humor

Father Time

Leave a Comment / Poetry / By

I see his lips moving
I know he’s speaking out loud

It’s the shock and horror of what he is saying
That hovers over me like a black cloud

His love for me has left him
He wants to move-on to someone new

My pride stops me from pleading
That this simply can not be true

As I watch him walk out my front door
I feel sick to my stomach
My soul bruised to the core

My heart is physically sore
True sorrow is so consuming
Daily living a chore

I remind myself of, loves lost in the past
That I too survived those heartaches
That this pain will surely not last

I pace at the window, looking outside

I search Him out in a crowd
I know He can’t hide

He’s dodging me, what a cruel trick
I have to take a deep breathe and remind myself
That HE isn’t really a dick

He’s watching me closely, and seeing me heal
My tears have dried up
I once again feel

When I least expect it, I realize He’s mine

My healing has finally arrived, it comes in the shape of my dear friend
Father Time

 

The Elevator Incident

Leave a Comment / Parent Chronicles / By

It was a lazy Saturday morning — the kind that actually recharges you after a long week.

Three-year-old Jack and I had been laying and playing in bed for hours. He was toggling between his Cars CD player and his iPad, and I was catching up on Vanity Fair articles. We had snacks, took breaks to wrestle and tickle — it was a good time.

And then grief hit.

No warning, no warm-up — just bam.
It slammed into me when I realized that in all that time, I was the only one talking. My beautiful, angelic boy was still completely non-verbal.

The vibe shifted. I tried to brush it off, to compose myself, but Jack felt it instantly. He always did.

He grabbed his talking app — his way of punching in words or pictures to say what he was thinking. With a mischievous grin, he started tapping away, pausing to laugh, glancing up at me like he was writing a masterpiece. When he finished, he looked up, eyes bright, and pressed play:

“I want to poop in an elevator!”

We laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

And in that laughter, something cracked open.
He didn’t just shift the mood — he shifted me.

At three years old, barely a year after his diagnosis, I still lived in fear, panic, grief — every terror emotion you can imagine. But that moment? That absurd, perfect line? It reminded me that this journey would be hard, yes. But it would also be funny.

Hot-damn, it would be funny too.

Because Jack wasn’t just communicating — he was connecting. He was reading the room, feeling my sadness, and deciding to fix it the only way he knew how: with humor.

That’s the thing about parenting a neurodiverse child — the milestones don’t always look like what you expect. Sometimes they sound like a fart joke in an elevator. And sometimes, that’s exactly what saves you.

Welcome to The Tayshia Vibe

Leave a Comment / Uncategorized / By
  I’ve been writing since I was a kid — long before I understood that not everyone feels pulled toward blank pages the way I did. By high school, I was writing for the school newspaper, learning voice, deadlines, and the strange thrill of seeing your words land in print.

After graduation, I wanted to go straight to film school and study screenwriting. My parents wanted me to have rent money and health insurance. Translation: they weren’t signing up to support me through the starving‑artist years that would almost definitely follow.

Pick a career, they said.
Write as a hobby.

So I launched a career as a paralegal — and I never looked back.

But I never stopped writing either. I wrote sporadically, took classes when I could, joined writing groups that fizzled out, babbled my way through drafts. Friends and family kept telling me to stick with it — funny how everyone becomes supportive once you can pay your own bills.

Motherhood, advocacy, advanced education, and a demanding career pulled my life in a different direction. But The Tayshia Vibe was always there, hovering in the background. I’ve paid for this site since 2017… with nothing on it.

Until now.
Now is the time.
Now I’m committed to the craft.

This space is honest, a little chaotic, sometimes funny, sometimes tender — always real. It’s where I get to show up as the person I’ve been becoming all along, and maybe connect with others who feel that same tug toward truth, reflection, and the messy work of being human.

If you’re here, thank you.

Let’s see where this goes ✌🏽

Bright Lights, Bad Timing

Leave a Comment / Life Comes at You Fast / By

I started my morning at the eye doctor, dealing with the ongoing drama that is my cataract surgery recovery on my “funky eye” — the one that’s been permanently damaged since childhood. They dilated it, scanned it, tested it, shined lights into it… the whole trauma experience. By the time I left, I felt like I’d been emotionally tortured.

I rushed home to meet the electrician who was installing pendant lights over my kitchen island. The second he walked in, I remembered — with the clarity of a woman who is absolutely not winning today — that I forgot to buy lightbulbs.

Of course I did.

So off I went to Home Depot, stumbling into the lighting aisle like a vampire who’d taken a wrong turn.

It was so bright in there that a normal person would’ve needed sunglasses. Me? With my freshly‑dilated, battle‑worn eye?

The light was so piercing I genuinely thought I might start shouting out confessions. Isn’t this how CIA interrogations start? A single bulb. A metal chair. A broken woman.

I stood there, blinking like I had just been shot with a taser, laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of my life. Because honestly — who else ends up in Home Depot, half‑blind, post‑surgery, trying to buy lightbulbs?

Ahoy F⚓ckers

Leave a Comment / Parent Chronicles / By

It was supposed to be one of those easy summer days — warm, bright, spontaneous — so naturally, with zero preparation and absolutely no plan, I decided Jack and I were going to the beach. Westport. A quick road trip. A vibe.

Thankfully I keep sunscreen in the car, because that was the only responsible decision I made.

No towels.

No bathing suits.

No change of clothes.

Just us, vibes, and a questionable amount of confidence.

We got to the beach and Jack launches himself toward the water like he’s been training for this moment his entire life. I call out the classic parent’s last words:

“Don’t get wet!”

What does a Viking do at the ocean? He dove right in, straight into the waves, no hesitation.

I just stood there thinking, Yep. This tracks.

Because I already knew what was coming: the soggy, sandy, car‑ruining aftermath. And since I didn’t bring bungee cords, strapping him to the roof wasn’t an option. He was getting in my car exactly as he was — dripping, gritty, and thrilled with himself.

So we drove into downtown Westport in search of clothes. It’s a beach town — surely someone sells dry fabric.

I rushed into the first shop I saw, grabbed a shirt and the only pair of sweatpants available. They were a size M. I asked the woman behind the counter if they had a size L because my son is enormous now.

She laughed. “You’re buying those for your son?”

I was already annoyed with myself, so her laugh hit harder than it should have. “Um… yes,” I said, paid, and left.

Jack changed. We walked the strip. He got ice cream, I got coffee, and somehow the day softened into something really sweet.

When we got home, I finally looked closely at the sweatpants I’d bought in my panic.

Printed down the leg, in bold white letters:

AHOY F⚓ckers

Of course. Of course that’s what I dressed my child in to stroll around a quaint little beach town.

Suddenly the woman’s laughter made perfect sense.