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 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

  2. 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

  3. 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. Get full access to Find Your Colors at findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe

  4. 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. Get full access to Find Your Colors at findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe

  5. 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

  6. Mar 8

    The Seven Songs: Making Myth of Emotion

    Welcome to Find Your Colors. I am Jeff B White and I am the writer and creator behind the Shards of Color Trilogy. Find Your Colors is a reader supported publication on Substack and a listener supported podcast on Spotify. Wherever you find us be sure to like, follow, and subscribe. As I prepare to publish BLUSH BORN, first book in this trilogy, I'm using this platform to build awareness of these books and to explore the story. I'm breaking down all the psychological concepts that are present within all three books and as well explaining exactly how I translated my memoir, Shards of Hope A Tweaker Witch's Journey into this dark fairy tale. But more than that, Find Your Colors is the platform through which I am allowed to experience my life's purpose, and the purpose behind all the things that I have survived in my life. That purpose is having survived those things, so that I could share the story allowing some person out there who might be going through something similar or through their own level of nonsense to feel less alone. While I am discussing very specific things from my life, the foundation upon which this work is built is that universal truths apply. Those are: The power that you're searching for comes from within you. The strength that you need is already yours. And the light that you are looking for, is right there waiting, you just have to know where to look. That's why I'm here. We are going to look inside and Find Your Colors. Recap On Monday we continued on with the reading of the book BLUSH BORN with Chapter 8 Colorless. We were introduced to the cast of characters who portray the architects of the gray and we ended with Jethran sent to the dungeon. Because I missed my regular chapter posting day, I decided today I want to do something a little different and I'm going to expand upon a previous post about the Seven Songs. The Breakdown The Rhythm of the Seven Songs On Monday, I will pick back up with Chapter 9. As for today, I previously explained how the Seven Songs were inspired by real-world individuals. Now, I want to show you how they actually exist within the world of BLUSH BORN through both present-day events and historical grounding. When I created these characters, I knew I wanted the fallen gods to be called the Seven Songs. The name ties directly into the full cosmology of the world and the spiritual beliefs of the Silvarii people who listen to the Hum of the Great Melody. This is a their world's answer to meditation and harmonic resonant frequencies. However, one thing always bothered me. There was never an organic way for them to actually be songs. People sing throughout the story, and singing becomes a massive part of the narrative later, but the gods themselves were never literal songs. From my point of view, it felt like huge a plot hole. The narrative could have functioned without them being songs, yet their titles demanded more. The Myths of the Songs Below are each of the Seven Songs, along with their myths, and the songs that were crafted from the myths. For this story I created my own emotions and elements as you'll see below. I. Crezwil (Purple: Emotion of Embrace and Element of Flame) The meaning and purpose behind this specific being is to convey the need for integration of the stories we've survived with the person we've become. Embracing the one who was wounded. There was a scar, jagged and deep, that no one dared touch. A cursed wound etched across a sacred hill. But one day, a traveler came who knelt before the wound and kissed it. From the scar bloomed a flower, fierce and wild, its petals stained with every hue the world had tried to erase. The traveler carried that bloom inside, where it grew into a fire. They wore their story on their skin. The people in the world saw them and said that they were grotesque. They saw themselves as glorious, because they were unhidden. The light that shone from their wounds was a song of survival made visible that resonated in the bones of others, reminding them of their own unhealed parts. They did not ask to be seen, but they radiated until others could not look away. But in the process of being seen, they helped others to see themselves. Because of this, they loved their beautiful story. Sung upon a once before… A wound sat on a small hill, Stretching out both near and far. People feared the wound until, A traveler saw the scar. Seeing it held no such curse, Forgotten pain is much worse. They kissed the scar gave it love. Soon a purple flower grew, Glowing with the brilliance of Miraculous vibrant hue. Plucked to keep the flower safe, Sheltered from the worldly chafe. Its warmth made the spirit soar. Its love put the pain to sleep. It opened the healing door, To truths we struggle to keep. The traveler then knew he, Loved their beautiful story. II. Muralis the Listener (Blue: Emotion of Stillness and Element of Void) The meaning behind this entity is to convey acceptance of Stillness and quiet in order to allow healing when trauma has become too loud, but to not linger in those moments of Stillness for too long or else one becomes trapped. They say the forest forgets itself every winter, swallowing names and footprints. A wanderer came, skin peeled from too many winters, lungs filled with smoke. They inhaled the blue mist that erased hunger, pain, and memory. They became no one. An echo without a voice. Behind them trailed a thin line of smoke, a secret they could not shed. One day, a child followed that thread, eyes burning with questions. The child whispered a name into the cold air. The smoke trembled. The wanderer woke. To wake was a violence and a grace; a sudden, searing agony that was also undeniable proof of being alive. They looked down and found their own hands again, trembling with survival. Raw, unclaimed, real. Sung upon a once before… Soldier burning deep within, Trapped in anguish of the war. Quiet settles on his skin, Standing on the ruined shore. Mists born of the summer storm Offers quiet in its form. Silenced screams and silent fear, Replace terror of what's lost. Voices speak but you must hear, Forget pain at any cost. The child you know comes again Whispers truths from way back then. Memories caged in his head, Forget so you remember. Pulling the connected thread. Cerulean's burning ember. Leave the bitter dark behind, Pain unraveled frees his mind. Discovering he’s alive. III. Elba Reclecta (Red: Emotion of Memory and Element of Self) For this one, the purpose is to convey the importance of our memory and of our path. Knowing where we've been and how we've gotten here so that we can be able to fully embrace our future and where we're going. The giant red lady suspended from the purple crescent blood moon. Swings over the graves of lilac dirt with the weight of time, held captive by the gravity of history. Her silent pendulum ticks the end of an era and tocks the beginning of an eon. She was a silent witness to all endings, and so the dead trusted her with their truths. She hummed a beautiful tune as she held out one hand that contained the past, in the other she held the future. Those who watched felt the weight of their own bones, the pull of a lineage reborn in rhythm and memory. The weight of the memories of every person who lived and died was a heavy song to sing, costing her the memories that were most precious to her. The memories of herself. The people living asked her why she would give her own memories just to remember those who were gone. She said, "Because when the past is forgotten, the future’s beauty dies." Sung upon a once before… Swinging from the crescent moon, Holding futures in her hand. She hums the past with her tune, Swings over the shadowed land. Over graves of lilac dirt Healing all the ancient hurt. Heavy songs across the space, Humming with the bitter tears. Watching the forgotten place, Washing away bitter fears. Given for the truth compelled Losing memories she held. If the past is left to fade, Future beauty surely dies. Giving up the self she made, Watching with unknowing eyes. Truth will make the vision clear Casting out the ancient fear. IV. Rabb the Storm Eater (Yellow: Emotion of Justice and Element of Seed) The meaning behind this entity is to learn the difference between the righteous rage in the face of injustice and the destructive anger that serves no purpose. With one we can fight against wrongdoing but with the other we only get in the way. They tell of a man born beneath a sky that never rested, where storms roared and lightning struck with reckless fury. The land trembled, and the people cowered behind walls of silence. But the man did not flee. Instead, he opened his mouth wide and swallowed the fire. Each bolt seared his flesh and cracked his bones, yet he stood firm. His teeth a grinding thunder. When the last storm was devoured, the skies calmed. His heart glowed like a captive star, and his voice forever rumbled with the echo of the thunder he had tamed. The people named him monster, a madman who invited destruction into himself. But the land remembered him as a shield. The storm-eater who bore the lightning so others could stand unbroken. Sung upon a once before Underneath a boiling sky, Storms will rattle at the door. Watching primal lightning fly, Crashing on the valley floor. Aureolin strikes the night, He inhales the jagged light. Thunder he must now control, Holding all the storm within. Taking on the heavy toll, Bones aglow beneath his skin. People scream and call him beast As he makes the sky his feast. He stands ready as a shield, Swallows the deep unspoken. Standing firm within the field, So others stay unbroken. Banishing the shadows deep Guarding those who fall asleep. V. Hun Gun the Seer (Orange: Emotion of Release and Element of Wave) For this one it was important to convey the point of releasing ourselves from what if and what could have been, to mourn the different versions of ourselves that we never became so that we can

  7. Feb 28

    A Flamethrower on the Roof: An Essay on the Radical Act of Supporting Women's Safety

    Welcome to this extra edition of Find Your Colors. I am Jeff B. White and I am the author of The Shards of Color Trilogy. This space is about finding your inner colors and shining your light unapologetically. There is no set of colors more beautiful and no light brighter than that of the flames we ignite when we set the old systems ablaze and burn them away. Let's Discuss I am so interested to hear from my readers on this topic. To the women, if you don’t mind sharing, what are some ways that the men who do care can become stronger allies in your struggle for equitable treatment? To the men, your opinion on this matters, too. So if you do not mind speaking up... Actually, no I’m joking. Our opinions on this do not matter. Just be quiet for once, Kevin. Listen to the women and let them tell us what needs to be done. Then do it. What's Next? Next week we will be back to the regularly scheduled program where I will be providing a further breakdown of the next chapter of BLUSH BORN. I will be sharing the text of Chapter 9 Loss of Color. In the breakdown, we will be discussing how often moments in which we experience the most profound loss can be the same moments that define who we become, and in turn, can be the most empowering. Join the Moment Find Your Colors is a reader supported publication and a listener supported podcast. This is a moment and a movement for those who have been called too different, who have been told that they are too loud, and who have been made to feel as if they are too much so they are afraid of taking up space that is too big. If what you have found here speaks to you in some way, please feel free to join the conversation on Substack and consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Also, look for us on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and YouTube Podcasts where I invite you to follow the show and to provide a rating. You can also leave comments there on your favorite episodes to get the conversation going. As well, you can share this with your friends if you think you know of someone who might benefit from the work I'm doing here with Find Your Colors. It is literally free and it takes less than a minute to do any and/or all of those things listed above. Doing these things shows that you support what I am doing and that you care, and it helps me to be able to achieve my goal of building something that is substantial because it matters. Thanks, Again Thank you again to the 28 people have subscribed to this substack. It's been less than a month since I joined and I'm already well ahead of expectations. I did not know that this experience was going to be so meaningful. Bye for Now So as always, if you read this all the way to the end or if you listened all the way through, you are absolutely my hero and so I thank you for allowing me the time out of your day and the space in your brain to share my story and my point of view while together we build the new world on the foundation of the ashes that remain after we burn the old one down. Get full access to Find Your Colors at findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe

  8. Season 1 Trailer

    Spotify Trailer

    I am Jeff B. White and this is the story of Blush Born, A Faded Quest, and Echoes of Foreshadow. I wrote a gritty, honest memoir about that life and that survival called Shards of Hope: A Tweaker Witch's Journey. But sometimes, reality is too jagged to hold. Sometimes you have to melt the shards down and forge them into something else. So I took the addiction, and I turned it into a song of power. I took the trauma, and I turned it into a Monochrome Kingdom. I took the survival, and I turned it into a fairy tale. I translated my life into a dark fantasy allegory called The Shards of Color Trilogy. Find Your Colors is the podcast where we peel back the curtain. I'm going to show you the true story behind the fantasy. Get full access to Find Your Colors at findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe

    Spotify Trailer
See All (14)

Trailer

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

Information

  • Creator
    Jeff B. White
  • Years Active
    2026
  • Episodes
    14
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Jeff B. White
  • Show Website
    Find Your Colors Podcast