Find Your Colors Podcast

Jeff B. White

Jeff B. White is the author of Shards of Hope & the Shards of Color Saga. Survivor, activist, and creator. Jeff uses his books to present the psychology of recovery through the lens of fantasy. He's here to give you a map into the light drawn by someone who survived the dark. findyourcolors.substack.com

  1. May 14

    Blush Born Midpoint Breakdown | Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations | Part One

    Welcome to Find Your Colors! This is where I am building a conversation around the narrative of The Shards of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book of this trilogy titled BLUSH BORN. I'm Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of these stories. Find Your Colors allows me to provide the breakdown of these chapters exploring the psychological concepts that are present within the narrative of BLUSH BORN, while also explaining how I created this world from my own personal story of struggle and survival. Last week I shared "Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations" and because of the sheer volume and length of that chapter, I decided it would be best to leave the breakdown for a separate episode. In the process of writing that breakdown I realized once I had completed it that it was 6,792 words. This would have activated all of the word limit issues and presented something that would have taken me two hours to record and would not be read by the 11 people who read my stuff. So I decided instead of doing that and sacrificing the valuable information that goes with this chapter, and because of the importance of this chapter, that I would break down the breakdowns. So that is what I have done. I am making this into a three-part sub-series that covers the three distinct points, the first one being culture and structures within the Colorista community as it compares to the rest of their world, and a brief look at some of the characters that were introduced. Later, I will be posting the second part that explores the real world inspiration behind the Rainbow King. Finally, I will be wrapping it up with the third part that explains the psychological foundations of the seven songs including the Rainbow King and Jethran's place in all of this. I'll also be making a special announcement that I'll get into later. This gives me time to still be able to provide content while I am working on my chapters that come after this. Hopefully, I will actually be building up a bank of content if I am able to win the battle against my inner saboteur who tells me that life would be more fun if I dedicate all of my time to working on my unpublishable manuscript that is based on a retelling of The Little Mermaid from the point of view of a sea witch named Octavia because Ursula is owned by the mouse with fat lawyers. The Breakdown If you have been reading along and have already finished this chapter, you probably felt the shift in the air. Something fundamentally changes here. The story opens wider, and the emotional rules of the world become much clearer. The questions Jethran has been carrying since birth are brought into sharper focus while new and much larger questions begin to take shape. This is undoubtedly the most important chapter in BLUSH BORN and quite possibly the most important chapter in the whole series. It acts as the midpoint of the story and fundamentally alters the direction of the narrative. It serves as the exact moment when Jethran's understanding of the world and of himself deepens irreversibly. Everything that has happened to him up until this point begins to reorganize itself. His birth, his Blush, Collis and the forced pills, the Attention Necessity label, his mother's lullabies, the colors awakening within him, and the strange pull of the Seven Songs all come into conversation. He experiences a breakthrough, starting to believe that his mother knew far more about him than he ever realized. He currently lacks the proof, meaning the pieces are just now falling into place. One of the things that makes this story so much fun is that it takes him a long time to get the answers he has been seeking. Even these new questions may remain unanswered in this particular book. But before that happens, there will be drama. On Colorista Culture and Avoiding Real World Associations You may have noticed a change in the story. I updated the name of the Coloristas, as well as their gendering. Within the culture of the Coloristas, the women are known as ristas, the children are called colorlings and also known as lings which is just the word for kids. While the men are known as colormen. I want to be 100% transparent and firm on this. This is not a reference to colored men or colored people. I’ve worked very hard on ensuring that the word colored is not even used in this entire narrative and across all three books. I don’t even say that when I’m describing something by its color. You will never read characters in my stories say that’s a yellow colored plant or say that that’s a blue colored shirt. They say that it’s the shade of or the hue of or it’s blue-hued or blue-shaded. They will describe something saying that it’s the color of. They also don’t say "of color" due to the racial gravity and weight that is applied to that term in the real world. Although the trilogy’s name is Shards of Color and that was an oversight that stared me in the face every single day that I wrote all of this without ever being seen. With that part aside, when we’re describing the world in the story we just use the phrase with color or about color. Because the world doesn’t suddenly become a world of color. The people who were once gray become people with color living in a world of vibrancy. They suddenly exist in a reality about color because color is physics and color is magic and color is reality. So while I do understand and anticipate some people reacting under the assumption that I'm placing real world racial terms into the story, I just want to be clear now that I'm actually working hard to do the exact opposite. The word colorman or colormen is actually taken directly from the world of Art History. Before pre-mixed paint in tubes existed, artists purchased raw pigments and mixed their own paints. Colormen took over this time-consuming task, grinding pigments with oils or binders, which allowed painters to focus more on creation. In another context, there is a term referred to as Farbenmensch. This is actually German for "color man" or "color person" and refers to an artist who thinks in color before line or composition. The German Expressionist Ernst Ludwig Kirchner used this term for himself. Further, while art history uses this to describe a person who is a supplier of pigments, it also can be used to describe a person who applies color in printing or a worker who mixes dyes. There are Coloristas in the story who when they are seen their fingertips are stained from the colors of the dyes that they’ve used and the pigments that they’ve used to color their weavings. Their entire society and culture and spiritual belief is based around the art of movement and around the threads and they see and feel and experience the world through the colors of their people. They are very well established as possessing a full cosmological relationship with the existence of color. And color is part of their actual racial name being that their race is Colorista. Before I did this I had already done very similar social linguistics and etymological creation of the other races that exist in the world. There are three races within this story. There are the Here of Evenhere, Silvarii, and Coloristas. First there are the Silvarii. Originally they were called fairies but I decided that was too regular for my story, so because they have silver skin I made them into silvari which is an Urdu term for silver. It's also Portuguese for woodland. So that word works on two levels describing this race. When I was coming up with their social linguistics and such I decided to just cut the word down the middle. I decided to name the women in their race Sils or sil. Their children, I decided to name sillies. It just felt really whimsical and seems like it would work for this group of people, plus because they are an extremely patriarchal society they treat children on the same level or less than they treat their females of their race. So that's why they call the children sillies, because it's just an extension of the women. However, the males carry an even darker undertone with their name. The men I named Varii. And I'll get further into this later but it allows for people in the Kingdom to hear that word and to mispronounce it and just start calling them fairies which becomes a derogatory term. Derogatory term but it's more just like a mispronunciation and the Silvarii took offense to it because it's not what they are. And while it is completely lost as to whether or not it actually was ever meant as derogatory it remains the fact that they deemed it derogatory and therefore it is. Because it doesn't matter what the intention is what matters is the outcome. Splitting the root word to reflect their patriarchal hierarchy is a highly effective worldbuilding technique. Designating the women as Sils and the children as sillies communicates their systemic oppression instantly. It establishes their societal value organically and bypasses heavy exposition. It’s simply the exact same path of naming these races in the story that I took with the Here. The men are called heremen, the children herelings. The women, who are deeply deeply oppressed in their society, are given the gender specific descriptor of wem. Which is partially utilized for the mental image of them being reduced to nothing but a womb. And that one of the very first laws that we experience in this culture is that they are deemed to be "in possession of the delicate female mind which is better suited for playing with the children until dinner time." And they are assigned a man to oversee their family if they have a child and they’re not married because they’re not deemed capable of managing their homes. Circling back, color men were instrumental in the development of new, brighter pigments, like chrome yellow and cobalt blue, for the Impressionists. Personally, I found that bit of information to be utterly fascinating. I utilize those exact terms in this book. Jethran possesses his bl

    17 min

  2. May 7

    Blush Born Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations

    Welcome to Find Your Colors! This is the publication and podcast where we are discussing The Shards Of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book in that trilogy titled BLUSH BORN. I am Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of these stories. Find Your Colors allows me to provide breakdowns exploring the psychological concepts that are present in the narrative of BLUSH BORN. As well I explain how I translated my memoir into this dark fairy tale. The first three chapters of my memoir Shards Of Hope A Tweaker Witch's Journey is available now exclusively on my website where you can truly dive into all of my work. Just go to www.jeffbwhite.com and look around, read, and sign up for my email list. We're at the Midway! We have reached “Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations.” This is the midway point of the story, y'all! I am so excited that we've get this far. I wasn't sure I would get this far. This is the longest chapter in the book has a lot happening and is obviously the home of the midpoint shift so there will be no breakdown provided with this chapter. It will be sent out separately later in your inboxes. So keep an eye out for that in and let's go ahead and get started. Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations The gray light of the afternoon sun cast soft shadows across the Whispering Grove. Jethran and Fable had spent hours immersing themselves in the quiet rhythms of the Colorista community. They shared a simple meal of roasted root meat and sweet burgundy fruit with a young rista named Yola and her husband Cray. Jethran and Fable those watched as Yola’s colorlings played a game that involved chasing the shimmering threads that danced in the air around them. “It’s… It’s midday, don’t your lings need to be preparing for work?” Jethran asked as he enjoyed the feast. Yola stopped and looked at her lings, then at her husband. They looked back at Jethran smiling. “They are only but small splashes of color,” Cray said. The colorman looked at his colorlings as he laughed deeply. “They only have the duty of enjoying the freedom of youth until the time comes when they will begin weaving like the rest of us.” Jethran couldn’t imagine the concept of enjoying the freedom of youth. He took a bite of root meat as he thought of the years said he had spent working in the rock sorting facility. Fable had initially been wary of this place. Even he soon found himself charmed by the open display of feeling. “This place is nothing like the village where I spent my youth,” Fable clarified, his voice loud in the carved tree hut. “Living with color and freely enjoying emotion. Oh, sugar! The Silvarii Eldrus would be singing lullabies of calming and correction.” Jethran took a sip of the delicious seven-shaded hueberry juice Yola had made. He turned to Fable, a look of serenity falling upon his face. “The last thing I need in this place is calming,” Jethran said, a new realization settling over him. “I’ve never felt so calm. I don’t feel like I’m a Flaw here. I feel normal, as if I belong. I feel like I’m at home, for the first time. I feel like I’m just… Jethran.” The weight he had carried for so long was lifting. The pulse of shame that haunted him began to dissipate in the vibrant air. He found himself breathing deeper, the air itself feeling richer, fuller. For the first time, his lungs were drawing in the full spectrum of what it meant to be alive. He watched the colorlings, their faces alight with joy. Their very beings a celebration of the color he had been taught to hide. “Well, you’re not,” Yola chimed. “You’re not a Flaw, Jethran. You’re so many things but a flaw… Jethran… you are the…” “The what?” Jethran asked. Just then Winley Knowles approached them. Her hair shifting to a rich chartreuse as she interrupted. “Yola,” she said calmly but with an authoritative tone. “I believe I heard Sycamore request that you help him with the looming.” Jethran watched Yola as the rista quieted herself quickly and departed. He then looked at Winley with a questioning expression. “Young Frye, come with me,” Winley said, her voice left no room for argument. “There’s something important I need you to see.” Jethran scanned the area for Fable and found him holding court surrounded by a group of captivated colorlings. His nickel skin shimmered in the light of the glowing mushrooms on the nearby trees. Yola’s lings were sitting with him braiding his hair as he told them a story. Jethran watched for a moment, a wave of genuine admiration washing over him. Fable’s charm was an effortless force. Seeing him so completely in his element, holding an audience captive with nothing but a story and the mischievous glint in his pewter eyes, it brought a smile to Jethran’s face. “…and if you listen, I bet you can still hear it clunking around in there,” Fable said, his voice carrying across the quiet clearing. He then stood and swayed the bottom half of his body back and forth, as if he were a bell. “Fable, we have to go with Winley,” Jethran called, walking over and gently tugging him away from his small audience. “I’m not even going to ask what that story was about,” Jethran said as they walked away. “Oh? Just a silvarii story from my youth,” Fable retorted with a grin and a wink, dusting off his tunic. They met back with Winley Knowles, who escorted them deeper into the oldest part of the central tree. They found themselves in a circular chamber that seemed to pulse with an ancient power. Her hair was now the vibrant yellow of freshly cut grass. Fable noticeably rolled his eyes. The walls of this place were woven from what looked like pure starlight, threaded with fibers that pulsed with soft, internal light. “This is the Hall of Tapestries,” Winley said as Fable scoffed at her hair, which was now a subdued dark azure. “It’s ancient and sacred. The walls hold the Tapestries of Time. Each one depicting a pivotal moment in the histories.” “Histories?” Jethran questioned her. “There’s only one history.” Winley offered a smile. “Oh, but there are many histories. The history of the past and the histories of the future. Even now this is the history of the moment.” Fable scratched his head as he and Jethran looked at each other with confusion. For Jethran, there was an inexplicable familiarity to these tapestries. “The style of the weaving,” he whispered. “The way the threads intertwine, reminds me of the old blanket my mother used to wrap around me.” “These are no mere blankets, sweet boy,” Winley began, her voice reverent. “They are the true record of all that has been and all that has yet to be. All the histories are interwoven. They rely on each other, existing in their own space as well as in each other’s. The essence of these moments are captured in living threads. It is the legacy of who the Coloristas are. And... of who you are, Jethran.” She walked along the curved wall, her hand whisking a shimmering image. “Who are they?” Jethran asked. “Who is he?” Fable asked, pointing at Jethran. “One answer at a time,” Winley said. “The Coloristas are the stewards of Tapestries. We guard over them, we tend them, and we preserve them. Ours is the magic of time. We protect the histories. So that the histories that have been lived can inform the history that is being lived now. By doing this, the history that has yet to be is met with understanding.” Jethran looked into the Hall, curious if his history was somehow woven into this place. “Who is it that created them?” Jethran asked. Winley raised her hand, directing the two of them to follow. “The Seven Songs, the ancient Hues of Feeling, each Song was an emotion woven from the notes.” Fable bristled. His tradition had taught different stories. “No. The notes hummed the Seven Songs. That’s how they created the Pure Melody.” As Jethran stepped closer to the wall, a low beat seemed to emanate from the threads, a song that resonated with the pulsing power that stirred within him. The air grew thick, the pressure changing as if before a storm. The first tapestry, depicting a bustling market, began to shimmer. The woven figures, once static, began to move with a ghostly grace. The threads of light pulsed and shifted, playing out the scene before their eyes. Jethran could almost smell the scent of baked bread and hear the distant murmur of a woven crowd. Fable and Winley both stepped back in shock. Fable gasped, his wings giving a startled flutter. “What is this magic?” the Silvarii demanded. “It is not magic,” Winley said with an untempered awe. “It is the embrace of truth, memory, and grace. Transcending time, accepting that hope has found its way to Evenhere. It... it is responding to him.” The moving pattern depicted a merchant, his face worried, as he held a basket of bread. A Colorista, approached him, as a wave of azure light emanated from the merchant, revealing his hidden fear of not having prepared the bread properly for sale. The Colorista gently touched his arm, and the blue mist softened, replaced by a confident emerald, and the merchant was soothed. He headed to the marketplace where he sold all of his bread. “A display of emotional excess. Uncontrolled,” Fable scoffed. The old lessons of his people ringing. “Our proverbs warn against such things.” “No. That’s a display of truth,” Winley corrected gently, her hair shifting to a warm, emerald green. “Is it excess to show a doubting hereman the truth of bounty he holds in his hands? That is the power that comes from grace. She was Midgelle, the Lightgiver. She helped him see his worth.” Jethran felt a jolt, a powerful truth pulsing within the vibrant emerald of the tapestry. It was a color he did not yet possess. He felt a similar pull to the next tapestry, which depicted a family quarrel. As he approached, it too came to life

    29 min

  3. May 4 ·  Bonus

    This is My Official Author Site Launch!!

    Welcome to Find Your Colors! This is the publication and podcast where we are discussing the Shards of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book of the trilogy titled BLUSH BORN. I am Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of these stories. Find Your Colors allows me to provide the full chapters of BLUSH BORN in a serialized format, along with breakdowns of the psychological concepts that are present within the narrative. I also explain how I translated my own story of struggle and survival into this dark fairy tale. Recap Previously, I shared “Chapter 17 Whispered Color” in which Jethran and Fable met Winley Knowles and the Coloristas. We saw Jethran finally find a place where he is accepted and sees that living in freedom is actually possible. We will pick back up with the narrative later this week. Today I have some exciting news to share, alongside a few thoughts about making it in the literary world and how we put ourselves out there as professionals. Growing and Showing The landscape of publishing shifted a long time ago and we're no longer in an era where a manuscript alone opens every door. Writing a great story remains the priority, but building a conversation around that story is what invites the people to stay. Through the building of a conversation around BLUSH BORN here on Substack, I have been able to secure a domain and I have built a new central hub for my work. Thank you to all of my subscribers who signed up for both monthly and yearly subscriptions. And especially, those of you who have signed up on the Prism Tier. You not only have allowed me to see what it feels like to start getting paid for my actual writing, but you've allowed the writing to pay for itself. That's massive! Substack has been a beautiful way for me to begin sharing the story behind the story, breaking down exactly what all went into crafting my series. Now my new site is providing me with the opportunity to share the full depth of what exists inside that story as I set myself on the path toward realizing my publishing goals. Having a dedicated author website remains absolutely crucial because your website acts as your true home base on the internet. It's the platform that you own entirely. While Substack is a powerful tool for content distribution, the personal website offers long-term stability, control, and searchability that third-party platforms simply cannot match. It's the perfect place for a permanent biography, a professional press kit, your book portfolio, or a “work with me” page. Those elements just feel clunky inside a standard newsletter feed. On your own website, you decide exactly how your work is presented. You can have full control over your design and overall feel. You get complete control over the brand and user experience. I have crafted a fully immersive experience that allows visitors to feel the weight of the narrative before you even start the first sentence. I've created a place where you can explore the full depth of the world that's been created in my stories. You can learn about the locations and discover the cast of characters. I'm building a section detailing the full magic systems and explaining the different cosmologies that go into the belief structures of my characters. There's even radio broadcasts that play the in-world news updates from the narrative, providing added details from the world itself to facilitate a deeper dive into the Kingdom of Evenhere. Quite possibly, my favorite feature about this new site is that I am able to share full chapters of my memoir with the world for the first time ever. These chapters will not be available anywhere else. Obviously, this is an extremely personal project for me and it was not easy to sit down and write about all the things that I have included in the memoir. It was important to me that I was allowed to have full ownership and full control over the ways in which it is shared and presented to potential readers. Having my own domain and my own site makes that ownership possible. So now instead of only telling my readers about my memoir, I finally get to show it to them. On my terms. Substack is fantastic and I’m not going anywhere any time soon. The fact remains that building a portfolio solely on rented land comes with risks that could be detrimental to your progress. Platforms can change their terms, they can increase their fees, or they can lock you out of your account which could erase thousands of subscribers or years of content. Your website ensures that you own your content, your subscriber data, and brand identity permanently. It serves as a permanent hub for your career, regardless of which social media platforms rise or fall. It also removes the dependence upon the algorithm whichever algorithm that is. We've all already experienced the Instagram algorithm crunch and we all know exactly how difficult it is to get properly seen by the people you're trying to reach on Facebook. Plus, not everyone is built for tiktok and not everyone wants to be posting videos of themselves all the time or relying on competition with the influencer crowd for clicks in order to ensure our careers get off the ground. One really big deal is that Substack has limited SEO optimization whereas content on your own website ranks much better on Google. This makes it easier for new readers to find you organically. Plus, a website allows you to structure evergreen content that brings in traffic for years. Newsletter posts, on the other hand, eventually get buried in inboxes. The website becomes a place where you can sell your books, merchandise, or services directly from your own site without sharing a commission. A dedicated website also lets you set up marketing funnels, like giving away a free story in exchange for an email address, which is much harder to execute on a newsletter platform. It's a Miley vs Hannah situation because you literally can have the best of both worlds. These platforms work perfectly together and the best approach is to treat them as complementary tools. You can use the website as your foundation and let Substack be the engine that drives the traffic and connection. Your website can house the archive and shop as the permanent place for your content and your books while serving as your main intake hub. While Substack is still there holding space as the newsletter and housing the community so you have easy access for updates, essays, and direct conversations. Personalized and Professional Value There's another extremely important reason why having dedicated author website is vital. The three key components to successfully becoming a published author are to have a great idea, a great story, and a platform. It used to be that you only had to have two of those. A great story and a great idea were fine even if you didn't have a platform. But, the days of that being true are seeming to be moving away. It's undeniable that the digital world has taken over everything and content creators are a dime a dozen. While there are still people who are able to get in the door without this, it is naive to still believe that having a professional digital footprint isn't a necessity. As the world continues to conduct more and more of its life and business in the online world it is slowly becoming more and more difficult to ensure that your work gets seen and is treated with the value that it deserves unless you place yourself in the market where the majority is existing. While having a dedicated author landing page does serve as a marketing tool and a place to directly sell your work, it also provides a point of presence in the digital world. Presence matters. From what I have come to learn, it matters a lot more today than it did only six months ago. Things have changed in the publishing world and not everyone is talking about it, but they are noticing it. Across the entire literary realm, agencies and publishing houses are closing and filing bankruptcy. Big publishing houses are having to eat the massive debt left behind by some of the smaller organizations, and that is causing a tightening of risk-taking in picking up new authors. It has always been that agents, editors, and publishers want to see that a new author they are interested in will be able to carry part of the load in getting the word out about their work. Now more than ever, that has gone from a bonus to an absolute necessity. We must show that we have the ability to attract, engage, and convert would-be readers into dedicated and active communities. If we want our work to be picked up and remembered, we have to show that we are invested in the presentation as much as the punctuation. We have to make it apparent that we can craft skilled prose and it is vital that we show that we are skilled pros. A dedicated site tells the industry and the reader that our work has merit and already has its own home. It shows the ones who need to see it that the author is ready to not only participate in the conversation, but that they have already started it. Plus, a really cool aspect of being able to acquire your own domain and website for the use of marketing and raising awareness around your work is that it comes with a business email that looks extremely professional. This obviously isn’t a necessity, as people get published every single day with just a regular Gmail account. That being said, it undeniably gives your queries and outreach that added punch that shows a level of professionalism that not all people have when they enter the conversation. For example, I was able to acquire colors@jeffbwhite.com which if you excuse me for saying this is completely badass and honestly has made me fully emotional. It's on brand. It's on theme. It's unexpected, but not in a way that is unprofessional. Personally, I believe it is a another layer of proof that I know what I'm doing and I'm acting with intention. Finally, and overall, this entire process is an a

    14 min

  4. Apr 30

    Walking Away Free

    You might have noticed my recent silence here on the platform. I had to step away from my apartment in the Bronx and travel south to navigate a severe medical crisis involving my family. Many of you subscribe to Find Your Colors to explore the mechanics of processing trauma. You show up here to learn how to build internal vibrancy and find healing from old wounds through spiritual effort. Over the past two weeks, I was forced to put those exact practices to the ultimate test in the face of the man who manufactured my oldest wounds. The essay below is an unfiltered reflection on that journey… One Final Goodbye As I sit in my apartment in the Bronx writing this, I’m astonished that I’m actually home. It’s as if the events of the past two weeks never happened. My mind is dizzy from the whirlwind of emotions and shock. Yet here I am, stepping back into my regular life after spending two weeks in hell. Back in November, we learned that my father had glioblastoma, a very severe brain tumor. He endured the surgery and they removed it all, but the aftermath of that type of surgery, especially at his age, was detrimental. Glioblastoma is an end-of-life diagnosis. As he began to deteriorate, I received another call: his heart was failing. He needed open-heart surgery at 82 years old. The doctors informed me that he weighed 125 pounds. He was incoherent, non-responsive, and in a position where if he had gone under for surgery, he would not have come back. It was then that myself, my mother, and my sister joined together on the phone. My mother and sister were focused on getting him to heal, getting him back to normal so he could just be the way he was. It became my responsibility to inform them that that wasn’t possible. I had to be the one to break the news to my mother that Daddy wasn’t coming back. That he would never be the same. I gave them the information, of what the tumor, the brain surgery, and the stage 4 congestive heart failure all mean together. That’s when we shifted from talks of surgery and palliative care to talks of hospice. The three of us made the decision together, and then we hung up. I created a group chat with my mom and my sister where I gave them some attempt at inspiration, just trying to lift them up and hold them together. My mom said she understood what I was saying. My sister said she just didn’t have any words. I told her not having words is fine and that we’d get through this together. She said she was going to go be with my mom. I didn’t hear back from her for a while. About an hour later, I got a call from my mother. My sister had locked herself out of the house and gotten extremely stressed out. She called my aunt and started walking to the hospital, which isn’t far from where they live. She fell. She had a seizure. The EMTs came and she had another seizure. They airlifted her to the hospital in Asheville. My sister was diagnosed with lung cancer three years ago, the same week I was diagnosed with leukemia. Her cancer had metastasized and moved to her brain. A distant metastasis of a recurring lung cancer. The prognosis for this is very small. I asked my mother if she wanted me to come. She said yes. I bought a plane ticket immediately and flew to North Carolina. For the first few days my sister wasn’t there. It was just me, my mom, my dad, and an older cousin. I had planned to only stay two weeks because I have an upcoming apartment move and my own chemotherapy treatments waiting for me back in New York. I packed my bags and went down to help my sister heal and get everyone ready as we dealt with the looming death of my father. Once I arrived, I realized that despite the fact that everyone was sick, and some of them were dying, no one had any end-of-life paperwork done. No power of attorney. No living will. No DNR. None of it. I had started trying to get this work done way back in November. It took me the full two weeks before I was able to get papers signed, and only for my father. I was never able to get papers for my sister or my mother. My sister’s case is severe. Her prognosis is not good in any capacity. When I tried to talk to her about the actual biology of her brain tumor, the fact that she’d had a quarter of her lungs removed after her lobectomy, and what that means for her body, she accused me of being negative. Literally discussing the definition of the diagnosis and what is happening. Not for the sake of being morbid, but for the sake of preparation. For ensuring that everyone is taken care of and that their wishes are respected. I find it astonishing that I share DNA with people who demand total blindness in the name of comfort. That being practical and responsible and making adult decisions is somehow being negative. As an adult, I have built my whole life around finding the light. I practice witchcraft. I study paganism. I write books about healing trauma through spiritual effort. I’m all about that woo-woo s**t. Manifestation, the power of positive thought, the law of attraction, all of it. These are valuable practices. But being realistic and being prepared is not negative. Yet here I was, being told by the very people who manufactured every toxic emotion of my childhood that I needed to focus on positivity. That everything would just work out if I just believed it. As if my own personal life structure was being weaponized against me. Yes, thoughts influence what happens. We can alter our situations through positivity and light. But we all die. We can’t stop that. We can be educated about it. We can be prepared for it. We can make sure that we’re not a burden on our family after we’re gone. We can make sure that our children are prepared instead of blindsided because we kept telling them everything was okay when it wasn’t. They brought a hospital bed into my parents’ home and set it up in the living room. My father sat on that bed, his actual deathbed, and flat-out declared he was just going to ignore the diagnosis. He wasn’t going to think about it, and then it wouldn’t be real. He said he just wasn’t going to pay attention to the negative stuff. He told me there was nothing seriously wrong with him. That’s when everything snapped into focus. I had spent decades wondering how a father could just turn his back on his own son and throw him out like garbage. Never looking back. Now I finally knew. Acknowledging that he abandoned me would require looking at something ugly, so he just erased it from his mind. You can destroy people for your entire life without any shame or effect on yourself personally, as long as you simply refuse to look at the wreckage. It is the most dangerous kind of toxic positivity. It wipes away personal responsibility and leaves a trail of victims bleeding out in the background. Being back in that house was a total mindfuck. It wasn’t the house I grew up in. It was a house my parents had lived in for fifteen years that I had never seen. My cousin who was there was surprised to learn I’d never even been. I hadn’t seen my father in twenty years. And although this wasn’t my childhood home, it held all of the same stifling energy. I am endlessly grateful that I put twenty years of distance between myself and that family. It took an ocean of therapy to survive them the first time. Walking through the door was like entering a time capsule of a life I spent decades dismantling. On the first day, after about ten minutes, my cousin saw me suffocating and took me to get food just so I could breathe. We sat in the Sonic parking lot and I laughed as I stared off into the distance. I told her, “The fact that they even asked me to come down here makes me want to scream about the laws of audacity.” She simply smiled at me, because she knew it was true. Then I said, “But how could I not have come? They needed me. Of course I would be here.” I asked her if it made me pathetic. As if I’d waited decades for them to throw me a bone. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. I spent thirty-four years in therapy unknotting the mess I survived as a kid. During that time, I used to wonder what it would be like to actually stand in front of my father again and say something. I never believed the universe would put me in that position. I went down there ready to play the part of a normal family. But then I was angry, because I showed up and it was the same people. Then I found myself wondering. Is every family like this? I think of that film August: Osage County, the whole family gathering as the father is dying. They fought. They fought hard. Is that just what families do? When I was a kid, I used to watch Roseanne. Blue-collar family struggling to pay bills, working dead-end jobs just trying to make ends meet. They fought like a real family. They reminded me of mine, except at the end of thirty minutes, you knew they still loved each other. That was the fantasy. Because my family was just like theirs. Loud, obnoxious, large, and poor. But there wasn’t love. Not discernibly. Not from their end. If I’m being honest, that’s always made me angry. I’m still bitter about it. I put aside my bitterness. I put aside my resentment and showed up ready to help. They wanted the idea of my help, but they hated the physical reality of me standing in their house. My presence cost me a lot. I paused my own chemotherapy in New York to travel South. I put my survival on hold to manage the decline of a man who despised me. A man I felt the exact same about. They couldn’t even acknowledge the sacrifice. It’s not that I needed anyone to say thank you, or that I wanted praise for doing the right thing. But after changing my father’s diaper. Honestly, a thank you wouldn’t have hurt as much as an “I don’t need you.” Everything revolved around his hospital bed. He was drowning in terminal delirium, his lungs filling with fluid, his brain falling in and out of coherent thought. But the muscle memor

    19 min

  5. Apr 17

    Blush Born Chapter 16 Seeing Colors

    Welcome to Find Your Colors the publication and podcast where we are discussing the Shards of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book in that trilogy titled BLUSH BORN. I am Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of this story. Find Your Colors allows me to share these stories with the world while also discussing the psychological concepts that are present within the narrative and breaking down exactly how I translated my own life experience into this dark fairy tale. I would like to first take a moment to say thank you to all of the new subscribers who have come in in the past few weeks. While I normally make two posts a week where I share chapters, and often include random bonus content whenever it becomes available, I have been on a brief time out from writing, from Substack, and everything in general. But I've gained four subscribers during this time and that is highly meaningful to me. Currently, my father is on hospice and I have gone back home to North Carolina to be with my family and help them during this time. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to come home and face this experience with my family. I’m also grateful for the support that I’ve gotten from a few people here on Substack, and to my friends who have been there during this time. Finally, I’m extremely grateful for legalized marijuana on the state level because I forget that that exists and I would not have survived this situation without it. Hospice care is a monster of a life event to live through. If you’re interested in following along on my hospice journey with dad, please allow me to invite you to check me out on tiktok at @UncleJeffIsHere where I am documenting my experience from my perspective. It’s something that’s not often talked about and it should be because it’s a major part of life that we all end up having to face. Today is the first time in over a week that I’m able to sit down in privacy and peace to bring this latest episode. So let’s get back to our regularly scheduled programming... Recap Previously on Find Your Colors we read through Chapter 15 which was an antagonist chapter which served as a villain showcase. We were able to see the Uncrowned King as he demoted Martier to janitor and ordered Collis, the Big Aught Medic, to be held in the Underprison where he would be fed pebbles for the rest of his days. While I absolutely adore my antagonist chapters and I do and I love writing them, this story is about Jethran. So let’s not waste any more time, as we begin... Chapter 16 Seeing Colors. Outside the Grotto of Trust the world was alive with the humming symphony of new color. The citrine leaves of the trees rustled with the quiet truth of the wind. A teal chested robin hunted a little lavender worm that wiggled on the lilac branches. A periwinkle fox ran with his azure vixen, playing in the light of the gray sun. Hummingbirds that seemed to shimmer like golden sprites fluttered back and forth between roses of amber and mauve. Inside, a deeper quiet had settled between Jethran and Fable. The raw vulnerability of the night before, of shared grief and confessed fear, had forged something new, something stronger than anything Jethran had ever known. Jethran awoke to the soft crackle of the cerulean embers, feeling, for the first time in his life, truly seen and truly safe. He looked at Fable, still asleep on his bed of moss, his colorful wings a reassuring presence. They were not alone. Not anymore. This newfound clarity brought with it a shared sense of purpose, a silent agreement that the world outside the Grotto, with its vibrant beauty, awaited them. Fable stirred, his eyes fluttering open to meet Jethran’s gaze. “Well,” he boomed, his voice still a little raspy from sleep, “we can’t stay cooped up in here forever, can we!” He gestured vaguely towards the Grotto entrance, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not with all that... potential outside.” “I wish all that... potential could tell us what the color means and why I have these powers,” Jethran answered. “It means you’re special, dummy,” Fable said, rolling his eyes. “But we knew that. The question is, what do we do now? We need to find you a proper place, Jethran. Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can figure out what to do with it.” He tapped a finger against Jethran’s cheek, where the colors now pulsed with a steady rhythm. “A place where the King’s shadows can’t reach. I always heard tales, old silvarii stories, about a hidden sanctuary. A place where the colors never faded, even in the Grayest of Ages. Some Silvarii have always said that it’s just a myth. But the thing is, silvarii stories are all based in truth.” He shook his head, a mixture of awe and determination in his eyes. “Well, after what I saw yesterday, I belieave that this is one of those stories that needs to be sought out,” Fable rose, stretching his long, awkward limbs. “Let’s go find your legacy, Jethran. The real one.” Their journey to the sanctuary was a two-day trek that began under a sky still holding the memory of Jethran’s thunderous rage, a bruised-gray canvas slowly softening to a gentler hue. The air, scrubbed clean by the recent storm, tasted of wet ground and growing things. As they ventured deeper, the landscape unfolded like a forgotten dream. The lilac trunks of the ancient trees now held canopies of impossibly vibrant citrine leaves, each one rustling with a dry whisper that was almost a song. Below, the grass, once a dull gray, shimmered with a citrine so profound it hurt Jethran’s eyes. It was a living carpet that stretched to the horizon. Never before heard melodies drifted from the branches above, causing Jethran to pause. “Are those... birds?” Jethran whispered. In the Gray, the only birds he’d ever known were the drab pigeons, their calls were guttural and mundane. These sounds were unfamiliar and intricate. They were full of surprising joy. Fable nodded, his own ears tilting to catch the new symphonies. “They are indeed,” he murmured, a rare solemnity in his voice. “They say the birds remember the old songs.” The wind carried the scent of blossoms, a heady perfume that mingled with the damp richness of the soil, invigorating Jethran’s senses in a way they never had been. As well, to Jethran’s surprise, Fable proved to be an entertaining travel companion. He delighted Jethran with exaggerated tales of his own clumsy escapades. “So there I was,” Fable began, gesturing grandly with one hand while the other clutched his satchel strap, “trying to show a few of the little Silvarii sprittens how to properly catch the silvery sunlight on a dewdrop. It’s a very delicate art, you understand. I had the perfect leaf, the angle was magnificent, the dewdrop was practically singing with light. I’m telling you, Jethran... oh, sugar, it was poetry.” He took a dramatic step, reenacting the moment. “And then I met Aggravus. That’s what I’ve named him. A particularly spiteful tree root who had made it his life’s mission to ambush me. Well, Aggravus introduced my foot to the concept of terminal velocity. One second, I’m a portrait of Silvarii grace; the next, I am a pinwheeling disaster of limbs and wings. I tumbled head-over-wings right into a patch of the most ridiculously shiny flowers you’ve ever seen, with petals like polished pewter. I went in with a certain silvery dignity and came out looking like a walking, talking, utterly humiliated bouquet. There were pewter blossoms clinging to every part of my wings, stuck in my hair, two on one eyebrow... I think I even had one in my ear.” Jethran couldn’t help but chuckle, even managing an accidental snort. Although he tried to hide it, it was a rare and welcome sound that felt light in the moment. That’s it! Fable thought, his heart giving a joyous lurch. That sound. That’s his true color. Not the Blush, not the magic. That right there. A fiercely protective ache, for which Fable had no true name, spread through his chest. The world could have its gray, its kings, its wars. Fable knew, in that instant, that his only quest was to protect that fragile, precious sound. It was the only song that mattered. He puffed up his chest with pride, relishing the moment that he finally got to hear his new friend laugh for the first time. “With all these new emotions flying about,” Fable confessed. “I think I understand joy.” “What do you mean?” Jethran stopped, smiling at Fable. “The first time you see someone smile,” Fable answered. “That’s... that’s when you understand joy.” They both stood, smiling. Then Fable looked away. “That’s stupid,” he laughed. “Nevermind, nevermind” Jethran stepped forward, his brow furrowing. “No!” He commanded. “You truly felt that… what you just said. And if you feel it, it can’t be stupid, Fable.” “Besides, I’ve seen you smile,” Jethran continued. He reached up with his injured arm and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “I understand joy, Fabe.” He then took the lead down the trail and Fable stood there watching him walk away. After a few hours, as the light faded, casting long gray shadows over the forest floor, Fable called out, “We should make camp here. The sanctuary can wait until morning.” He found a sheltered hollow near a stream, its water flowing with a gentle sound. Soon, a small fire flickered to life between a circle of stones, casting cerulean flames. Fable produced a small fishing net, and with surprising agility, pulled out a few fish from the stream. Their scales sparkled with a pale almost translucence. As they cooked the fish over the embers, the subtle scent filled the air. When Jethran took a bite, the pale blue flesh was surprisingly firm, with a clean taste. It was different from the fish that he had prepared after he left the Menders. He felt a pleasant warmth spread through him, a subtle vibranc

    29 min

  6. Apr 1

    I Really Don't Want To Do This

    I still remember the day you sent me away. The ache of that hour you cast me out to stray. You closed the door, built a wall of stone, And left a young boy to the darkness alone. You were never an easy man, but neither am I, A storm meeting storm in a churning sky. I am just a shattered mirror in this desolate place, Just reflecting the parts of yourself that you couldn't stand to face. You turned your back on me, and said you didn't need me, And for twenty long years, your shadow would bleed me. I hungered for you with a craving like sin, While you locked the front door and wouldn't let me in. You scrubbed out my name like a stain on the yard, A ghost in the photos, forgotten and scarred. I begged for one dinner, a final holiday regard, But they couldn't defy you, because you are so hard. Not using a condom was your greatest regret. When you told me that, it was something I would never forget. You never were good with protection, it's clear, Guarding your pride while you ruled us with fear. You spent every day tearing down all I am, Just to hold up your walls like a cold river dam. It's too late for Trojan, no doubt, But now is the time for you to just pull out. I've replayed those tapes twenty years in my mind, I always come back to the exact same question: Would it have killed you to be kind? It's the end of the road, buddy. I wish that my vision wasn't so muddy. I love you, I promise I do. I just thought you'd be gone before I said goodbye to you. You saw me off to school, as a routine it was our way, But now here I come to see you off on your final day. The man who demanded that I leave in disgrace, Now relies on me to lead him to his final place. And they look to me for answers on how to sever the ties, Because they still fear the raging storm in your eyes. You wouldn't believe how hard I have fought for you, We have to protect him, we have to care for him, it's what he would do. See? When it comes to lying to them I'm a chip off the block. But seriously dude how many more minutes are you going to put on this clock? After all this I have to care for the man I despise, Did you ever think maybe the way you treated me wasn't wise? You told me I'd step foot in that house over your dead body. Congratulations, Daddy! It's time for your beam me up, Scotty. You spent a whole lifetime just needing to be right, But now you're leaving and I'm Mr. White. I don't know how I could step into your shoes, You are such a small man, with your petty abuse. What a bitter, dark pill I am forced to swallow, To come home and nurse a cold man in his deathly hollow. I pray the clock runs out and grants quick release, Because all any of us ever wanted from you was to live our lives in peace. I have to take care of the girls now; I have to be the man. Though I barely know how, I'm not sure that I can, With half a man for an example like a compass that's broke. How do I hold up this house built on your wreckage and smoke? How does a son ever learn how to lead, When the father who made him ignored every need? I guess I'll find the exact man that you were in the past, And do what you couldn't, break this cycle at last. I'll start by stepping to the mirror and looking you in the face. I'll guide her with wisdom while I stand in your place. I'm sure I'll screw up but I'll admit is when I do. I'll try some kindness cuz that would be different from you. And then I'll give you love even if you deserve none. And I'll fight to give you peace until your time is done. Alright boy, that's what you say, Because saying I love you just wasn't your way. I want to say you love me, but I don't know if that's true. Maybe that's why I'm coming to help you. Maybe now we'll finally get a chance To fix what was broken before you're under the plants. But you didn't protect the one who you gave a vow. She has no safety, no net. I just want to ask you how, Even in death you just simply failed. You could have been a good man but that ship has sailed. She's going to suffer through so much lack For that one thing I wish I could pay you back. I wish I was different but you're someone I will not miss, But I'm on my way, I really don't want to do this. Find Your Colors is a reader supported publication and listener supported podcast. You can find us at www.findyourcolors.substack.com or by searching for the Find Your Colors Podcast on Spotify and on YouTube, or by clicking the button below. If you like what you've read here, please feel free to join as a free or paid subscriber. Any level of support you give is extremely appreciated, honored, and welcomed. Click the button below for a 25% off for your first year. Click the button below that to join as a free subscriber. Feel free to leave a comment or critique or complaint because those are things that make me stronger. If you know somebody who wants to read some angsty poetry and some emotional fantasy stories, share it with them and we can all learn and grow and evolve together. Thanks for stopping by. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe

    6 min

  7. Mar 24

    Thank You for Your Consideration

    You can reject me. That's totally fine. You won't be bothered. Neither will I. You're not the first one who didn't recognize the story in their hands. You won't be the last. You think I'm not used to it. You're wrong. I've been rejected my entire life. I cut my teeth on rejection. My first rejection came shortly after I spoke my first words. Something about my voice was just wasn't a good fit. You can reject me. That's totally fine. One day someone is going to see me. They're going to see that I'm a story that they can't put down. They will want to see what happens next. They will call me a page turner. They won't call me just when they're horny. They won't call me just when they’re feeling regrets. They won't call me just when they're drunk. They won't call me just when they're bored. They'll call me because they want to be a part of the story. They'll call me because they want to read more. They will want to sign with me. They will want to align with me. You can reject me. That's totally fine. You don't have to reply. I'll figure it out in time. I would be lying if I said I appreciate the same rejection that you gave to everyone else. I understand you just don't have the time. One day someone will have the time. One day someone will take the time. You can reject me. That's totally fine. One day someone will love my cover art. One day someone will want to open me and feel what's inside. One day someone will be enticed by my flaps. They’ll love what the see on the back. They're going to want to know where the story goes. They're going to see the work that I've put into my prose. They're going to love the structure of my sentences. One day someone's going to see that I'm timeless. One day they're going to think that I'm just so timely. One day someone is going to think that I am a great concept. They're going to appreciate my platform. You can reject me. That's totally fine. You don't have to be the agent of my rise. One day someone's going to pick me up. One day someone's going to read me and never want to stop. One day someone's going to want to see how the story ends. One day someone is going to talk about me to their friends. One day someone is going to represent me. Until then, I'll keep representing myself. Thank you for your consideration. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe

    3 min

  8. Mar 21

    The Cancer Unicorn

    Welcome to Find Your Colors, the publication and podcast where I am breaking down the narrative of the Shards of Color Trilogy through an exploration into the psychological concepts within and real life inspiration behind the first book of that trilogy titled, BLUSH BORN. I am Jeff B. White and today I'm going to be discussing something a little bit different from my normal writing. There will be no chapter, and today's breakdown already happened privately. I started chemo today. Four years ago, which blows my mind that it's been that long, I began my cancer experience. It was a terrifying moment in my life. I woke up one day with a softball-sized lump on my neck, and I actually hurt from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. I could barely move, but I got myself to the hospital. In an Uber, because I live in America, so I can't afford an ambulance. After they ran some tests, they came back and told me that I had a malignant tonsillar carcinoma. They demanded that I do a biopsy right then and there on the spot. The doctors came at me with a gun-like needle device they were going to jam into the side of my neck to pull cells from the tumor. They told me to be still and quiet. I did not. One of the doctors held me against a wall as I screamed and begged for them to stop. He pressed my face and my body firmly against the wall while the other one stabbed me with this giant, silver gun thing. Of course, they didn't get the cells that they needed. So they did it a second time. The doctor pinned me harder against the wall and clamped my mouth shut while the other stabbed me in the neck again. They did not get the cells that they needed the second time. They actually attempted and tried to go in for a third attempt. I punched the doctor in the face. Afterward, a third doctor came in the room and sincerely apologized on behalf of Mount Sinai. I then left the hospital against medical advice and was told that I would not survive the weekend. Yet, I continued on and I lived with this malignant tonsillar carcinoma for thirteen months. During that thirteen months, I was also diagnosed with perinasal sarcoma. The treatment for perinasal sarcoma is the removal of your nose, leaving you with a hole in the center of your face. I wrestled with this diagnosis quite heavily. I couldn't imagine, as difficult as my life had been already, to consider living my life without a nose. I fully came to the determination that I was simply not going to seek treatment and would find a way out quicker. To my surprise, at the end of that thirteen months, I was informed that I did not have malignant tonsillar carcinoma. I also did not have a perinasal sarcoma. Both of those were a misreading of my test results. Isn't that fantastic? For thirteen months, I began to seriously and thoroughly plan my death to avoid life without a face. This is when they decided to inform me that I had the least cancer of all the cancers. The cancer that the cancer doctors don't treat as real cancer. The cancer that they sit and watch. Chronic lymphocytic leukemia. The cancer that you can live with for 30 years. Isn't that fantastic? It was at this point that I began to face my own mortality. Susan G. Komen Back in 2015, there was this commercial that would come on late at night for the Susan G. Komen Foundation. It was a commercial with a name: Kathleen's Story. Kathleen was a woman in her mid-to-late twenties. She shared about how she had just had a baby and she found out that she had breast cancer while she was pregnant. She wasn't sure if she was going to be around to watch her son grow up. When she said that because of the research of the Susan G. Komen Foundation there was a chance that she might, that's all I needed to hear. Kathleen's Story worked on me, because I signed up to give monthly donations, and I've given that $15 a month donation for years. I wanted to do my part to assist with breast cancer research. I wanted her to be able to see her son grow up. She led me to think about all of the women in my life. I thought about how grateful I was, and still am, for my own mother. I thought of how grateful I was that, despite her health concerns over the years, she was able to watch me grow up. And then, I thought about how grateful I am that I'm a man and that I would never have to deal with breast cancer myself. I wore the little pink ribbons from time to time to show support during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I proudly wore my Susan G. Komen t-shirt. I just thought I was being a good man; I thought I was being an ally. F**k Cancer Entirely A few years ago, after having received a leukemia diagnosis, I had just begun to learn the steps necessary for navigating that, when a new lump emerged beneath my right areola. This resulted in a diagnosis of Paget's disease. Statistically, this disease makes up for 1 to 4% of all cancer cases. To add to that, only 0.01% of men will be diagnosed with breast cancer. Of breast cancer patients, only 1% of them will be men. The odds of this diagnosis being given to a man is 0.0025%. I am the noise after the decimal point. I am the cancer unicorn. When my doctor made the order for me to have my first mammogram, I suddenly found myself in a crisis of my own manhood. The word breast was now being applied to my own body. I have no appreciation for that word in reference to myself. I have to admit that I still can't use the word when discussing my own body. And I can't bring myself to state that I have that specific type of cancer. I have Paget's disease. It has been an assault against my masculinity that I had never prepared myself to face. My relationship with masculinity and manhood has always been a war. Growing up in the South, I was never masculine enough. We are taught that masculinity is a strength that allows us to be pillars of male rigidity. We don't measure up to what we're told being a man is about if we show our emotions or wear the wrong thing. If we care about how we look or present ourselves, or apply self-care practices. As the years stripped away the noise, I realized that the standard definition of manhood is a hollowed-out lie. It never applied to me anyway, because I'm not some weak little man who allows my masculinity to be defined or gauged from external sources. I'm a strong queer boy who navigates my own manhood and masculinity from within my own internalized barometer. There’s a big difference there. The stoic man, terrified of his own reflection and unable to name his feelings, isn't strong. He is incomplete. A man whose identity is threatened by a hue or a gemstone is the most fragile little creature among us. In truth, the concept of masculinity is nothing more than a fragile box. It is a structure that, for so many men, shatters the second it touches anything soft, vulnerable, or pink. In my case, I found myself facing the very real fear that my masculinity would reach its critical point of breakage the moment that it was placed between two cold panels of a machine. The straight world loves to look down on gay men because they see us as overly feminine and place us in a category where they also place women. Within the gay community, we enforce this rigid hierarchy in the same ways for the same reasons. We look down on the bottom because we bought the lie that assuming the passive role sexually is an effeminate act, and they equate femininity with weakness. Meanwhile, the tops would cry and beg for it to stop if they ever had to do what we do. Men would literally die if they had to do what women do. Because men, even gay men, don't want to be seen as a woman. It’s absurd. I am not a woman, but if you refer to me as one out of your own weak masculinity, I take it as a compliment. Women possess a resilience that men are taught to fear. Women contain this raw, Earth-grounding power and strength. That truth leaves men feeling forced to define themselves as stronger simply because they aren't. I carry no fear over a little lipstick, or some concealer, or even a cute little skirt, if it accentuates all the right parts. Because that's what's cool about a skirt. How I decorate my manhood and how I dress my manhood does nothing to diminish my masculinity. It enhances it. And if your manhood is so weak that it's easily deconstructed by things like this, then it defies the definition that you claim your manhood carries. My masculinity isn't a porcelain vase. It doesn't break because I wear eyeliner or find power in the color pink. I stopped questioning my masculinity years ago. It was solid. I thought that my sense of masculinity had passed every test. Then life gave me a pop quiz. Hold Your Breath Calling to set up the appointments for these mammograms was honestly the worst part, in hindsight. I could hear the receptionist’s smile through the phone. She had her polite, ready-made rejection of a confused man calling a women’s clinic prepared. She always had to put me on hold while she went to go check because she believed that the doctor must have made a mistake. But then she came back on the line, her voice dropped an octave into a solemn tone and I could hear the dead silence behind her words. That was the exact moment the screen told her that I wasn't lost. I was the patient. I missed my first two appointments, because I just couldn't go. When I finally arrived, the clinic smelled of perfume and hand sanitizer. The walls were a sea of pink ribbons and non-threatening pastels. I felt like a trespasser in a quiet space that had been curated for female vulnerability. Every time I sat in that waiting room, the other patients seemed to find their thoughts very difficult to mask. At first, there was an unmistakable recoil. I watched their lips tighten and their brows crease. They silently demanded to know what a man was doing in their sanctuary. Then, a softening would wash over them. They realized we were standing on the same terrifying ground. Their eyes would offer a sudden embra

    18 min
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About

Jeff B. White is the author of Shards of Hope & the Shards of Color Saga. Survivor, activist, and creator. Jeff uses his books to present the psychology of recovery through the lens of fantasy. He's here to give you a map into the light drawn by someone who survived the dark. findyourcolors.substack.com

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