I’m stuck again.
Stuck wishing my parents cared.
Wishing they came,
even if I thought I didn’t want them there.

My pain is so deep.
The need for them remains.

Nothing.
No fight.
No political stance
could keep me from my child.

I asked my brother to let them know.
No call, just a no-show.
How could they not try
as I lay there and cried,
as I wished to die?

Then my birthday came.

Happy birthday tomorrow.

Check that box early.

That’s when I saw it.
Just a 🙏.
No words.

That’s all I got.

Your child left lying there,
and one emoji to show you care?

All this time I thought,
maybe I missed the call.
Did I block the number?
Is it my fault?

Couldn’t be bothered
to actually be there.

Like all the times before,
just check the box
so people think you actually care.

I wish the birthday greeting never came,
because now I know the truth:

Your love is performative

You really don’t care.

In truth you were never there.

-CDH

I’m stuck again.
Stuck wishing my parents cared.
Wishing they came,
even if I thought I didn’t want them there.

My pain is so deep.
The need for them remains.

Nothing.
No fight.
No political stance
could keep me from my child.

I asked my brother to let them know.
No call, just a no-show.
How could they not try
as I lay there and cried,
as I wished to die?

Then my birthday came.

Happy birthday tomorrow.

Check that box early.

That’s when I saw it.
Just a 🙏.
No words.

That’s all I got.

Your child left lying there,
and one emoji to show you care?

All this time I thought,
maybe I missed the call.
Did I block the number?
Is it my fault?

Couldn’t be bothered
to actually be there.

Like all the times before,
just check the box
so people think you actually care.

I wish the birthday greeting never came,
because now I know the truth:

Your love is performative

You really don’t care.

In truth you were never there.

-CDH

On this particular day, Ruby and her best friend, Bonnie, were preparing for a great adventure to the mystical river.

As Ruby packed the items they would need for the journey—magical nails, an enchanted hammer, and mystical wooden planks—she listened to Bonnie describe her narrow escape from the Woodland Warlock on her way to Ruby’s Tree. Even now, Bonnie could still feel the darkness trying to dim her light.

Because of this, they knew they would need to be especially careful. Both the Thorn Queen and the Woodland Warlock would be searching for frightened little souls like them. Today marked the first step in planning their escape, and it would require strength and bravery.

Hand in hand, they stepped out from beneath the safety of the majestic willow and into the forest. They followed the winding path toward Ruby’s River, where one day they would build their magical boat.

As they walked through the dense darkness of the woods, they hummed beautiful tunes that protected them from the angry haunts wandering between the trees. The songs filled them with courage and reminded them that, as long as they stayed together, they were never truly alone.

Before long, the forest began to thin, and the gentle rush of the river reached their ears.

Ruby smiled.

“Bonnie,” she whispered, “we found it.”

Laughing softly, they hurried to the riverbank and searched for the perfect place to hide their magical tools and building supplies. These would remain hidden until the day they were ready to build their boat—a boat that would carry them away from the haunted forest to a place where they could finally be free.

But before they could return home, they had one last task to complete.

They needed to find the River Pearl.

The River Pearl was a rare ingredient Ruby needed for one of her special potions—a potion that would protect them and help hide them from the eyes of the Thorn Queen and the Woodland Warlock.

The girls searched along the shoreline until Bonnie spotted a beautiful shell resting among the smooth stones.

“I think this is it,” she whispered.

Ruby carefully picked up the shell and gently opened it.

Inside rested the most beautiful pearl either of them had ever seen. It shimmered with a soft, mesmerizing radiance.

Just then, the warning songs of the birds echoed through the forest.

The girls froze.

They knew what this meant.

The Thorn Queen was searching for them.

And the Woodland Warlock was helping her.

Ruby quickly tucked the River Pearl into her satchel.

“Run!” she shouted.

Hand in hand, the girls raced through the forest as the birds flew overhead, singing louder and louder to guide them safely home. The shadows seemed to stretch toward them, but the girls never let go of each other’s hands.

At last, they reached the shelter of Ruby’s Tree. Safe once again beneath the branches of the great willow, they caught their breath and smiled.

The River Pearl was safe.

Their secret boat-building place was hidden.

And they had taken one more step toward their escape.

As the girls made their way home from another day filled with imagination and adventure, they both knew they would continue their journeys until they could leave the haunted forest behind and build a safe place of their own.

After all, it takes courage, knowledge, bravery, and friendship to leave the only world you have ever known.

And Ruby knew this trip to the river had proven something important.

It had shown that she was brave.

It had shown that she was strong.

And most of all, it had shown that she had the courage to leave and create a place where she and those she loved could finally be free—because she did not have to do it alone.

Today, she learned that no one has to make the journey alone. Sometimes, the greatest magic of all is having a true friend by your side.

-CDH

I could have sued, but I needed health insurance more.

The school district and I reached an agreement, and I gave up my right to pursue legal action. I believed that would allow me to focus on what mattered most: getting better. I planned to begin therapy and apply for short-term disability while I recovered.

Instead, both were denied because my medical records included an attempted suicide.

That was the final gut punch. But my words will be how I fight back. I’ve decided to share my final correspondence because I’m not the only one who suffers this injustice. Discriminating against those with known Mental Health disorders is a real issue in America.

To Whom It May Concern,

I will no longer be remaining as an employee.

After attempting to begin therapy and apply for short-term disability benefits, I learned that my insurance does not cover treatment or benefits related to an attempted suicide. That discovery was the final gut punch. I sincerely hope those responsible for creating the agreement I signed were unaware that this would be the outcome for an employee in crisis.

As a result, I am grateful to end this partnership permanently.

I do worry about the future of our schools. With increasing reliance on job-embedded programs and “grow your own” initiatives, I fear schools will continue to experience rapid turnover among young teachers. When our schools were at their strongest, they were anchored by experienced educators who became the heart and soul of their buildings. Teaching is a demanding profession, and many dedicated educators face physical and mental challenges during middle age. That is simply the reality of a career spent serving children. I wonder whether teachers like Nancy “Mamaw” Watts will one day have the opportunity to reach thirty-year careers. I hope they do, but I am not convinced our current culture supports that kind of longevity.

It may have been easy to view me as a liability, but I believe my contributions to CMS extended far beyond what the administration recognized. What continues to baffle me is that I was never pulled aside for meaningful conversations about any alleged performance concerns. During my final months, I was sent home due to dangerously high blood pressure, and each time I asked whether my absences placed my job at risk, I was repeatedly assured that they did not. That I had nothing to worry about because I was not missing work out of negligence.

If I may offer one piece of advice for future administrators, it is this: be honest with your employees. Difficult conversations are always better than false reassurance. Likewise, a summative evaluation should never be rushed through in approximately five minutes because classes are beginning. Teachers deserve thoughtful feedback, clear communication, and opportunities to improve long before employment decisions are made.

I understand the district’s stated reason for my non-renewal. However, based on my experience, I do not believe the full story was reflected in that explanation. That is something others will have to reconcile within themselves.

I wish the students, teachers, and staff the very best moving forward. I could have been a fantastic pillar for CMS if given a real chance. 

Thank you,

Denise Houdeschell

This may be a letter of finality but my fight against this type of discrimination has just begun. My words can be sharp and I plan to bite.

-CDH

The adrenaline has worn off, and I have zero serotonin left to give. The hard truth about the choice I made in the haze of shock has now settled in to haunt me.

I do believe that, in the moment, I knew I would be okay. But that doesn’t erase what happened or how it affected me and the people I love. It is never the solution to leave it all behind.

I can honestly say I’m stronger, and I’m getting better every day. But right now, all I can do is cry.

In a society that sometimes glamorizes that level of darkness as a good plot twist, it’s important to remember the ugly. A true story of survival can only become a plot twist if we’re willing to show what comes after.

The first truth I’ve learned is that I have now caused my immediate family to experience trauma. I won’t publicly write about them, but I love them, and I want them to know they are my why.

The second truth is that my medical records now state: attempted suicide. Because of that, everything I needed to get better was denied. No therapy. No short-term disability.

I don’t regret choosing not to sue. I get to use my words now.

The last truth, and probably the most frustrating for me, is that I proved my haters right. Words poured from their mouths: “I hope she can finally get the help she needs.”

The painful irony is that I only needed that help because so many people stopped believing in me.

But most importantly, thank the Lord I picked writing back up. It has helped me process what happened, one word at a time.

Though my relationship with the church is complicated right now, my relationship with the people of the church taught me to share my burdens.

So here I am, giving my Appalachian Jezebel testimony.

No matter how dark life feels, the choice of life is the only answer.

Amen.

Did they see me so emotional and wonder why? Did they think, She’s just so sensitive? Did anyone suspect I lived in pain and fear?

Did anyone know that I have spent a lifetime trying to overcome my emotions, the pain, and the fear? Trying to keep it all in check? Be normal. Just be normal.

From the little girl who cried every day in kindergarten to the woman who tried to end her life after losing her job, I have always felt too much.

It has always been too much.

Too much sadness.
Too much joy.
Too much empathy.
Too much fear.
Too much love.
Too much grief.

I spent my childhood in fear of getting in trouble. That fear became anxiety, and that anxiety became an emotional flood.

I’ve drowned more than once.

I was once left to cry all day at school during my fifth-grade year. I had gotten in trouble for something I didn’t do, and I lost all ability to function.

My aunt called several times, trying to get my mom to pick me up, but she wouldn’t. She let me stay there all day, crying so hard I would throw up.

At that time, there was nowhere to send me. No quiet room. No counselor waiting to help. No emotional support dog.

Just my desk.

In front of everyone.

Crying all day.

Dealing with these untethered emotions, as I am right now, has reminded me of something.

The school system let me down. Not only then, but now.

My family let me down.

My supervisors let me down.

And adult Denise let myself down.

How does a teenager, and later an adult, cope with that kind of emotional hardship and shame?

In my case, I ignored it.

I partied hard.

Alcohol. Alcohol. And more alcohol.

I came home on Sunday mornings so hungover that I was still throwing up.

Nothing.

No acknowledgment.

No help.

Ignore.

I have been ignored my entire life.

It’s easy for me to look at myself and assume I wasn’t capable of accomplishing much. Who wants a teacher who cries? No matter what happened, I always found a way to make it my fault.

But that’s not true.

I always accomplished what was asked of me and more.

I was just never recognized for it.

I spent my life working harder.

Working myself to death.

Until I finally broke.

So low that even receiving accolades couldn’t touch the pain I carried.

So why?

Why have I given so much of my life trying to earn acceptance from my family and from the education system?

Maybe I believed that if I worked hard enough, achieved enough, loved enough, endured enough, someone would finally look at me and say,

“You were enough all along.”

But they never did.

So now I have to learn to say it to myself.

I have to be the one who notices.

The one who pats me on the back and brushes the dirt off my shoulders.

The one who acknowledges my accomplishments.

The one who sees my emotions as a strength.

The one who uses that strength to write.

The one who becomes the queen of the new path I’ve chosen.

In the end, I finally figured out who I am.

Not because I became someone new.

But because I stopped trying to become someone everyone else could accept.

Hitting emotional rock bottom became the fuel I needed to turn onto the road leading back to myself.

And for the first time in my life…

I finally know. I am Denise, and she is enough.

-CDH

On this particular night, a little girl was getting ready for bed. Ruby had spent the day reading The Secret Garden, and as she brushed her teeth, she couldn’t stop thinking about what her own garden might one day look like.

As Ruby lay her head on her pillow, she drifted into a dream.

She dreamed she lived in a magical garden created just for her.

The garden overflowed with glowing, glittering flowers, beautiful fruit trees, berry bushes, and winding paths. Butterflies drank the nectar and danced through the warm air, birds sang from every branch, and at night, fireflies twinkled like tiny stars. In the middle of this dream stood a small stone cottage where Ruby lived.

She had never felt so safe.

So welcome.

So completely at peace.

She enjoyed being by herself because everything she needed was there. And the Thorn Queen couldn’t hurt her.

As the seconds of her dream became years, Ruby grew, and so did her garden. It stretched farther and farther until it could no longer remain a secret.

Ruby was frightened.

If others came, what if they destroyed it?

But she knew she couldn’t stay hidden forever.

One by one, people began asking to enter the wild, beautiful garden she had created. They came because they longed for the same peace she had found. Slowly, these people reminded her that she wasn’t alone.

As Ruby grew older and her heart became less afraid, she realized something unexpected.

A garden was even more beautiful when it was shared with friends.

She had discovered the missing ingredient to a potion she’d been working on. It was friendship; not to save her, but to help tend the flowers, protect the peace, and remind her that she no longer had to stand guard alone.

That evening, as her dream came to an end, Ruby promised herself that when she woke up, her real dream would begin.

As the morning light streamed through her bedroom window, Ruby slowly opened her eyes.

The dream was gone, but she remembered every part of it.

She remembered the beauty.

She remembered the peace.

Most of all, she remembered the promise.

Today, she might not have the safe place or the safe people she longed for.

But one day she would.

One day, she would wake to a real garden filled with flowers she had grown with her own hands, surrounded by people who loved her, protected her, and chose to stay.

And for the first time, Ruby believed that her dreams had become real ingredients in her imaginary potions.

After breakfast, Ruby went outside. As she walked the barren land around her home, she found a redbud sapling, and she knew in her heart it would one day belong in her garden.

She knelt beside it, gently brushing the soil with her fingers, and smiled.

Maybe her garden wouldn’t appear all at once.

Maybe it would begin with something small.

One sapling, one soul.

And as she stood up, Ruby realized that dreams began with a single seed, but she needed the courage to plant it.

-CDH

I can feel her.
Always there.
Her dark stare.

On the sunniest of days,
she bides her time,
knowing her clouds
will hide my shine.

This dark friend of mine.

Her sister is the sun.
The fire she brings
is the worst of this malaise.

The sun grows so bright,
I no longer have sight.

This radiant glow,
this unrelenting glare,
becomes more than I can bear.

The shadow will come.
She is biding her time.
She will darken the shine.

She is always there,
her invisible stare.

So I light a candle
and brace myself.
I will not drown
within her gale.

She will not take me to hell.

Like a warrior
who trains for battle,
I have weapons
to subdue the shadow.

The shadow is near,
so I release
the courage I found.

I will not drown.

After the battle,
I have won the fight.
I still have my sight.

Now we will walk together—
her shadow,
my light.

She will protect me
from the sun
shining too bright.

If I let a trickle
of the shadow in,
she will protect me
from the glare.

I learn her rhythm,
her ebb and flow,
the quiet strength
in letting go.

Soon the sun will shine.

In front of me, her light.
The shadow behind.

My soul is once again mine.
In this balance I find.

-CDH

Just picture her: sixteen years old, wearing lace and dark velvet, surrounded by maroon candles, crystals, fairy decorations, incense smoke, and a well-worn spell book. Loreena McKennitt played from a CD player. Sarah McLachlan and Tori Amos were in heavy rotation. There were clove cigarettes, journals full of poetry, and enough angst to fuel an entire generation.

It was glorious.

At the time, I thought I was rebelling.

Now I think my Appalachian side was just trying to take over.

I am a Christian. I believe in God, Jesus Christ, and the power of prayer. But I also believe there is something sacred about the natural world God created. Prayers, to me, are a lot like little spells. Not magic in the occult sense, but intention directed toward something greater than ourselves. If we believe in divine intervention, why is it so strange to believe we can have a spiritual connection with creation itself?

In Christianity, the Earth was created by a divine God.

That feels important.

All of that to say, gardening in Appalachia is spiritual and a tiny green lacewing larva was a symbol of the voices of my ancestors guiding me.

If only I would listen.

My ancestors are with our divine Creator now, after all. Maybe the signs they leave behind aren’t always dramatic. You just need to shut up, slow down, stop moving, observe, listen, and actually see what is already there.

I have always felt a strong pull toward nature, especially anything green. Gardening is my outward worship of the Lord and the Earth He created. It just took me thirty years to realize it.

Now gardening has become a form of spiritual practice for me. My garden is an altar of gratitude to the natural world God made. It’s my version of witchcraft, so to speak—not controlling nature, but participating in it.

When I garden, I remember the things my grandfather taught me. I remember planting by the signs, watching the moon phases, paying attention to the seasons, and learning lessons carried across generations. Some of those traditions came from our Celtic ancestors. Others were shaped by knowledge gathered from Cherokee communities and generations of Appalachian gardeners who learned to work with the land rather than against it.

This brings us back to the lacewing. The one pictured below was on my dress while I was writing. How could I not believe in signs from my ancestors?

When I first started gardening, I was painfully inept. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten all those lessons. During those first few seasons, I kept noticing what looked like a tiny piece of fuzz crawling across our patio furniture.

Over and over again.

Year after year.

I noticed it, but I never really saw it.

Then one day I stopped.

I looked.

I listened.

I took a picture and researched it.

The mysterious fuzz turned out to be a green lacewing larva, sometimes called an aphid lion. It is a fierce little predator that devours aphids and other garden pests. Even stranger, it carries the remains of its victims and bits of debris on its back as camouflage while it hunts, very Appalachian.

It is also one of the most beneficial insects you can have in a garden.

That discovery changed everything.

The sterile, chemical approach to gardening slowly disappeared. Instead, I began paying attention. I started building healthy soil. I welcomed insects. I learned to trust the ecosystem. And everywhere I looked, there seemed to be another lacewing larva.

Again and again and again.

Eventually, I began to wonder if it was a sign from my great-grandmother.

Not just a bit of scientific research.

But a gift from her.

Spiritually speaking.

The women who came before me understood something I had forgotten. They built healthy gardens because they understood healthy ecosystems. They watched nature closely because their survival depended on it. They knew you can’t have flowers without pollinators, and you can’t have pollinators without biodiversity. You will have aphids and the flowers will die if you don’t also have the aphid lion that eats them.

The magic wasn’t in controlling the Earth.

The magic was in listening to it.

I think that’s the heart of Appalachian gardening.

Not power.

Not spells.

Not superstition.

Attention.

The willingness to slow down long enough to notice what creation is trying to teach you.

So now I am learning to worship in my own way. I am learning to respect my ancestors. I am learning to listen.

And, strangely enough, I feel a lot like that happy sixteen-year-old gothic girl again—the one with the candles, the spell book, and the fairy decorations, the one listening to Loreena McKennitt while trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe.

Only now I do it with dirt under my fingernails, flowers blooming outside my door, and a deeper understanding of the God who made it all.

Part five of figuring out who I am is learning more about Appalachia’s ties to gardening, herbs, salves, tinctures, and teas—and then sharing that knowledge with my community alongside a few beautiful flowers.

—CDH

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My Garden

The day I realized I had built the childhood I always wanted changed everything.

Growing up, my house suddenly became very sterile in every sense of the word. I don’t think it started that way. I can remember the garden.

I remember produce lining the counters. I remember plants in the house too. Then something happened, and that changed. I wish I knew what was going on in the adult world of my family at that time, but I never will.

Nonetheless, we no longer had a garden.

We no longer broke beans, canned vegetables, or made jellies and sauces.

For a spirit like mine, everything my soul craved—the soil, the flowers, the plants, the vegetables, my sense of safety—was suddenly taken away from me.

My mother’s OCD got the best of her, and structure and cleanliness became the unbreakable rule in our house.

For example, I had a Barbie workout playset that sat proudly on the top shelf of our storage closet. I saw it every day when my mother got out the vacuum. I wasn’t allowed to play with it because it had too many pieces. My mother couldn’t handle the thought of me losing any of them.

Looking back, I understand that came from her own childhood. She treasured things because she never had them growing up.

But for me, not being allowed to play with a toy and only being allowed to admire it felt normal.

There was a very long list of rules for the kitchen as well. Basically, no one was allowed in it.

I would hide food in my room so I wouldn’t have to ask my mother for permission to enter the kitchen. Whenever she left the house, I would binge-eat everything I could find.

Once again, I thought all of this was normal.

Now I see that my poor mother carried deep food insecurity from her childhood. She kept a lock-and-key mentality around food.

It took a lot of exposure therapy for me to become comfortable in less controlled environments.

When I moved out, I once scrubbed the floors of a boyfriend’s house. The floors were already pretty damn clean, but I didn’t know what else to do.

That’s how I was raised.

My husband will tell you that I am 100 percent cured of the cleaning OCD. He’s correct. Although, if properly provoked, I’m still the best deep cleaner you’ll ever meet.

I’m telling you all of this because I was sitting in my garden recently when I realized something.

I created the place little Denise always craved.

The woods.

The flowers.

The freedom to grow wild.

A place where I can roll in the dirt. Just kidding! Or am I?

The swings where I can sit and ponder.

The yoga shed where I can escape.

The chairs tucked in the back beneath the safety of the shadows.

Nature literally surrounds me.

And I created it with my husband’s help and my own two hands.

A work in progress

Every night, I go inside with dirty feet, and I am so glad for another beautiful day.

Allowing dirty feet is a big deal for me. I was literally swept and vacuumed by my mother as a child. Again, I thought that was normal.

What is even better is that I built all of this during a decade that was mostly defined by depression.

It’s how I healed myself, and I didn’t even appreciate it at the time. I just felt driven to do it.

Now I sit in this writer’s green-witch paradise, smiling as I document my journey to remember me.

That’s because I remembered my garden.

Also, no one gets swept by a broom or vacuumed before they come inside.

Every little thing you change is one less curse for your child to break.

We may inherit some of our parents’ curses.

But we also inherit the strength to break them.

-CDH

There is a lack of empathy for mental health. I’m not sure if it’s like that everywhere, but I definitely know it’s like that here in the United States.

That lack of empathy includes me. No one is harder on me than I am. During a depressive episode, and especially afterward, I become my own harshest critic, particularly when it comes to whether I can handle a full-time career. It’s a lonely disease.

My husband and I often jokingly say, “No casseroles for crazy.”

I’ve even reached out to friends, telling them what I’ve gone through in the hope of recognition. I am crazy, after all. Usually, I get an “I’ll pray for you” and little else. No outward support. Not even from family.

I’ve taken leave four times during my teaching career. The first was after my son was born. The second was when I broke my ankle. The third and fourth were due to major depressive episodes. Both times, after taking leave, I chose to resign because I didn’t feel it was fair to my students to have a revolving door of substitutes.

In between teaching jobs, I took about two and a half years off. When I came back, I started as an assistant, and I loved it. I loved being back. I loved having a community and something to wake up for every day.

I was doing great.

Then I got sick.

My husband brought COVID home, and it hit us hard. After that, I seemed to stay sick for the rest of the school year. Sometimes I think I tricked myself, but I have the medical records to prove it, which is something I often have to remind myself of. Sometimes I even ask my husband to remind me that I was actually sick and that it wasn’t depression.

I had COVID twice, the flu twice, bronchitis, and multiple rounds of steroids that made me feel completely out of my mind. It was a difficult year.

When I finally started feeling a little better, I decided to try a GLP-1 medication for weight loss. I was desperate to lose weight. I started on semaglutide around March of 2025. I didn’t tell my doctors how sick it was making me because I wasn’t throwing up, so I assumed I was fine.

I wasn’t.

I was severely dehydrated. I had major stomach issues. I kept increasing the dose, trying different forms of semaglutide, hoping things would improve.

Instead, I felt worse and worse.

After what felt like hundreds of doctors’ appointments, I finally told my new doctor that I thought maybe my past relationship with alcohol was causing my symptoms. I even blamed my “sanity” medications. She asked how much I drank and how often. We tested my drug interactions. All was well. Then she paused and said, “I don’t really think that’s it. Is there anything else?”

So after lying to myself, I knew I had to tell the truth. The chubby girl in me couldn’t believe it. What seemed to work for everyone else almost killed me.

That’s when I finally admitted I had been taking Wegovy since the previous March.

Her response was immediate.

“That’s what it is.”

After a persistent kidney infection, extreme dehydration, and running a fever for nearly a month, I was exhausted. I needed treatment and time to recover. I needed help healing my body.

Instead, I accumulated absences and anxiety.

I didn’t feel supported by the administration. I felt like I was viewed as a liability—a mental health liability.

Instead of talking to me, listening to me, or asking what was happening with my physical health, I felt like people assumed I was crazy.

To be honest, I assumed it myself.

I still have moments when my husband has to stop me and remind me that he was there. He watched what I went through. It wasn’t made up. It wasn’t all in my head.

Then they non-renewed me.

The last safety net was pulled out from under me.

I was devastated.

I was ashamed.

I was embarrassed.

My first thought was, “I’m crazy. I’ve done it again. I can’t do anything right.”

The point of all this is that there is still tremendous prejudice against people with mental health issues. People may feel empathy, but they often don’t know what to do. Mental illness makes people uncomfortable.

And once you admit to having mental health issues, it often becomes the first thing people think of when they think of you.

Once again, that includes me.

When I broke my ankle, I received what felt like twenty-five casseroles. My coworkers collected money to help with food, gas, and surgery expenses—but not for depression.

And we all know how important casseroles are in Appalachia. They are how we say, “I love you.” They show up after births, deaths, surgeries, floods, funerals, and just about any traumatic event. A casserole means your neighbors and friends see your pain and want to help carry it.

When I woke up in the hospital after my Seroquel overdose, I remember having one darkly humorous thought:

“Maybe this time we’ll get some casseroles.”

I didn’t get any casseroles.

At least not right away.

But I did receive support.

Friends sent flowers. They sent journals. They called. They texted. My best friend flew down and practically dragged me out of bed.

So I did get a casseroles for crazy after all.

It just looked different.

Looking back now, being non-renewed may have been the best thing that ever happened to me.

I’m on a new path.

I’m writing, which has been the most cathartic experience of my life. For the first time in a very long time, I feel peace in my mind and in my soul.

Sometimes, rock bottom isn’t the worst place to find yourself.

Sometimes it’s where you finally stop digging.

You just need someone willing to throw you a rope.

Thank you to the friends who threw me those ropes.

And thank you for the casseroles.

Love,
Denise

P.S. In case anyone is wondering, after being Wegovy-free for three months, I feel fabulous.

Image: My Future Garden

This garden shines with pink,
orange, yellow, and gold,
greens and blues and purple hues.

This garden I grow
brings me closer to the truth—

a truth within the soil
and my soul,

a story yet to be told.

Despite the winter that sowed my sorrow
and left it rooted in pain,

the pages will still unfurl
like the petals in spring,

and the flowers will bloom
in spite of the cold.

And you realize
why you still grow.

You and the flowers
are the same.

You will bloom again,
even if they cut you down.

No matter the rain,
you will not drown,

for your roots run deep
within the ground.

-CDH

Some friendships save your life long before you realize you need saving. After thirty years, I can say this one got me out of bed again.

This part of the story begins with a breakdown and ends with a domain name.

As soon as I was home from the hospital, my husband said, “I haven’t called Emily yet. What do you want to do?”

I said, “Can you call her, please?”

And then I broke down.

How could I do this to my soulmate? No, my soul sister.

How could I think of leaving her?

We have been each other’s person for thirty years, since 1996. We can’t survive this life without each other.

I knew she would come, make me get out of bed, and stop me from wallering, as they say in Appalachia. She wouldn’t put her emotions on me.

And that’s exactly what she did.

My husband used the last of his Hilton points to put us up at the Embassy Suites in downtown Knoxville. Very ED, which is our nickname.

I need to pause for a moment. It’s important that you understand we are hardcore Absolutely Fabulous fans. That’s the vibe of our friendship. She’s Patsy, and I’m Eddie.

Okay, back to the moment.

As she walked out of the airport, I remembered that she is fabulous.

I’m fabulous too.

That’s my best friend.

As soon as I got to the hotel, I put on a more fashionable outfit I had bought in happier times—times when I had started thinking about my style again.

She forced me out, lipstick on and eyes open.

First stop: Coffee and Chocolate.

My husband thinks it’s our spot, but it was ED’s spot first. Sorry, love.

We visited all our favorite shops and talked about everything. We revisited places we had haunted in our younger days. They were in new locations but still felt the same. It felt like a walking metaphor for my life.

We lived.

And it was fabulous.

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As we were ending the second night of ED, Emily said, “I’m buying the domain for Appalachian Jezebel for one year.”

Then she called my husband to tell him that I needed to write and that it was important because I was going to be a famous author.

She also hyped me up with stories about what it would be like when I was published.

Of course, Reese Witherspoon was mentioned. She’s our Southern hero. She’s going to produce the movie. But first, Appalachian Jezebel will be featured in her book club… and so on.

As I drove her to the airport the next morning, I said:

“Okay, I’ll write!”

And here we are today.

Two weeks in, and I’m remembering every day that there is life, and I have a lot of it left to live.

As a bonus, I’ve been writing here, on Substack, for two weeks and now have 75 subscribers, with people reaching out to me about my work. I’m truly shocked by the support.

It has been cathartic and, weirdly, joyful.

I’m releasing twenty years’ worth of thoughts from my brain. Keeping them in has been killing me slowly.

I hope you enjoy my madness and join me on this journey.

It’s only just begun.

Love you, Emily!

-CDH

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credit: Appalachian Museum

To understand me, you need to understand how important public education is to Appalachia.

Like everything else in the Appalachian Mountains, getting an education was difficult. It still is. But just like everything else our people are known for, it happened anyway through hard work, sacrifice, and perseverance.

In the days before roads and easy transportation, formal education was rare. Most mountain families believed their children should at least learn to read and write. The settlers who came here from Europe brought that belief with them. The Welsh miners especially valued education and wanted something better for their children.

In the beginning, schools were community-run. They weren’t fancy. They were often one-room schoolhouses supported by the people who lived around them. Those little schools became the backbone of Appalachian communities.

Then came the “rediscovery” of Appalachia after the Civil War. Outsiders arrived determined to educate the “backward mountain people.” New schools were built, teachers came to the mountains, and educational opportunities expanded.

But when the coal left, so did much of the investment.

Schools closed.

Communities shrank.

And many mountain towns began a slow decline.

So yes, I understand the importance of education is to a people. I have watched the lack of an educational center destroy communities.

Appalachians understand hardship and loss. It’s at the core of who our people are.

As I move away from education for good, I can’t ignore the legacy Anderson County Schools holds in my own story. As I weave together who the Appalachian Jezebel character is for my novel, I know education will play a huge role in her journey.

Now, let’s explore education in my personal family history.

My family originates from the very northern edge of Anderson County, high in the Cumberland Mountains, in a place the post office calls Devonia. Before that, it was known as Moore’s Camp. Most people today know it as New River.

My family’s roots in education run deep. My mother, aunts, cousins, grandparents, and great-grandparents all had ties to the school system. My great-aunt taught at Rosedale Elementary School, known to many simply as “the mountain school.” Several of my cousins taught there as well.

My great-grandfather, Charlie Phillips, drove a school bus. His legacy as a school bus driver is fondly remembered by older generations of mountain families. He was tasked with driving some of the most geographically difficult dirt road routes across the New River, Devonia, Fork Mountain, and Briceville areas.

People who didn’t grow up in a place like New River may not understand how respected his role was in Appalachian communities. School wasn’t just where children learned to read and write. It was where basketball games were played, Christmas programs were held, and neighbors gathered. It was the heart of the community. My great-grandfather made sure every child had access to this. He’s my hero.

That is why losing my teaching career cuts so much deeper than losing a job. I feel like I lost my legacy.

The school system wasn’t just my employer. It was part of my family’s story.

My family helped build these schools. They taught in them. They drove buses for them. They believed education mattered because they knew firsthand how hard it was to get in these mountains.

For generations, education was our way of serving the community.

Perhaps the saddest part for me is knowing that many students in Anderson County are no longer being taught much about their Appalachian past. They learn very little about the people who built these communities, worked these mountains, and fought to create schools for their children.

When the coal was gone and the boom left, schools closed and communities disappeared.

The mountains began a slow death.

Yet somehow the people stayed.

They always stay.

Appalachia has never been just a story of poverty and hardship. It is also a story of stubborn people who refuse to quit.

People who build lives on steep hillsides.

People who survive.

People who keep showing up.

People who believe their children deserve something better.

That story deserves to be told.

It always has.

On this particular day, a little girl gathered her provisions and ventured into the pasture to visit her favorite tree.

In the shadow of the Cumberland Mountains, her backyard stretched into a field of wildflowers. The abundance of life surrounding her was of this special little girl’s design. Wildflowers swayed in the breeze. Rabbits darted through the grasses. Songbirds filled the air with music, and young trees reached toward the sky. Each living thing served as a reminder that life still existed around her.

You see, her true home could be a very dark place, but she fought this every day. Ruby made potions that would bring the light.

She sat beneath her favorite tree and pondered which ingredient for her courage potion she would gather today.

If she wanted to leave the safety of her tree, she would be putting herself at risk.

The beloved willow grew tall and wispy. The pale green tendrils of its branches draped around her like a protective curtain, providing Ruby with a sense of safety she rarely felt anywhere else. Because of this precious feeling of calm, Ruby hesitated as she considered making the potion. She understood that she would need to venture into the Forbidden Forest to gather the remaining ingredients.

After pondering a little while longer, she decided it was worth the risk.

Because the Thorn Queen might find her out in the open.

On days like today, the Thorn Queen would be scouring the land, looking for a soul to punish, a soul to hurt, a soul to own.

You see, the Thorn Queen had given up her own soul long ago so she could forget her past. But it hadn’t worked. In fact, the horrors of her past had become an anchor tied tightly to what remained of her spirit. The only relief she ever found was in causing pain to those around her.

If the Thorn Queen sensed Ruby, she would surely try to punish her.

Still, the journey was worth it.

Ruby needed to make a potion that would one day transport her to a different reality.

She already had some of the ingredients: elderberries, rattlesnake fern, and coneflower. But today she would have to brave the deep forest and journey toward the river to find the river pearl—the most important ingredient of all. It was said to bring the fortune and courage needed to live a life of one’s own choosing.

The journey would be treacherous, and the Thorn Queen would surely be looking for her.

But she must persevere.

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Ruby gently parted the wispy limbs of her willow tree, revealing the world beyond. It wasn’t dark today. Sunlight shone brightly through the leaves. Even so, she knew she had to be careful. The dangerous creatures that served the Thorn Queen were always prowling nearby.

Taking a deep breath, Ruby stepped onto the path that would one day lead her to freedom.

As she entered the forest, the Thorn Queen’s voice slithered into her mind.

“Ruby, where are you?”

Ruby froze.

“Ruby, come now. If I find you in those woods, the punishment will be great.”

The voice grew louder.

“You cannot leave me, Ruby.”

“You are mine.”

Terror gripped her chest.

“Ruby! Come here right now!”

The forest seemed to fade around her.

She could feel herself being pulled backward—back into the world that frightened her, back into the world that was reality.

The young girl gathered the toys she had brought into the forest to play with. She had hoped her best friend would meet her there so they could continue their adventure together.

But not today.

Slowly, she walked back toward the house.

As she approached, she saw her mother waiting.

Even from a distance, Ruby could tell she was angry.

She had not completed her journey today.

She had not found the river pearl.

She had not made the potion.

But deep inside, the little girl knew something important.

Every time she stepped into the forest, she traveled a little farther than before.

Every time she imagined another world, she made it a little more real.

And someday, somehow, she would finish the journey.

She would escape the darkness.

She would create a life of her own.

And beneath the shelter of her willow tree, Ruby held tightly to that hope until she was brave enough to try again.

https://open.substack.com/pub/appalachianjezebel

I can feel you

in the sun that breaks through
to touch my face,

in the cardinal
that always stays,

in the salamander
that crosses my path,

and in the roly-poly
I find beneath a stone.

I find you

in the ladybug on the ground,

in the quiet whispers
of the trees,

in the creak
of the porch swing,

and in the fog
that settles on the river.

I see you

in the fox that moves
through our woods,

in the butterflies
that drink nectar from the flowers,

in the soil
I built with my own hands,

and in the plants
I nurture and grow.

I know you

in the rainbow,

and in every small wonder

that reminds me

I never walk alone.

My ancestors walk with me everyday.

-CDH

“There are days despair will win, but you have wildflowers to grow just yet.”
— Emily Scott Robinson, Time for Flowers

I lost my 22-year career as a teacher on the last Friday of the school year at 3:50 p.m.

I walked out of the building at 4:15.

Picked up my son at 4:30.

Walked into my house at 4:45.

And by 6:00, I found myself lying in a hospital bed.

I’ll let you decide what happened in between because I’m not ready to talk about it yet. What I can tell you is that it was a desperate cry for help.

For the next 36 hours, I was under constant watch.

I cried and cried.

There is nothing quite as rock bottom as having a CNA sit beside your bed all night, scrolling through their phone while watching you sleep, making sure you don’t leave the room, and accompanying you to the bathroom. It was 36 hours of pure anxiety, humiliation, and reflection.

I’d like to think I am a strong woman.

Sometimes I’m not so sure.

Sometimes I still feel like that lost little girl living in a world of make-believe.

As the days passed and the first week after my hospital stay came and went, one thought consumed me:

I did it again.

We had finally started to recover from my last two bouts of depression—emotionally, physically, and financially. We were finally able to relax, if only a little.

My mental health had been the best it had been in a long time. We had finally begun to understand what had been happening to me physically. For the first time in years, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

We were living in the moment.

Then I heard the words:

“We’re going in a different direction.”

And all I could think was:

I’ve done it again.

My mental health has hurt my family again.

Oddly enough, it was my fourth CNA in the hospital who changed everything.

Unlike the others, she wouldn’t let me stay in bed.

She made me get up and watch the sunrise.

By pure luck, my hospital room overlooked the eastern sky.

I stood there watching the darkness give way to light, and for the first time in days, I felt something other than despair.

I felt…

Hope.

Not certainty.

Not happiness.

Just hope.

That was the moment I knew I was going to be okay.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Maybe not for a while.

But eventually.

I was going to be okay.

As Emily Scott Robinson beautifully sings, “The time for flowers will come again.”

-CDH

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But first, how did it begin…

I was a disappointment to my mother the moment I was born. She loved me and still does in her own way. Sadly, it was never the way I needed.

My mother loved to tell my birth story, but she only ever included three facts.

Fact one: She was sick the entire pregnancy. Miserable. She even threw up on the way to the hospital.

Fact two: I was supposed to be a boy.

Fact three: She almost died.

She told me these facts repeatedly throughout my childhood. I imagine this is the root of why I always felt like an intruder in my family.

I don’t remember much about my early years at home. What I do remember is living in a world of make-believe. Imagination was where I felt safest.

Then I entered the school system.

I wasn’t ready.

Not socially.

Not academically.

I cried every day.

When my mother picked me up from school, I was often sent to my bed as punishment. Eventually, I stopped crying. Not because I was happy, but because I learned crying didn’t help.

I struggled until I embarrassed my parents enough that discussions turned into arguments about me. So my mother decided to teach me at home for a summer, and it worked.

Looking back, it is actually one of my favorite memories.

Maybe it wasn’t something she wanted to do. Maybe it was something she felt forced to do. Maybe it was the opinions of my stoic grandmother. Maybe it was the endless comparisons to my cousin that finally tipped the scale, or maybe it really was out of concern.

Whatever the reason, it became one of the greatest gifts she ever gave me.

For the first time, my mother provided something I desperately needed:

Her time.

That summer, I discovered something life-changing.

I was smart.

Education wasn’t my weakness.

It was my escape.

School became my way out of a family where I never quite felt like I belonged.

From that point forward, I climbed.

I worked.

I achieved.

And I thrived.

School became my safe place.

I remember the moment I realized that. It was during the middle of the night in my senior year of high school. I woke up in absolute panic.

Graduation was coming.

The future was coming.

I had dreams of becoming a journalist, working in public relations, marketing, or writing books.

But all of those careers required something I didn’t possess:

Confidence and a support system.

The only place I ever felt competent was inside a school building.

So I made a decision.

I would become an educator.

Not because it was my dream.

Because it felt safe.

I chose the place where I knew the rules.

The place where I knew how to succeed.

The place where I felt protected.

I tell you this because I need you—and, introspectively, myself—to understand how the loss of my career this past May has changed me forever.

When I realized my career as an educator was truly over, it wasn’t just the loss of a job.

The loss of the place that had saved me and propped me up for decades cut like a knife. Though I realize now it was a shelter that slowly became unsafe.

For decades, being a part of a school had been my refuge.

The little girl who felt unwanted at home found belonging there.

The anxious teenager found purpose there.

The woman I became built an entire identity there.

And when I walked out of that building for the last time, I wasn’t a forty-four-year-old professional.

I was that same little damaged girl again.

The one who never felt chosen.

The one who never felt enough.

The one who thought she had finally outrun her story.

I hadn’t.

I was carrying her with me the entire time.

-CDH

How could you ever think I would be normal?

Before we dive into the world of Appalachian folk mysticism, let’s talk about what that actually means. Please understand I’m only writing from my experience.

The first thing you need to understand is that almost everything in Appalachia is rooted in Christianity. The mountains are one of the clearest examples of two cultures blending together: the Celtic traditions of Europe and the deeply religious Christianity brought by our ancestors to their homes in the Appalachian Mountains.

Mountain people have always believed deeply in God. A belief in the Holy Trinity, especially the Holy Ghost, and Jesus Christ is woven into the fabric of Appalachian culture. That faith shaped who we are.

But Appalachia is also a land of isolated people. The mountains demanded self-preservation. Families had to learn how to survive using the land God gave them. Their promised land after an exodus from persecution. They planted, hunted, preserved, healed, and endured. Long before “off-grid living” became a trend, mountain people were doing it out of necessity.

And they survived.

So when we talk about a granny witch—or in my family’s case, a thrush doctor—we need to understand that the term doesn’t mean what most people think it means.

Every prayer can be viewed as a kind of spell. Not in a dark occult sense, but in the sense that words spoken with faith are believed to have power. These strong mountain women prayed over burns, applied ointments, safely brought babies into the world, treated thrush, and cared for the sick in their community. Their power came not from rejecting Christianity, but from embracing it and seeing the magic in a powerful belief.

They believed Jesus healed, and they simply had the faith that He could work through them, along with the knowledge of their ancestors.

This blending of Christian faith and older folk traditions reflects something much older. The Celtic peoples assimilated new beliefs into existing traditions, and Appalachian people did much the same. They learned to survive in their environment while maintaining a deep spiritual connection to both God and the natural world.

That’s why people with deep Appalachian roots are often a little strange. Maybe even touched, as they say.

You know it’s true.

I’m one of them.

You’ve felt, seen, or been told first hand something that sets us apart. Again I say, you know it’s true. I realized it was not normal when I proudly talked about my Mamaw, in AP English Class. Mountain kids were definitely out numbered. Thank goodness the wonderful Mrs. Campbell stopped the laughter, “With a real stern, “stop this is real and it is Important to all your histories.” Yes she was that Queen!

If you grew up in Appalachia (for the sake of my experience, the Cumberland Mountains) you understand things that much of the United States cannot comprehend. You know how deep a holler really is. You cover the windows after dark and can’t even comprehend walking past a widow after midnight. You know stories about things that happened up on the mountain that nobody can quite explain. And your elders loved to tell the stories.

And chances are, you knew somebody who had a cauldron in their backyard.

No, it wasn’t always for washing clothes.

Those kettles simmered with herbal remedies, tinctures, salves, and medicines. Day after day. Decade after decade. Century after century.

Inside those cauldrons was knowledge passed from one generation to the next.

Knowledge of plants.

Knowledge of seasons.

Knowledge of healing.

Knowledge of survival.

The women who tended them understood how to work with the land rather than against it. They grew food, gathered herbs, preserved the harvest, and cared for their communities. They understood ecosystems before anyone used that word. They knew which roots to dig, which leaves to steep, and which remedies to prepare when a neighbor fell ill.

And let’s be honest—most gatherings eventually involved food.

A lot of food. Can we say apple butter? But, I’ll save apple butter for another essay. It deserves its own article.

The old saying was that granny witches “knew the roots and the words.”

The roots were the medicine.

The words were the prayers.

Together, they formed a tradition of healing.

So what did a granny witch actually do?

She healed people.

Appalachian witchcraft, for lack of a better term, was rarely about casting curses or communing with dark forces. More often, it was about strong mountain women using folk knowledge, practical skills, and a deeply personal relationship with Jesus Christ to care for the people around them.

They weren’t physicians.

Most had little formal education.

Yet they possessed generations of accumulated knowledge about herbs, remedies, and spiritual practices that helped sustain their communities.

They were healers.

Caretakers.

Midwives.

Herbalists.

Prayer warriors.

Women who stood in the gap when there was no doctor to call.

And whether you call them granny witches, Thrush Doctors, herb women, mountain healers or in my case Mamaw Hazel, they remain one of the most fascinating parts of Appalachian culture.

Maybe that’s why I never had much chance of being normal.

After all, my mamaw had a cauldron in her backyard.

-CDH

Our mother’s trauma

was more than she could endure.

Told to ignore

what came before,

she left it unattended.

Her sadness was spreading.

Creeping into the soul of our home,

It had no other place to go.

It lingered:

within the lights,

the carpet,

the walls,

in every hiding place,

Our pain

was more than we could endure.

Which version

would we see today?

Would it be

“I love you”

or

a slap across our face?

Shh…

Be still.

Be quiet.

Be invisible.

We had no place to go.

imprisoned

within our home,

a shadow

in its foundation.

A darkness we must carry,

an inheritance

we did not want!

an heirloom

we refuse to pass on.

Our trauma

is something we can endure.

Our new home;

built with

hope,

love,

safety.

Our home

will bring healing.

Our home

will bring peace

Our home will endure

This sickness will be cured

-CDH