Returning to the ‘Sipp: A Southern Reflection
Ground Hog Days
I used to think that going back to Mississippi after the transplants was just another poorly made decision. People told me I looked good, but I knew I wasn’t. I’ve always had this bizarre ability to process inconceivable events in oddly logical ways—absurd, but functional. Most survivors do this. We present as capable and put-together, no matter the turmoil we’re hiding underneath. It’s a kind of charm, I suppose. This charm is part of why I invest time into understanding others before I make assumptions.
In the beginning, my process for healing wasn’t always healthy, but growth has shaped something better in me over time.
The summer of 2014, I was still a chemo-toxic zombie. I was recovering from a transplant. I was waiting for my divorce to finalize. I was trying to pay off debts. I was searching for a place to plant roots. It sounds simple enough, but it wasn’t. I held onto ideas of healing and thriving. I dreamed of rebuilding a life with a circle of close friends. I hoped for a revived faith and maybe even an ocean view. I hoped for opportunities in a place I thought I remembered, among people I thought I missed. I believed I could finish my education before I got sick again.
But instead, I got sicker.
Even now, I still feel that insatiable desire to “handle my business,” to function like my peers. And I carry deep shame when I fall short. I’ve long believed I was incapable. But having children made that kind of self-doubt a luxury I couldn’t afford. I wanted to be someone who could help others—someone strong enough to rebuild, strong enough to reconnect.
Psychology fascinates me. The more I reflect, the more I see how often we act from old programming—not true desire. We move through life doing what we were trained to do, not always what we want or feel.
In the last twenty years, people encountered me at my weakest, and I was insecure. The looping “stinkin’ thinkin’” didn’t help. I was mentally tethered to both past and present. And yet, something in me kept going.
My mother-daughter instincts tell me I won’t pass on immediately when I die—not if I’m not finished. I’ll come back like some Casper-the-Friendly but Vicious-Mama-Bear-Ghost-Energy-Ball, radiating from a space-time warp just to protect my bloodline. As long as I see my girls thriving and self-sustaining, I’ll be able to rest in pieces. Maybe even disappear altogether.
I just want to stop worrying about what comes next.
A job would be nice—if only to stay too busy to dwell on what went wrong.
Mississippi. People are kind here. But kindness in the South comes with cultural expectations. We value politeness in a sacred, old-school way. If you’re a visitor, you’d do well to be respectful when offering opinions. You may not be wrong—but you’d better be polite. In the South, rudeness gets you nowhere. If your child misbehaves in public, someone will absolutely assume it’s your mama’s fault. And they just might tell you.
If you’re Southern-born like me, then you know the deal. You return home, and people remember all the awkward phases. There were the braces, the bad perms, and the Flowbee haircuts. They also recall the little red 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit that broke down in front of the high school every week. This forced your poor brother to push-start it again, even after begging you to drop him off a block away.
Yes, in Mississippi, you’ll get looks if you swear in the wrong company. You’ll also get looks if you go to Walmart without makeup or wear pajamas in public. If your kids don’t match for Easter Sunday, or your daughter skips the giant bow, someone will notice. But someone will also ask, “Who’s your people?”—and they’ll actually care to hear the answer.
Church is an entire social event. If the service runs long, you’ll still shake the pastor’s hand. You might mutter “bless his heart.” Then you rush to beat the other congregations to the buffet line. It’s not Chick-fil-A, of course; it’s Sunday. You’ll feel guilty for your impatience, but you’ll do it again next week. It’s all part of it.
There’s a reason people write poems, books, plays, and songs about Mississippi. It’s a strange, beautiful, and complicated place. A land of thick layers—of soul, of pain, of pride. We carry ourselves with a quiet dignity. We’re survivors, especially those in the veteran community. And I truly believe we should “adopt” the elderly. Their stories hold the answers if we’d only slow down to listen. Maybe real change begins with respect.
Mississippi still teaches manners and basic decency. And in a world spinning fast, those lessons make our children rare. Unicorns, even.
I didn’t always feel like I fit in. I lost the pride I once had in being Southern. I learned more in school. As I did, I found myself apologizing for who I was. I also apologized for where I came from. I felt raw and broken. I was desperate to be recognized for the soul I knew I was. I couldn’t seem to express it. I was trying to “crush it” 24/7, fooling no one but myself.
Southerners pride themselves on being able to rebuild from nothing. We cling to Bible verses to explain our suffering and press on with faith as our shield. But leaving that spiritual bubble—seeing life outside of it—can be disorienting. Sometimes we were hurting too much to recognize the blessings when we lived among them.
Still, I remember the kindnesses.
My brother’s family helped us move back in 2014. They donated my first decent bedroom set. My mother called, texted, visited, and helped financially when we needed it most. Family made holidays special again. We made bonfire memories—both in backyards and on beaches. We fished. We fostered animals. We laughed.
Old friends from junior high made me feel remembered. A cousin dropped off groceries in an emergency. Neighbors helped with gardening. Another cousin fixed my flat tire. My little sister bought our childhood home. She remodeled it and invited us to stay. I tried to figure out our next move. Her family fed us, brought us to fairs, introduced us to snakes and Southern hockey games. But sleeping in my childhood bedroom as a single mom? That hurt.
I watched my favorite aunt leave this world. I watched my cousins cling to her body through the dying process and I felt helpless. I spent irreplaceable time with my grandmother. And my daughters were held by most of my childhood friends.
This is what Mississippi means to me.
We rang bells at church. We had dinner on the grounds. My stepdad took us to Disney World. We went tubing and canoeing. We celebrated birthdays and photographed weddings. We watched fireworks on Biloxi Beach. We rediscovered what faith and resilience look like.
And yes—Mardi Gras, seafood for miles, dirty water, and white sand.
Mississippi is the underdog. Rising from the ashes to become something—anything—because we must. It’s in the soil.
Why did I leave again?
Right. Medical care. Better Education. Teenagers. Life.
But I still remember the kindness. The relationships I’ve restored. The friend who met me for lunch every month. The ones who still call, write, or message me from across the globe. Those are priceless.
Sickness brought me solitude. It also brought a longing for the kind of faith I used to have. I missed the kind of friend I used to be. Most days I felt like I was just surviving—on autopilot, obsessing over everything. As Linkin Park says, “Sometimes there is comfort in the panic.”
Life was a loop. Every day a Groundhog Day. But the beauty is—when you finally get it right—you earn new days. Until the next time you get stuck.
And that’s where I am now.
Still standing.
Still here.
Thanks for hanging out.
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