Author: Queengeek

  • At the Bottom of the Well

    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

    When I was almost seven, I learned what it meant to be at the bottom of the well. Not because I was there, but because Baby Jessica was.

    She was only 18 months old when she fell into her aunt’s backyard well, and the whole world stopped. I remember sitting cross-legged on our threadbare carpet, eyes glued to the TV, close enough to touch the screen—and I probably did. Like millions of others, I watched the workers strategize, whispering along as they sang Winnie the Pooh down the shaft. I held my breath with every update.

    When they finally pulled her out, I felt relief, joy… and exhaustion. I realized later I’d been so consumed with the situation I forgot the world around me. I forgot to breathe. Even now, when I think of that moment, my shoulders tense. My heart races. But what sticks with me most is the release—the weight that lifted when she was safe.

    That memory came rushing back to me this year, because once again, I found myself at the bottom of the well.

    The Descent

    The first time I passed out, we laughed it off. I wasn’t drinking that night (a surprise in itself), but fainting in a bar just got chalked up as another “Alecia story.”

    The second time—middle of the night, tripping over clothes on the floor—we called it clumsy, not serious.

    But the cracks were showing. Pressure at the base of my skull that wouldn’t go away. Waking up one morning unable to move my wrists. My doctor brushed it off, told me we’d talk in three weeks. Fine, I thought. If he’s not worried, I won’t be either.

    I had my golf league debut. My son’s graduation party. The pool was open. Summer was waiting.

    Turns out, summer had other plans.

    When the Body Says No

    The Thursday before graduation, my best friend picked me up for lunch before golf. She knew something was wrong the second she saw me. I didn’t drink, didn’t eat, couldn’t focus. The world was closing in again. She skipped golf, drove me home.

    Two hours later, I woke up—and couldn’t move.

    That was the crack in the dam. My body had decided for me: this wasn’t drama, this was a reckoning.

    The next six weeks were brutal. I moaned, cried, yelled, restless and anxious in the guest room. My husband carried me to the bathroom. I over-medicated, desperate for relief. Pain level 9/10. I told myself I’d rather give birth to another 10-pound baby than keep feeling like this.

    My first ER trip ruled out Lyme and lupus. Found a heart murmur and anemia. “Follow up with your doctor,” they said. My primary care kept telling me to wait.

    The day before graduation, I fainted again. This time, my family said enough was enough.

    Code Called

    I passed out in the ER triage room. Ever heard a code call? It’s terrifying when it’s for you. The good news is, I don’t remember it—I was unconscious. My blood pressure had dropped to 60/40. I was crashing fast. The team responded. That got me admitted.

    Luckily, my sister was strong enough not to faint too. Somebody had to stay upright.

    And yes—we decided I needed a plan other than my husband slapping me to “bring me back to reality.”

    The Long Road of Tests

    From there, the digging began.

    • CT scans of brain, neck, chest
    • PET scan to look for hidden cancer
    • EEG to check for seizures
    • Heart monitoring
    • Biopsies of my thyroid and lung
    • Endless labs—iron, cortisol, inflammation markers, autoimmunity panels

    Each test felt like another shovel of dirt being moved, another angle of rescue being debated. Only this time, the trapped person was me.

    And each result came with waiting. More fear. More strategizing. More living at the bottom of the well.

    The Release

    Finally, the picture formed. Not cancer. Not autoimmune disease. Not a hidden monster.

    Just me.

    There are still some small things to sort out—anemia, thyroid nodules, and a pesky lung nodule that will be followed closely. And yes, I’ll be finding a new primary care doctor.

    But the biggest answer came from that odd little marker we stumbled on ourselves: Parvovirus B19. Turns out, it really can do all this to you—pain, fainting, anemia, inflammation, exhaustion. And there’s no fix. Just time. Up to 12 months of time.

    And oddly, knowing that lifted the weight. Because finally, there was a reason. A path forward.

    The Next Chapter

    And now—surprisingly—even with some level of pain and significant exhaustion, I feel almost weightless. There’s a real happiness in my heart again, not a forced one. I’m productive. I’m learning when to pause, when to breathe, when to rest.

    Most of all, I’ve realized I’m not alone in this. So many people have been cheering me on, carrying me with their care, their anticipation, even their whispered Winnie the Pooh moments that kept me sane when the pain threatened to swallow me whole.

    Like Baby Jessica, I’ve been pulled back into the light.

    So my heels are back on, my lipstick is loaded, and I’m ready for the next chapter.

  • Chapter Two: The Girl Below the Glitter

    I’m about ten.

    My hair’s unruly — wild strawberry blonde curls shooting off in every direction.

    I’m in hand-me-down clothes. Jean shorts. A crumpled t-shirt. Probably something with a cracked decal from a bank giveaway or a family reunion I wasn’t at.

    To be honest, I don’t look that different today.

    The clothes are more expensive now, sure.

    But the sense of calm?

    Pretty much the same.

    I’m spinning — slowly, then faster — in a 70s-style black leather chair.

    One of those big ones with a silver metal base that swivels like a dream.

    The kind of chair that, to a kid, feels like the cockpit of a spaceship.

    It was in pretty good condition, at least as I remember it — no cracks, no rips, just that worn-in kind of cool you only find in places that forgot they were cool decades ago.

    The room around me is empty.

    Lights off.

    Just a dim gray wash from the wall of windows behind me, the kind of light that shows you every speck of dust hanging in the air like snow that forgot how to fall.

    I’m in the basement café of an old resort in the Poconos.

    A quiet pocket in a building that’s humming with chaos upstairs — thousands of dancers, stage moms, bobby pins, sequins, hairspray clouds.

    Glitter in the grout.

    Music bleeding through the floor.

    And me?

    I’m down here.

    Taking a break.

    Spinning.

    Re-centering.

    Playing.

    I’ve always known when I needed to escape a little.

    Even at ten.

    Especially at ten.

    But I also know what’s waiting for me upstairs —

    when I’m ready.

    My sister.

    Clad in gold.

    Floating across the stage.

    Not walking.

    Not dancing, even.

    Floating.

    Like the air made way for her.

    Like the music knew it was lucky to accompany her.

    Like she had an aura.

    And everyone else was just borrowing light.

    It’s moments like these that have stuck with me.

    Not in the big, loud ways — not the birthdays or trophies or whatever came in a scrapbook.

    But in quiet.

    And in strength.

    They’ve attached themselves to who I am, like anchors. Or roots.

    I know it’s time.

    Time to stop spinning.

    Time to race up the escalator and into the chaos.

    I weave through a maze of people — dancers warming up in hallways, moms arguing over rhinestones, someone crying over a lost shoe.

    I find the right theater.

    The perfect seat.

    In the back, of course. My legs don’t reach the floor in the folding chair, but I sit tall anyway. Because I know what’s coming.

    And then…

    The music starts.

    The Lord’s Prayer.

    And there she is.

    Golden.

    Glowing.

    Beautiful.

    Five years older than me, but back then it felt like a lifetime.

    We didn’t orbit in the same space.

    She was stars and spotlight.

    I was quiet corners and observation.

    But man, I loved to watch her.

    I still do.

    She moved like the music had been written for her body.

    Every turn, every lift, every breath — deliberate and full of grace.

    She won, of course.

    How could she not?

    That, and her other masterpiece —

    “Don’t Stop Me Now.”

    The one with the side leap, side leap, center leap sequence.

    Perfectly timed with her duet partner.

    A full assault of rhythm and rebellion.

    A declaration in motion.

    Perfection.

    I could never dance.

    My feet don’t always move in the same direction.

    Ask anyone who’s witnessed my attempts at TikTok recreations — I’m more “unintentionally hilarious” than “rhythmically gifted.”

    I wasn’t meant to leap across stages.

    But sitting in that seat —

    in the quiet,

    in the back,

    feet dangling off the edge of a folding chair —

    I could see everything.

    The theatrics.

    The glitz.

    The tiny micro-movements that told the whole story before the music even changed.

    The way a dancer’s breath matched the tempo.

    The second a judge leaned forward.

    The sparkle that wasn’t in the costume — it was in the presence.

    And somehow, all of that still glitters inside me.

    Not in pirouettes.

    But in how I see people.

    How I feel them.

    How I notice the shift in their voice, or the way they fidget when they’re about to break, or that moment they realize they’ve found their rhythm.

    That’s what I love about myself, actually.

    I see people.

    All the way through.

    I’m kneeling now.

    Older.

    In church.

    Bare knees pressed into the barely-padded velvet of a pew.

    My eyes are perfectly aligned with the backrest in front of me — a narrow strip of polished wood catching fractured light.

    Little ballerinas of sunshine dance across the grain,

    flickering with the rhythm of the spotlights

    peeking out from the domed paintings of saints above.

    And then—

    that voice.

    The voice of God.

    Or at least that’s what I thought at the time.

    He was singing Ave Maria,

    and it swallowed the entire cathedral.

    I didn’t know where it came from at first.

    It took me years to understand it was rising from the choir loft.

    That there was an actual human being attached to that sound.

    But it didn’t matter.

    The voice was the point.

    It hung in the air like it was woven from incense and light —

    wrapping itself around every pillar and pew

    and tucking gently into the space behind my ribs.

    I didn’t care who he was.

    I didn’t want to know.

    I wasn’t looking for the source.

    I was lost in the feeling.

    It was another moment I still can’t believe was real.

    Another echo that rooted beauty into my heart.

    That voice made me feel.

    Made me love.

    Made me believe that maybe there was something bigger than me,

    even if I didn’t know what to name it.

    Not everything that built me was visible.

    At the top of our stairs, tucked near an old water pipe, there was a little box — barely big enough for a child to fit.

    I made it my office.

    And I filled it with imagination.

    Dee Dee and Dada lived there — my imaginary friends.

    And I swear the pipe talked to me.

    I talked back.

    My sisters thought I was a little crazy.

    Maybe they were right.

    But they gave me that space.

    Or maybe they just wanted me out of their space.

    Either way — it was mine.

    And it mattered.

    Because even in make-believe, I was building something.

    A voice.

    A structure.

    A place to process a world that felt too loud, too bright, too glittering sometimes.

    Not all the voices in my internal boardroom were real.

    But their impact was.

    They helped me understand people.

    Helped me understand me.

    My middle sister was one of those voices, too.

    We both played softball — her on one field, me on another.

    Close in geography, lightyears apart in soul.

    She was an athlete.

    A musician.

    A soul-filled beauty who never tried to be anything but herself.

    When she went to college, I missed her like crazy.

    I visited once.

    Her dorm was pure hippy magic — cozy, weird-smelling, layered in color and comfort and incense that didn’t quite cover the other smells.

    But it didn’t matter.

    The music did.

    Guitars.

    Singing.

    Laughter.

    A full soundtrack of life — and somehow, me included.

    I can’t sing. Never could.

    But belting out Rent at the top of my lungs in that room?

    I was a star.

    I belonged.

    There was love in that chaos.

    There always has been.

    She never asked me to change.

    She just let me be there.

    And that, too, is a kind of touch.

    I never knew it then.

    Not spinning in that leather chair.

    Not listening to Ave Maria in the pew.

    Not screaming Rent in a college dorm.

    Not whispering to pipes at the top of the stairs.

    But I’m only just realizing it now:

    It was moments like these —

    quiet ones,

    imagined ones,

    glorious ones witnessed from the back row —

    that were building the framework of my life.

    Not the spotlight.

    Not the stage.

    But the scaffolding.

    The wiring.

    The way I see people.

    The way I carry beauty.

    The way I lead, and love, and believe.

    It was all happening.

    In the quiet.

    While no one was looking.

    And it’s still happening now.

  • The Edge of Monday

    “Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t conquering a fear. It’s admitting that the fear scares the hell out of us in the first place.”

    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

    I’m fidgety. I’m standoffish. And if I’m being honest, it’s not because I don’t care—it’s because I care too much. Monday is looming, and with it comes the weight of the unknown.

    Monday is lung biopsy day. A not-so-fun adventure with a 20% chance of lung collapse and a guarantee of another day off work. It kind of feels like a make-or-break situation—answers will come one way or another. Part of me is bracing for news, but a bigger part of me fully expects the result to be: “Yep, you’re just weird!”

    When I get nervous, my edges sharpen. I’m not the soft, easygoing version of myself. I snap a little faster, retreat a little deeper, and build invisible walls out of sarcasm, distraction, or silence. Sometimes, if I’m forced into conversation, I overcompensate and talk too much—words spilling out just to fill the air. But truthfully? What I really want is to curl up under a furry blanket, head tucked down, lost in a game or a book where Monday doesn’t exist.

    Anxiety shows up in sneaky ways. For some, it’s over-talking. For me, it’s also under-sharing. I get quiet. My body wants motion—tap a pen, pace the room, rearrange things that don’t need rearranging—but my voice wants to shut down. It’s a survival mechanism, I think. If I stay guarded, I can’t be caught off guard.

    But here’s the paradox: the people around me don’t see “nervous and protecting herself.” They see “aloof” or “unapproachable.” That’s the tricky part about anxiety—it never translates quite the way we think it does.

    So I’m writing this down as both a confession and a reminder:

    • If I seem standoffish, it’s not you. It’s me trying to manage the storm inside.
    • If I’m fidgeting, it’s because my nerves need an outlet before my brain implodes.
    • And if I’m distant, it’s because I’m bracing myself for Monday, not because I want distance from you.

    Monday will come, as it always does. The biopsy will happen. I’ll either laugh about how dramatic I was being, or I’ll start another chapter I didn’t ask for but will handle anyway. Either way, I’ll face it the same way I face everything else—head-on, with a mix of grit, humor, and stubbornness.

    But for now, I’m just here, restless and edgy, doing my best to own it instead of hide it.

    #HealthJourney #AnxietyUnmasked #TheEdgeOfMonday #RealTalk #FacingFears #WeConquerAsOne

  • From PET Scan to Pitching Wedge: Choosing Joy on the Fairway

    First golf league night ✅

    First time playing without my husband ✅

    First time realizing the scorecard isn’t the point.

    I’m not great at golf, but tonight I’m proud. It doesn’t matter when you’re surrounded by women who are there to learn, laugh, and cheer each other on. It doesn’t matter when you’re playing a course that people clearly pour their hearts into — and you can feel it in every fairway.

    Pet scan news? Good — not cold, not hot.

    Golf news? Also good — if you count “10 over for 9 holes” as character-building.

    Yes, I thought I lost my wallet.

    Yes, my amazing friend hit a shot under the golf cart (and I moved like a cat to avoid adding a new medical mystery to my chart).

    Yes, my first shot was… let’s say “memorable.”

    But tonight I made new friends — amazing women learning right alongside me. I tried something new, on the same course where my very first attempt at golf happened the day all of “this” began. And I got to see the beauty that Hidden Springs is becoming, thanks to the care and effort of the people who love it.

    Score aside — this was a win. 🏌️‍♀️💚


    Hidden Springs League Night:
    Golf: 10 over.
    Friends: 10 out of 10.
    Pet scan: not cold, not hot.
    Wallet: still mine.
    Cart ball dodging skills: feline level. 🏌️‍♀️💚
  • Superhero in Training

    Superhero in Training

    If I could be a superhero, I’d name myself The Radiant Rebel.

    And yes — I would absolutely have a cape. Sorry, Edna Mode, I know you hate them, but I’m convinced we could invent something that doesn’t end in disaster — like an automatic retraction system or a slippery, no-stick, no-jam coating that lets me soar through the sky, slide through cracks like a mouse, and sparkle like I just left a glitter factory. No more “Is it a bird? Is it a plane?” Everyone would just know… it’s The Radiant Rebel.

    And this week? I officially began my superhero training.

    Day 1: Wi-Fi Woman

    Spent the weekend with electrodes hooked up to my head, basically turning me into my own personal Wi-Fi tower. For once, I got to hog the bandwidth instead of my two teenage “protectors” playing whatever games require the cooling capacity of an industrial AC unit.

    Activating brain Wi-Fi. Side effects may include itching, sarcasm, and unlimited streaming speed.

    Day 2: Adhesive & Attitude

    Electrodes off — finally! Those things itch by day four. And the glue? Strong enough to hold my indestructible cape together. On our way from my Ithaca doctor to my Syracuse doctor (scenic route via Cayuga Lake), we made a pit stop tour — gas station, Kinney Drugs, another gas station — desperately trying to get the glue out. We tried wet wipes, leave-in conditioner, dry shampoo. Pro tip: don’t. I ended up looking like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.

    Arrived in Syracuse for my next fashion show.

    Suit up, they said. Save the world, they said. Nobody mentioned the couture would be polyester blend.

    Hairnet in place, rocking a hospital gown, I waddled to the OR where the team zip-bang-boomed a small repair. We chatted about scuba diving and argued over the playlist — I settled on “We’ve Got Tonight” by Kenny Rogers and “Rocket Man” by Elton John. Fitting…

    Day 3: Glow Juice Initiation

    Back home, after four actual hair washes and a dystopian dream where I fought bad guys (cape desperately needed), it was time for part three of training.

    After 24 hours with no carbs and no sugar (Brooklyn Pickle lunch = cheese, salami, green peppers), I was injected with a radioactive substance shipped in a steel box from our state capital. “We only have one,” the tech told me, tucking me in with a warm blanket. No pressure. Then an hour of sitting still before sliding into the transformation chamber — half an hour of scanning, arms above my head, like reverse flying.

    Step 3 in superhero training: inject the glow juice from Albany. Step 4: don’t think too hard about why it needed a steel box.

    The Worst Part: Waiting

    Here’s the truth — the waiting is brutal. Am I fit to be the Radiant Rebel? Or do I start building an even more fabulous wig collection? The odds are in my favor (shout-out to “Brock University” for the 6–12% stat), but the scan and an upcoming biopsy will have the final say.

    Until then… I wait. I chat with ChatGPT (“give me the no-bullshit answer”), and I let the glow juice work its magic, transforming me into the villain-defeating, bad-ass, sparkly-cape-wearing Radiant Rebel.

    Every hero needs a signature scent. Mine smells like steel, ambition, and mild world domination.
  • Wired for the Weekend

    Wired for the Weekend

    This weekend’s accessory lineup: sunglasses, a black cover-up, and a head full of wires. Oh, and the hair? Yeah… it’s a wig.

    I’m rocking a 72-hour EEG — basically a brain activity stakeout — because I’ve had a few “misfires” lately. Some pass-out moments. Some seizure-like moments. Definitely not the kind of plot twists I had on my 2025 bingo card.

    The goal? To figure out what’s going on in that big brain of mine and why it occasionally decides to hit the off switch without warning.

    Now, I could’ve spent the weekend hiding at home. But instead, I decided to make it work. A little extra fashion (wig included), the same amount of fun, and plenty of attitude. Because if I’ve learned anything through this whole process, it’s that the tough stuff doesn’t get to own the good days — I do.

    So here I am: wired, wigged, and still me. Maybe even a little more me… 😬

    Just a few wires
  • The Spark

    The Spark

    #ShortStory Update – #1

    Maybe my first memory – maybe not… but a good one. Enjoy… https://weconquerasone.com/short-stories-of-my-life/

  • 🧠 Brain MRI? Done.

    🧠 Brain MRI? Done.

    Just your average queen in a hospital gown getting her brain checked. Hoping it’s still mostly brilliance up there… with a touch of chaos.

    20 minutes.

    A blur of beeps, buzzes, and that signature MRI soundtrack: industrial techno meets sleep-deprivation.

    The staff was fantastic — kind, efficient, and didn’t flinch when I cracked a joke mid-scan (because, obviously).

    Now we wait.

    To see if there’s anything hanging out in this big brain of mine that doesn’t belong.

    Fingers crossed it’s just brilliance up there.

  • Why I’m Starting This Blog

    Why I’m Starting This Blog

    I didn’t start this blog because I had some dramatic diagnosis.

    I started it because I’ve always wanted to write.

    I keep drafting book chapters — in my head, in the Notes app, in conversations I rehearse on the drive to work. I’ve spent years motivating others, finding meaning in the mess, and turning hard moments into something useful — or at the very least, something human.

    Now I just… have a topic.

    Not the one I would’ve chosen.

    But one I suddenly know a lot about.

    And, apparently, a few other people want to learn along with me.

    💥 From Full Speed to Full Stop

    A few months ago, my life was full-speed ahead.

    My oldest was graduating high school.

    I was planning celebrations, planning trips to Mexico, and leaning into a season that finally felt like mine again.

    I was thriving — in the way only a mom/wife/exec/fire-breather with a 25-year streak of pushing through can.

    And then, out of nowhere, I couldn’t move the right side of my body.

    Cue the medical maze. The symptoms. The confusion. The appointments. The waiting.

    The part of the story where everyone starts saying, “You need to write this down.”

    📝 Why Now

    So here I am.

    Not because I want attention. Not because I have answers.

    But because I need a place to process this in real time — for myself, for the people who love me, and maybe for someone else going through their own plot twist who just needs to know they’re not crazy, lazy, or alone.

    This isn’t a blog about being sick.

    This is a blog about staying whole — even when life doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

    🧭 What You Can Expect Here

    • Honest updates — the stuff that’s hard to say out loud
    • Gadgets and tools I’m using to stay functional (and occasionally fabulous)
    • Weekly recaps with wins, fails, and all the in-betweens
    • Moments of levity, sarcasm, motivation, and maybe a few tears (don’t worry, I hydrate)
    • A space that isn’t about being perfect — it’s about being present

    This is the blog I wish someone else had written for me.

    Since they didn’t… I guess I will.

    Thanks for being here.

    We conquer as one.