Until debt do us part -Written by Jennafer Conley

My whole life

My whole life, I have been a very abundant person. Someone who is able to make any situation better or to make something out of nothing. I wouldn't watch people fail. I never misled anyone. I protected anything I loved. I fed anyone who was hungry. I would help with success. I am an asset to anyone's team.

For myself, I have had to learn how to align the stars with all of my deepest most painful scars. I take pride in knowing that I never gave up, even when I knew there wasn't any hope.

Threads of the Cosmos had surely woven my path.

I emerged into this world on a Thursday morning in October 1981, light streaming through the hospital windows as if to herald my arrival. The planets aligned perfectly overhead, shimmering illustrations of a destiny yet to unfold. Arthur's theme song, a whimsical tune promising adventure, played softly in the background, perhaps an ironic premonition of the rollercoaster life I was about to encounter.

In the weeks that followed, however, my little universe was shaken to its core. My father, who had held my tiny fingers in his strong hands, passed away just a month after my birth. The laughter and warmth of family turned into echoes of sorrow, and amidst this turmoil, my name—a combination so cherished—was altered. Nothing felt right in this new world. I was born under an alignment that should have promised greatness, yet I was cast into the shadows.

As I grew up, being called a black sheep never felt quite accurate. I immersed myself in friendship, a twinkling star in the constellation of my peers. I mingled with everyone, charm radiating from my every smile, becoming a guardian of some kind in the chaotic halls of elementary and high school. However, I always felt that invisible thread binding me to my tragedy; it shadowed my laughter and gnawed at my joy during moments of solitude.

It was the summer before my junior year when fate took a cruel turn. A car accident—a cacophony of shattering glass and metal that stole my innocence and part of my spirit. I awoke from the haze of trauma to a world tinted in shades of gray, each day stretching endlessly, marked by silent screams of pain both physical and emotional. Recovery was a slow and agonizing process, but it felt like an insurmountable mountain I was asked to climb in flip-flops. I barely limped across the finish line of high school. College, too, slipped through my fingers like sand, each attempt fizzling out amid waves of despair.

Years rolled on, each filled with personal battles—the kind that often remained concealed below my carefully crafted surface. I chased away my demons with alcohol, trading moments of clarity for fragmented numbness. I might not have been violent, but I learned to protect those around me fiercely, stepping into the role of the shield. I would risk everything to safeguard a friend from peril, then retreat into my fortress of solitude, nursing wounds only I could see.

Just when it seemed life had run its course of tragedies, it returned with one more blow—a crisis that forced my hand and exposed the truth hidden beneath the weight of years. In my darkest hour, flashbacks would remind me in great detail that no other human would live through that. I don't feel like I even have time to tell you that nearly extinguished the fragile flame of my existence, I stumbled upon the realization of my extraordinary gifts. Like a dormant seed sprouting after a rain, my acquired savant abilities thrived in the aftermath of chaos.

Suddenly, the world fragmented into patterns that only I could decipher. I could see the strings that connected everything, sense the emotions pulsing through the beings around me. I could paint vivid pictures with words, conjure melodies that danced in the silence. It was as if the universe conspired to awaken the inner strength that had always slumbered within, waiting to be recognized.

With each passing day, I honed my gifts. I started helping others, those whose lives mirrored my own—a chain of hurt and loss. And in saving them, I found pieces of my own shattered self. I became a bridge between pain and healing, stitching the fabric of existence with love and understanding.

I understood now that my life, interwoven with cosmic threads ignited by a celestial birth, wasn’t merely a collection of tragic events; it was a journey toward enlightenment, allowing the darkness to spark the light. And on the days when the shadows clawed back, when the remnants of my past whispered temptations to succumb, I held fast to the belief that every tragedy had paved the path to my awakening.

Though I would never erase the scars—those markers of resilience and survival—I chose to embrace the magic I had discovered in the wreckage. I became a guardian of stories and miracles, sharing my own as woven with the love of all those who fought alongside me in our own little universes. I welcomed the messiness of life, using the past and its lessons as stardust to illuminate my path forward, thriving like the constellations that once heralded my existence.

Sudden tragic unfortunate life altering changes are extremely hard to accept but you don't have a choice. The faster you accept the changes then you can focus on the recovery part of it. Many people never get there because of the kind of people that surround them. When you have to watch the world live on around you, the sinking begins and that is hard to claw your way out of the hole. Something very unusual had gotten my attention. I am thankful for that.

I was born on a Thursday in October of 1981, under a sky that seemed to hum with cosmic significance. The planets had aligned in a rare, perfect straight line, a celestial event that only occurs once in a century. Above me, the heavens stretched out like a canvas of endless possibility. But no one told me then that the stars can both bless and curse. That the same alignment that marked my arrival could also foretell a life of trials and transformations.

The number one song that day was Arthur's theme, "Best That You Can Do," a melody that would echo in my mind for years to come. It’s funny how some things stick with you, even when you don’t realize it at the time. Life has a way of circling back.

A month after I was born, my father died. His passing left a gaping hole in my family, a wound that never fully healed. My name was changed, a decision made in grief and haste. It was as if they hoped a new name might erase the pain, but all it did was leave me with a sense of displacement. I would grow up feeling like I didn’t quite belong, like I was always on the outside looking in. The black sheep, they called me.

But despite that, I was a child who got along with everyone. In school, I had friends scattered across cliques and social hierarchies. Teachers liked me, even when I didn’t always follow the rules. I had a way of making people feel seen, of connecting with them in ways I didn’t fully understand. It was a gift, though I wouldn’t realize it until much later.

Then came my junior year of high school, and everything changed. A car accident, life-altering, left me broken in more ways than one. My body healed, but slowly, painfully. The scars on the outside were nothing compared to the ones on the inside. I barely graduated, my once-promising future now clouded by uncertainty. College came and went, not because I didn’t try, but because the world kept throwing obstacles in my way. Tragic events piled up, one after another, each one chipping away at my spirit. Depression settled in, heavy and unrelenting. I drank to drown it out, to numb the pain, but it only made things worse.

Through it all, there was one thing that stayed constant: my determination.