Truths Of Our Hues: “Comfort” by Madison L.

Growing is rather uncomfortable isn’t it? It’s so necessary though. We outgrow old shoes and jeans, even our favorite pairs. Let’s face it, it’d be more awkward to walk around in shrunken clothes just because they once gave us comfort. What happens when we outgrow connections, old versions of ourselves and practices that were once useful and brought relief? Madison L. is allowing us to take a peek into her inner world to share her very own experience with stepping into a new space. She did so creatively and gracefully. Beautifully done.

“This poem is a reflection on the transition I’ve had this past year when dealing with my emotions. The transition from the coping skills I used throughout childhood and the majority of my life but can no longer serve me as I grow into adulthood.



I know myself, right?

I know I like to talk

I know I like to journal

That when I’m upset, words are my biggest comfort.


But lately, they don’t feel so warm.

They feel like knuckles knocking on a door that has no intention of budging.


Words used to have the key, shit, be the key to this door. But somebody changed the locks.


That’s okay, I can adjust, I am a master of adapting.


I’ve noticed the door is rougher than usual, dry, ashy if you will. . .

Similar to my knees right now


I also noticed whoever installed the new lock and handle, put the screws in waaaay too tight.

I couldn’t even look at it without holding in my breath.


I observed the door a little more, questioning if it was always this faded and gray. . .

I actually think I have some paint in the closet. 

Oh wow, I forgot about these brushes and this canvas. . .might as well


Now I’m sitting on the floor, in front of the door 

Legs criss cross applesauce, shea butter shining on my knees, thinking of what I should paint. 


I take a deep breath, close my eyes and imagine what the room looked like before they changed the locks on me. 

It reminded me of a newspaper archive. 

Stories lined up along the walls, 

some framed, 

some crumpled, laying in unsorted piles along the floor.

A computer, a couple of notebooks, papers and pens, a whiteboard.

Black and white and read all over.


So many words.


I look at the blank canvas in front of me and take some red paint. I dip my thumb in and press. While studying the fingerprint: the swirls and cracks, I ponder the process it took to grow like that. Next green, then blue. I’ve created a field of roses under a summer sky. 

I’m so proud.


I look up and the door is cracked open. . .

There’s a circular room, with bookshelves built into the walls, skylight coming from every direction, plants at every turn, and a melody I can’t quite make out dances around my body. 


The rug is soft and beautiful. There’s pottery, there’s more paintings, it smells good and I see a basket of my favorite snacks.


I take in my new surroundings and see I’ve missed a card propped on the windowsill. The Outside says “A Note To Self”


Hello love,

As you can see, things are a little different now. I both hope and know you’ll like it. I’m sorry you got locked out but we needed time to build this, and you needed time to open your mind to it. We sent you signs though. The ashy door to remind you to take care of your skin. The tightened bolt to remind you to breathe. The faded front to remind you to appreciate color, and the time to put these things together. The satisfaction from a finished product that has no purpose but to exist. This room is built for you to exist. All you have to do is exist.”

Please feel free to email me at with topics you desire to see reflected in my blog posts. All posts will be anonymous (unless you’d like to be revealed). I will also share a few of my own chosen narratives. As my schedule persists, I intend to post weekly or biweekly. Welcome to Truths of Our Hues.

Peace and with love,