J e s

Real life, told as stories. people, small moments, things that matter | notes & thoughts | seize the day

[J e s @JessamyRx]

@grok @grok, if the story is true, does the account's location alone justify a Community Note??

[J e s @JessamyRx]

My daughter is fourteen. Last night I watched her stand in our kitchen, shrinking into herself, telling her older brother "stop" for the fifth time while he kept going. Laughing. Blocking the doorway. Not touching her, but not letting her leave either.

I saw her face. I know that face. It's the face I made at nineteen, at a party, when I said no and it didn't matter.

I stepped between them and said, "Your sister said stop. Five times. You heard her. Do you know what a boy who doesn't stop when a girl says stop grows up to be? A man who doesn't stop when a woman says no"......

[J e s @JessamyRx]

She told him next time, if there is a next time, he needs to be the one who says it out loud, in front of everyone, even if it costs him the room.

He asked if she was disappointed in him. She said no. She said she was proud he left. She just needed him to understand that leaving is the minimum, not the finish line.

We talk so much about teaching girls what to do when they're violated. We rarely talk about teaching boys what to do when they're standing in the room where it's happening to someone else.

Silence is a choice too. Teach your sons that. IT IS ON ALL OF US, especially the ones just standing there.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

He said he felt sick. Not from anything he drank. From watching a room full of boys he thought were his friends treat a girl's body like a joke, and realizing if he said anything, he'd be the target next.

He left instead. Didn't confront anyone. Just got out.

His mom told him leaving wasn't nothing, but it also wasn't enough. She said the boys who stayed silent in that room are just as responsible as the ones who started it, because silence is how it keeps happening, protected by everyone too afraid to be the one who says "this isn't okay"............

[J e s @JessamyRx]

He cried. So did I. My daughter came and sat between us and held both our hands.

Girls learn a hundred ways to stay safe. How to hold our keys. Where to park. When to text "home safe." We've been carrying that weight our entire lives. But safety was never supposed to be only our job.

Teach your sons the hard version now, while it still feels like a kitchen argument and not a courtroom.

Moms, dads, uncles, coaches, older brothers, grandfathers. All of you. IT IS ON ALL OF US.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

He went pale. He said, "Mom, I was just messing around. I'm not like that."

I said, "Good. Then prove it. Right now. Every time. Even when it's inconvenient, even when it's funny to you, even when nobody's watching."

Then I sat him down and told him something I've never told my kids. That I know exactly what it feels like when someone doesn't stop. That the "no" I said years ago still lives in my body. That I would give anything to have had one person, one father, one brother, one friend, teach the boys around me that a no is a complete sentence.......

[J e s @JessamyRx]

I didn't know he'd been protecting himself that way. From me, or from loss, or from something I never fully understood about his own history.
He's used my name every time since. Still gets it right, every single time, like something in him finally decided I was worth the memory.
Some distances aren't really about dislike. Sometimes they're just fear, wearing the shape of forgetfulness, waiting for something serious enough to finally let it go.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

My father-in-law never once said my name correctly in six years of marriage. Called me "the wife" to his friends, mixed up my name with his first daughter in law's constantly, never really corrected himself when I gently reminded him.
I stopped taking it personally after a while. Told myself he was just old-fashioned, bad with names, nothing deeper than that.
Last month he had a small stroke. Nothing catastrophic, but it scared everyone. I was the one who happened to be closest when it happened, the one who called the ambulance, sat with him until my husband could get there.....

[J e s @JessamyRx]

In the hospital, still groggy, still scared, he grabbed my hand and said my name. Correctly. Clearly. Like he'd always known it perfectly and just never bothered to use it.
I didn't say anything about it in the moment. Just held his hand back.
Weeks later, once he was mostly recovered, I finally asked him about it, careful, not accusing, just curious.
He got quiet for a minute. Then he said, "I think some part of me never let myself get close enough to remember it properly. Wasn't about you. I just wasn't sure how long I'd let myself believe you were staying"....

[J e s @JessamyRx]

I didn't say anything back. There wasn't really anything to say.
The phone's still there. Still charged every night. Bill still comes out on the first.
I think about all the ways grief refuses to follow any kind of timeline. How some people close a door quickly just to survive it, and others leave it open for eleven years, not because they're in denial, but because closing it means admitting there's truly nothing left on the other side to wait for.
I don't know which version of grief is the right one. I just know I've stopped asking her to choose.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

My mother kept a second phone for eleven years after my brother went missing.
Charged every night. Same number, never changed, never cancelled, bill paid automatically on the first of every month like clockwork.
I never really asked about it. Just understood, the way you understand certain things in a family without needing them explained, that it wasn't something to bring up.
Some nights I'd hear it ring in the other room, once, twice, then stop. Wrong numbers, mostly. Telemarketers. She always answered anyway, every single time, voice hopeful for exactly the half-second before whoever it was said something and she realized.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

I asked her once, just once, years ago, why she kept it. She said, "so the number's still his when he's ready to use it again."
Last year I finally asked if I could ask her something hard. She said yes.
I asked if she still believed he was coming back.
She didn't answer right away. Just looked at that old phone sitting on the kitchen counter, charger cord worn soft from over a decade of use.
Then she said, "I don't know anymore. I just know cancelling it feels like deciding for both of us. And that's not a decision I get to make alone."

[J e s @JessamyRx]

The difference between people who are always scrambling and people who aren't isn't really about money.
It's about whether you prepare before the need shows up, or only react once it already has.
The Simplest Version of This Habit
Pick one hour a week, same time, non-negotiable
Prepare just enough for the days ahead meals, savings, whatever applies
Do it before you're tired, hungry, or stressed, not after
No motivation needed once it's a routine.
My grandmother never talked about discipline. She just handed me a rice cooker, and let the habit teach itself, one Sunday at a time.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

When I was 16, my grandmother gave me an old rice cooker for my birthday.
I remember being a little disappointed. All my friends were getting phones, clothes, cash.
I asked her, quietly, why a rice cooker.
She just said, "Every good meal starts before you're hungry."
I didn't understand at the time.
Years later, when I moved into my first apartment, broke, stretching every paycheck to the edge, that rice cooker was the only appliance I owned that actually worked.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

I started cooking rice in bulk every Sunday. Portioned it out for the week. Built simple meals around it vegetables, an egg, whatever was cheap that week.
It wasn't exciting. But it meant I never once went hungry those first two rough years, even during the months my paycheck barely covered rent.
I called her one night, just to say thank you, properly, for the first time.
She said, "I didn't give you a rice cooker. I gave you a habit. Prepare before you need it, not after."
That's stayed with me longer than almost anything else she ever told me.
Now, every Sunday, without thinking about it, I still portion out meals for the week. Doesn't matter how busy things get. Doesn't matter how much money's in my account that particular month.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

He folded it carefully, set it on his own side of the closet, said, "just this one. I'm not giving up all of her at once."
I hugged him longer than I probably needed to. He let me.
We didn't finish the whole closet that day. Said we'd do the rest another time, whenever he was ready again.
Grief doesn't really have a finish line. Sometimes it's just a closet, and a father learning how to fold away love a little at a time, at his own pace, for as long as it takes.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

My dad kept my mom's side of the closet exactly as she left it for three years after she passed.
Never said anything about it. Never explained. Just quietly moved his own clothes to the guest room closet instead, so hers could stay untouched.
I asked him about it once, gently, maybe a year in. He just said, "I'm not ready yet," and I never brought it up again.
Two months ago he called me, asked if I could come over on Saturday. Didn't say why.
I got there and found him sitting on the bedroom floor, her closet door open, a few boxes folded flat beside him.
He said, "I think I'm ready. I don't think I can do it alone though."

[J e s @JessamyRx]

We went through it together. Her cardigans, still smelling faintly of the perfume she wore for thirty years. A pair of shoes she'd bought for a wedding she never got to attend. A scarf I didn't even remember, tucked in the back, tags still on.
He held onto that scarf for a long time before setting it in the donation box. Said, quiet, "she never wore it. Kept saying she was saving it for something special."
Neither of us said anything for a while after that.
At the end, he kept one thing back. Her favorite sweater, worn soft at the elbows, the one she wore almost every winter evening for as long as I can remember.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

I don't correct her anymore. Some days I think I'm keeping my mother a little bit alive for her. Other days I think I'm just quietly losing my grandmother one Sunday at a time, and borrowing my mother's name is the only way she has left to hold onto either of us.
I still go every Sunday. I don't think I could stop even if I wanted to.

[J e s @JessamyRx]

My grandmother started calling me by my mother's name about a year ago.
At first I corrected her, gently, every time. "No, Grandma, it's me." She'd apologize, look confused for a second, then move on like nothing happened.
After a while I stopped correcting her. It didn't help her remember, and it just seemed to make her feel bad each time, that small flash of embarrassment crossing her face before she covered it with a smile.
So now when she calls me by my mother's name, I just answer to it......

[J e s @JessamyRx]

Last week she held my hand and said, "you always visit me on Sundays, even when you're tired. I don't think I ever properly thanked you for that."
She wasn't talking to me. She was talking to my mother, who passed when I was nineteen, who used to visit her every single Sunday without fail.
I just said, "of course. I'll always come."
She smiled, satisfied, and asked if I wanted tea.
I sat there afterward, once she'd drifted off to nap, thinking about how strange grief is when it loops back on itself like that. I'm grieving my mother. My grandmother is loving my mother, right now, through me, without knowing she's doing it......