Sticky Notes for a Downcast Soul by Tracie Adams

Nonfiction

Pic Credit: Author's Own

It took a while for the encouragement to kick in, to move past the shame of it and accept the

words as the gift they were. And it was shameful, my fifteen-year-old daughter so afraid that her mom would never make it out alive. All she could think to do was write some sticky notes in hopes that kindness might defeat depression.

Her notes were on the bathroom mirror, on the fridge beside the magnets we collected

from family trips to Nashville and Florida. She wallpapered the hallways with notes in every

color of the rainbow—you got this, i believe in you, you are stronger than you think. She left a

pastel pink one beside a sandwich. It made me cry to see the words i love you mommy in lower case letters, no punctuation, the same as her text messages. The little misshapen heart dotting the i was the jolt I needed to get out of bed and start living again.

One day I wrote a note of my own, TRY RECOVERY it said in all caps. Six months later, I

added some words on the top of that note, I MADE IT underlined twice with an exclamation

point at the end. The progression from sticky notes to stationery was another act of love. I wrote letters to my body apologizing for the years I abused it. I wrote hopeful poems with verses about gratitude.

“Somewhere over an ocean, the sun is rising like a hard ball of jawbreaker candy,

dusting its cinnamon heat over waves. Remember this.”

It cheered me to picture the ocean’s waves as tongues lapping and licking like thirsty

dogs, seabirds strutting like supermodels on a runway beneath a pier. My words were the salty air my lungs breathed, the sunrise that lifted my chin. My daughter’s smile was the lighthouse that beckoned me to keep going.

For months, I penned notes reminding myself to watch the videos I saved on my phone,

the dog rescues, people scraping barnacles from whales, eagles making a nest. Some were

scribbled on the back of receipts, tucked inside a leather journal. Depression told my heart a lie, saying it’s the cruelest of things, vulgar really, to grow and move toward light while someone somewhere lies dying. But the notes said look deeper, reminding me that the heart is deceptively wicked above all things, pitifully fragile and shallow.

Inky words on tiny bits of paper reminded me to cherish, to celebrate, to believe in

goodness. I keep the notes in my office. They are a gift for a soul once weighted with grief, a

soul now free. I read them often, so I never forget how I once wrote my way out of the dark, one word at a time.

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Author's Note:

When a traumatic event in my 20s brought me to my knees, I had nowhere else to look but up. In surrendering my life to Jesus, I learned that there is a difference between happiness and joy. I am grateful to have found relief and fleeting happiness in many places—music, writing, my husband and kids, traveling, gardening, baking, and of course the many animals who’ve loved me unconditionally. But lasting joy is found in worshipping God and comforting the weak and broken people around me with the comfort I’ve received from Christ alone.  

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Tracie Adams, author of Our Lives in Pieces, writes flash memoir and fiction in rural Virginia. Her work, widely published in literary journals, has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and longlisted in Wigleaf Top 50. Find her at tracieadamswrites.com, on X at @1funnyfarmAdams, and BlueSky @tracieadams.

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