It’s the story of a survivor stepping out of the architecture that shaped them — and beginning the long work of building something new. #SurvivorReclamation #TruthTelling #BreakingSilence #Protyus

https://protyusagendherpoet.wordpress.com/2026/05/01/the-first-crack-in-the-wall/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

The Empty Leaderboard

2,530 words, 13 minutes read time.

Mark Holloway felt the heat of the stage lights on his neck, but for the first time in his life, it didn’t feel like a spotlight of judgment. It felt like a cleansing fire. He stayed in that embrace with Chris for a long moment—long enough for the silence in the room to turn from awkward to heavy, and finally, to something holy. When he pulled back, he saw that Chris wasn’t the “Lakefront King” he had built him up to be in his mind. Chris looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes that no Instagram filter could have hidden if Mark had been looking for them instead of looking for reasons to feel inferior.

“Mark,” Chris whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans in the ceiling. “That lake photo? That was the only ten minutes of that entire weekend we weren’t screaming at each other. My oldest son told me he hates me on the drive home. I spent the last three nights sleeping on the couch because I don’t know how to talk to my wife anymore. I saw you walk in every Sunday and I thought, ‘There’s Holloway. He’s got that quiet, steady strength. I wish I was that composed.'”

Mark felt a dry, ironic laugh bubble up in his chest. “We’ve been haunting each other, Chris. We’ve been living in each other’s shadows, and the shadows aren’t even real.”

The pastor, a man named Miller who usually kept a tight grip on the “order of service,” didn’t move toward the microphone. He stayed in the front row, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking slightly. The “program” had officially died, and in its place, something raw was breathing. Mark looked back at the stage—the mahogany lectern, the expensive lighting, the 4K screens. It all looked like cardboard now. It was all just scaffolding for the real work happening on the floor.

Mark turned toward the rest of the men. He didn’t go back to the microphone. He didn’t need the ten thousand watts anymore. “I used to think that being a ‘Man of God’ meant being a man of answers,” he said, his natural voice carrying through the hushed rows. “I thought it meant having the firmest grip and the most certain spirit. But look at us. We’re a room full of experts on things that don’t matter and novices on the things that do. We know the stats of players who don’t know we exist, but we don’t know the fears of the man sitting six inches away from us.”

A man in the back, someone Mark recognized as a high-powered attorney named Steven, stood up. Steven was known for his sharp suits and an even sharper tongue in committee meetings. He wasn’t wearing a suit tonight. He was wearing a faded polo shirt, and he looked smaller than Mark remembered.

“I’ve spent forty thousand dollars on a kitchen remodel I didn’t need because I wanted my brother to be jealous,” Steven said, his voice cracking. “And my daughter hasn’t looked me in the eye in six months because I’m never home to eat in that kitchen. I’m a success in the courtroom and a stranger in my own hallway. I look at all of you and I feel like I’m wearing a costume.”

One by one, the “Holloway Effect” began to ripple through the pews. It wasn’t a landslide; it was a slow, steady breaking of a dam. These weren’t the polished testimonies you hear on a Sunday morning—the ones where the struggle is safely in the past tense and wrapped in a neat bow. These were “present tense” confessions.

Mark sat down on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling over the side. He felt a strange sense of peace watching the hierarchy of the church evaporate. The “Alpha” guys, the “Quiet” guys, the “Success” stories, and the “Struggling” cases were all bleeding into a single, unified color: human.

He thought about his house—the one with the mortgage that felt like a collar around his neck. He thought about the SUV with the French fry in the seat crack. He thought about the regional account he didn’t get. For years, those things had been the metrics of his soul. If the account was up, Mark was up. If the house needed a repair he couldn’t afford, Mark was “broken.” He had tied his identity to a set of moving targets, and he was exhausted from the chase.

“You know,” Mark said, catching the attention of a younger guy in the front row who looked like he was about to bolt for the exit out of sheer vulnerability-overload. “The hardest thing I ever had to do wasn’t admitting I failed. It was admitting that even if I succeeded, it wouldn’t be enough. We’re all trying to fill a canyon with pebbles. We think if we just get a bigger pebble—a faster car, a better title, a more ‘spiritual’ reputation—the hole will go away. But the hole is infinite. And the only thing that fits in an infinite hole is an infinite grace.”

He looked at his hands. They were the hands of a middle-manager. They were soft in some places, calloused in others. They weren’t the hands of a warrior or a titan of industry. They were just Mark’s hands.

“I spent my whole life wanting to be David,” he mused, referring to the biblical king. “But I think I’m actually just one of the guys in the army who was hiding in the trenches because Goliath looked too big. And the irony is, I was hiding from you guys too. I thought if you saw my fear, you’d leave me behind. I didn’t realize you were in the trench next to me, just as terrified, watching me to see if I’d run first.”

The atmosphere in the room had shifted from a “conference” to a “hospital.” The fluorescent hum of the lobby seemed miles away. Here, under the dimming stage lights, there was a sense of heavy, honest brotherhood that Mark had spent forty years looking for and forty seconds finding once he stopped lying.

He stood up again, but this time he walked toward the back of the room. He wanted to get away from the “Main Stage” entirely. He wanted to be on the level ground. He passed David, the man with the truck, who reached out and gripped Mark’s forearm. David didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes was a silent “thank you.” It was the look of a man who had been given permission to stop holding his breath.

Mark reached the back doors, the heavy oak handles cool to the touch. He turned back one last time to look at the room. The men were no longer sitting in neat rows. They were gathered in small clusters, talking, some with hands on each other’s shoulders, some just sitting in a shared, comfortable silence. The “Leaderboard” was gone. The “Highlight Reel” had been edited down to the raw footage.

“I’m going home,” Mark whispered to himself.

But home didn’t feel like a place he had to perform for anymore. Home was just the next stop on a journey where he didn’t have to be anyone but Mark Holloway. He pushed the doors open, the cool night air hitting him like a physical blessing.

The cool night air was sharp, smelling of rain and the distant scent of pine mulch from the church’s landscaping. Mark stood on the sidewalk for a moment, letting the silence of the parking lot wash over him. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked toward his SUV—the silver crossover he had spent so many years despising because it wasn’t something else.

As he reached for the door handle, he heard the heavy thud of the sanctuary doors opening behind him. He turned to see Jim, the group leader with the booming charisma, stepping out into the light of the entryway. Jim looked different without the pulpit in front of him. He looked smaller, his shoulders slightly hunched against the chill.

“Mark! Wait up,” Jim called out. He jogged down the concrete steps, his breath blooming in the air like small, white ghosts. When he reached Mark, he didn’t offer a handshake or a pat on the back. He just stood there, looking at the silver SUV.

“I’ve lived in this town for fifteen years,” Jim said softly. “I’ve led this group for five. And tonight was the first time I felt like I wasn’t the only one in the room who didn’t have a clue what he was doing.”

Mark leaned against his car door. “You too, Jim? I figured you had a direct line. You always look like you’ve got the next five years mapped out.”

Jim let out a short, hollow laugh. “Mark, I spend my Tuesday afternoons rehearsing my ‘spontaneous’ prayers in the shower so I don’t sound like an idiot. I stay up until two in the morning wondering if I’m just a professional Christian who’s lost the plot. When you got up there and talked about the leaderboard… I realized I’m the one who built the leaderboard. I thought that was my job. To keep everyone climbing.”

“It’s a long way down,” Mark said, not unkindly.

“It is,” Jim agreed. “But the air is better down here, isn’t it?”

They stood in silence for a minute, two men in a parking lot, no longer defined by their titles or their perceived successes. Jim reached out and squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “See you Sunday, Mark. And hey… don’t worry about the parking spot next to David’s truck. He told me he’s selling it tomorrow. He’s going back to a sedan so he can start paying off his kid’s tuition.”

Mark watched Jim walk to his own car, then he climbed into the driver’s seat of his SUV. He didn’t turn on the radio. He didn’t check his phone for notifications. He just sat in the dark. He reached down and picked up the lone, shriveled French fry from the console—the tiny, greasy monument to his “mediocre” life. He looked at it for a second and then tossed it into the small trash bag hanging from the dash. It was a small act of cleaning, a minor order in the chaos.

The drive home felt shorter than usual. He wasn’t racing the phantom cars of his imagination. He wasn’t rehearsing the speech he’d give his boss to explain why the regional account was better off with the younger guy. He just drove. He noticed the way the streetlights reflected in the puddles, the way the neighborhood houses looked warm and yellow in the dark.

When he pulled into his driveway, he saw the light in the living room was still on. He saw the shadow of his wife, Sarah, moving past the window. Usually, this was the moment the “Mask” went on. He would straighten his posture, wipe the exhaustion from his face, and prepare to be the “Standard-Issue Husband.”

But tonight, Mark Holloway stayed in the car for a moment longer. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He saw a man who was tired, yes, but he also saw a man who was finally, undeniably real. He thought about his son, Leo, and the bike chain that needed fixing. He thought about the daughter who was becoming a stranger and the wife who deserved to know the man she actually married, not the one he was trying to be.

He opened the garage door, the motor groaning with a familiar, domestic rhythm. He walked through the mudroom, kicking off his sneakers. The house smelled like laundry detergent and the taco seasoning from dinner.

Sarah was on the couch, a book open in her lap. She looked up as he walked in, her eyes searching his face with that intuitive, terrifyingly accurate “wife-radar.”

“How was the meeting?” she asked, her voice soft. “Was it the usual? Coffee and a ‘be a better man’ lecture?”

Mark walked over to the couch. He didn’t stand over her. He sat down on the floor by her feet, leaning his back against the cushions. It was a position of vulnerability, of being “less than” in a way that felt entirely right.

“No,” Mark said, reaching up to take her hand. “It wasn’t that at all. I think… I think I finally quit my job today.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, her hand tensing in his. “The firm? Mark, we can’t—”

“No, not the firm,” he interrupted, turning to look at her. “I quit the other job. The one where I try to be everyone else. I’m just going to be me for a while. Is that okay? It might be a little messy. I might not have the best truck in the lot or the most polished prayer in the room.”

Sarah looked at him for a long beat, her expression softening into something Mark hadn’t seen in years—a look of pure, uncomplicated relief. She reached down and ran her fingers through his thinning hair.

“Mark Holloway,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for that guy to come home for a decade.”

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Leo was probably awake, sneaking a book under the covers. Tomorrow, there would be bills to pay. Tomorrow, the younger guy would start the regional account. Tomorrow, the world would still be full of leaderboards and highlight reels.

But as Mark sat there on the floor, his wife’s hand in his and the weight of the world finally off his shoulders, he knew he wasn’t afraid of tomorrow anymore. He had found the one thing that no amount of competition could provide: he had been found out, and he was still loved.

The leaderboard was gone. The race was over. And for the first time in his life, Mark Holloway was exactly where he wanted to be. He was home.

Author’s Note

This story is for the man sitting in his driveway with the engine idling, staring at the garage door and wondering when the hell he’s finally going to feel like he’s “arrived.”

We’ve all been sold a lie. We’ve been told that manhood is a ladder, and if you aren’t climbing, you’re suffocating. We walk into our churches, our offices, and our gyms with our chests out and our secrets locked in the basement, terrified that if the guy next to us sees a single dent in our armor, we’re finished. We spend our lives comparing our raw, unedited internal disasters to the polished, high-definition highlight reels of everyone else.

Mark Holloway is the guy in the mirror. He’s the man who realized that the “Leaderboard” he was killing himself to climb was actually a gallows. He finally understood that you can’t be loved if you refuse to be known, and you can’t be known if you’re too busy pretending to be a goddamn superhero.

Stop looking at the guy in the next lane. Stop measuring your worth by the badge on your grille or the title on your door. As it says in Galatians 6:4:

“Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.”

This story is a punch in the mouth to the “Sunday Morning Mask.” It’s a reminder that the most masculine thing you will ever do isn’t winning a fight or closing a deal—it’s having the stones to drop the shield and tell the truth.

The race is a scam, brothers. Step off the track. The only person you’re supposed to outrun is the fake version of yourself you’ve been dragging around for years. Go inside. Be real. Be home.

Call to Action

If this story struck a chord, don’t just scroll on. Join the brotherhood—men learning to build, not borrow, their strength. Subscribe for more stories like this, drop a comment about where you’re growing, or reach out and tell me what you’re working toward. Let’s grow together.

D. Bryan King

Sources

• Galatians 6:4-5 – Testing Your Own Actions
• 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 – Strength in Weakness
• 1 Samuel 16:7 – God Looks at the Heart
• Proverbs 14:30 – The Rot of Envy
• Psalm 139 – Being Fully Known by the Creator
• The Thief of Joy: Dealing with Comparison – Desiring God
• Escaping the Comparison Trap – The Gospel Coalition
• What does the Bible say about comparing yourself to others? – GotQuestions
• The Comparison Trap: Why Men Compete – Man in the Mirror Ministries
• Coming Out of Hiding – Wild at Heart (John Eldredge)
• Overcoming the Comparison Trap – Focus on the Family
• Matthew Henry’s Commentary on Galatians 6:4
• The Crisis of Male Loneliness – Christianity Today
• The Sin of Comparison – Tim Challies
• The Importance of Vulnerability in Men’s Groups – MensGroup

Disclaimer:

The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.

Chelsea Clinton Breaks Her Silence About Her Father — What She Revealed Will Surprise You
Full read here>>> https://tinyurl.com/mtmwx594

#ChelseaClinton #BillClinton #FamilySecrets #BreakingSilence #SurprisingRevelations #PoliticalFamily #ClintonLegacy #CelebrityNews #InTheSpotlight #FatherDaughterTalk

Taking Away the Monster’s Power

There was a Threads post I read last night that stayed with me long after I closed the app. It was about sexual-abuse survivors and how, for many, the deepest wound isn’t only what happened. It’s how their families respond after. One comment read something like, “Parents feel shame because they failed to do the one thing they were supposed to do: protect their child. Out of that shame, they deny it ever happened. And after denying it for so long, the silence itself becomes real.”

That line hit me hard because I know that silence. I’ve lived with it.

When something horrific happens in a family, the natural instinct should be to protect and comfort. But for many survivors, the opposite happens. The adults retreat behind fear and shame, rewriting the story so they can live with themselves. According to trauma psychologists, denial is a common defense mechanism when the truth threatens a person’s sense of identity. A 2018 study published in Frontiers in Psychology found that families dealing with abuse often enter what researchers call “protective denial”—a state where acknowledging the trauma would mean admitting they failed at love’s most basic duty: safety.

That’s what builds the silence.

In families like mine, silence doesn’t just linger. It mutates. It becomes a living thing, a presence that sits at the dinner table and watches TV with you. Everyone senses it, but no one names it. It’s easier to pretend it isn’t there than to face what it means. Over time, the silence becomes the monster in the house: invisible, but powerful enough to shape every conversation, every relationship, every unspoken rule about what can and cannot be said.

That’s the monster I write about.

In The Ordinary Bruja, Marisol lives inside that same haunted quiet—the generational kind that passes from mother to daughter like an heirloom nobody wants. Her mother Josefina tried to protect her the only way she knew how: by wrapping truth in stories, lullabies, and warnings disguised as folklore. It’s something I’ve seen in so many immigrant and Latine families—pain gets encoded in parables because direct confrontation feels dangerous or disrespectful. Storytelling becomes the only safe language for survival.

When I write, I’m not just crafting fiction. I’m translating silence. Every ghost, every haunting, every ancestral whisper in my books represents something once buried. Writing becomes a kind of exorcism; a way to let those spirits finally speak.

People sometimes ask why my stories lean into darkness. I tell them it’s because I grew up in a world that pretended darkness didn’t exist. Writing horror and magical realism lets me drag it into the light. Horror, at its best, doesn’t glamorize pain, instead it forces us to look at what we’d rather avoid. Like the psychologist Carl Jung said, “What you resist, persists.” By writing the very things I was told to keep quiet about, I stop them from persisting in me.

Silence is powerful because it isolates. It convinces survivors that they’re alone in their truth, when the reality is heartbreakingly common. According to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN), about 1 in 9 girls and 1 in 20 boys experience sexual abuse before age 18. Yet fewer than 38% of these crimes are reported. And of those reported, many families respond with disbelief or hostility, which re-traumatizes survivors and pushes them deeper into isolation. That’s how silence becomes its own ecosystem of harm.

For years, I didn’t understand that silence is a form of participation. When we choose not to speak, we hand the microphone to the monster. The more everyone avoids naming it, the more it grows. It slithers between generations, showing up as anxiety, addiction, or perfectionism—disguises that look different but share the same root: unspoken pain.

In writing The Ordinary Bruja, I decided I was done letting the silence win. Through Marisol, I took away the monster’s mask. Her journey isn’t about becoming fearless. It’s about facing what her family refused to confront. When she begins to see her ancestors’ ghosts, she’s really seeing what they hid from her: the pain, the guilt, and the truths that were too heavy to hold.

I’ve learned that every survivor’s story of healing starts with naming. That first whisper of “This happened to me” is an act of rebellion against shame. Shame thrives in secrecy, and truth starves it. When survivors speak, even through fiction, they reclaim their narrative. Research from trauma expert Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score, explains that storytelling helps survivors integrate fragmented memories and rebuild a coherent sense of self. In other words, telling the story—whether aloud, on paper, or through art—is literally how we rewire our brains toward healing.

That’s why I write.

I don’t write because I enjoy the dark; I write because I refuse to let it win. I write to remind myself that even if no one else names the monster, I can. And once I do, it loses its grip.

There’s a particular kind of freedom that comes when you finally drag the unspoken into the light. It’s painful, yes—but it’s also purifying. Every time I describe the ghost, or give a voice to a silenced woman, I feel a piece of that generational weight lift. It doesn’t disappear overnight. Healing never does. But the act of storytelling, of choosing to remember and speak, is a daily declaration: I survived, and the monster doesn’t get to live rent-free anymore.

Denial doesn’t protect anyone. It only delays the inevitable reckoning. Silence is not safety. It’s surrender.

So, yes, my monsters talk. They whisper, cry, and sometimes sing. But they’re mine now. They don’t walk freely through my house anymore.

And that, to me, is what real magic looks like.

#breakingSilence #familyDenial #generationalTrauma #healingThroughWriting #magicalRealism #ownVoicesFiction #survivorStories #theOrdinaryBruja #traumaRecovery

Behind every “I’m fine” may be a story untold. 🌑 “My Door’s Key” speaks the language of silent battles, locked emotions, and the courage to let others in. Read the full poem on Poetic Bipolar Mind. #PoeticBipolarMind #MentalHealthAwareness #PoetryForHealing #DepressionPoetry #BreakingSilence

https://poeticbipolarmind.blog/my-doors-key/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

Lettre d'informations de #StandingTogether

https://mailchi.mp/standing-together/were-stronger-together-so-were-doing-this-9592165

Mardi soir (2025-07-22) à Tel Aviv, plus d'un millier d'entre nous ont marché avec des sacs de farine à la main, lors d'une manifestation d'urgence que nous avons organisée contre la campagne de famine du gouvernement israélien à Gaza.

Nous avons marché parce que nous ne pouvons pas rester silencieux pendant que la nourriture est refusée à des millions de personnes.

Nous ne pouvons pas continuer à vivre normalement pendant que les otages sont abandonnés et que Gaza est effacée.

Nous sommes incrédules face à ce que fait notre gouvernement.

Nous sommes écœurés par les images qui inondent nos téléphones chaque jour : des enfants squelettiques gisant immobiles dans des lits d'hôpitaux surpeuplés, des familles faisant bouillir des herbes pour le dîner, des mères essayant de calmer des bébés qui n'ont pas eu de lait depuis des semaines, et des enfants fouillant les ordures juste pour trouver un morceau de nourriture.

Ce ne sont pas des images lointaines d'une crise humanitaire.

Ces gens sont nos voisins.

Ils sont à une heure de nous, juste de l'autre côté de la clôture.

Alors que nous suivons une routine quotidienne qui ressemble encore à une vie normale, ils vivent et meurent dans une réalité qui a été conçue pour les détruire.

Il n'y a eu aucune couverture de la famine massive à Gaza dans les médias israéliens, et c'est exactement pourquoi nous agissons davantage.

Jeudi 2025-07-17, nous étions devant la chaîne 12 pour exiger qu'ils brisent le silence.

Ce matin, nous avons lancé une campagne WhatsApp. Nos militants ont envoyé plus de 700 messages directement aux journalistes israéliens, les exhortant à rapporter la vérité.

Ce soir, nous manifestons devant les studios de la chaîne 11 (Kan) à Jérusalem, exigeant qu'ils brisent le silence.

Il n'y a aucun moyen de justifier la famine massive.

Il n'y a aucun cadre moral, aucune version de la sécurité, qui puisse expliquer ces morts et exiger d'affamer des millions de personnes.

Et c'est exactement pourquoi nous sommes dans les rues.

Parce que quand ils appellent aux horreurs, nous répondons en nous organisant.

Nous devenons plus forts face à la brutalité parce que nous savons qu'il y a une autre voie à suivre.

Il y a un moyen de renvoyer ce gouvernement raciste et messianique chez lui : en construisant le pouvoir par le bas, en tant que nouvelle majorité de Palestiniens et de Juifs qui refusent de s'abandonner les uns les autres ou d'abandonner cette terre.

Nous n'arrêterons pas de nous battre.

Nous ne permettrons pas à ce gouvernement de nous réduire au silence.

Nous continuerons à nous mobiliser et à descendre dans les rues encore et encore jusqu'à ce que les crimes de guerre prennent fin.

Nous arrêterons cette guerre, nous ramènerons les otages à la maison et nous construirons un avenir enraciné dans la paix et la dignité.

En solidarité,
Standing Together

#######################
# English version

Yesterday (2025-07-22) in Tel Aviv, over a thousand of us marched with sacks of flour in our hands, in an emergency protest that we organized against the Israeli government’s starvation campaign in Gaza.

We marched because we cannot remain silent while food is withheld from millions. We cannot go on with life as usual while the hostages are abandoned and Gaza is erased.

We are in disbelief of what our government is doing. We are sickened by the images flooding our phones every day of skeleton children lying motionless in overcrowded hospital beds, of families boiling weeds for dinner, of mothers trying to soothe babies who haven’t had milk in weeks, and of children digging through garbage just to find a scrap of food.

These are not distant images from a humanitarian crisis. These people are our neighbors. They are one hour away from us, just across the fence. While we move through a daily routine that still resembles normal life, they are living and dying in a reality that has been engineered to destroy them.

There has been no coverage of the mass starvation in Gaza in Israeli media, and that’s exactly why we’re taking more action. Last Thursday, we were outside Channel 12 demanding they break the silence. This morning, we launched a WhatsApp campaign. Our activists sent over 700 messages directly to Israeli journalists urging them to report the truth. Tonight, we’re protesting outside the Channel 11 (Kan) studios in Jerusalem, demanding they break the silence.

There is no way to justify mass starvation. There is no moral framework, no version of security, that can explain away these deaths and requires starving millions. And that is exactly why we are in the streets.

Because when they call for the horrors, we respond by organizing. We grow stronger in the face of brutality because we know there is another way forward. There is a way to send this racist, messianic government home: by building power from below, as a new majority of Palestinians and Jews who refuse to give up on each other or on this land.

We will not stop fighting. We will not allow this government to silence us. We will continue to mobilize, and to take the streets again and again until the war crimes come to an end.

We will stop this war, we will bring the hostages home and we will build a future rooted in peace and dignity.

In Solidarity,
Standing Together

#DontStaySilent #TelAvivProtests
#StandingTogether 💜 #FreePalestine
#TwoStateSolution #EndTheOccupation
#EndTheApartheid #EndTheGazaMassacre #Gaza #famine #starvation #GazaGenocide #MarcheDeLaFarine #FlourMarch #StopWar #Information #Desinformation #BreakingSilence #BreakingTheSilenceIsrael

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The first hour of the #AmericanMasters #documentary on #JanisIan - #BreakingSilence - is especially remarkable! Everyone should know her story ... You probably don't!

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt36263106/reference/?ref_=ext_shr_lnk

#Music #RockAndRoll

Watched a very interesting (to me) 2 hr episode of AmericanMasters on #PBS about the life & career of #JanisIan.

I have a few recordings of hers but didn't realize how meaningful her music was starting with #SocietysChild (1967), which spoke to the then (& still now in some places) controversial issue of inter-racial dating & marriage, thru #BreakingSilence (1992), which spoke to the issues of gender identity & the holocaust.

If you haven't seen this documentary yet, you can watch it here:

https://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/janis-ian-documentary/36024/

🌊 Uncover the chilling truth beneath the waves of Trinidad & Tobago's Paria Diving Disaster.

🎙️ Dive into the full story now!

https://thepodcasting.org/paria-diving-disaster-uncovering-the-truth-behind-trinidad-and-tobagos-underwater-tragedy/

#PariaDivingDisaster #TrinidadAndTobago #PodcastAlert #TrueStory #BreakingSilence #UnderwaterMystery #SEO #ViralNews

Discover the power of silent voices speaking volumes. "Makayla's Voice: A Letter to the World" teaser is now trending, bringing a tale of love, resilience, and the beauty of neurodiversity to your screens. Don't miss this heartwarming story on Netflix.

Check out the teaser right here: https://www.theomenmedia.com/post/the-heartfelt-journey-of-makayla-cain-unveiled-netflix-s-makayla-s-voice-a-letter-to-the-world-t

#MakaylasVoice #NetflixTeaser #AutismAwareness #Documentary #Autism #Inspiration #Neurodiversity #Netflix #FilmTeaser #TrueStory #FamilyJourney #BreakingSilence