieces of the Witness’ abuses, manipulations, and mutilations described); a discussion on the importance of fostering a Lordean Rage in depictions of abuses as well as the exploitation of black bodies (with additions from Myisha Cherry’s book The Case for Rage)

Leaving Lubrae Won’t Save You- An analysis of how Rhulk can be interpreted as a metaphor for zombification; how imperial powers seek to prey on the vulnerable and frustrated to isolate them, instill in them their ideology, and turn them on people who struggled just like them with promises of salvation (with additions from Derek Walcott’s Dream on Monkey Mountain play and the book The Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon)

You Can Look at it This Way, or That Way, or That Way Too- An overview of some of the historical/mythological/cultural/philosophical/psychological references in Destiny that are key to understanding the world building and how Bungie uses them to enrich the game’s themes; a discussion on how we are not alone in our struggle to prove we have a right to existence and expression

You Should Always Aim to Do Better- A discussion of some of the narrative shortcomings in Destiny, especially involving racial biases (intentional or not), that storytellers should be mindful of when developing narratives or using cultures to inspire antagonistic forces

Is it Human? Male? Female? No, it’s Evil- A general discussion on the design of the Witness paired with more specific observations on how people interpret it’s gender; a detailing of personal observations on how whether the Witness is seen as masculine or feminine often coincides with what traits/interpretations of it are given attention, related to how imperialism is often seen as a masculine force

The Stars Were Made for Us Too- An encouragement to people of my culture to not shy away from implementing our experiences in sci-fi and fantasy settings based on some of the aspects people admire about Destiny (inclusion of varied forms of gender expression and sexualities, poc from different backgrounds being main characters, etc.) (with additions from a visual arts thesis a friend of mine is producing about black mythology and the novel Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston)

If you guys have any questions or want to participate, go to my pinned post and comment on it/Dm me personally! I’m still accepting responses to my questions and lore/references that could help me out, and I thank everyone who shared that post! Thank you for your time and I’m so excited to keep working on this to refine it more!

[aboveallarescuer]

Dany asserting her identity, titles and achievements (to others or herself) and/or moments of pride in general

As I was rereading ASOIAF, I made it my goal to compile all* the book passages demonstrating either certain key attributes of Daenerys Targaryen (e.g. that she's compassionate and smart) or aspects of hers that are usually overstated (e.g. that she's ambitious and prophecy-driven).  Doing such a task may seem exaggerated, but I'd argue it's not, for many, many misconceptions about Dany have become widespread in light of the show's final season's events (and even before).

It must be acknowledged that it can be tricky to reference, say, ADWD passages to counter-argument how she was depicted in season eight (which allegedly follows ADOS events). Dany will have had plenty of character development in the span of two books. However, whatever happens to Dany in the next two books, I would argue that there is more than enough material to conclude that her show counterpart was made to fall for flaws that she (for the most part) never had and actions that she (for the most part) would never take. (and that's not even considering the double standards and the contradictions with what had been shown from show!Dany up until then, but that's obviously out of the scope of these lists)

Another objection to the purpose of these lists is that Game of Thrones is different from A Song of Ice and Fire and should be analyzed on its own, which is a fair point. However, the show is also an adaptation of these books, which begs the questions: why did they change Dany's character? Why did they overfocus on negative traits of hers or depicted them as negative when they weren't supposed to be or gave her negative traits that were never hers to begin with? Another fact that undermines the show=/=books argument is that most people think that the show's ending will be the books', albeit only in broad strokes and in different circumstances. As a result, people's perception of Dany is inevitably influenced by the show, which is a shame.

I hope these lists can be useful for whoever wants to find book passages to defend (or even simply explore different facets of) Dany's character in metas or conversations.

*Well, at least all the passages that I could find in her chapters, which is no guarantee that the effort was perfectly executed, but I did my best.

Also, people could interpret certain passages differently and then come up with a different collection of passages if they ever attempted to make one, so I'm not saying that this list is completely objective (nor that there could ever be one).

Also, some passages have been cut short according to whether they were, IMO, relevant to the specific topic of the list they're in, so the context surrounding them may not always be clear (always read the books and use asearchoficeandfire). Many of them appear in different lists, sometimes fully referenced, sometimes not.

I listed the passages back to front because I felt doing so highlighted Dany's evolution better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To justify the existence of this list, let's see examples of widespread opinions that I feel misrepresent Daenerys Targaryen:

Demanding respect simply because she is the “rightful heir” to the Iron Throne is in her Signature Moves list right up there with Yelling and Burning. As Machiavelli might say: “she trippin". A ruler only gets real power through taking and earning and keeping it, not through inheritance. (Wisecrack)

~

But even Daenerys’ sense of altruism has diminished considerably of late, and she’s been relying on her reputation rather than a desire to inspire love and loyalty. Tywin once told Joffrey that any man who must say “I am the king” is no true king. Meanwhile, Daenerys’ first course of action is always to intimidate with her endless list of titles, even when they can’t possibly help her, as when she’s brought before Khal Moro in “The Red Woman.” (x)

~

Her arc is honest and real and logical. It is a coherent response to her given circumstances and follows her narrative thread coupled with her inherent lust for her own destiny. It both pushes against her gender and is inherently shaped by how others have treated her due to her gender. It is both a result of her victimization and in spite of her trials. She is self-absorbed and self-servicing, and the human tension between ego and selflessness is a huge fulcrum for the story thematically across the board. (x)

~

But the character has been obsessed with the Iron Throne, right from her youth. While, time and again, she has admitted that her father was a homicidal maniac, but that has never discouraged her from leaving her claim to the throne. (x)

~

We are supposed to forget that she is fighting for nothing more than her own sense of entitlement to the throne, like some upper-class brat who loses her family’s fortune and eventually manages to become CEO of her own corporation. (x)

I would argue that her assertion of her titles does not stem from "sense of entitlement to the throne" or from being "self-absorbed" and "self-servicing" or simply for the sake of "intimidating". 

She asserts them when she needs to show other people why she deserves respect (which is, of course, all the more necessary for the sake of her gender) like in ASOS Dany IV; 

She asserts them when she needs to control her fear or emotional pain (AGOT Dany II, ASOS Dany III, ADWD Dany I);

She asserts them to motivate herself (ADWD Dany X); 

She asserts them to take responsibility for carrying them in the first place (ADWD Dany V, ADWD Dany VI, ADWD Dany VIII); 

She even acknowledges their potential negative side (ADWD Dany II, ADWD Dany VIII). 

And let's not forget that, in ADWD Dany IV, when the Green Grace argues for a Dany-Hizdahr marriage by mentioning some of their ancestors, Dany replies that "His forebears are as dead as mine. Will Hizdahr raise their shades to defend Meereen against its enemies? I need a man with ships and swords. You offer me ancestors." 

And these are only examples off the top of my head. My point is that her relationship with power is complex.

IMO, claims like the ones I've linked to certainly cannot be made after reading the books (some can't even after watching the show's first 71 episodes, but the show can be all over the place and ... I digress), so take a look at these passages.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

The sun grew hotter as it rose, and before long her head was pounding. Dany’s hair was growing out again, but slowly. “I need a hat,” she said aloud. Up on Dragonstone she had tried to make one for herself, weaving stalks of grass together as she had seen Dothraki women do during her time with Drogo, but either she was using the wrong sort of grass or she simply lacked the necessary skill. Her hats all fell to pieces in her hands. Try again, she told herself. You will do better the next time. You are the blood of the dragon, you can make a hat. She tried and tried, but her last attempt had been no more successful than her first.

~

No, Dany told herself. If I look back I am lost. She might live for years amongst the sunbaked rocks of Dragonstone, riding Drogon by day and gnawing at his leavings every evenfall as the great grass sea turned from gold to orange, but that was not the life she had been born to.

~

Am I dying? Then she saw the pale crescent moon, floating high above the grass, and it came to her that this was no more than her moon blood.

If she had not been so sick and scared, that might have come as a relief. Instead she began to shiver violently. She rubbed her fingers through the dirt, and grabbed a handful of grass to wipe between her legs. The dragon does not weep. She was bleeding, but it was only woman’s blood. The moon is still a crescent, though. How can that be? She tried to remember the last time she had bled. The last full moon? The one before? The one before that? No, it cannot have been so long as that. “I am the blood of the dragon,” she told the grass, aloud.

~

“...I am only a young girl.”

No. You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words.

“Fire and Blood,” Daenerys told the swaying grass.

ADWD Daenerys IX

When his mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his black teeth. His eyes were molten. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. If I run from him, he will burn me and devour me.

[...] He is fire made flesh, she thought, and so am I.

ADWD Daenerys VIII

No queen has clean hands, Dany told herself. She thought of Doreah, of Quaro, of Eroeh … of a little girl she had never met, whose name had been Hazzea. Better a few should die in the pit than thousands at the gates. This is the price of peace, I pay it willingly. If I look back, I am lost.

~

You saw me as defeated, Dany thought, and who am I to say that you were wrong?

“...Never trust a sellsword.”

Or a queen, thought Dany.

~

“The dragon has three heads,” Dany said when they were on the final flight. “My marriage need not be the end of all your hopes. I know why you are here.”

“For you,” said Quentyn, all awkward gallantry.

“No,” said Dany. “For fire and blood.”

~

“They are … they are fearsome creatures.”

“They are dragons, Quentyn.” Dany stood on her toes and kissed him lightly, once on each cheek. “And so am I.”

ADWD Daenerys VII

It was close to sunset before Daario Naharis appeared with his new Stormcrows, the Westerosi who had come over to him from the Windblown. Dany found herself glancing at them as yet another petitioner droned on and on. These are my people. I am their rightful queen.

~

“Come back to bed and kiss me.” No one had ever kissed her like Daario Naharis. “I am your queen, and I command you to fuck me.”

She had meant it playfully[.]

~

“...This match will save our city, you will see.”

“So we pray. I want to plant my olive trees and see them fruit.” Does it matter that Hizdahr’s kisses do not please me? Peace will please me. Am I a queen or just a woman?

ADWD Daenerys VI

“Your Grace should not be here, breathing these black humors.”

“I am the blood of the dragon,” Dany reminded him. “Have you ever seen a dragon with the flux?” Viserys had oft claimed that Targaryens were untroubled by the pestilences that afflicted common men, and so far as she could tell, it was true. She could remember being cold and hungry and afraid, but never sick.

ADWD Daenerys V

“Your Grace could not have known—”

“I am the queen. It was my place to know.”

~

“I may be a young girl innocent of war, but I am not a lamb to walk bleating into the harpy’s den. I still have my Unsullied. I have the Stormcrows and the Second Sons. I have three companies of freedmen.”

~

“What of these Astapori?”

My children. “They are coming here for help. For succor and protection. We cannot turn our backs on them.”

Ser Barristan frowned. “Your Grace, I have known the bloody flux to destroy whole armies when left to spread unchecked. The seneschal is right. We cannot have the Astapori in Meereen.”

Dany looked at him helplessly. It was good that dragons did not cry.

ADWD Daenerys IV

"Most queens have no purpose but to warm some king's bed and pop out sons for him. If that's the sort of queen you mean to be, best marry Hizdahr."

Her anger flashed. "Have you forgotten who I am?"

"No. Have you?"

Viserys would have his head off for that insolence. “I am the blood of the dragon. Do not presume to teach me lessons.” When Dany stood, the lion pelt slipped from her shoulders and tumbled to the ground. “Leave me.”

ADWD Daenerys III

“...A child departed Qarth, as lost as she was lovely. I feared she was sailing to her doom, yet now I find her here enthroned, mistress of an ancient city, surrounded by a mighty host that she raised up out of dreams.”

No, she thought, out of blood and fire.

~

“You have grown suspicious, Daenerys.”

Always. “I have grown wise, Xaro.”

~

“Is that meant to frighten me? I lived in fear for fourteen years, my lord. I woke afraid each morning and went to sleep afraid each night … but my fears were burned away the day I came forth from the fire. Only one thing frightens me now.”

“And what is it that you fear, sweet queen?”

“I am only a foolish young girl.” Dany rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. “But not so foolish as to tell you that.

~

If I were a dragon, I could fly to Westeros, she thought when he was gone. I would have no need of Xaro or his ships.

ADWD Daenerys II

Safe. The word made Dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “I want to keep you safe.” Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. “No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys … I want to protect you but … it is so hard. To be strong. I don’t always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen … the … the …”

“… mother,” whispered Missandei.

“Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered.

~

She squeezed the water from her silvery hair. “I am half-sick of riddling. In Qarth I was a beggar, but here I am a queen. I command you—”

~

A shadow. A memory. No one. She was the blood of the dragon, but Ser Barristan had warned her that in that blood there was a taint. Could I be going mad? They had called her father mad, once. “I was praying,” she told the Naathi girl. “It will be light soon. I had best eat something, before court.”

~

“I would give Hazzea back to you if I could,” she told the father, “but some things are beyond the power of even a queen. Her bones shall be laid to rest in the Temple of the Graces, and a hundred candles shall burn day and night in her memory. Come back to me each year upon her nameday, and your other children shall not want … but this tale must never pass your lips again.”

~

Mother of dragons, Daenerys thought. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros? I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I.

ADWD Daenerys I

“This one has been told that your servant Stalwart Shield sometimes gave coin to the women of the brothels to lie with him and hold him.”

The blood of the dragon does not weep.

~

Daenerys pushed her hair back. “Find these cowards for me. Find them, so that I might teach the Harpy’s Sons what it means to wake the dragon.”

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

No one was calling her Daenerys the Conqueror yet, but perhaps they would. Aegon the Conqueror had won Westeros with three dragons, but she had taken Meereen with sewer rats and a wooden cock, in less than a day.

~

Yet the thought of seeing Jorah Mormont again made her feel as if she’d swallowed a spoonful of flies; angry, agitated, sick. She could almost feel them buzzing round her belly. I am the blood of the dragon. I must be strong. I must have fire in my eyes when I face them, not tears.

~

She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, khaleesi and queen, Mother of Dragons, slayer of warlocks, breaker of chains, and there was no one in the world that she could trust.

ASOS Daenerys V

Worst of all, they had nailed a slave child up on every milepost along the coast road from Yunkai, nailed them up still living with their entrails hanging out and one arm always outstretched to point the way to Meereen. Leading her van, Daario had given orders for the children to be taken down before Dany had to see them, but she had countermanded him as soon as she was told. “I will see them,” she said. “I will see every one, and count them, and look upon their faces. And I will remember.”

By the time they came to Meereen sitting on the salt coast beside her river, the count stood at one hundred and sixty-three. I will have this city, Dany pledged to herself once more.

~

They watched Oznak zo Pahl dismount his white charger, undo his robes, pull out his manhood, and direct a stream of urine in the general direction of the olive grove where Dany’s gold pavilion stood among the burnt trees. He was still pissing when Daario Naharis rode up, arakh in hand. “Shall I cut that off for you and stuff it down his mouth, Your Grace?” His tooth shone gold amidst the blue of his forked beard.

“It’s his city I want, not his meager manhood.” She was growing angry, however. If I ignore this any longer, my own people will think me weak. [...]

High on the walls of Meereen, the jeers had grown louder, and now hundreds of the defenders were taking their lead from the hero and pissing down through the ramparts to show their contempt for the besiegers. They are pissing on slaves, to show how little they fear us, she thought. They would never dare such a thing if it were a Dothraki khalasar outside their gates.

~

Could I love Daario? What would it mean, if I took him into my bed? Would that make him one of the heads of the dragon? Ser Jorah would be angry, she knew, but he was the one who’d said she had to take two husbands. Perhaps I should marry them both and be done with it.

But these were foolish thoughts. She had a city to take, and dreaming of kisses and some sellsword’s bright blue eyes would not help her breach the walls of Meereen. I am the blood of the dragon, Dany reminded herself. Her thoughts were spinning in circles, like a rat chasing its tail.

~

When the horses had been saddled, Dany and her companions set out along the shoreline, away from the city. Even so, she could feel Meereen at her back, mocking her. When she looked over one shoulder, there it stood, the afternoon sun blazing off the bronze harpy atop the Great Pyramid. Inside Meereen the slavers would soon be reclining in their fringed tokars to feast on lamb and olives, unborn puppies, honeyed dormice and other such delicacies, whilst outside her children went hungry. A sudden wild anger filled her. I will bring you down, she swore.

ASOS Daenerys IV

“Woman, you bray like an ass, and make no more sense.”

“Woman?” She chuckled. “Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man.” Dany met his stare. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, khaleesi to Drogo’s riders, and queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.”

~

The man on the white camel named himself Grazdan mo Eraz. Lean and hard, he had a white smile such as Kraznys had worn until Drogon burned off his face.

~

When he was gone, Dany threw herself down on her pillows beside her dragons. She had not meant to be so sharp with Ser Jorah, but his endless suspicion had finally woken her dragon.

He will forgive me, she told herself. I am his liege. Dany found herself wondering whether he was right about Daario. She felt very lonely all of a sudden. Mirri Maz Duur had promised that she would never bear a living child. House Targaryen will end with me. That made her sad. “You must be my children,” she told the dragons, “my three fierce children. Arstan says dragons live longer than men, so you will go on after I am dead.”

ASOS Daenerys III

“I am not a child,” she told him. “I am a queen.”

“Yet even queens can err. The Astapori have cheated you, Your Grace. A dragon is worth more than any army. Aegon proved that three hundred years ago, upon the Field of Fire.”

“I know what Aegon proved. I mean to prove a few things of my own.”

~

She stood in her stirrups and raised the harpy’s fingers above her head for all the Unsullied to see. “IT IS DONE!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “YOU ARE MINE!” She gave the mare her heels and galloped along the first rank, holding the fingers high. “YOU ARE THE DRAGON’S NOW! YOU’RE BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE! IT IS DONE!”

ASOS Daenerys II

Kraznys had commanded them to lay down their spears and shields, and doff their swordbelts and quilted tunics, so the Queen of Westeros might better inspect the lean hardness of their bodies.

~

“Remind your Good Master of who I am. Remind him that I am Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, trueborn queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. My blood is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and of old Valyria before him.”

~

“When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done.”

Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life.

ASOS Daenerys I

No squall could frighten Dany, though. Daenerys Stormborn, she was called, for she had come howling into the world on distant Dragonstone as the greatest storm in the memory of Westeros howled outside, a storm so fierce that it ripped gargoyles from the castle walls and smashed her father’s fleet to kindling.

~

“I ... that was not fitting. I am your queen.”

“My queen,” he said, “and the bravest, sweetest, and most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Daenerys—”

“Your Grace!”

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Daenerys V

She was breaking her fast on a bowl of cold shrimp-and-persimmon soup when Irri brought her a Qartheen gown, an airy confection of ivory samite patterned with seed pearls. “Take it away,” Dany said. “The docks are no place for lady’s finery.”

If the Milk Men thought her such a savage, she would dress the part for them. When she went to the stables, she wore faded sandsilk pants and woven grass sandals. Her small breasts moved freely beneath a painted Dothraki vest, and a curved dagger hung from her medallion belt. Jhiqui had braided her hair Dothraki-fashion, and fastened a silver bell to the end of the braid.

~

When she told a Lyseni on the Trumpeteer that she was Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, he gave her a deadface look and said, “Aye, and I’m Lord Tywin Lannister and shit gold every night.”

~

She turned back as he reached for his coins, intending to put an end to this mummer’s farce. The blood of the dragon would not be herded through the bazaar by an old man and a fat eunuch.

~

“The great cog Saduleon is berthed at the end of the quay, and the galleys Summer Sun and Joso’s Prank are anchored beyond the breakwater.”

Three heads has the dragon, Dany thought, wondering. “I shall tell my people to make ready to depart at once. But the ships that bring me home must bear different names.”

“As you wish,” said Arstan. “What names would you prefer?”

“Vhagar,” Daenerys told him. “Meraxes. And Balerion. Paint the names on their hulls in golden letters three feet high, Arstan. I want every man who sees them to know the dragons are returned.”

ACOK Daenerys IV

Ser Jorah Mormont gave the merchant prince a sour look. “Your Grace, remember Mirri Maz Duur.”

“I do,” Dany said, suddenly decided. “I remember that she had knowledge. And she was only a maegi.”

Pyat Pree smiled thinly. “The child speaks as sagely as a crone. Take my arm, and let me lead you.”

“I am no child.” Dany took his arm nonetheless.

~

The blood of the dragon must not be afraid. Dany said a quick prayer, begging the Warrior for courage and the Dothraki horse god for strength. She made herself walk forward.

ACOK Daenerys III

“Did you weep?”

“The blood of the dragon does not weep,” she said testily.

Xaro sighed. “You ought to have wept.” The Qartheen wept often and easily; it was considered a mark of the civilized man.

~

Part of her would have liked nothing more than to lead her people back to Vaes Tolorro, and make the dead city bloom. No, that is defeat. I have something Viserys never had. I have the dragons. The dragons are all the difference.

~

Even so, it would be years before they were large enough to take to war. And they must be trained as well, or they will lay my kingdom waste. For all her Targaryen blood, Dany had not the least idea of how to train a dragon.

~

“If you go west, you risk your life.”

“House Targaryen has friends in the Free Cities,” she reminded him. “Truer friends than Xaro or the Pureborn.”

~

“Illyrio believes in no cause but Illyrio. Gluttons are greedy men as a rule, and magisters are devious. Illyrio Mopatis is both. What do you truly know of him?”

“I know that he gave me my dragon eggs.”

He snorted. “If he’d known they were like to hatch, he would have sat on them himself.”

That made her smile despite herself. “Oh, I have no doubt of that, ser. I know Illyrio better than you think. I was a child when I left his manse in Pentos to wed my sun-and-stars, but I was neither deaf nor blind. And I am no child now.”

~

“Sellswords have their uses,” Ser Jorah admitted, “but you will not win your father’s throne with sweepings from the Free Cities. Nothing knits a broken realm together so quick as an invading army on its soil.”

“I am their rightful queen,” Dany protested.

“You are a stranger who means to land on their shores with an army of outlanders who cannot even speak the Common Tongue. The lords of Westeros do not know you, and have every reason to fear and mistrust you. You must win them over before you sail. A few at least.”

~

I am afraid, she realized, but I must be brave.

ACOK Daenerys II

“The only palace I desire is the red castle at King’s Landing, my lord Pyat.” Dany was wary of the warlock; the maegi Mirri Maz Duur had soured her on those who played at sorcery. “And if the great of Qarth would give me gifts, Xaro, let them give me ships and swords to win back what is rightfully mine.”

~

“I am not the frightened girl you met in Pentos. I have counted only fifteen name days, true ... but I am as old as the crones in the dosh khaleen and as young as my dragons, Jorah. I have borne a child, burned a khal, and crossed the red waste and the Dothraki sea. Mine is the blood of the dragon.”

“As was your brother’s,” he said stubbornly.

“I am not Viserys.”

“No,” he admitted. “There is more of Rhaegar in you, I think, but even Rhaegar could be slain. Robert proved that on the Trident, with no more than a warhammer. Even dragons can die.”

“Dragons die.” She stood on her toes to kiss him lightly on an unshaven cheek. “But so do dragonslayers.”

ACOK Daenerys I

A living dragon is beyond price. In all the world, there are only three. Every man who sees them will want them, my queen.”

“They are mine,” she said fiercely. They had been born from her faith and her need, given life by the deaths of her husband and unborn son and the maegi Mirri Maz Duur. Dany had walked into the flames as they came forth, and they had drunk milk from her swollen breasts. “No man will take them from me while I live.”

~

“We follow the comet,” Dany told her khalasar. Once it was said, no word was raised against it. They had been Drogo’s people, but they were hers now. The Unburnt, they called her, and Mother of Dragons. Her word was their law.

~

Dany kissed him lightly on the cheek. It heartened her to see him smile. I must be strong for him as well, she thought grimly. A knight he may be, but I am the blood of the dragon.

A Game of Thrones

AGOT Daenerys X

“Princess ...” he began.

“Why do you call me that?” Dany challenged him. “My brother Viserys was your king, was he not?”

“He was, my lady.”

“Viserys is dead. I am his heir, the last blood of House Targaryen. Whatever was his is mine now.”

“My ... queen,” Ser Jorah said, going to one knee.

~

“You do not mean to die with him? You swear it, my queen?”

“I swear it,” she said in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms that by rights were hers.

~

Dany called the Dothraki around her. Fewer than a hundred were left. How many had Aegon started with? she wondered. It did not matter.

~

Her bath was scalding hot when Irri helped her into the tub, but Dany did not flinch or cry aloud. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean. Jhiqui had scented the water with the oils she had found in the market in Vaes Dothrak; the steam rose moist and fragrant. [...] Dany closed her eyes and let the smell and the warmth enfold her. She could feel the heat soaking through the soreness between her thighs. She shuddered when it entered her, and her pain and stiffness seemed to dissolve. She floated.

~

The heat beat at the air with great red wings, driving the Dothraki back, driving off even Mormont, but Dany stood her ground. She was the blood of the dragon, and the fire was in her.

~

No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don’t you see? Don’t you SEE?

AGOT Daenerys IX

“Eroeh?” asked Dany, remembering the frightened child she had saved outside the city of the Lamb Men.

“Mago seized her, who is Khal Jhaqo’s bloodrider now,” said Jhogo. “He mounted her high and low and gave her to his khal, and Jhaqo gave her to his other bloodriders. They were six. When they were done with her, they cut her throat.”

“It was her fate, Khaleesi,” said Aggo.


If I look back I am lost. “It was a cruel fate,” Dany said, “yet not so cruel as Mago’s will be. I promise you that, by the old gods and the new, by the lamb god and the horse god and every god that lives. I swear it by the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Before I am done with them, Mago and Ko Jhaqo will plead for the mercy they showed Eroeh.”

The Dothraki exchanged uncertain glances. “Khaleesi,” the handmaid Irri explained, as if to a child, “Jhaqo is a khal now, with twenty thousand riders at his back.”

She lifted her head. “And I am Daenerys Stormhorn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon’s daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo.”

AGOT Daenerys VIII

[“]Do you trust your khas? Will they come with us?”

“Khal Drogo commanded them to keep me safe,” Dany replied uncertainly, “but if he dies ...” She touched the swell of her belly. “I don’t understand. Why should we flee? I am khaleesi. I carry Drogo’s heir. He will be khal after Drogo ...”

~

“Rein in your tongue, bloodrider. The princess is still your khaleesi.”

“Only while the blood-of-my-blood still lives,” Qotho told the knight. “When he dies, she is nothing.”


Dany felt a tightness inside her. “Before I was khaleesi, I was the blood of the dragon. Ser Jorah, summon my khas.”


~

“Is there no other way?”

“No other.”

Khal Drogo gave a shuddering gasp.

“Do it,” Dany blurted. She must not be afraid; she was the blood of the dragon. “Save him.”

“There is a price,” the godswife warned her.

“You’ll have gold, horses, whatever you like.”

“It is not a matter of gold or horses. This is bloodmagic, lady. Only death may pay for life.”

“Death?” Dany wrapped her arms around herself protectively, rocked back and forth on her heels. “My death?” She told herself she would die for him, if she must. She was the blood of the dragon, she would not be afraid. Her brother Rhaegar had died for the woman he loved.

~

“Khaleesi,” he pleaded, “you must not do this thing. Let me kill this maegi.”

“Kill her and you kill your khal,” Dany said.

“This is bloodmagic,” he said. “It is forbidden.”

“I am khaleesi, and I say it is not forbidden. In Vaes Dothrak, Khal Drogo slew a stallion and I ate his heart, to give our son strength and courage. This is the same. The same.”

AGOT Daenerys VII

“You cannot claim them all, child,” Ser Jorah said, the fourth time they stopped, while the warriors of her khas herded her new slaves behind her.

“I am khaleesi, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the blood of the dragon,” Dany reminded him. “It is not for you to tell me what I cannot do.” Across the city, a building collapsed in a great gout of fire and smoke, and she heard distant screams and the wailing of frightened children.

~

“If your warriors would mount these women, let them take them gently and keep them for wives. Give them places in the khalasar and let them bear you sons.”

Qotho was ever the cruelest of the bloodriders. It was he who laughed. “Does the horse breed with the sheep?”

Something in his tone reminded her of Viserys. Dany turned on him angrily. “The dragon feeds on horse and sheep alike.”

AGOT Daenerys VI

If I were not the blood of the dragon, she thought wistfully, this could be my home. She was khaleesi, she had a strong man and a swift horse, handmaids to serve her, warriors to keep her safe, an honored place in the dosh khaleen awaiting her when she grew old ... and in her womb grew a son who would one day bestride the world. That should be enough for any woman ... but not for the dragon. With Viserys gone, Daenerys was the last, the very last. She was the seed of kings and conquerors, and so too the child inside her. She must not forget.

~

Dany was near tears as they carried her back. The taste in her mouth was one she had known before: fear. For years she had lived in terror of Viserys, afraid of waking the dragon. This was even worse. It was not just for herself that she feared now, but for her baby. He must have sensed her fright, for he moved restlessly inside her. Dany stroked the swell of her belly gently, wishing she could reach him, touch him, soothe him. “You are the blood of the dragon, little one,” she whispered as her litter swayed along, curtains drawn tight. “You are the blood of the dragon, and the dragon does not fear.”

~

“Was it the Usurper?”

“Yes.” The knight drew out a folded parchment. “A letter to Viserys, from Magister Illyrio. Robert Baratheon offers lands and lordships for your death, or your brother’s.”

“My brother?” Her sob was half a laugh. “He does not know yet, does he? The Usurper owes Drogo a lordship.” This time her laugh was half a sob. She hugged herself protectively. “And me, you said. Only me?”

“You and the child,” Ser Jorah said, grim.

“No. He cannot have my son.” She would not weep, she decided. She would not shiver with fear. The Usurper has woken the dragon now, she told herself ... and her eyes went to the dragon’s eggs resting in their nest of dark velvet.

AGOT Daenerys V

She must not flinch or look afraid. I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself as she took the stallion’s heart in both hands, lifted it to her mouth, and plunged her teeth into the tough, stringy flesh.

Warm blood filled her mouth and ran down over her chin. The taste threatened to gag her, but she made herself chew and swallow. The heart of a stallion would make her son strong and swift and fearless, or so the Dothraki believed, but only if the mother could eat it all. If she choked on the blood or retched up the flesh, the omens were less favorable; the child might be stillborn, or come forth weak, deformed, or female.

~

And finally it was done. Her cheeks and fingers were sticky as she forced down the last of it. Only then did she turn her eyes back to the old women, the crones of the dosh khaleen.

“Khalakka dothrae mr’anha!” she proclaimed in her best Dothraki. A prince rides inside me! She had practiced the phrase for days with her handmaid Jhiqui.

AGOT Daenerys IV

The water was scalding hot, as she liked it.

~

The Dothraki would respect him more if he looked less a beggar, she hoped, and perhaps he would forgive her for shaming him that day in the grass. He was still her king, after all, and her brother. They were both blood of the dragon.

~

“Next you’ll want to braid my hair.”

“I’d never ... ” Why was he always so cruel? She had only wanted to help. “You have no right to a braid, you have won no victories yet.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Fury shone from his lilac eyes, yet he dared not strike her, not with her handmaids watching and the warriors of her khas outside. Viserys picked up the cloak and sniffed at it. “This stinks of manure. Perhaps I shall use it as a horse blanket.”

“I had Doreah sew it specially for you,” she told him, wounded. “These are garments fit for a khal.” “I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not some grass-stained savage with bells in his hair,” Viserys spat back at her. He grabbed her arm. “You forget yourself, slut. Do you think that big belly will protect you if you wake the dragon?”

His fingers dug into her arm painfully and for an instant Dany felt like a child again, quailing in the face of his rage. She reached out with her other hand and grabbed the first thing she touched, the belt she’d hoped to give him, a heavy chain of ornate bronze medallions. She swung it with all her strength.

It caught him full in the face. Viserys let go of her. Blood ran down his cheek where the edge of one of the medallions had sliced it open. “You are the one who forgets himself,” Dany said to him. “Didn’t you learn anything that day in the grass? Leave me now, before I summon my khas to drag you out. And pray that Khal Drogo does not hear of this, or he will cut open your belly and feed you your own entrails.”

AGOT Daenerys III

“Wait here,” Dany told Ser Jorah. “Tell them all to stay. Tell them I command it.”

The knight smiled. Ser Jorah was not a handsome man. He had a neck and shoulders like a bull, and coarse black hair covered his arms and chest so thickly that there was none left for his head. Yet his smiles gave Dany comfort. “You are learning to talk like a queen, Daenerys.”

“Not a queen,” said Dany. “A khaleesi.” She wheeled her horse about and galloped down the ridge alone.

The descent was steep and rocky, but Dany rode fearlessly, and the joy and the danger of it were a song in her heart. All her life Viserys had told her she was a princess, but not until she rode her silver had Daenerys Targaryen ever felt like one.

~

“What do you pray for, Ser Jorah?” she asked him.

“Home,” he said. His voice was thick with longing.

“I pray for home too,” she told him, believing it.

Ser Jorah laughed. “Look around you then, Khaleesi.”

But it was not the plains Dany saw then. It was King’s Landing and the great Red Keep that Aegon the Conqueror had built. It was Dragonstone where she had been born. In her mind’s eye they burned with a thousand lights, a fire blazing in every window. In her mind’s eye, all the doors were red.

~

“He could not lead an army even if my lord husband gave him one,” Dany said. “He has no coin and the only knight who follows him reviles him as less than a snake. The Dothraki make mock of his weakness. He will never take us home.”

“Wise child.” The knight smiled.

“I am no child,” she told him fiercely. Her heels pressed into the sides of her mount, rousing the silver to a gallop. Faster and faster she raced, leaving Jorah and Irri and the others far behind, the warm wind in her hair and the setting sun red on her face. By the time she reached the khalasar, it was dusk.

~

There is no privacy in the heart of the khalasar. Dany felt the eyes on her as she undressed him, heard the soft voices as she did the things that Doreah had told her to do. It was nothing to her. Was she not khaleesi? His were the only eyes that mattered, and when she mounted him she saw something there that she had never seen before. She rode him as fiercely as ever she had ridden her silver, and when the moment of his pleasure came, Khal Drogo called out her name.

AGOT Daenerys II

Dany had never felt so alone as she did seated in the midst of that vast horde. Her brother had told her to smile, and so she smiled until her face ached and the tears came unbidden to her eyes. She did her best to hide them, knowing how angry Viserys would be if he saw her crying, terrified of how Khal Drogo might react. [...]

There was no one to talk to. Khal Drogo shouted commands and jests down to his bloodriders, and laughed at their replies, but he scarcely glanced at Dany beside him. They had no common language. Dothraki was incomprehensible to her, and the khal knew only a few words of the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities, and none at all of the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms. She would even have welcomed the conversation of Illyrio and her brother, but they were too far below to hear her.

So she sat in her wedding silks, nursing a cup of honeyed wine, afraid to eat, talking silently to herself. I am blood of the dragon, she told herself. I am Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, of the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror.

~

She was afraid of her brother, of what he might do if she failed him. Most of all, she was afraid of what would happen tonight under the stars, when her brother gave her up to the hulking giant who sat drinking beside her with a face as still and cruel as a bronze mask. I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself again.

~

“Please him, sweet sister, or I swear, you will see the dragon wake as it has never woken before.”

The fear came back to her then, with her brother’s words. She felt like a child once more, only thirteen and all alone, not ready for what was about to happen to her.

They rode out together as the stars came out, leaving the khalasar and the grass palaces behind. Khal Drogo spoke no word to her, but drove his stallion at a hard trot through the gathering dusk. The tiny silver bells in his long braid rang softly as he rode. “I am the blood of the dragon,” she whispered aloud as she followed, trying to keep her courage up. “I am the blood of the dragon. I am the blood of the dragon.” The dragon was never afraid.

AGOT Daenerys I

The girl pulled the rough cotton tunic over Dany’s head and helped her into the tub. The water was scalding hot, but Daenerys did not flinch or cry out. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean. Besides, her brother had often told her that it was never too hot for a Targaryen. “Ours is the house of the dragon,” he would say. “The fire is in our blood.”

[roaminginspiration]

The Diner

Part 1 (x)

Brooklyn Golden Palace Diner was one of the coziest and nicest restaurants in Brooklyn. The food was tasty and affordable, in spite of the general inflation, and, by anyone’s standards, they served the best coffee in the borough. The vibe was as customer-friendly and simple as its name was posh. The bright cyan and white tiling reflected the warm light and matched nicely with the champagne walls. The furniture was second-hand but clean and shiny. And the staff was welcoming and friendly.

Yes, Steve Rogers had every reason to like Brooklyn Golden Palace. It had opened four years ago and soon become one of the locals’ favorite. He and Bucky sometimes had a burger there after watching a baseball game.

Until it eventually became a regular visit. A weekly one, to be precise. Every Saturday. Bucky liked to tease and say it was because of the new waitress. Steve took it in with an eye-roll but never changed the routine. Bucky often let him choose where to sit, which was either on the stools at the counter or the booth in the left corner with a direct, unobstructed view on the aforementioned counter.

Bucky sat on the leather bench across from him and ostentatiously turned to scope the staff area.

“I’m assuming she’s got a shift today or we wouldn’t be here,” James said, obnoxiously loud.

“Stop it! You look like a creep,” Steve groaned as he leaned over the table and pulled his friend’s jacket. He then brushed back the strand of hair hanging over his forehead.

Bucky sniggered before sitting back on the bench.

“How long is it gonna take you before you actually talk to her?” he said, then reached for the menu standing against the ketchup bottle. “Lucky you, I don’t mind playing this little game — the food here is pretty decent.”

And Bucky’s eyes hungrily skimmed over the card.

A familiar silhouette coming through the kitchen doors immediately caught Steve’s attention. He watched in awe as the slender, red-haired waitress swayed into the room with a beaming smile. She went over to another booth, collected her tips and picked up the plates. She next walked over to them and gracefully slid her hand into her apron pocket to get the notepad. She then reached for the pencil she always kept tucked behind her ear.

“Gentlemen, what can I get you?” she asked.

James put down the menu. “I’ll have your beef burger with extra pickles and no onion, with a chocolate milkshake.”

He then expectantly glanced over at Steve with an amused smirk tugged at his lips. The waitress mirrored him and turned to Steve. Under the table, he nervously wrapped his hand around his thin arm.

“I…,” he began, then buried his nose in the menu card. He intensely felt the gaze of her large emerald eyes on him and soon, this simple fact, clogged up his mind to the point he couldn’t read the menu.

Counting the long embarrassing seconds going by, he eventually cleared his throat and said: “I’ll have the same.”

He tapped the menu card on the table, glancing at the salt and pepper shakers.

“Noted,” she said with a smirk then vanished behind the counter.

Bucky chuckled. “You hate pickles,” he said. He grabbed a toothpick and put it between his lips.

Steve sighed. “I know.”

James was playfully brushing the toothpick over his bottom lip.

“She’s gorgeous, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Why won’t you say anything to her?”

“Because I’m this scrawny guy, and as you said, she’s gorgeous. The other women don’t look at me, so a woman like her won’t ever notice me.”

He suddenly became sullen, hit in the guts by this undeniable truth.

Bucky smiled comfortingly. “Life is full of surprises. You’ll never know if you don’t try,” his friend said. "What’s her name?”

Steve’s eyes wandered over to the counter where she was pouring coffee into a man’s cup.

“Natasha,” he answered absent-mindedly.

Many months went by and the weekly visits eventually became more regular. He’d go with Bucky then, when his friend enlisted in the army, he went there alone.

His exchange with Natasha was always brief but cordial enough to fill him with satisfaction until his next visit at the Golden Palace Diner.

Things changed on a foggy Tuesday morning in fall. Natasha wrapped her fingers tightly around her coat as she took out the keys to the diner for her morning shift. A raucous sound erupted near the corner.

“Now stay down,” a voice grumbled and she jumped in surprise as she watched a tall man step out of the alleyway behind the diner, rub his sore knuckles and disappear down the street.

After a few seconds, she ventured into the alleyway. Amid the broken crates and knocked down trash cans, she found Steve down on all fours. She recognized her regular customer and rushed over to pick him up.

“Are you all right? What happened?” she asked. Still dizzy, he immediately knew whose voice it was and jumped on his feet before she could help him up.

“I’m ok,” he assured sheepishly and headed out to the main street.

“It’s not safe for you to go alone. Just come inside, we have a first aid kit.”

She looked at him closely and nodded soothingly. He followed her as she took them back to the entrance, unlocked the door and let him in. She closed the door behind them and went to switch on the nearest light. She sat him down, took off her coat and went to get the kit.

She grabbed one of the napkins, put ice in it, and gently pressed it on his swollen lip. He winced silently and she cringed sympathetically. She was sitting on a chair by the bench, quiet but focused.

“Wanna tell me what happened?” she asked.

“I caught him stealing a passerby and tried to get the wallet back. Unsuccessfully as you can tell.”

Natasha nodded, still gently pressing the ice on his throbbing skin. “That’s very brave,” she commented. “Many would have looked the other way. Especially with a guy as tall as him.”

“It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before,” he answered dully. “I can take it.”

She smirked. “So you’re a big guy, huh?” She eyed him intently and he almost reeled. “That’s certainly the last thing I expected,” she whispered with genuine appreciation.

And from that day foggy Tuesday morning in fall, it became their inside joke. She’d always greet him as “Big Guy”. Other customers didn’t understand; Tommy, the cook standing behind he kitchen counter didn’t understand; Bucky, who was on furlough, didn’t understand. Only Steve and Natasha did. It was their thing.

Their conversations became more friendly and he eventually found out she was Russian and had moved to the U.S. when she was very young. He knew her last name was Romanoff and he found great pride in knowing he was probably one of the few customers who had been told.

Steve missed Brooklyn Golden Palace Diner greatly after joining the Army. More than Brooklyn or the juicy burgers, he missed the smirk of his favorite waitress.

As he was in the car headed towards the facility that would forever change his destiny, they drove past the street. When Peggy Carter asked him what was so special about it, he answered he’d been beaten up there and looked after by a friendly waitress. He told her her name was Natasha.

Peggy seemed to smile knowingly.

“Well, I’m sure Natasha will be pleased when she sees you again.”

He cleared his throat and blushed slightly at the prospect of it.

A few months later, Steve returned to Brooklyn Golden Palace. Natasha was wiping the waffle machine. His heartbeat quickened and he nervously straightened his tie.

“Is it too late for a milkshake?” he asked.

He heard the smile in her voice.

“I thought you’d forgotten about me, Big Guy.” She said, wiped her hands and turned to face him. She halted and arched an eyebrow as her eyes traveled up his body until they finally met his eyes. He smiled and laid his forearm on the counter.

“What did Tommy put in your scrambled eggs the last time you came?” she asked.

It was the first time she saw him after he was injected the super-soldier serum. He looked nothing like the regular customer she had picked up after a fight in the alleyway. His body, evidently, had changed, but so had his demeanor. He exuded some confidence his former shape did not allow other people to catch on. His lustrous blond hair was neatly brushed behind his shoulders and he was wearing his official military suit.

“Look at you!” Tommy called from the kitchen as he leaned over his counter and whistled. Natasha put a hand on her hip and smirked while Steve’s cheeks flushed red.

“You totally ruined my nickname for you. What happened?” she asked.

He smiled. “It’s a long story.”

She tossed her napkin over her shoulder. “Clearly my life isn’t as exciting as yours, I have time to hear it all.”

He cleared his throat as Bucky’s words echoed inside his head. “About that…maybe I could tell you all about it around a drink?” She raised an eyebrow and he shook his head nervously. “If you’d like to, of course.”

She frowned and scratched the side of her head. “I’m closing tonight. Maybe on Monday?”

“I’m going back tomorrow,” he answered. It had taken him days to muster the courage to turn up at the diner and drop the question.

“I see.”

“I don’t mind waiting till your shift is over. If that’s ok with you.”

“Hey darling, my turkey is turning cold and I really need that sauce,” a customer called from across the room.

She rolled her eyes then turned her attention back to him.

“Sure. I won’t be free till 10.30, though.”

“I know. I can wait.” He smiled. She smiled back. “See you later, then.”

He made his way to the exit and, as he walked past the turkey guy, he swiftly knocked the strawberry milkshake onto his lap. The man grumbled loudly, attracting everyone’s attention on them, including Natasha’s who was smirking from the counter.

Steve feigned to apologize then headed out of the diner.

At 10.25 pm, Steve came back and sat at the booth in the left corner. The place was completely empty, even Tommy had finished to clean the kitchen and had gone. Natasha was wiping the last wet glasses and plates with a cloth. She smiled at him.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said. “It was a long evening.”

Her expression was a little weary. She walked over to his booth and sat down across from him. She stretched her neck and it made a cracking side.

She chuckled. “Sorry. Bad habit.”

She then massaged the bare nape of her neck with her palm. He thought she looked exquisite.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

He stood on his feet. “How about we switch roles a bit. You’ve served enough people for today.”

He walked across the empty room, over to the counter, grabbed a clean cup and saucer, and brought them back to the table. He then went again to get the jar of coffee and a spoon from behind the counter.

Natasha had taken off her shoes, climbed up on the bench and sat against the wall as her legs lay along the bench.

He came to stand in front of her and poured coffee into her cup. He came back a few seconds later with a slice of cheesecake covered with syrup. She watched him with unconcealed wonder.

He sat on the bench across the table and watched her as she took a spoonful of the pastry to her mouth. She laid her head back against the wall, wiggled her small feet hanging beyond the edge of her bench and smiled.  

“You know this place like the back of your hand,” she commented.

He propped his chin into the palm of his hand and smiled bashfully. “I may have observed you a lot. Sorry.”

As she looked deep into his blue eyes, she realized how much he looked like that regular customer she had picked up after a fight in the alleyway. She put down the spoon and reached over to nudge his arm.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked with genuine interest.

And he told her about the greatest thing that had ever happened in his life.

At nearly midnight, she glanced over at the clock on the wall.

“Wanna go for a walk?” she asked.

He smiled approvingly. He got on his feet and came to stand over her bench. She stretched out her arms, slipped her small hands into his, and let herself be swept along to a nightly stroll.

The streets were lit with the city lights, shining on beyond the horizon. They kept on walking until their stroll took them to Brooklyn Bridge. The steps echoed on the thick wooden floor below their feet as the moonlight shone between the steel cables. They eventually stopped and leaned on the edge to look across East River and Manhattan.

“When I left Russia with my parents, we had dreams of achieving all that we ever wanted. I still look at the city like that little girl who first wandered through this steel jungle. The dreams are different, though.”

“What dreams?”

She smiled sheepishly.

“I thought I’d take on the world, mesmerize everyone. I guess Golden Palace is the closest I’ll ever get to sparkles and success.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re mesmerizing. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the world catches up.”

She laughed and buried her face behind the sleeve of her coat. She then cleared her throat and regained her confident countenance.

She raised an eyebrow and stared at him deeply.

A big yawn came through. He smiled fondly.

“Let’s go and I’ll hail you a cab home.”

She blinked. “You’re not offering to walk me back? All the other guys always offer to walk me back tome...to keep the door open. They never fully conceal their intentions.”

“I do have intentions. Hopefully to take out on a second date…if you’ll have me.”

“You’re good,” she remarked with her honeyed voice.

He smiled and started off, but she pulled him back by his sleeve. When he swung around, her lips captured his as she pressed herself against him and clutched her hand around his neck. One of his hands fell to her waist while the other cupped her face and pulled her in. Her lips, full and luscious, were warm and sweet. It was only him and her on the deserted bridge, lit by the moonlight.

When they broke the kiss for air, he breathed in the sweet smell of her perfume and pancakes. It made him smile contentedly.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you all night,” she admitted, breathless.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw you behind that counter.”

Her pupils quivered as she looked deep into his eyes, amazed and flattered.

“Now,” she began, “are you gonna take me home, Big Guy?”

[ludi-ling]

My journey with mental illness

Dear all,

Since it’s Mental Health Awareness Week in the UK, I wanted to share with you all my own experience with depression and anxiety. This isn’t easy for me to speak about, because, despite years of having this be a part of me, and despite a growing confidence being honest about it with friends, family, strangers and therapists alike, the stigma of having that label attached to you is still so very real. There’s something wrong with you. You’re abnormal. You’re not right.

The truth is, until very recently, I thought I had won my 18+ year-long battle against mental illness. I’d been well for years, and had finally summoned up the courage to come off my antidepressants after being on them for 9 long years. I knew it would be hard, as previous attempts to come off had left me with horrible discontinuation symptoms. But both my doctor and I felt confident that this time I could pull it off. Over the last 9 years, I’d made huge changes in my life. I’d retrained for a career I’d always wanted, landed my dream job, and gained a PhD. Never in my wildest dreams, not since I was a kid, had I ever dreamed that I would succeed in this way. The last few years, I felt happy. Looking back on my journals, there are years and years of blood, sweat and tears, feelings of low self-esteem, darkness, despair, sickness, uncertainty, endless and driving negativity. Then, it petered out. For a long time the entries became sporadic, and then disappeared altogether. I didn’t write in my journal because I didn’t have anymore of that old pain, the one that I needed to vent on paper. That was because I was content. I’d ‘arrived’ in my life, in myself.

That all started to unravel earlier this year. At work we are having a huge restructure, and as I was coming off the antidepressants, and going through some withdrawal symptoms that included a marked rise in anxiety, I found out my job was going to be cut, after having been led to believe it would be secure. I was devastated. This was my dream job, and had played a huge part in the healing I’d laboured so hard to win. Suddenly it was being ripped out from under me in the cruellest way (I won’t even begin to explain the disgusting way in which my coworkers and I have been treated, it’s too depressing and would take far too much time). Suddenly, and for the first time in a decade, I was completely lost at sea. The anxiety I’d been feeling as part of my discontinuation symptoms suddenly started to spiral slowly out of control. Soon it wasn’t just on waking up; it was all morning. Then it was all afternoon. Then all evening. Then the entire day.

The frustrating thing is that, if I’d been still on the antidepressants for just that little bit longer, I think I would’ve been able to cope with this okay. And if all this stuff at work hadn’t happened, I would’ve pulled through the discontinuation symptoms, and would be that simple thing that has eluded me for so much of my life - ‘well’.

I feel robbed, cheated. I managed to get a job in the new structure, but have been manipulated and used by the new boss, and once again I feel helpless to shape my own destiny. Feelings of uncertainty and low self-worth have brought me right back to where I was 10 long years ago. All the ground I covered to heal and truly reach my potential has been stripped away from me and left me naked. It’s hard not to believe now that this is how I will always be. Never able to heal, never able to rise above the depression, the negativity, never fully able to pull back the mask from my face and say, with pride, ‘this is me’. Instead, all I have is this constant white noise of anxiety. It robs me of sleep, strength, joy. My days have become a haze. I can’t write, I can’t draw. I can’t take pleasure in anything. I worry about my future, about the endless tunnel of uncertainty I see laid before me. It seems so dark. It feels like there’s no light at the end of it. I’ve been trapped in a situation that leaves me powerless, without agency. And somewhere along the line, over these last few horrible months, my ability to cope, to get through the worst, has completely failed me.

I’ve been seeing a counsellor for CBT, and yesterday I took the awful decision to go back on medication. This was disappointing for me because of the long, dire battle I fought over the years to regain my sanity and independence from drugs. My only wish was to be dependency-free and generally content with my life. Going back on the meds is like a betrayal of the battle I thought I’d won at the start of this year. But I’m not well, and I haven’t been for a few months now. I need to accept that, pick myself up, and start pulling that load again. I can’t let it beat me. Even if it takes me till my dying day.

So here I am, again. Covering old ground. A battleground I know all too well. Wondering whether I’m just wired to be this way. Sad and anxious, powerless and downtrodden. I have to learn to forgive my anxiety, for it’s a part of me. It’s a mama bear, trying to protect me from what’s been done to me. A mama bear who’s crushing me, smothering me, in her rage. It’s the only way she knows to keep me safe. My anxiety isn’t the enemy. It’s the people, the system, the circumstances, that did this to me. It was never my fault. I don’t know how right now, but I have to bear it as best I can.

[ahappyevent]

The school of life, an emotional education by Alain de Botton

The last few pages of the book. On Wisdom.

—————————————————————

WISDOM

To teach us hot to be wise is the underlying central purpose of philosophy. The word may sound abstract and lofty, but wisdom is something we might plausibly aim to acquire a little more of over the course of our lives, even if true wisdom requires that we always keep in mind the persistent risk of madness and error.

Wisdom can be said to comprise twelve ingredients.

Realism

The wise are, first and foremost, ‘realistic’ about how challenging many things can be. They are fully conscious of the complexities entailed in any project: for example, raising a child, starting a business, spending an agreeable weekend with the family, changing the nation, falling in love… Knowing that something difficult is being attempted doesn’t rob the wise of ambition, but it makes them more steadfast, calmer and less prone to panic about the problems that will invariably come their way. The wise rarely expect anything to be wholly easy or to go entirely well.

Appreciation

Properly aware that much can and will go wrong, the wise are unusually alive to moments of calm and beauty, even extremely modest ones, of the kind that those with grander plans rush past. With the dangers and tragedies of existence firmly in mind, they can take pleasure in a single, uneventful sunny day, or some pretty flowers growing by a brick wall, the charm of a three-year old playing in a garden or an evening of intimate conversations among friends. It isn’t that they are sentimental and naive; in fact, precisely the opposite. Because they have seen how hard things can get, they know how to draw the full value from the peaceful and the sweet - whenever and wherever they arise.

Folly

The wise know that all human beings, themselves included, are never far from folly. They have irrational desires and incompatible aims, they are unaware of a lot of what they feel, they are prone to mood swings, they are visited by powerful fantasies and delusions - and are always buffeted by the curios demands of their sexuality. The wise are unsurprised by the ongoing coexistence of deep immaturity and perversity alongside quite adult qualities like intelligence and morality. They know that we are barely evolved apes. Aware that at least half of life is irrational, they try - whenever possible - to budget for madness and are slow to panic when it (reliably) rears its head.

Humor

The wise take the business of laughing at themselves seriously. They hedge their pronouncements and are sceptical in their conclusions. Their certainties are not as brittle as those of others. They laugh from the constant collision between the noble way they’d like things to be and the demented way they inn fact often turn out.

Politness

The wise are realistic about social relations, in particular about how difficult it is to change people’s minds and have an effect on their lives. They are therefore extremely reticent about telling other too frankly what they think. They have a sense of how seldom it is useful to get censorious with others. They want, above all, things to be nice in social settings, even if this means they are not totally authentic. So they will sit with someone of an opposite political persuasion and not try to convert them; they will hold their tongue with someone who seems to be announcing a wrong-headed plan for reforming the country, educating their child or directing their personal life. They’ll be aware of how differently things can look through the eyes of other and will search more for what people have in common that for what separates them.

Self-Acceptance

The wise have made their peace with the yawning gap between how they would ideally want to be and what they are actually like. They have come to terms with their tendencies to idiocy, ugliness and error.  They are not fundamentally ashamed of themselves because they have already shed so much of their pride.

Forgiveness

The wise are comparably realistic about other people. They recognise the extraordinary pressure everyone is under to pursue their own ambitions, defend their own interest and seek their own pleasures. It can make others appear extremely mean and purposefully evil, but this would be to overpersonalize the issue. The wise know that most hurt is not intentional but a by-product of the constant collision of blind competing egos in a world of scarce resources.

The wise are therefore slow to anger and judge. They don’t leap to the worst conclusions about what is going on in the minds of others. They will be readier to overlook a hurt from a proper sense of how difficult every life is, harbouring as it does so many frustrated ambitions, disappointments and longings. Of course they shouted, of course they were rude, of course they wanted to appear slightly more important … the wise are generous as to the reasons why people might not be nice. They feel less persecuted by aggression and meanness of others, because they have a sense of the place of hurt those feelings come from.

Resilience

The wise have a solid sense of what they can survive. They know just how much can go wrong and things will still be - just about - liveable. The unwise person draws the boundaries of their contentment far too far out , so that it encompasses, and depends upon, fame, money, personal relationships, popularity, health …. The wise person sees the advantages of all of these, but also knows that they may - before too long, at a time of fate’s choosing - have to draw the borders right back and find contentment within a more confined space.

Envy

The wise don’t envy idly, realising that there are some good reasons why they don’t have many of the things they really want. They look at the tycoon or the star and have a decent grasp of why they weren’t able to succeed at this level. It seems like just an accident, an unfair one, but there were in fact some logical reasons.

At the same time the wise see that some destinies are truly shaped by nothing more than accident. Some people are promoted randomly. Companies that aren’t especially deserving can suddenly make it big. Som people have the right parents. The winners aren’t all noble and good. The wise appreciate the role of luck and don’t cure themselves overly at this junctures where they have evidently not had as much of it as they would have liked.

Success and failure

The wise emerge as realistic about the consequences of winning and succeeding. They may want to win as much as the next person, but they are aware of how many fundamentals will remain unchanged, whatever the outcome. They don’t exaggerate the transformations available to us. They know how much we remain tethered to some basic dynamics in our personalities, whatever job we have or material possession we acquire. This is both cautionary (for those who succeed) and hopeful (for those who won’t). The wise see the continuities between the two categories overemphasised by modern consumer capitalism: success and failure.

Regrets

In our ambitious age, it is common to begin with dreams if being able to pull  off an unblemished life, where one can hope to get the major decisions, in love and work, right. But the wise realise that it is impossible to fashion a spotless life. We will make some extremely large and utterly uncorrectable errors in a number of areas. Perfectionism is a wicked illusion. Regret is unavoidable.

But regret lessens the more we see that error is endemic across species. We can’t look at anyone’s life story without seeing some devastating mistakes etched across it. These errors are not coincidental but structural. They arise because we all lack the information we need to make choices in time-sensitive situations. We are all, where it counts, steering almost blind.

Calm

The wise know that turmoil is always around the corner - and they have come to fear and sense its approach. That’s why they nurture such a strong commitment to calm. A quiet evening feels like an achievement. A day without anxiety is something to be celebrated. They are not afraid of having a somewhat boring time. There could, and will again, be so much worse.

And finally, of course, the wise know that it will never be possible to be wise every hour, let alone every day, of their lives.

——————————————————————

It might daunt you my girls as sad or pessimistic or outrageous. I have mixed feelings as well, but then again I think we all do, towards most things in life.

I can only hope that one day you (and me) will not see it as such. Definitely a book I recommend you read, probably a few times throughout your life, probably starting somewhere in your mid 20s and then again every 10 years :) I know I’ve set my alarm in 10 years to re-read it.

Love, mama.

[mlluke-blog1]

I’ve got 359 problems but intention ain’t one.

     For the next twelve months, I will be using this platform as a veritable dumping ground for all things related to my progress through the Master’s Film Program. I will be posting work both directly and indirectly related to Film, but always related to me and my progress as a student, creator, and human entity. At the very core of who I am is a creature who needs to create. I need this release just as much as my muscles must release the lactic acid that builds up after a vigorous Sunday of cleaning house. If I cannot get my release, much like my muscles, I’ll be very cross and seek to punish whatever or whomever stood in my way in the most petty and needling way possible.      While I cannot say what I hope to learn other than in general how to make films, I leave the details of that to the Powers-That-Be, I can say that I hope to achieve whatever level I am meant to attain. Something I struggle with is knowing when to be aggressive and when to be consciously passive. I tend to be too controlling and domineering instead of paying attention to the natural rhythm and cycle. I am too wrapped up in what impact I want to inflict upon a situation instead of taking it all in first and I subsequently miss most of the information because I jump the gun. A very real test of my progress is going to be patience and respect of the process. I will know if I have passed or failed this test once I come out the other side of this year of tutelage and, when looking back at this very post, can sense the wisdom of the answers resonate within me.      A key part of this is going to be, in as realistic a way as possible, knowing where I stand at this present moment in April of 2017. To do this I am going to include my original Statement of Purpose/Letter of Intent submitted to Full Sail in February of 2017 and it is as follows.

My journey as a storyteller started as my journey as a person… well, more like as a miserable teenager, but all teenagers are filled with angst, bouts of depression and euphoria, and a general disdain for sunlight. Funny thing, I never really grew out of that. Rather, my issues became more pronounced and a single question lingered over my head as a raincloud, much like that of Joe Btfsplk in Li’l Abner, “Why am I so miserable?” So, I did what any self-respecting, willful creature does: I went to therapy. Since I am an all or nothing sort of creature to boot, therapy wasn't enough and I got a degree in psychology and social work.

A big part of who I am is somebody that isn't afraid to take risks, sacrifice the immediate for the future, and give my all under the labor of an idea, or ideal. I took myself as a person, from the fundamentals of my spiritual beliefs, to things as shallow as whether or not I actually like the color pink, and demolished myself. I razed the entire architectural structure that, up until that point, was Meredith Lindsey Luke, and cleared the ground, which I then tilled.

It was time to rebuild. Completely.

I investigated everything. I dove down the most absurd rabbit holes in the vein of actually figuring out who I am as a person. No matter the thought, stance, opinion, or perspective, I trashed everything and asked myself honestly, "What do I actually think or feel about this?" I found out numerous things about myself I never would have known otherwise. I actually DO like the color pink, but grey is my favorite. I am in love with sushi and most Asian food, and Asian culture in general is fascinating. Horror is my favorite genre. I love a tantalizing social mind game. I'm super glad I didn't get my ears pierced. And I absolutely love to curse as often and as colorfully as possible. Well, this is all just fabulous. I'm sure the universe is very happy for me. But what does this have to do with being a storyteller? It's simple, really. Once I finally figured out who Meredith actually was, I could create anything beyond her. It's like sorting through a house filled with stuff; you don't know until you go through it all that there are actually some super interesting pieces amongst the rubble and rubbish. After getting rid of the noise of fear, doubt, and insecurity, and replacing it with peace, confidence, and perspective, the floor opened up and a stage manifested. I could hear and see the creative part of me that was getting smothered by all the other junk. Now, I finally have free reign to go anywhere my creative beast wants to drag me.

I wasn't afraid of the cold honest truth. I asked myself the hard questions and made myself go through the pain, awkwardness, and fear of being critical of every position I could take. I do not fear failure. I learn from every mistake. Doing so has given me the platform on which to stand and be ready to take on the same risks as a creator. Criticism is my greatest ally, whether it comes from within or without.

This is just the bee’s knees and all, but what does this gobbledygook have to do with being a storyteller? Well, see, one of the most interesting bits about having done all that work on myself, clearing out the cobwebs and such, is that a funny little change came over me. It is said most people think in either words or pictures. Others think in terms of colors, music, or board games (though the latter sort are the types you do NOT want to play monopoly with, just a word of warning). I, however, fundamentally think in cinematic. Now what in odd bodkins does that mean? Basically, when I write a story, poem, or other tiddly-bit, I do so in a way of a visual story. I watch it all play out in my mind’s eye, and I think of it in every aspect of a moving picture, including composition, lighting, color, mood, speed, action, and you get what I’m on about. Of course, I don’t literally have every single detail on that mental film; I do both consciously and subconsciously try to leave some wiggle room for tweaking after the fact, but for the most part, everything has been visually decided.

This new quirk, as unconventional as it may be, has come into service for another special something that I have discovered about myself. Now that I am no longer acting like an angry teenager stuck in the Fidelity phase according to Erikson, creating has become an integral part of my life. I liken it to breathing; I can get away without it for a little while if I must, but after a certain point of continuing not to do so, it becomes fatal. Obviously I won’t keel over from my comfy chair and physically die from being unable to be creative, but a certain part of me definitely begins to shrivel and threatens to let out a death rattle. Avoiding that ergle-gurgle at all possible costs I have found an infinite, well not actually infinite but a stonking great many, number of ways to keep the creative creature within me happy and productive. Whether it be writing something old, new, odd, or amusing, tinkering on my computer, watching classic movies or shows (I have a well-documented soft spot for anything Hitchcock or classic horror), or helping someone else with any sort of dilemma (self-created or otherwise), I feel happy, fulfilled, and energized. In the next great creative mystery or problem that comes my way, be it one of my own creation or someone else’s foible, I am happily along for the journey. Not everyone will share my penchant for narrative, but everyone wants to be their best at something. Life doesn’t always, or usually, make pursuit of that ideal easy. There are countless cracks, crashes, and herds of unconscious cattle chewing the cud inconveniently placed on the path to self-improvement. Everyone needs help sometimes. The help I received during my fledgling pursuit and am still graced with in the most unconventional ways even now, forever helped shape me into the person I am today and the person I shall be tomorrow. I want to be the lighthouse for someone trapped in the darkness on the roughest seas and then show them how to be their own beacon of light. I want to fulfill whatever void within the process they require regardless of how unglamorous, tedious, or unfun it may be. Every position is important and purposeful. Everything is possible with patience, perspective, work, and a little bit of imagination and a lot of pluck.

Though this pursuit of passion takes the form of my raison d'être, I understand that great dedication and sacrifice, manifesting in the form of time away from other pleasures, such as family, friends, hobbies, leisure and so on, will absolutely be at the forefront of my consciousness. This pursuit of excellence comes at an immense cost, the currency of which is time, focus, and effort. The days shall be long, the work intense, the frustration palpable, and the longing for a break absolutely soul-crushing. But the reward for these immense sacrifices and dedication will come in the form of a project completed and sent out into the nether to fulfill its purpose. The reward is seeing all the time, energy, effort, and sacrifice come to fruition, be it one’s own baby, or someone else’s opus. I imagine it is like casting a child out into the world to fulfill their destiny, letting go and allowing them to follow their own path, and watching with pride, satisfaction, and serenity knowing that you have played your part. While merely a cog within the machine, it takes every mechanism in complete subservience to the greater picture to produce the magic of film. (Luke, 2017)

Luke, Meredith L., (February, 2017). Letter of Intent. Retrieved from author’s archives.

[the-mamas-project]

The MAMAS Project: Kelly 

When we started TMP in 2015, we envisioned reaching out to local mamas and sharing their stories, we did just that. Now, we are very excited to share the first feature of a mother many miles away on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. A place some of us have been to and recall fondly as a vacation spot, where we go to get away from regular life.

Raised in an amazing corner on the North Shore of Maui, Kelly raises two sons within the same quarter acre of her youth. However, living in an island paradise does not make you immune to the growing pains of motherhood. For all those mamas who sometimes want to escape their reality, know that even in paradise, struggle and growth is necessary and real.

Unaware at the time, Kelly met her future husband and father to her children when she was in grade school, whom she knew as, “her sister’s boyfriend’s handsome older brother.” They reunited in adulthood, and quickly developed a relationship. It was on a whim they became parents, conceiving much quicker than she expected. But motherhood came to Kelly quietly, and she was mostly alone, with her partner working on another Island to support the family.

“The first three months of Elias’ life was spent one-on-one, a crash course in parenting, as it is for everyone, but without the frequent presence of other adults. Although I had a support system, I was very much a do-it-yourselfer.  This is perhaps why my bond with Elias was always so very strong.”

Life changes in the grandest ways with the birth of your first, and dealing with the physical, as well as emotional, internal changes, is overwhelming at best.

“I’ve always been a woman who was comfortable in my own body. In expressing myself. With my first pregnancy I had a vision of the soccer mom in denim pants and plain shirts and a diaper bag with too much shit. Oh yes, and the mom cut. A woman who blended into the background. When I began the nesting stage in pregnancy, I gave away all of my favourite clothing. Anything too tight or too short. I went to Old Navy, found the most boring cotton shirt I could find, and got one in every colour. Dresses were loose and unflattering. Comfortable, yes, but nothing that inspired me personally. There is nothing wrong with the mom hair cut, let’s start there. But I realized over the years that this toned down fashion sense represented how I was treating myself as a woman. It just wasn’t me. I took the sense of sacrifice that is being a mother and watered myself down. This wasn't just about appearance, but my general disposition. I put myself second. I neglected my needs and in neglecting my femininity, I lost more of my individual self as I nurtured my family. Which in retrospect is perhaps what they needed at the time.”

Single parenting in the early days was tough, but unknowingly at the time, Kelly wasn’t just struggling with motherhood. But beginning to struggle with her body image, and the problem wasn’t going to just go away. The seed of self-criticism was planted and began to grow when she suffered a miscarriage.

“My most suffering came in the form of pregnancy loss.  This was the darkest period for me. The deepest pit of nothing. The hardest cry.  After multiple losses in a row, I found myself in the tightest ball of sorrow; one that I could not unravel for quite some time. Even after finally having a pregnancy that stuck, I had developed distrust in my physical body that had failed me so many times. My body image had plummeted. In addition to failing to take care of myself, I believe the emotional turmoil of the miscarriage process, subsequent infertility and the fear of loss itself took a significant toll on my body and it manifested itself in migraines, shingles, menstruation issues and chronic pain.”

Kelly’s words allude to something we can strongly relate to. Motherhood makes women vulnerable in a way men will never understand. It begins with the very wish to become pregnant. Maybe you won’t be able to conceive. I think every woman fears this at some point. Just trying to get pregnant, exposes us to the risk of being let down, and it’s terrifying. For many, pregnancy is not possible, or not easy, and that corrodes ones self-image and feeling of wholeness indescribably.

After pregnancy loss and subsequent infertility, Kelly and her family were blessed with their rainbow baby, Mathis. A strong willed, spirited soul. But motherhood alone couldn’t cure the self-criticism Kelly had plagued herself with. It wasn’t until Kelly began to make conscious choices to create her own happiness and take charge of her life that the small victories built up, and gave Kelly a new confidence.

“Early in my motherhood I found myself isolated, spending a day dusting at home or box-store shopping. There came a day I realized I couldn’t just sit around waiting for someone to take me to the beach, I was the mama and I needed to take myself to the beach. Now I am the mama who loads the truck, gets the kids ready and out the door and together we seek adventure. It’s a habit now, this effort of excitement. Chasing a high, so to speak. I know that this precious privilege in life is fleeting. Thus, when I find myself sitting upon the beach and my children happy engaging in their favourite environment, I freely feel a sense of personal pride and immense joy.”  

Her kids flourished. And taking control of her destiny, as the type of mother she wanted to be, started to bolster her confidence. She began recognize that she stopped taking pride in how amazing she truly was, and began to work on loving herself again.

“Having rediscovered my personal beauty (internal and external), I’ve allowed myself to be the mother who feels pretty when she shows up to things, or to dress comfortable and shabby when I feel like it, who lets her sons see her feeling beautiful. It’s a treat to buy myself a nice shirt every now and then. A fresh coat of nail polish after the kids have gone to bed on Sunday night does wonders for those crazy Monday mornings. These things are where I have found my self-care, and have boosted my confidence as a woman, a wife and a mother. I’ve given myself permission.”

Kelly’s muse is within herself. The outlet? She is motivated by self-love and through a personal blog, she promotes a message to others of self love, body love and spiritual enrichment. The best part, the disclaimer on her blog reads: 

“There are many bikini pictures. And I have stretch marks. You need to know this.”

Yes. You go Kinimama. 

All women need the reminder, love yourself. Thank you Kelly for sharing how you got there. It’s not an overnight thing. Yes, it takes a conscious choice and is always a work in progress. But for Kelly, choosing self love was the best decision she could have made, for her and her family. 

“And yes the chores get done, dinner gets cooked. The house is still in decent shape. I am a work in progress, I have weight to lose and life lessons to learn. Only now I am happy. Hubby is happy. Kids are happy. Because I’m not just mama, I’m KiniMama.”

Written by: Sarah and Jena

Photographs: Submitted by Kelly Estrella