I cry online. I shed tears for the masses, spreading awareness and forcing people to look beyond their rose-colored glasses.

I post nearly every day, whether it be a TikTok, a blog post, or a highlight.

I post just enough to make myself appear like an open book when in reality—my book is shut.

Five minutes—that’s all it takes—to fake a life and make yourself look okay.

I don’t do it for you; I do it for me. A way to make myself feel like I’m not extraordinary.

That might sound backwards, silly, because why would anyone want to be normal when you can be extraordinary?

But I’m not dulling down my brain or my inner beauty; I’m dulling down my illness so that I can convince myself I don’t exist in a flawed reality.

So I get dressed, I record a video, then I get back in bed and post it from my cocoon. Should I be blamed for putting on a performance, or should you be shunned for believing that what you see is what you get when in reality—everyone hides their skeletons in their closet and not on the internet

We need more authenticity online. The world can’t benefit from what we don’t share, but I’m tired of having to share my pain for the world’s gain.

I don’t want Lyme disease to become the most interesting thing about me. God forbid my greatest accomplishment in life is surviving my own body.

I enjoy sharing my life online, teaching the world what my pain has taught me, but I’ll be damned if I let my pain be what defines me.

I want to make a difference in this cruel and brutal world. I want to set an example for all the little girls. I want to leave something behind when I become nothing but a bag of bones, and I don’t want my legacy to be my suffering.

But if I’m being honest, what I want more than anything is to experience one day on earth in a healthy body. Oh God, I’d run for the hills and trip over my own feet, running so fast, chasing after my dreams.

Natural color would flush my face and I wouldn’t have to pinch my cheeks to make myself look lively.

Ah…but don’t you see? If you looked closely, you’d see that I’m not healthy. Dark circles under my eyes. Thin hair that falls out in clumps. Hives that threaten my life. Skin far too pale because I’m allergic to sunlight. And ribs that poke out through my clothing.

Except…those wouldn’t be dead giveaways now would they? Because we’re living in a dying and skinny society.

So maybe I do look sick—but my illness passes as beauty.

That doesn’t mean my illness isn’t there. But unless you see me carting around my wheelchair you’ve been taught to believe that what you see is what you get.

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Thanks for reading. 🤍 This essay goes out to all mu #invisibleillness #warriors

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Not forever—

Just long enough for the storm inside to stop yelling at me.

I’m tired of speaking. Tired of explaining.

Here’s an analogy: You know when you go on a date and you revert back to playing the 20 questions game? 

“What’s your favorite color?” “Red.” “Mine’s blue.” And then you argue about why blue is evidently better than red in your opinion.

Slowly and slowly, you unravel more and more parts about yourself.

By date number three, maybe you cut your finger on a plate and your date finds out that you don’t like the color red—because it reminds you of blood, and you’re squeamish.

By date number five, maybe they find out why blood makes you squeamish.

And by date number six you reveal a fundamental traumatic event that shaped your childhood to find out whether or not they can handle the hard

This isn’t about dating.

I’m tired of speaking—breathing.

I’m tired of walking into doctors' offices expecting healing and instead being faced with the guessing game.

Could it be this? Could it be that? Have you ever tried this? Yes.

20 questions. 20 treatments. 20 pills.

How much trauma can one brain and body handle?

More and more as time grows it seems.

And with each year older I grow, so do my illnesses. They survive another year, embedded in my flesh.

What a sick fucking joke that they’ve survived this long.

I want to starve them. Burn them out so that they can’t survive. Kill them but—that would mean killing myself.

So instead of torching my skin I scream and shout and hope that will release me.

But that’s the reason I don’t want to speak.

I’m tired of giving my pain power.

“My head hurts.” “It’s getting worse.” “Call 911.” “What day is blank appointment?”

My failing health is all I talk about.

Is it naive for me to think that maybe the pain will go away if I no longer speak?

Is it credulous for me to believe that the people around me will see my suffering if I stop trying to translate?

Silence speaks.

And I hate silence, usually.

I love to talk. I don’t think I’ve shut up since the day I uttered my first word.

But—what would happen if I just stopped talking? Even for a week.

Is it backwards to take my power back by taking away my own voice?

Maybe silence means finally laying down my burdens and every shattered dream that proves how much I’m hurting.

I just don’t want to keep convincing the world that my pain is real and I’m breaking

I don’t want to keep voicing my symptoms and fears and letting them wound me.

I speak life over myself, too.

“I am strong.” “I am safe.” “I can conquer all.”

“I will not be afraid.”

But it’s hard to believe those words when I don’t feel safe in my body. When I’m saying those words in a hospital bed with a monitor beeping a little too slowly.

I’m sick of narrating.

Most of all I’m sick of plastering on a smile.

Dialing up my voice so that I sound enthusiastic for friends and family—crawling under the covers to cry once they’ve disappeared.

I make videos online. It fills my bucket. Because I get to pretend for a 30 second video that I’m happy.

But I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy.

Not when my pain is constantly talking over me.

<3 C—Marika Midnight

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Thanks for listening 🤍 Subscribe for more honest, midnight thoughts. Xo

Honestly? I think that’s all bullshit.

I think he does give us more than we can chew, carry, and hold.

But I think he does so for a reason. For if we knew how to carry our burdens with ease and tranquility, then we would never find need to reach for him.

I spent a lot of years resenting God for letting me be sick when I know that he has the power to snap his fingers and heal me. Then realization struck.

For if I had never become sick, I never would have become an author. If I was never confined to a hospital bed and four walls and a room that spun, I never would have written a poem about vertigo. I never would’ve published that particular poem. If I hadn’t craved a life outside my four walls and I’d never lost myself, then I never would’ve picked up my pen and put it to paper and written a story about two best friends. If I’d never fallen in love and had my heart shattered then I’d never have written nine books about love.

God never wastes pain.

I used to believe that was bullshit too. Now I’m the biggest advocate for that sentiment. I don’t want to say that I’m thankful for my pain because the darkness I’ve endured is something I’ll have to carry with me every day—but I will say it’s shaped me.

Had I never faced diagnosis at an early age, had I never lived a decade in pain, had I never craved a life I couldn’t live because of my disease...then I would lack so much empathy.

Then my words wouldn’t have meaning.

Then my life wouldn’t be a testimony.

I am a soldier. I’ve faced battles that the average mind couldn’t begin to comprehend. My body is a map of scars, and I’m about as delicate as a bomb.

But—

I was chosen by God. Not every soldier wins their fight, but it is my birthright to fight. To take up the armor of God and trudge into battle fully armed. To carry more than I was meant to bear because this fight isn’t fully mine but…

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, I crave the day when I can meet the skies, where I can run free. But until that day claims me, I will charge on in victory, knowing that I will overcome one day.

Maybe that day is not today.

For I am still in agony.

But there is a purpose to my pain. A story worth telling. A life worth living, and a journey worth exploring.

I can’t do this. There is no easy way. But I believe in overcoming.

So in this bed I will stay because one day I will run out of the darkest valley.

And when the sunlight kisses my face, I will pledge to heaven’s army.

C—Marika Midnight

Screw being cheats and running from emotions like a fleet, tell me what you like and tell me what you don’t but most importantly ask me what I like most.

I might tell you something about dance, music that touches my soul, or about books filled with romance. About the words I write and the words I read, and maybe how I’m filled with constant need.

The need to experience life and love. My need to believe that there’s someone up above. That another life comes after death and there’s so many moments in between this and that.

I want you to take me to the grocery, pick out my favorite snack—the one you know by heart without even having to ask—then come home with me and watch a movie, or maybe just dance and laugh.

Laugh so hard the moment gets stored away like a file in my mind. A moment I can look back on whenever I need to feel alive.

Spin me in circles, twirl me across the driveway or the living room floor, undress my emotions and make me feel adored.

Don’t rip at my clothes, don’t take me to bed—most importantly don’t expect me to put out without falling in love first.

God, surely I wasn’t made for this world.

For conforming to a society that perpetuates nudity, begging women to undress and says fuck propriety.

Did you know I love poetry? Bookstores, and libraries. Getting lost in the stacks and wandering aimlessly.

There is so much more to life than what’s hidden under clothing!!!!!!

I want a love we can water until it’s beautifully growing. I want you to promise me the world and give me nothing less, and I want to hold your hand when I take my last breath.

So screw hookups and night clubs, and breaking up just to get back together.

I want something real—something out of this world, a love that lasts forever.

Love me beyond my body,

offer up your soul.

Fuck nudity, send me poetry.

I wrote this piece a little while ago, and it felt too close and personal to share—but I hope that through sharing it helps someone feel less alone

We women always rave about the girls’ bathroom, claiming that it’s full of girlhood gossip and lip gloss and painting hearts on mirrors with our lipsticks. We wipe each other’s tears and hold each other’s hair back and take turns sitting in the hot seat of a stall, giggling about the boy at the bar.

But what we don’t talk about is what the girls’ bathroom was before. In middle school, when it was a place where all the pretty girls would go, and if you weren’t pretty, then you’d be ignored. And then in high school, when the same girls wouldn’t pay you any mind because you didn’t wear a face full of makeup or carry a designer handbag.

It always felt like some sort of elite club. Like you had to have a “membership” in order to step foot in the biggest stall and be initiated into the cool girls club. As if wiping each other’s tears makes you cool instead of just a girl.

Because we all cry, don’t we? Maybe not over the same things. I mean, I’ve certainly never cried over a handbag, but boys? Girls? Isn’t that something we all have in common? A girl or a boy stabbing us in the back or ripping our heart out of our chest. A broken heart seems to be an unfortunate, mandatory event.

I always wondered what it might be like if one of the cool girls came up to me when they saw me crying in the mirror, but they never did anything more than look past me and fix their hair.

It wasn’t until college that I made it into the cool girls’ club. When I was initiated in the bathroom of a bar, and I offered my lip gloss to a girl who looked like a girls’ bathroom all-star. And I stood there and asked myself if I had become a mean girl, or if college was the place where cool girls just became girls.

Where we all stopped competing and started co-existing.

Where “What happens in the girls’ bathroom?” became a universal language that we all realized we could speak. Where we all turned into women and stopped talking trash, resorting to gossip simply because our personalities clashed.

Or maybe we all became women the day we had our first bleed, and we all shared the same experience in a bathroom somewhere in the world. An experience reserved for girlhood, as if a red splotch in our underwear is deserving of an award.

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But I know the day that I had my first bleed wasn’t the day that I became a woman. Because I didn’t become a woman until I understood the feeling of need. The need to fit in, the mistaken belief that I needed a man (news flash: I don’t), and the unspoken understanding that for some reason, being a girl was never good enough to fit in.

Somewhere, somehow between then and now, I found my place after all.

The bathroom that I hated became a bathroom that I loved. A bathroom where secrets were swapped, and conversations started simply because a girl came up to me and screamed, “Oh my gosh, I love your top,” and suddenly we were talking nonstop. And the day when I offered my lipstick to one of the cool girls, and I became a cool girl myself. When she complimented my dark brown hair, and I no longer felt a need to envy her naturally blonde ends.

And on that day, a part of me that felt homeless began to feel found.

And maybe that’s what the girls’ bathroom was meant to be all along. A place where we could all run. A place for girls to bond and get along. A place where we could exist outside of the male gaze, and a place for the boys who always felt more like us could be free. A place where rules fell away—except we made our own rules of what we deemed was cool. Our own rules that, for some reason, every girl followed, and we ruined the sacred place of the girls’ bathroom.

It wasn’t until womanhood that we all understood—that we’re all the same girls that used to wave pink fairy wands. That designer bags and perfect hair weren’t reason enough to enter the cool girls’ lair.

We all finally grew up, sharing a bathroom we were all meant to love—but we couldn’t love—until we first learned to love ourselves.

So say hi to me if you ever see me in the girls’ bathroom, because I’m dying to meet every girl in our cool girls’ club.

- Chloe Marika Midnight💋

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MY WEBSITE & PUBLISHED POETRY

I opened social media today, and it feels like everyone I know has started to morph.

No more “I.”

“WE” this and “OUR” that.

As if the moment we fall in love,
we’re expected to detach from ourselves.

I never want to be one of those girls.

Hate me for it—I don’t care. A partnership shouldn’t cost you your independence. Losing yourself to become a we sounds less like love and more like dependence to me.

You’ve eaten meat your entire life, but the second you met your Mr. Right, your new philosophy became “Oh, we don’t eat meat.”

Or as soon as football season rolls around, “We like the Chiefs,” but your entire life, you grew up cheering for a different team.

Why shouldn’t we still have individuality?

Why should we fit in a box to love one another?

We shouldn’t.

And maybe this will sound bitter—
but I think I’d rather kick myself in the shin than open Instagram to the same exact engagement post again.

It’s not that I’m unhappy, because I’m happy for everyone—I am.
I just feel like I’ve seen that same diamond ring on the last five engagement posts I’ve scrolled past.

What happened to the girls I used to know? The one who wanted an emerald instead of a diamond. The one who didn’t want to get engaged because it was just a way to get women to conform.

We changed. We grew up. If that’s your argument, that’s fair.

But now your hair is blonde because “he likes blonde hair,” and you claim “we’re trying new things,” but it looks a lot like you’re trying to impress him, and instead of letting you be you, he’s changing you.

Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t want a love that asks me to disappear.

I don’t want a love that makes me a “we” only.

Because we love each other.
But we can still like different things.

Because we’re still different people.

Then again, I’ve never been married.
I’ve never spent a day being a wife.
But I have been a girlfriend for a decent chunk of my life.

I’ve been in relationships where I compromised myself, where I put my dreams up on the shelf. Now, I’d rather chase my dreams than a man any day.

In fact, I won’t be doing any chasing at all because I’m bed-bound with vertigo—but that’s a story for another day. Even if I were healthy, I would still be chasing my dreams, not pretending to like golf or becoming someone I’m not just so I can be loved.

And before you assume I’m projecting, miserably single, or secretly bitter—I’m none of those things. In fact, I’m not single; I just refuse to shrink for a man again.

The point of this is,

you should still be

you

even if you’ve found a man—or a woman.

If wealth is health, tell me, how is it healthy to lose yourself?

I haven’t always been the angry daughter. I didn’t come out of the birth canal this way. I don’t think any angry daughters do.

Babies aren’t programmed for rage. Survivors are—and every angry daughter I know has had to endure.

I’ve started trying to conceptualize my rage.

When did I become so angry? When did I stop being soft? If it didn’t start at conception, then when?

Maybe it started after my second-grade teacher told me I talked too much and I began to muffle my voice. Or in the third grade when a group of girls and boys told me I was weird. It may have started when I was 11 and I got sick. Or maybe at 12 when I got my first diagnosis. Then again it could have started at 15, when I had my first kiss and learned the importance of my body my choice.

It’s been ten years and I still can’t step foot in the parking garage where I had my first kiss. A kiss that was meant to just be a kiss and then all of a sudden a boy started grabbing for my ass—reaching for my parts like they were his to take and never once asking if that was okay.

That was the day that I also learned how the word no isn’t enough to get a man to back off.

I don’t think anyone is wired for rage. I don’t think anyone wants to live and function this way—but I think circumstances require our brains to rewire themselves when survival demands it.

Survival demanded that I be angry so I became an adaptation. I let my fire drive me and I burned from the inside, hoping that it wouldn’t scorch me. Softness wasn’t an option—and now I’m relearning everything.

Learning how to be soft while I’m still angry. Learning how to find my childlike whimsy—because all people see when they look at me is anger and not what’s buried under it.

Regret, for having my first kiss too early and choosing the wrong men for too many years. Guilt, because I undressed myself and let those same men touch my skin. Disgust, because I didn’t ask some of them not to—and they still did. Shame because I wasn’t always strong enough to voice a no even when my body language was louder than an echo. So I let them touch me and I lay there silently while I screamed internally.

Penitence, because I’ve always been a child of God but after that I wasn’t sure I still belonged. But a good God doesn’t leave you lost and forgotten; I just had to remember how to find him.

And grief. Because what makes me the l angriest of all is that I’ve gained 10 more diagnoses since I was 12. And no one can tell me how they’re going to fix me, but everyone seems to be able to tell me what’s wrong with me. I’ve become a name tied to labels in a chart instead of being recognized for my gifts and my art.

I’m outraged. I feel like I’m short-circuiting. Like a grenade waiting to go off the longer I sit in this bed and rot. Like one day I might implode or take the world by storm.

How is one supposed to swallow decades’ worth of rage? How am I supposed to find softness when the very rage inside my heart might be the very thing that’s keeping me alive? Because if I’m not burning from the inside, and I stop catching flame, then what’s left?

A scared dying girl with a disease ready to blow her candle out—that’s what.

Maybe anger will be my demise. Maybe it will burn me from the inside—but until I no longer have to survive, it will continue to be a disguise.

Because as long as I’m angry, I don’t have to be sad. And I’d rather feel rage than run home to the hurt I’ve spent years outrunning.

I’ve been in therapy for long enough to know that’s a crappy coping mechanism, but I’ve also been alive long enough to know that the second I remove my disguise I’ll be left with sadness that I can’t outrun so I’d rather keep standing in a constant thunderstorm.

Thunder and lightning booming and cracking but grace beneath all the rage that acts as a tether constantly reminding me.

I am thunder and grace—the and is important, because I am not simply thunder—but nor will I ever simply be grace.

Tell me, which is it? Would you rather be angry or sad? How would you feel if those were the only two options you had? Happiness should be on the list but finding the bright side is bullshit because as long as I’m forced to live in a cycle of survival only moments of happiness can exist.

I seek them out, yes. I soak in them like one might sit in the sun and they motivate me to wake up tomorrow—but there aren’t enough of them to overcompensate for the painfulness.

And I feel like all I do is hurt the people I love but I’m the one hurting the most.

Maybe that means I’m living selfishly but I feel like all I do is consider how my existence affect others when no one considers how they affect me.

I’m in therapy. I’m trying to rewire my brain—to burn out my anger while simultaneously burning myself, because my anger is my survival and crying only makes me feel weak.

One day…one day l’ll be soft again.

I won’t be the angry daughter.

I’ll lower my voice and my fists.

Because my pain will still exist, yes, but instead of burning like a wildfire, it will eventually turn into embers. Or maybe a peaceful candle illuminating a room—remembered for its light and beauty instead of it’s fierce flame.

And when that day comes, maybe I’ll lay in a field, staring up at the sky, and I’ll thank the angry daughter for keeping us alive.

Because she was forced to endure but she also taught me how to survive.

And maybe while I’m staring up at the sky the angry daughter inside me will feel safe enough—to cry.

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I re-wrote this piece a few months after publishing it, challenging myself to dig deeper than I had the first time—to say what I was too scared to say—and wow, was that unburdening.

Before my hair started to fall out. Before I was covered in scars and stretch marks. From losing weight and gaining it back too fast, just to lose it all over again.

I was pretty once. Pretty before all people saw when they looked at me was a medical gown and a patient.

The kind of pretty that earned me compliments and the kind of bust that attracted the wrong kind of men too early.

So I spent a lot of time looking in the mirror. Smiling at my reflection, perfecting my lipstick and winged eyeliner when I dared.

I used to love looking in the mirror.

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Before the medical system used me as a lab rat. Before I became a science experiment with a question mark in my chart. Before I was a problem that no one could solve, and so my body became something to “resolve.”

So I stopped looking in the mirror.

I packed up my makeup and zipped it shut in a pink checkered bag that I used to love. I hid my mirrors in my closet and I grew out my eyebrows as protest while the hair on my head continued to fall out.

I still catch my reflection from time to time and I see glimpses of the girl that loved looking in the mirror but I see less of her as time passes by.

I don’t dare to do much these days except get out of bed.

I bedazzled my pill bottles which might sound silly, but it’s something I did in defiance really. Because I stopped wearing makeup and going out so I started looking for ways to spruce things up.

I used to love looking in the mirror.

When my body was strong from the gym, not from being a soldier.

Before I had to convince myself that my scars were beautiful rather than side effects from the medical battlefield.

Tell me why must I love my scars? Why must I love the color red etched into my skin? It’s not like lipstick. I never put it on by choice. It’s not like eyebrows either—I never got to choose the shape or size.

They were carved into my skin mostly in plain lines, and a couple cut carelessly that look like a lot like zigzags.

How is one supposed to love their scars when the very scars I’m meant to love are just proof of harm?

I used to love looking in the mirror.

In fact I sought out mirrors. I’d find them in coffee shops or even open my camera up just so that I could look at myself.

Maybe this is my punishment for that. Punishment for not appreciating my brain as much as I appreciated my beauty. Punishment for loving the mirror more than I loved my mind.

A mistake I’ll never make again if I ever get the chance to love looking in the mirror again.

-Personal

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If you asked a man, I’m sure he might say something like lip gloss and tampons. Or maybe I’m being unfair—but they’d probably say a man because they seem to think we can’t live or function without them.

What is on a woman’s grocery list?

I know I’m always shopping for the desire to be understood. Peering into the windows of other souls, looking for one that sees mine the way that I see theirs.

Shoes? Are we shopping for shoes? Sometimes searching for a man seems about as simple as searching for a new pair of shoes—or are we really just shopping for a life to step into and a good piece of advice or gossip to chew?

Oranges or lemons?

Sour or sweet?

What’s the perfect combination for one woman’s treat?

I’ve never liked things that were bitter, but I like the metaphors they hold. I’ve found that things disguised with sweetness are often rotten at their root.

Pills. Prescriptions. Supplements.

Because somehow it seems being a woman is becoming impossible without collecting some sort of diagnosis or disease. Something hormonal. A lack of appetite. Or if you’re extra unlucky—both, or even a disease from a tick bite.

I never went shopping for bad habits and a disease, they merely found me.

Maybe I was looking in the wrong aisles. Maybe I just walked down the wrong path.

But somehow, while I was shopping for lip gloss and tampons, I lost track. I ended up in an aisle that was dark and dreary, and I collected depression and anxiety. I collected Lyme disease and a plethora of other things and next thing I knew the things in my cart were nothing like me.

Somewhere along the way, lip gloss started to mean nothing.

And now when I go shopping, I look for happiness. Something that should have always been at the top of my list. Right up there with peppermint gum and red nail polish—two of the things I unapologetically love.

Just like I love stuffed animals as a grown woman. Because they remind me that my inner child still exists. That even if I’ve turned down the wrong isles a part of me isn’t lost. That there’s still a little girl shopping for pink, pretty dresses instead of trying to fit into society’s messes.

One thing I know for sure is that women go shopping. That much I can’t ignore.

Or is that a stereotype in itself? Because I guarantee there are some women who despise going to the grocery store.

Women who order their lists online. Other women who peruse every aisle and are never on time.

Maybe some of us shop for oranges or lemons. Maybe some of us shop for shoes and lip gloss.

But I can tell you this—we’re all shopping for so much more.

- Chloe Marika

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(All images taken from Pinterest)

I come and go, of course, but probably not in the way you’d think. I don’t walk to the kitchen and pace back and forth. I don’t sit in my car or go for a ride or even go to the grocery store. My excursions include visits to the doctor’s office and day trips to the emergency room, which usually turn into overnight endeavors or longer.

I lie in bed awake at night, counting the hours. I can’t find the off switch for my mind, but I know where the kill switch is, though I refuse to push it. It sits in my room like a tempting red button I don’t dare press, because I know that if I do, my mind won’t be a mess anymore—it simply won’t exist.

I’m trapped in my mind. I’m trapped in my body. I’m trapped in this life that doesn’t feel like mine.

Because I’m not the woman I want to be. I’m chronically sick with a disease.

It’s claimed my body.

It’s nearly taken my life.

And now it’s gunning for my mind.

I sit in my room and watch from the window as life goes by—friends get engaged, the sun rises and sets, and everyone moves forward in time—but I still feel like I’m three years younger, because that’s the amount of time I’ve spent in this bed, my mind running rampant like a roller coaster.

I can’t walk more than 50 feet, which I know should be such an easy feat because my mind knows how to move my legs, and I’ve known how to walk since the start of my days.

But every time I try, my legs collapse, or my brain spins, and my body falls slack. So I rot in this bed, doing butterfly kicks and forcing myself out of it only to collapse on my knees and ask Jesus, “Why me?”

I sit in the dark silence of the night and let my spirit take flight. I pray for the day I can dance in the rain—hoping and wishing and yearning for more days. Days outside my four walls. Days where I no longer fall.

And while everyone takes for granted the life they live outside my walls, I decorate mine with pictures and memories and pretty things and all of my most hopeful dreams. I write novels yet to be published because I promised myself that the more I write and the more I say—the more reasons I’ll have to stay.

So I stay. In the darkness of the night, in the early morning light, and in the hours around 3AM, when the world stills but my mind still spins. I stay for the day when the spinning stops, when the pain in my brain no longer screams like an alarm clock.

But for now—I’m still stuck, still spinning, still searching for reasons to stay each day.

I wrote this at midnight on Sunday, March 29th and I think it just became my favorite thing I’ve ever written. It’s only fitting that it was written at this hour when that’s the pen name I chose as an author <3

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A combination of poems and journal entries, a lyric essay

Sometimes people ask me if I remember what it felt like to be healthy. The truth is, I don’t remember being healthy, but I remember when I first found out I was sick.

I was 11. I remember walking into 6th grade and a girl from my class telling me I looked like I had a disease.

You can imagine the repercussions a sentence like that might have on a little girl. Especially a little girl who did have a disease. My face was splotchy, tear-streaked, and I had spent my morning swallowing and gagging on pills I couldn’t pronounce the names of. I remember crying in the cubbies of our classroom and wiping my tears before sitting down at my desk and trying to get through my school day. I didn’t know then that I was subscribing to a lifetime sentence of spinning and hurting. To potions and pills and prods and pokes and doctor’s promises never working.

I carried the burden of being the sick girl with me to middle school, then high school, and into college. I never addressed my medical trauma until my adulthood. I’m in my twenties now and finally grieving the loss of self that my 12, 16, and 21-year-old selves weren’t strong enough to face.

I’ll never forget the little girl who raised me. I’m thankful for her, but I wish I could hug her.

I’m 25 now, and I’m still sick.

Gosh, I’m so tired of waiting. I’m so tired of hurting. I’m tired of sitting in my bed and calling it healing. Yes, I know healing takes time. Yes, I know butterflies don’t just transform overnight. Yes, I know I’ll be fine, and yet…I’m not fine yet.

I keep telling myself that I’ll survive, but another minute, another hour, another day goes by where I’m watching the world from my window instead of making strides outside. I want off this ride. Off of the merry-go-round that lives in my mind.

Yes, I know, I have to keep going, but sometimes I sit in the dark of the night, and I can’t stop wondering. Is fine even a feeling? Or is it something non-existent for which I’m searching?

I like to read—did you know that?

No, not in the way you’re thinking. Not in the way you read the words on a page; rather, I engulf them. Reading gives me some place to go when I’m stuck here. I think I like the world in books better than the world I live in. That might sound sad, but I live in a harsh reality. Just like you escape to the gym or a ball game, I escape to the words written on the page. A little slice of heaven to break up the mundane. Just like you go to the hospital when you’re sick, maybe books are hospitals for our minds. So I’ll keep reading, to quiet mine.

I like to write too. I write books, and poems, and scribble on my walls. Sometimes I wake up at night to find myself writing in the darkness behind my eyelids. I wish I could rewrite my story for the little girl inside me. She never deserved this. Oh, that little girl. I loved that little girl. She had had such big dreams. She was far too creative for the mundane.

I still have big dreams, but my dreams…they come and they go. They ebb, and they flow, drifting beyond the shore of what my body allows. The pain screaming inside of my mind convinces me that my dreams will never come to life. No matter how hard I try, my body refuses to bloom. I crave metamorphosis, but I’m trapped in a cocoon. I watch my dreams like stars. I can’t quite touch them, but I’ll keep wishing for them.

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to get married in a strapless wedding gown. I always thought I’d be married by 25, but here I am standing with an IV in my arm instead of a ring on my finger. Will I be married by 35? Finding your guy seems less important when you’re trying to survive.

Chronic illness has changed how my body looks. It’s hard to give yourself grace and find yourself beautiful when the first thing you see is a map of scars…a map of survival.

Would you believe me if I told you I once was the girl who lit up the room? I was bright and bubbly and full of life. Now all I want to do is hide from the light like I have a secret.

Like maybe I’m not as strong as everyone thinks. Like maybe there are too many nights that I cry myself to sleep. Like maybe I preach about trusting God, yet I quietly wonder if the idea of healing is merely a facade.

I don’t believe that it’s my destiny to be sick, but I do believe that being sick has shaped my path. The scars, the strength, the softness that’s still part of me, they are all puzzle pieces that make up my story. After a lot of tears and a lot of soul-searching, I’ve decided to embrace my battle scars.

My scars are beautiful. They tell a story. One that’s filled with God’s glory. By grace and through faith, I have walked and continue to walk through hellfire, and somehow, I’m still standing. My body is a soldier, and small but strong is she.

Sometimes people say to me, “You’re so strong. I couldn’t have made it as far as you have come.” Yes, you would have, if it were your only choice. See, all living people can choose to live, or choose to die. Choosing to live in pain is never an easy one, but I can’t win my war if I don’t front the fight.

So I’ll fight until, one day, I break out of this cocoon and can finally take flight.

I’m not sure I would want to hear all the unkind words. The unkind words others have said about me—but mostly the unkind words I have said about myself. And if I’m being honest, the words I’ve said about others too. Because I haven’t always been kind. Even though I’ve always tried to be.

The words in my mind have been unkind. The environments in my life have been unkind. Some of the men I’ve dated, some of the people I’ve loved—they have been unkind too.

And even though I came into this world loving, even though I was raised kindly, somehow unkindness slipped in anyway. It made a home in my mind. It unpacked its suitcase. It took root in my thoughts. It hijacked my nervous system.

And now I am learning to think again.

To pause my thoughts before they fully form. To question the whispers in the room before I repeat them. To understand that I am a good person. To understand that I was not born to be angry. And most importantly to understand that I am deserving of love.

Even though I was once told by a man that I am not.

That was a lie. I know it was. But sometimes unkind words echo longer than kind ones. Sometimes moments and memories live in my mind and they linger longer overstaying their welcome until violence takes root, and I kick them out.

I stand in the middle of a room.

A room that has held thousands of conversations. Some about me. Some about you. Some full of love. Some full of hate.

And I listen.

I think about who I used to be. I think about who I am now. I think about who I want to be. Who I’m trying to become.

And I wonder how I can become her sooner.

So I’ve started listening to the walls. To the whispers. To the echoes of everything that has ever hurt me. To the words I’ve said to others and the things others have said to me that haunt me

And then my mind starts talking again filling lies into my head

But I’m finally learning to not always listen to what it tells me.

So tell me—

If walls could talk, would you listen

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We grew up hearing about nurses and doctors and teachers and lawyers. But for some reason, being an author was never really presented to me as a possibility. I suppose I always knew it existed. I always knew I loved to write. I always knew I wanted to write forever, maybe. But I never thought it could become a career.

I thought I had to pick something else.

So I went to school and convinced myself I was interested in sociology and criminology—which I do find fascinating. I do find them interesting. But they were more of an intellectual fascination than a calling.

I minored in writing and journalism too, thinking maybe—just maybe—I would find something to do with those pieces of myself.

Then I graduated, like everyone else does, and I didn’t know what to do with my life.

So I applied for a job at a law firm. I started working. I began the monotonous routine of a Monday through Friday and this and that I’m waking up early just to count the hours until dusk came all to repeat it again the following day.

Then I decided I wanted something more. So I applied to graduate school for criminal justice. I got in. I thought well this must be my calling. This must be the “for me” the people talk about. The job you find that you know is for you so I thought okay I’ll do this too, but I still didn’t love the world of crime. It didn’t fill my heart and soul on the inside

And when I say love, I should probably explain what I mean.

Because I enjoyed it. It interested me. But it didn’t give me a reason to stay. A reason to stay here. A reason to exist on this planet. A reason to keep breathing and keep living. A reason to put my pen to paper. A reason that filled my soul beyond merely blinking through the days.

And then I got sick and my world turned upside down. And somehow that turned my mind right side up and even though I was lost in life my mind begin to be found. I started writing everything in my mind. The dirty cobwebbed corners that I’ve always disguised. The painful hour of 3 AM. The thoughts that only exist when the rest of the world is asleep.

And one of those painful night living and existing between survival and grief I picked up a pen and wrote down a name—Marika Midnight is what they’ll call me someday

Somehow, my moment of mass destruction became the moment that gave me purpose.

An illness that has nearly claimed my life has also given me a new one entirely. A life where all I do is write. A life where my dreams may have a shelf life, but I pursue them like my life depends on it.

Because in many ways, it does.

And now the one regret I have is not picking up a pen and sooner devoting my life to the words in my head

So tell me:

Why aren’t authors presented to us as a real career path?

Why are we taught we must go to college to become nurses or doctors or something respectable? Why is writing not respectable? Maybe it was just my experience. But why didn’t I understand the value literature holds in the world? Was it because I wasn’t taught? Or because I was blind?

Yes, of course we all read Romeo and Juliet. Yes, of course we read To Kill a Mockingbird. But I never consumed them like they were oxygen filling my lungs like a last breath. I never thought maybe one day I could write something that would be read in a classroom something that would steal and give breath.

I wrote poems in my notebooks. I scribbled thoughts on my walls.

But for some reason, I still didn’t believe I could become an author. I didn’t believe that I wanted to be one all together. As I sit here writing this, I realize that I did all along. I wrote my first short story when I was seven. I performed my first stand-up poetry when I was 13 and I got in trouble for not paying attention because I was writing love letters in class when I was 16.

Believe it or not I even broke up with my first boyfriend with a poem.

I’ve been neurodivergent since the day I was born, but I’ve also been a writer. I’m highly emotional, sure—but I’m also filled with ideas that my mind cannot store. Words and phrases and thoughts that run rampant in my mind like a roller coaster.

I’ve always known I was born for something more I’ve always known I was too creative for the mundane and yet somehow I let the mundane choke me. Let society stop and convince me that writing wasn’t a career path, but merely a hobby.

It was never a hobby.

That’s something chronic illness taught me.

I used to look at my friends and wonder why they would complain to me about the mundane while I felt like I was withering away.

Then I realized—the worst possible thing to happen to them might be a flight getting canceled or losing a job. When for me, I’d give anything to be healthy enough to travel or to work a job. That doesn’t mean their trouble isn’t substantial. It’s just substantially different than my own.

One person might say strep throat is life-ruining. Another who’s had a tonsillectomy might say it feels like seasonal allergies.

One woman might complain about men. Another might pray every night just to find one.

We all have different definitions of pain and life. Our definitions grow based on what we experience. And just because your threshold for pain has been forced to be higher, that doesn’t mean someone else’s pain means any less.

So my question for you would be this:

Are you giving room and grace for the pain in the lives of those around you? Even if, in your opinion, their pain isn’t comparable to what you’re going through?

Or on the contrary—if you’ve been given a life where your pain happens to be lighter—are you leaving room and space for those who are carrying heavier things than you can see?

A simple reminder: just because some of us carry our pain well doesn’t mean that it weighs any less.

Begin.

It’s that simple. Word vomit onto the page and see what comes out of that beautiful mind of yours. Every writer has their own creative process, creative thinking, creative skills—find yours and put them to the test.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. In fact, I find that some of my best work has been sloppily written in the wee hours of the morning or during a moment of tears. You can edit and refine later. For now, just get your words onto the page.

Some like to start with a full chapter outline. I like to dive right in. The truth of the matter is that there is no right or wrong way to write a book. However, I can give you some advice that might make it easier so that you don’t have to learn from the same mistakes I did when I first started.

1. Format your pages from the start. You can wait until later, but what most new authors don’t realize (myself being one of them) is that if you wait to format your book…it will lengthen it when you do.

2. Listen to the voice inside your head, not the voices around you. One of the biggest mistakes I made was giving into the idea that I had to ask everyone and seek approval about…my ideas. Unique and transformative ideas don’t have to be verbalized. Put them to paper. Keep them sacred. Or don’t—but don’t let anyone else dictate if your idea is good or bad.

3. Make a separate Google or Word document for character biographies, important quotes, and moments. When someone asks you about your book, there is power in being able to share a one-liner that changed everything. A hook.

4. Good is subjective to whatever the person reading your work defines or identifies as good. Don’t cater your writing to specific people or audiences. If your writing is meant to…it will find the people it’s meant to.

5. Believe in yourself. Don’t make claims like “I probably won’t get published hahahaha” or any other self-deprecating bullshit. Name it. Claim it. I don’t care if the market is hard to break into. It will be all the harder if you’re convinced you don’t deserve to break into it.

The road to being an author isn’t easy, but it starts the moment you decide to be an author. And if you’re reading this…congratulations.

You just became one.

Good luck,

Marika

Whether I have one year left on this earth or many decades to come, I want to share my testimony. The Warrior & The Worshipper isn’t just a podcast episode, it’s my story — well the condensed version anyways. Even when I could barely breathe, and my body refused to move, my spirit learned to praise. God turned my hospital bed into an alter, and I’ll never stop being thankful for that.

"I met God in a hospital bed, and I learned that even when my body couldn't move...my spirit could still praise."

After continuing to battle late-stage Lyme Disease, I’ve learned many things, but the biggest one being that faith and a fighting spirit can coexist. My suffering has taught me the power of strength, but also the power of surrender. I’m so tired. Bone tired. Soul tired. But God does his best work when we’re at our weakest, and fragility isn’t failure — it’s proof that your body has fought battles it couldn’t bear, but your spirit and mind never gave up.

I pray that sharing my voice inspires others to share theirs, and I hope that if you’ve lived in blissful ignorance that this episode teaches you something about resilience.

This episode will remind you that you can be both broken and beloved — a warrior and a worshipper. If you are fighting chronic illness, know that you are not alone. As always, leave judgment at the door and come as you are. ♥️🍓

You can find my podcast Girlfriends x Grace, my legacy on Spotify and Apple Podcasts. https://open.spotify.com/episode/6MJDy3CcmHIr9H6PxD7wLn?si=hyTa8CoGRTycj4PibEdncw

Welcome to the conversation

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Faith, politics, and choosing empathy over empire. In this episode, your host, Chloe confronts the tension between politics and faith with a simple challenge: let’s get biblical. Christianity was never meant to be measured by party lines or ballots, but by the fruit of the spirit and how we treat people.

Today we will talk about discernment, false doctrine, and how the gospel can become distorted when politics replace compassion or when ideology outweighs human dignity.

Suffering is not partisan. Compassion is not a social construct. Injustice—wherever it happens, to whomever it happens—matters because every person is made by the same Creator.

This conversation centers on empathy for innocent lives, a refusal to dehumanize, and a commitment to being more like Jesus. At the end of the day, we all bleed red. And when history looks back, we should be found on the side of love, truth, and Christ. As always, leave judgment at the door and come as you are. ♥️🍓

TW: mention of death and guns.

Welcome to the conversation

Connect with Girlfriends x Grace https://instagram.com/girlfriendsxgracepod

Connect with your host

Instagram - https://instagram.com/chloemarikag

TikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@chloemarikag

In this episode, Chloe discuss’s growth in three simplified bullet points.

1) Growth isn't linear

2) Growth looks different for everyone, and comparison will kill your peace

3) Growth is painful...but necessary

Dear listener,

Flowers bloom easier than warriors. 💐Give yourself grace...and always leave judgment at the door, it’s not welcome here.

As always, leave judgment at the door and come as you are. ♥️🍓

Welcome to the conversation

Connect with Girlfriends x Grace https://instagram.com/girlfriendsxgracepod

Connect with your host

Instagram - https://instagram.com/chloemarikag

TikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@chloemarikag

Chloe opens up about the shared struggle of finding a godly man while learning how to become a godly woman in the process. She gets honest about the times she settled for potential, ignored red flags wrapped in “Christian” packaging.

Pro Tip: Just because a man talks the talk doesn’t mean he walks the walk with God. A bible verse in his bio doesn’t make him holy, and a cross tattoo doesn’t make him Christ-like.

This episode dives deep into discernment, deception, and what it truly means to date with divine standards — because we’re not looking for a man who can quote Scripture; we’re looking for one who lives it. As always, leave judgment at the door and come as you are. ♥️

Welcome to the conversation

Connect with Girlfriends x Grace https://instagram.com/girlfriendsxgracepod

Connect with your host

Instagram - https://instagram.com/chloemarikag

TikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@chloemarikag

Expect to hear tons of giggles as we discuss what it’s like to navigate this life and to choose joy. How do you choose joy when the world feels heavy? How can you learn to anchor ourselves in God’s unfailing love.

If you’ve been craving a reminder that you’re not alone, that laughter truly is medicine, and that Jesus’ joy always finds a way to shine through... this episode is for you!!! Tune in and be encouraged. 🎧 As always, leave judgment at the door and come as you are. ♥️🍓

Welcome to the conversation

Connect with Girlfriends x Grace https://instagram.com/girlfriendsxgracepod

Connect with your host

Instagram - https://instagram.com/chloemarikag

TikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@chloemarikag