November Poetry Spotlight

Jennifer Winter is a mom to four and married to her absolute best friend. Somewhere between the beautiful chaos of motherhood, the little moments that make her laugh, and the experiences that have shaped her, she found her way back to poetry.

She started writing poetry when she was young. Using words to make sense of the things she was experiencing. To process, cope, and give a voice to feelings she didn’t always know how to explain. Over the years, poetry became more than an outlet. It became something she loved and she simply never stopped writing.

Today, Jennifer writes about the deeply personal moments. The messy ones, the joyful ones, and the tiny, unexpected things that tickle her brain in just the right way. Jennifer's poems are pieces of her life, her heart, and the way she sees the world.

Jennifer is currently putting together her very first poetry book, and she couldn’t be more excited to finally bring these words together and share them with others.

CPTSD

Lost between two worlds,

struggling to find my way back to reality.

My past holds tight

like a starving lion,

teeth and claws sunk into me,

refusing to let go.

Places I typically have memorized

fade,

becoming distant landmarks

on a map I can no longer read.

Time stands still.

My body is here,

but here is not where my consciousness is.

I am stuck between the past and present,

lost in a world

that no longer exists

outside my memories.

Breathing restricted.

Reality fades.

Faces disappear.

Time is.

Time is?

Time was?

Time?

I’m Lost.

My mind races,

trying to make sense of this made-up concept,

trying to separate

then from now,

trying to differentiate

the past

from the present.

My demons creep back in. A small child trapped yet again.

Nowhere is safe.

They say what I experience is complex.

Complex.

It doesn’t seem complex to me.

It seems pretty simple.

You were the person

designated by the universe

to protect me.

Instead,

you cut me down.

Hands meant to heal, used to harm.

A voice meant to comfort, spews hate.

An embrace meant to calm creates chaos

And now the past plays on repeat.

Restarting.

Restarting.

Restarting.

Restarting.

Waiting for the right trigger

to be pulled.

A memory.

Restarting

A smell.

Restarting

A phrase.

Restarting

A sound.

Restarting

Nothing at all.

Restarting

And every time it happens,

I am ripped out of reality.

Thrown backward.

No warning.

No choice.

Pure chaos.

Just a violent return

to memories that refuse to stay buried.

People call it trauma.

People call it complex.

I call it surviving

wounds that never learned how to close. Never learned how to remain in the present.

Because while the world keeps moving,

part of me remains trapped—

lost between two worlds,

struggling to find my way back to reality.