Author’s Note: Sometimes, it’s tempting to pull the rabbit from the hat and let the whole world watch the narrative unravel. To say, “Here’s what really happened.” To set fire to the false accusations— and watch her abuse power and then scramble. But I didn’t. Not because I couldn’t. Because I wouldn’t. Checkmate was an option. But I chose mercy instead. Some play checkers. The smart ones play with restraint.
I was thinking about my first big betrayal the other day. Not the obvious kind— But the kind that shows up in pearls and a polished smile. The kind that plays dress-up as integrity. The kind that doesn’t stab you in the back… It hands you the knife, Points to your chest, And calls the crowd to watch you bleed.
That’s the kind that leaves the deepest cuts. The ones that don’t gush blood all at once. They just… stay open. Forever stinging, long after they’ve dried.
The first time it happened to me, I was in high school.
She was a friend with strict parents, and we had a Halloween party at work. She asked if she could sleep over. I said yes— Excited because she was one of my best friends, so I thought.
We were underage. The rules were clear. No alcohol.
But we made plans anyway. We found someone to bring beer. We schemed like rebels, and when the time came, I stood under a streetlight, in the dark (literally and figuratively) and chugged a warm Bud Light in the parking lot.
It wasn’t even good. It was gritty and bitter and burned going down. She stood beside me but never lifted the can. She watched me drink it. Then pocketed that moment like an exhibit waiting for court.
Later, when I grabbed my keys to leave, she looked at me—loud and holy—and announced: “I’m not getting in the car with someone who’s been drinking.”
In front of everyone. Like a girl on a pulpit, saving her own soul. Like she didn’t come out to that parking lot too. Like she hadn’t planned the whole thing with me. Like she wasn’t about to stay the night with a man twice her age.
I didn’t know it yet, but I had just become her scapegoat.
My boss pulled me aside, told me he should fire me, but he didn’t. But he said I couldn’t drive home. Which meant waking up my parents, admitting I drank, and unraveling trust.
But someone I knew—someone with clear eyes— offered to drive me. And when we got outside, he just looked at me and said, “Felecia, I know what kind of girl she is. And I know you only had one drink. You’re fine. I just wanted to give you a way out.”
He gave me back my dignity. And I drove myself home.
The next day I wanted to go to war. I wanted to find her in the hallway and light her up. And I tried. But a teacher stepped in.
And I told my mom. And I wanted—desperately—to tell her parents too. To rip off the mask.
Unravel her narrative of blame
Unravel her narrative The one that she spun Avoiding the mirror of shame The one who rightly reflects the blame. I wanted to say, “She didn’t sleep at my house. She slept with a grown man. And she used me as cover.”
But I didn’t. And I still don’t know why.
Because the truth is: you can burn someone’s life down with the truth. But if you torch your own peace in the process— was it worth it?
Maybe I could’ve humiliated her. Maybe I should have. But that kind of revenge costs something. And I don’t pay for peace with my character.
Sometimes you’ve got a match in your hand and a bonfire of garbage behind you. But lighting it would just make the whole street smell.
So you drop the match. And walk.
Years later, I realize: I’m still that girl.
Imperfect. Yes. But loyal to the core to the vault I vow to be. And that’s what silence proves. It says: I’m not afraid to leave your truth standing next to mine.
Because that night? I chugged one beer. She slept with a man twice her age who had a girlfriend. (The girlfriend, by the way, didn’t leave him over her. She left him because of another girl he cheated with.)
So tell me— Which one of us woke up the next day still feeling whole?
She put on a show for our boss, but he found out the next day what really happened. That his manager slept with a minor employee. Her reputation? Scorched earth. And she couldn’t even blame me.
That’s the thing about dignity: it isn’t just about who you are in the dark. It’s about who you refuse to become when someone hands you the lighter and begs you to burn.
When you set trash on fire, everyone smells it, and they know where it came from.
But if you vault it— and let it rot quietly— someday it might just become compost.
Will they think they won? Maybe. For a minute.
But when they go home and face the mirror, they have to live with what they are. And what they are isn’t brave. It’s petty.
And the woman they tried to shame? She looks in the mirror and sees silence.
Powerful, screaming silence— the kind that doesn’t owe anyone a headline, but could still write one if she wanted to.
This story stayed in my back pocket. I never needed to use it. But now?
Now, it reminds me:
I’ve walked away twice when I could’ve blown the whole thing up. I didn’t.
The truth about broadcasting your healing through writing.
Yesterday, I wrote about the past. Each layer of emotional clothing I strip off feels more vulnerable than the last.
Writing for the public—unlike my private journal—is the opposite of strength training. With lifting, the weight stays the same. It’s your muscles that grow. They adapt. They harden.
But with writing, especially your own truths, your courage may grow— but so do the emotional stakes.
Each day, I find another buried trauma in the graveyard of my emotional landscape. The ghosts rise in the wind and whisper, “Are you ready to be honest today?”
Weights don’t ask you that. If you’re not ready to advance, you can lift the same bar again. You still get to call it progress.
But here? Progress only means one thing: digging deeper.
By April 2024, my dad’s metastatic melanoma had spread almost everywhere—lungs, liver, pancreas, bones, neck, lymph nodes.
His doctor didn’t offer hope. Just stabilization. He even said, “Let’s not talk about remission.”
But my dad—he’s not like most people. He believed he was going to beat it. Even after his doctor told him he probably wouldn’t.
I, on the other hand, believed every word. I read every PubMed article. Every single one said this was a poor prognosis.
And for the first time in my life—I resigned. I quit my Bible study after 11 straight years. I stopped reading Scripture.
I didn’t stop believing, exactly. I just stopped trusting that God was as kind as He claimed to be.
If that offends you, that’s fine. Just promise me you’ve been honest about your own beliefs before you judge mine. Because people who’ve never doubted usually aren’t the ones asking the hard questions— and you don’t go looking for answers if you think you already have them.
But here’s the part I wasn’t telling anyone: I didn’t have the emotional energy to fall apart. Not as a mom of four. Not as a wife trying to hold it all together.
So I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just… shut down.
One day in April, we were all outside—me, Robert, the kids. It was one of those rare, golden spring days that shows up like light through a dusty window: soft, sudden, and sacred.
I had my headphones in, trying to follow my counselor’s advice: lean into the grief instead of numbing it.
And that’s when I saw her—my welwitschia plant.
She was gone. Brown, wilted, scorched.
I’d paid $50 for her. Split her the year before. Watched both halves thrive.
Curious what kind of plant I’m talking about? It’s called a Whalefin plant—officially known as Dracaena masoniana. You can read more about it on Wikipedia, or check out a visual example from Costa Farms.
In January I noticed the fireplace had scorched her in some spots, so I cut off the parts that were dead, and left what I thought would survive and regrow. I had done this before and it worked.
But in April, I realized, it did not work this time.
And that was it. The last Jenga block. I walked over, grabbed her by the stem with my bare hand, yanked her from the pot, and threw her across the yard.
I wasn’t just mad at God. I was done. “So you’re taking my dad and my plant too?”
I know how ridiculous that sounds. But on days like that, everything feels like betrayal.
But then, in the middle of my tantrum… I saw it.
A baby shoot. Green. Alive. Growing quietly behind what I thought had died.
I froze. Because I realized—God had been working beneath the soil this whole time.
Even when it looked hopeless. Even when it looked dead. Even when I was yelling at the sky.
That new shoot? It didn’t just appear that day. It had been growing in the dark for months—while I was doubting, quitting, giving up.
And that’s when I surrendered. Not in shame. In awe.
I obviously ran back in the yard to grab the dead plant so I could show Robert what I was hearing from God. It was a moment of reckoning.
A month later, my dad’s next scan showed no evidence of disease. The doctor didn’t believe it. Said it was probably just “no new tumors.”
But three months after that, a second scan confirmed: my dad was cancer free.
The radiologist confirmed it with a call.
Right around the time that baby shoot showed up in my garden, he was already healing. And I hadn’t even known.
I’m not saying I have it all figured out. You don’t pull that far away from God without a long walk back.
But here’s what I am claiming:
That God shows up even if you don’t.
That sometimes your eyes lie.
That faith is not always felt first—but it’s never wasted.
They say “believe what you see and only half of what you hear.”
But now? I believe none of what I hear, only half of what I see— and all of what I know about God’s mercies.
“Greatest Winner of Friends” is how Dale Carnegie describes dogs in his world-renowned book, How to Win Friends and Influence People. His book has not only stood the test of time, but his writing has gained popularity since it was published in 1939. A light came on when I read his theory on dogs and their purpose in our lives.
It was an Arkansas spring morning in 2019. My husband Robert came home from work at six in the morning, and he found six puppies snoozing away in our crate, covered in poop. After nine years of marriage, being ambushed with a crate full of puppies was mundane business in our home.
In that little litter of teeth-grinding cuteness was a female puppy. I had to keep her because she looked like a German shepherd. I had always wanted a German shepherd, but my habit of adopting dogs in need never made me available to get a purebred. This was my chance as I saw it. The deal became sweeter when my dad and stepmom adopted her brother, Kai. I named her Oakleigh.
Oakley worn out from play trying to hide.
Oakleigh did not turn out to be a German Shepherd, but she was 100% mine. Oakleigh’s puppy phase resembled driving a car down the interstate and hitting a lot of potholes. She was independent by nature but loyal to her core. She ran the yard like a tight ship. Nothing was going to survive on her turf. Even the most skilled mole could not burrow deep enough in the ground to go undetected. Once she became aware, it was game over. I had a thriving garden because of her. It wasn’t uncommon to spot her with a prize clenched in her teeth.
However, she surprised us all when she caught a baby deer, and though I believe that would have been a high reward for her, loyalty to us was her priority, so it was no surprise when she immediately abandoned this endeavor once my husband commanded her to. We were the greatest joy to her.
Our family only grew after Oakleigh. We added additional children and dogs after she became our family. We opened as a foster home and though time with her alone was scarce, her love for us never lessened. Oakleigh lived an excellent life for several years. Sadly, ultimately, her adventurous spirit led her and her two best friends to jump our fence and go into the dark on a busy street. When her friends Elton and Bear came home, we knew something dreadful had occurred. They were regular gypsies, and no matter where their spirits led them, they always left together and always came home together. Those dogs were Oakleigh’s puppies — well, not really, but they both had been with her since she was four weeks old; they wouldn’t have left her unless they had to.
Elton was the first dog to return home when we woke up the following day. He was lying on a chair sitting on the porch. We wondered if he had forfeited the adventure with Bear and Oakley since he is significantly younger than them and he is also less social. Galloping the mountainous landscape into the yards of strangers splashing in their ponds doesn’t seem fitting for Elton, a Doberman-Husky mix. He prefers his human, my son Matthew. Matthew is Elton’s adventure. So, when Matthew alerted us to Elton’s return, we were not surprised. The news that followed was a surprise, though.
Our neighbor sent us a screenshot of a post about Bear that appeared to have been posted on Facebook the night before. The lady posted a picture of Bear and said he was on the side of the highway, running from one side to the other, weaving through traffic. She mentioned she tried to coax him in her car, but he would not accept the invitation. He tried to pull away from her and return across the highway, continuing to howl. She mentioned at one point, he spooked her with his vocals. She thought he may have been trying to alert her of danger nearby. It is interesting how well she read Bear’s cues because he is a lackadaisical dog without much character, so cries like the one she described would have alerted us, too. We knew at this point that something had definitely happened to Oakleigh.
We thought she may have passed away somehow. Perhaps by a wild animal, or Robert suggested a car. Where we live, there are electric tree lines and vast woods. Finding her outside the prominent places would be like finding a needle in a needle stack. 🙂 Robert and I drove up and down the highway to see if we could spot her body. This would be the worst-case scenario but the most straightforward, obvious way to find out what happened to her. Robert and I returned with no more information than we had when we began the hour before.
My dad, who owns Oakleigh’s brother and is a dog lover, offered to go with me in the Jeep for a more in-depth search. The first place we drove was by all of the three electric lines that Robert and I had seen the dogs run down in the past. We had the Jeep top down, soaking up the unseasonal sunny-and-75 forecast. We called Oakleigh’s name and waited to hear any kind of response. As we checked off every electrical line, I told my dad I would return with hiking boots if we did not find her. The only thing worse than her death would be her suffering out there, starving with a broken leg or something. I could not shake the anxiety of the unknown.
We finally explored our way down the mountain; still, Bear was found much further north than the roads from our house to the highway led. Bear was found on the highway that intersected with Morgan Road. All routes led us to the highway intersection with Linker Mountain Road. Dad and I decided we needed to go to where Bear was found and start there.
The lady was lovely enough to send us a map and circle precisely where she found Bear. This helped alleviate any fear that the woman who found Bear was using a landmark —such as Morgan Road to describe Bear’s approximate location. He was precisely that far north. Dad and I sat in the parking lot right by where Bear was found, and we pulled out our Google Maps. We shared theories.
Though our theories differed, we agreed on one thing: we did not believe the dogs came out on Linker Mountain, ran on the side of the highway for a mile, and then crossed to where Bear was found. We both agreed the dogs most likely crossed the highway when they reached it. This made the past hour of searching for Oakleigh a waste of time because that would mean she went further north on the west side of the highway (the side my house sits on), and we were searching too close to my home. My dad pulled his phone back out, and we decided to backtrack closer to Bear’s location and further from my house. We pulled out of the area the lady sent us and went south onto the highway. As we pulled onto the highway to make our left turn, I saw the wooded area across from Bear’s location had a partially cleared section with a red metal fence. I pointed it out to my dad and warned him that we might have to jump that fence to go find Oakleigh if we ended up no further to the truth by the end of this leg of our search. We wandered through back roads, and Dad would alert me to which roads were dead ends and when I needed to turn out. He served as a nice human GPS in a standard Jeep. We continued to call her name.
I told my dad I needed closure. He assured me that he believed God was going to give me closure. When we came up with nothing, he told me to return to the location I mentioned earlier with the fence. He reminded me that I would not be able to take the Jeep, but he would support me walking up to it. It was indeed a last-ditch effort. I went back onto the highway and traveled north until I saw the salvage yard and pulled in. My surroundings were easier to identify with the Jeep top and doors off than when Robert and I searched the area earlier that morning in his truck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an animal deceased on the side of the road. I was careful not to look closely. I turned to my dad and said really carefully and quietly, “Dad, I just saw an animal deceased right over there as we pulled in. You better go look.” Dad said, “Sure.” He walked over with the same brave stride I had seen him use many times growing up. He said, “Felecia, I think this animal has been here awhile.” I turned while staying seated in the Jeep. I looked, and the animal did look brown; Oakleigh was black, but the shape of the legs, as they stood straight up in the air, looked like hers. Though not wholly recognizable, the sight was familiar enough to convince me I knew what I saw. I said, “I think it is her.” Dad said he looked closer, possibly resisting the subconscious mental protection his brain provides, and he looked up at me and said, “Yeah. I can see it. Does she have a yellow collar?” It was indeed her. Dad removed her collar for me, and we went home. The accident was high impact, and she indeed died instantly. Her head was still in perfect shape, with her abdomen busted open. It was clear that as she was coming back home, the back of her body was hit, which aligned with the puddle of blood that lay approximately 12 inches from being off the road. The mission had ended. The unknowns were known, and the reason Bear was howling and crossing the highway and refusing to get into a car with a stranger became clear. His leader, best friend, and the copilot for many adventures had been killed. I don’t claim to understand animal emotions. I don’t believe they are much like humans; dogs are better than us in many ways. They aren’t scorekeepers, validation seekers, betrayers, or drama starters. They are happy to see you when you come around and loyal pets. But I felt like I identified with an animal’s emotional response for the first time. Even though it was dark and cold and going home would have been best for Bear, he wasn’t willing to leave his best friend, and I believe he was grieving in a way that I have not witnessed in the four years I have owned him. I made a laser-engraved memorial for Oakleigh’s collar. In the next post, I will explain how I made it.
It feels comforting to look at our dog cabinet and see her face with her collar around her neck. Though sadness lingered in my heart, the mercies were not lost. I got six years with Oakleigh, who was loyal to her core and never required much.
My dad and I
Oakleigh and the dogs ran off the day my dad flew here for his annual Thanksgiving visit. My dad is a dog lover, which made this moment special in a strange way. It gave me someone to share my grief with who understands it. I got closure. I was trying to prepare myself for no answers and repeatedly failing. I didn’t know what to do without knowing what happened to her. I got her collar, which inspired my first DIY blog post that I have been putting off doing for a year. It also reminds me of that time with my dad and our conversations while driving around with the top down. My dad’s health has been through a lot this last year. I am thankful we took the time to look for her together, and I know we wouldn’t have had that drive if she weren’t missing. I was able to reflect on owning Oakleigh. Her loyalty and low-maintenance personality highlighted the main idea in one of my favorite books, which solidified the image of the human I want to be.
Reflecting on my journey with Oakleigh, I realize that our bond was a testament to the unique connection between humans and dogs. Dale Carnegie’s insight into dogs as the “greatest winners of friends” resonates deeply within me; they embody loyalty, unconditional love, and pure joy. Oakleigh brought light into our lives, teaching us valuable lessons about companionship and devotion. Though her physical presence is no longer with us, her spirit remains alive in our memories and in the love she fostered within our family. As I create a lasting tribute to her through a memorial collar, I find solace in knowing that even in loss, there are mercies to cherish. The experience has encouraged me to embrace the ideals of kindness and loyalty that Oakleigh exemplified, inspiring me to strive toward becoming the person I aspire to be.
IDEA DUST Favorite quotes from DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU THINK
Thoughts are intrinsically neutral, but the moment we begin thinking about our thoughts, we get taken on an emotional roller coaster.
How long are you going to keep holding on to the story you don’t want to keep reliving?
I’d rather face the fear of the unknown than stay stuck in the pain of what I already know.
Most of us change when the pain of holding on to what we’re attached to is greater than the fear of the unknown.
The root cause of our suffering is our own thinking.
Event + thinking = perception of reality, but the event without thinking is the reality—and the event without thinking is peace.
True freedom isn’t having complete control of our minds but in the ability to be unattached to whatever happens in it.
The path to self-actualization isn’t to try to improve ourselves because we think we’re not enough, but to let go of the illusion that we’re not already enough as we are.
Quotes from Don’t Believe Everything You Think by Joseph Nguyen, curated by Idea Dust.
Sometimes it’s losing someone you love. Sometimes it’s leaving a place you weren’t ready to let go of. And sometimes, it’s saying goodbye to a person you never wanted to let go of— but knew you had to.
We all carry chapters that close. Doors that don’t open again. Final scenes that never got rewritten.
I used to crumble at the sound of “never again.”
Getting older doesn’t make the pain easier. But it does make you steadier. Wiser.
You learn that what’s meant to stay… stays. And the rest? It becomes part of the road behind you. A part of the story— but not the destination.
I used to think anything that mattered would announce itself. That if a door was about to close, I’d hear the hinge moan.
But some things don’t warn you. They don’t creak. They don’t crash. They just go quiet.
And the worst part? You don’t realize what mattered until it’s already folded into the noise of normal life.
Some things wait. Some things knock twice. But the rarest ones? They don’t wait at all.
They arrive and fill a void you didn’t realize existed, unexpected, real— and then they’re gone.
Not because they wanted to leave. But because they had to.
And no, timing doesn’t make something less true. It only decides whether it’s remembered or lived out loud.
And maybe… maybe that’s mercy.
Because not all things are meant to last. Some are just meant to wake you up. To show you what it feels like to be alive, And what it costs to carry it.
New Post: A Thousand Years: Pregnancy Loss By Felecia Jacks June 16, 2025 | Interpersonal Insight
At the James Arthur concert, I was caught off guard when he sang “A Thousand Years.” Two weeks earlier, I had shared the story behind that song with Abigail—our pregnancy loss in 2010. When we got home that night, she played it on repeat through her Alexa.
I don’t have the words to express what it feels like when you realize your daughter understands the depth of love, pain, and hope that stories like these bring to life.
“Mom, why does it mean so much to you?”
That question lingered—echoing the unspoken pain and deep emotion I carry.
The Heart of Loss
In June 2010, my husband and I faced a heartbreaking reality: we lost our first child. My heart shattered when the doctor told me I wouldn’t be meeting the little one who had already stolen mine.
I tried to understand—did I cause this? Was it something I did? But there isn’t always an explanation. And that might be the most brutal truth of all.
A person you loved had to go, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. No lesson to learn. No habit to fix. Just grief.
Grief that leaves a hole in the soul.
What Does Grief Look Like?
It looks like a new reason to look forward to heaven.
It’s marked by two dates—one for the due date, and one for the day they were lost.
You count each year how old they would’ve been.
Even without holding them, there are vivid images—face, hair color, personality. They grow in your heart, not in front of your eyes.
You celebrate silent birthdays. You remember them in private. You feel them in sacred moments.
Over time, anger softens. The pain doesn’t go away, but it transforms. You don’t get over it—you grow around it.
Until one day, a “birthday” arrives, and the dam breaks again. The memories flood in: the image of their eyes, the way they’d fit into your family, the life that might have been. You smile. You cry. You know they would’ve belonged.
A Sacred Space in Your Heart
In quiet moments, if you close your eyes, you see something holy— eyes that never opened, dreams that never unfolded, love that never faded.
They live deep in your soul, and in that hope—something only God gives to parents of children in heaven—you find peace.
You know they’re waiting.
And that knowing becomes something you feel in your skin.
The Story of Love and Hope
When that song played, everything came rushing back.
Why does it mean so much?
Because it’s more than a melody. It’s a story.
Your dad was surprised by that pregnancy. We had only been married two months. He wanted me to finish school. He wanted peace. I wanted hope.
Each month, I prayed silently for a surprise.
A heartfelt prayer written the day I found out I was pregnant with Matthew
The Moment of Hope
In January 2012, I dared to hope again. I calculated: if we conceived in March, I could finish school by December.
He felt the ache I carried. He said yes.
And in April, the test turned positive. I ran to my journal. He came home to a gray shirt with a very obvious message.
A Prayer from the Heart
“Dear God,
I come to you today because I just found out I am pregnant, and just like I come to you when I’m sad or scared, I come to say thank you.
Thank you for Robert. Thank you for this child.
After those cramps Sunday, I knew that was you at work. Thank you. I can’t explain it, but I know you’re near.”
Life’s Unexpected Trials
But life had other plans.
In May, I saw blood. At the OB’s office, I learned I had a subchorionic hemorrhage. A 50/50 chance of survival. I was crushed.
In the shower, blood washing down the drain, I dropped to my knees and prayed. That prayer became a life-marking moment.
I sang “A Thousand Years.” I waited. I braced.
The Miracle of Matthew
Matthew Bryan Jacks was born in December 2012—almost exactly a thousand days after we lost the first baby.
When I held him, he was so still I thought he had died in my arms. I screamed.
But then he moved.
And I knew—God answered.
The Meaning of Love and the Song
I hear the lyrics differently now:
Heart beats fast, colours and promises. How to be brave?
How can I love when I’m afraid to fall?
I have died every night waiting for you…
And I would love you for a thousand more.
Final Reflection
That day in the car, when Abigail asked, “Mom, why does it mean so much to you?”—I didn’t have the perfect answer.
But in my heart, I knew she understood the story.
Not just the one I told her—but the one written into the song.
This wasn’t just about music. It was about a love that endured. A faith that healed. A loss that shaped forever.
Because even love that only lives for a moment can shape eternity.
And the truest love really can wait a thousand years.
