Show Notes
I’m not going to apologize for the silence. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think I owe you sorry — I think I owe you the truth of where I actually was, which is the better trade.
The truth is: we moved.
We’re settled now into one of the newest homes in our new neighborhood, and I’m not saying that to brag, I’m saying it because of how strange it still feels to type. The cats — all three of my girls, plus four surprise kittens none of us were expecting — adjusted before we did. The kids ran room to room testing every light switch before a single piece of furniture came in, leaving fingerprints on everything, which is exactly as it should be. We’re still unpacking. Still in that in-between stretch of turning a new space into one we actually inhabit, not just occupy… but enjoying even that part, the slow work of it.
Here’s the piece I actually sat down to tell you, though…
For most of my marriage, home has meant something else entirely. Rentals. What we could afford. And I say that with pride, not for sympathy — because growing up a poor Black girl in Mississippi, raised by a single mother doing her best by me and my two younger brothers in the older, rougher part of town, is exactly what taught me the difference between the price of a thing and the value of it. I’m not loyal to brands. I don’t chase them. I’d rather eat well than fill a closet — one good bag, maybe, but the rest is just noise to me. None of that is a judgment on anyone who wants differently. It’s just the woman that upbringing made, and for the most part, I love her.
For the most part. I’ll also tell you, because this is THAT kind of letter: I’ve lived through more than one depressive episode. A sticky kind, the sort that doesn’t announce itself and doesn’t leave quickly either. What’s pulled me out of it, more than once now, has been going back to my writing — this writing, actually. The letters I write to you.
That’s really the whole reason this space exists the way it does — not a marketing email, not another inbox of sales and promotions, but something closer to a handwritten letter, sent only when I have something worth saying, to the small, warm community of women I’ve gathered here.
If you’re reading this and you’re not yet part of this Letter Circle, the door’s open at cheniece.com/newsletter — and everything I’ve written before this is sitting in the archive, waiting, if you ever want to go back.
This one actually started as a voice memo, so if you’d rather hear it than read it — kid stimming, rambling, cat interrupting the recording and all — the podcast version is up above too.
I have a cat currently attempting to leave this office because my husband isn’t in it to give her the attention she’d prefer, so I’ll let her go and get back to the rest of my week. I’m glad to be back in your inbox. I mean that plainly, and I mean it for each of you.
Episode Overview:
This episode picks up where the silence left off. I talk about our move into a new home, what “home” has actually meant across most of my marriage, the Mississippi upbringing that shaped how I hold money and value, and a depressive episode I’ve lived through more than once — plus the unglamorous, ongoing practice that’s helped pull me out of it every time. This is me handing you the truth instead of an apology.
What’s Inside:
Why I stopped apologizing for silence, and what I think I owe you instead
Growing up a poor Black girl in Mississippi, and what that taught me about price versus value
The sticky kind of depressive episode that doesn’t announce itself — and doesn’t leave quickly either
Why this space exists as a letter, not a marketing email
Featured Insights:
“I don’t think I owe you sorry — I think I owe you the truth of where I actually was, which is the better trade.”
“What’s pulled me out of it, more than once now, has been going back to my writing. This writing, actually. The letters I write to you.”
Join the Conversation:
“What’s ONE thing (writing, a ritual, a person…) that’s pulled you back to yourself in a hard season?..”
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The Little Alchemies podcast celebrates the complex journey of raising neurodivergent and special needs children while reclaiming our identities beyond caregiving. Hosted by Cheniece, mother of two autistic children and advocate for parent well-being.
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With MUCH warmth,
Cheniece Patrick ♡
P.S. — Your 🎁 Resources link lives inside every letter I send you. It is how you find everything that has ever been created for this community — organized, searchable, and always there whenever you need it. You never have to hunt for anything twice.
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Little Alchemies is more than just another lifestyle blog or newsletter about parenting special needs and neurodivergent children; it’s a mom’s real life personal journal and a sanctuary for other mothers and women inhabiting their lives again after Survival Mode. Through honest essays, gentle prompts, and an intentional community, you’ll rediscover your creativity, identity, and inner calm.
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