Nancy Ann Creed

  Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels.com The Quiet Outside The empty space of connection, the gathering, Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe. It hums with plans already made, A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go. My position is fixed: outside. I don't move; I only watch the colors of the evening fade From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light. My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know. The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp: That laughter sounds much louder through a wall— Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy, A painful noise. And conversely, Silence is a heavy thing to wear, A cloak woven from unsaid words. It presses down, making breathing difficult. So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all, A simple notification, an anchor thrown, To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there. The name of "friend," I embraced fully; We call them friends; I gave the...

  Two years ago, the entire leadership team from my school embarked on a profoundly transformative professional development expedition to Atlanta, Georgia. The core objective of this significant journey was to visit and conduct intensive, first-hand observation of The Ron Clark Academy (RCA), a globally recognized non-profit middle school renowned for its innovative and dynamic teaching methodologies, its high student engagement, and its distinctly unique, vibrant school culture. Located in a renovated red brick warehouse in southeast Atlanta, RCA serves students in grades four through eight from a wide range of economic backgrounds. The school's co-founder, Kim Bearden, along with its namesake, Ron Clark, have cultivated an educational model that has inspired educators worldwide. It is a source of personal regret that I have not yet been able to participate in this impactful trip. Initially, my exclusion was purely due to my not being a member of the official school leadershi...

  The world changed overnight… 🧟‍♀️ Are you ready for the fight for survival? Dive into "Zombie: The Survivors" by Nancy Ann Creed and see who makes it out alive. Tap the link in bio to grab your copy! What's the first thing you'd grab in a zombie apocalypse?

https://www.backstage.com/magazine/article/mask-in-theater-explained-77455 The Curtain's Cost I am utterly exhausted by this relentless play, The heavy curtain of performance drawn too long. I cannot hold the hollow smile another day, To mask the deep, the aching emptiness that's wrong. The burden of a self that isn't mine to wear, To fit the mold you fashioned, cruel and tight, An agonizing stretch away from who I care To be—my own identity, eclipsed by your light. You see a project, a design that must be met, But tell me, why must the authentic me be cast aside? I am finished fabricating reasons I have set, For every thought and every reaction I can't hide. I've justified my nature to a vacant crowd, To people who, I now accept, simply don't care. The painful truth: my hope was spoken out loud, A unilateral effort lost on thin, cold air. I poured my heart to mend what broke between, But found no shared commitment, no reciprocal tide, A solitary s...

  Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels.com The Serendipitous Message A flicker in the digital sea, A ripple in the ocean vast, Announced a message, unanticipated, free, A bridge to years and moments past. No expectation, no alarm, A serendipitous, sudden light, A warmth against the day's long harm, Dispelling shadows of the night. The sender’s name, a long-lost friend, Appeared upon the silent screen, A cherished sight without end, Recalling what had been. A powerful, unexpected force, Across the void of silent years, Washing away the quiet remorse, And vanquishing old, silent fears. A wave of joy, a deep embrace, Surged through the heart, dissolving time, As memories rushed, swift in their chase, Like a rushing, vibrant tide sublime. Laughter shared, a youthful sound, Secrets told in hushed reply, A core of trust that could be found, A sturdy thread beneath the sky. Across the miles that held them fast, The vital connection instantly made, The digital form, a vessel cast...

  Photo by Valentin Lacoste on Unsplash 📝 The Echo in the Well We walked the same path, pen in hand, Mind alight, a shared commitment's sign. Pilgrims in a lonely, distant land, Chasing the same bright star, divine. Our bond, once firm, was forged by toil, Ink-smudged paper, the screen's harsh glow, A hopeful process on a hungry soil, A private weight the outside doesn't know. But when the harvest comes, a sudden wrench, The seed you sow brings fruit upon my ground. The garden blooms, across a mutual bench, But only your name is on the flowers found. My careful work, the agonizing hours, My every effort, tragically the same, Is rendered Invisible, stripped of all its powers, Swallowed whole by an eclipsing fame. They gather 'round your posts, a swelling tide, A deluge of bright approvals, warm and fast. Endorsements flow, they cannot seem to hide The joy they feel that you have made it last. I am a shadow in this scene so bright, An old contact they vaguely knew,...

  Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com When 'Wait and See' Isn't Enough: My Journey of Medical Advocacy I wrote this about 12 years ago but it still rings true. For a month now, a deep, persistent fire has been burning in my gut. It's more than just an uneasy feeling; it's a profound, urgent need to share my story, particularly as a cautionary tale for other women. Yet, this internal wrestling match with my own complex emotions—fear, relief, anxiety—has held the words captive. I’m finally ready to speak. Here is the crux of my message, something we’ve all heard countless times, but whose weight I now understand: Listen to your body. In a world where doctors are busy and systems are overwhelmed, you are the final authority on what is happening within you. A doctor might dismiss your concerns or tell you to wait and see, but you know when something is fundamentally wrong. It is, after all, your body, and you are its only constant advocate.-----My journey into h...

Photo by  Uday Mittal  on  Unsplash The Unwritten Lessons of Connection   I lost the ones I thought would be An immutable part of my life's tapestry, Woven forever. Their sudden fraying left A hollow space, of laughter now bereft. A loss not just of presence, but of promised time, Of futures guaranteed, of permanence sublime. I lost the endless, open channel's flow, The casual intimate, the profound talk's low. The message history remains, a silent tomb, But the living dialogue has met its doom. I lost the shared language, the inside joke's release, The easy flow of thought that came with sustained peace. I lost. And yet, a nagging question stays: How to reclaim it all through monumental days? More honest now, a deeper query rings: Do I want the fragments back, the broken things, Or is this void an opportunity instead, For a different, stronger rebuilding from the dead? I am Socially Impaired, a deep deficiency, No compass for connection's subtle geography. I cannot...

  Photo by Mike González on Pexels.com The Echo of Regret: A Vow Against Futility The shadow falls, a failure in my sight, Disappointment's echo, haunting day and night. Regret's cold hand upon my waking thought, A hollow dream, the battle that we fought. A profound, persistent ache resides within, A deep, visceral wound where grief begins. Each time the news arrives, a soul has gone, The numbers climb, yet tragedy lives on. For those now lost within the heavy fog, This deep despair, no fleeting shadow slog, It raises questions that torment the soul: How could we shield them, how regain control? What could I, personally, have done to reach, To pull them back, beyond the final beach? Why do such vibrant lives, with potential vast, End in this final, devastating, broken blast? The pain, a sickening, immediate jolt, A punch that leaves me breathless and unbolt. Another one lost, a cycle we can't cease, The repetition numbs, yet sharp remains the piece. A desperate cry...

  Photo by Jonathan Borba on Pexels.com 👶 C-Section or VBAC: A Personal Dilemma Before the birth of my second child, Van, who is now fourteen, I wrote this reflection. My thoughts were consumed by the looming decision regarding his delivery, a topic that held particular weight because his older sister, Zelda, had been born via Cesarean section. The experience with Zelda naturally led us to question the safest and best approach for the next delivery. The medical term that dominated our discussions was Vaginal Birth After C-section (VBAC). The prospect was alluring—the promise of a standard delivery and recovery—but it came with a significant degree of anxiety and risk. On the other hand, a planned repeat C-section offered a predictable, though major, surgical procedure. Ultimately, after careful consideration and consultation with our doctors, Van was born via C-section in the end. This was a deliberate choice. A major factor in our decision was the estimate of his size; h...