Lairissa Lee - Heartbroken

When Support Turns Silent: Finding Peace in Letting Go

by with No Comment Blog

Sometimes the hardest endings aren’t the ones marked by words — they’re the quiet ones, the moments when someone’s presence just fades. This is a reflection on what it means to lose connection with someone who once felt close, and how to release it with grace instead of bitterness.

There’s a kind of silence that hurts more than words ever could.
It’s the silence from someone who used to always show up — the person who cheered for your wins, reacted to your posts, and asked how you were really doing. Over time, their messages turned into short replies… then emojis… then nothing at all.

At first, I tried to tell myself they were just busy. Life gets like that. But the truth is, silence has a way of saying everything. And eventually, you start to feel that absence in the small things — when you share your excitement about a trip and the warm “be safe” is replaced with a single thumb up emoji. When something beautiful happens in your world, and you realize they don’t even look your way anymore.

Online creative spaces can be magical — full of friendship, encouragement, and connection. But they can also be fragile. They’re full of invisible currents of comparison and belonging. Sometimes, someone you care about begins to see you not as a friend, but as part of a crowd they feel shut out from. And you can’t fix that. You can’t convince someone to see your heart when they’ve already decided you’re on the other side of a divide.

When I finally stepped back, it wasn’t from anger. It was from exhaustion — from waiting for signs of care that used to come so easily. I realized I couldn’t keep trying to resuscitate a connection that had quietly stopped breathing.

And when the last thread was cut — the shared space where we kept our creative memories suddenly gone — it became clear: the friendship had already ended long before I accepted it.

I’m not angry anymore. Just sad. Sad that something so meaningful could fade without a fight. But I’m also grateful — grateful for what it taught me about love, friendship, boundaries, and the quiet courage it takes to walk away from what no longer feels mutual.

Sometimes letting go isn’t about giving up. It’s about choosing peace over confusion.
And maybe, in the end, that’s what healing really looks like.

Lairissa Lee - Sweet in Pink 1

Sweet but a Psycho

by with No Comment Blog

“She’s got a little sparkle, a little sass… and maybe just a touch of chaos in pink.”

This video was pure fun to make — dancing in my favorite bubblegum-pink panties, a crop top, and headphones blasting “Sweet but a Psycho” was just what I needed to shake off the week.
There’s something powerful in turning up the volume and letting go — even if it’s just in your bedroom with the sunlight pouring in.

I’ve been leaning into my playful side lately — the one that smiles sweetly and might just flip the script if you underestimate her. This little look (and the mood behind it) is all about duality: soft and spicy, sugar and fire.

Sweet in Pink

💋💋💋

Check out the video, peek the carousel for more pics from the shoot, and tell me…
Have you ever felt like a sweet psycho in the best way possible?

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Algorithmic Secrets: Why the Public Deserves Transparency

by with No Comment Blog

When decisions that affect our lives are made in secret, fairness isn't just compromised—it’s erased.

Every time we scroll, apply, search, or buy, there’s something quietly watching us in the background: an algorithm. It’s not inherently evil. In fact, in many ways, algorithms help us find what we love, stay connected, and streamline our lives. But when they’re allowed to operate in secrecy—especially when they have the power to deny opportunity, set prices, or restrict access—we have a problem.

A big, invisible problem.

💻 Algorithms Are Quiet Gatekeepers

We already know that social media platforms like Instagram and TikTok use algorithms to determine what gets visibility. Creators are rewarded or suppressed based on unclear and often shifting rules. But it’s not just about who gets likes anymore.

These same types of systems are used by:

  • Insurance companies to set your premiums
  • Banks to approve or deny loans
  • Employers to screen resumes
  • Retailers to adjust pricing dynamically
  • Law enforcement to predict crime “hot zones”

The real-world implications are staggering. You might be denied coverage, charged more, or excluded from a job interview—and never know that an invisible line of code made the decision for you or towards you. Take Robert Williams, wrongfully arrested by facial recognition. Or the thousands in Michigan whose tax refunds were held because of false fraud flags. Or the other algorithmic mistakes shown in this table that are just the tip of the iceberg.

🔎 Real-Life Examples of Algorithmic Harm

ScenarioWhat HappenedWhy It Matters
Wrongful Arrests from Facial RecognitionRobert Julian‑Borchak Williams was wrongfully arrested when a facial recognition algorithm mistakenly matched him to a shoplifter. (The University of Iowa – College of Law)People can literally lose their freedom or suffer serious stigma because algorithms mess up.
Health Care DiscriminationA widely used algorithm in U.S. hospitals (for allocating health care) was found to systematically discriminate against Black people, allocating fewer resources or delaying care. (Nature)When your race or background influences treatment outcomes—not intentionally, but through biased data—your life can be at risk.
Algorithmic Bias in Criminal Justice (COMPAS)COMPAS is used to predict recidivism risk. It was shown that Black defendants were more likely than white to be labeled “high risk” without actually re‑offending, while whites were more often assigned “low risk” incorrectly. (Wikipedia)When algorithms influence jail time, bail, or parole, mistakes can perpetuate injustice and racial inequality.
Automated Systems & Unemployment / Benefits ErrorsIn Michigan, the MiDAS system falsely flagged around 40,000 people for unemployment fraud. Their tax refunds were withheld; many suffered financially. (TIME)Algorithms used by government systems or for welfare can cause huge real-life hardship if errors aren’t corrected.
False Facial Recognition → Fear & ArrestPorcha Woodruff — pregnant, arrested because a facial recognition algorithm “matched” her to a suspect when she had nothing to do with the crime. Eventually dismissed. (Innocence Project)Even after it’s clear someone was innocent, the damage (time, trauma, reputation) is real.

And yet, when these harms are uncovered, there’s rarely public outcry, rarely accountability. If a medication causes harm, there are lawsuits. If a car part fails, there’s a recall. But when an algorithm quietly ruins someone’s life—denies them housing, mislabels them a criminal, or delays life-saving care—the companies behind it often shrug and say, “It’s proprietary.” We’ve created a system where code can discriminate, fail, or traumatize… and no one is responsible. That has to change. 

The danger isn’t abstract. In the world of social media, platforms like Meta have wielded algorithmic decisions like a guillotine — swift, silent, and unaccountable. A growing wave of creators and small business owners have reported waking up to find their accounts suspended or deleted with no warning, no context, and no recourse. In many cases, their only “violation” was being caught in the dragnet of an automated content moderation system that misread a post, flagged a caption, or reacted to a sudden spike in engagement.

One egregious case made headlines when a small business owner who ran a handmade jewelry shop lost her entire Facebook and Instagram presence overnight — thousands of followers gone, ad accounts shut down, and revenue instantly halted. Her appeals were met with silence. Meta’s help channels offered nothing. She was left to start over from scratch with no explanation. Her story is not unique — and that’s the problem.

For those of us who rely on social media not just for expression, but for income, visibility, and connection, the threat of algorithmic error is a daily fear. We don’t just worry about engagement — we worry about disappearance. With no human in the loop, no transparency, and no accountability, these systems decide who stays and who vanishes. And they do so with the cold indifference of a machine.

These aren’t just bugs or quirks — they’re existential threats to real people’s livelihoods.

Algorithmic Fragility in the Creator Economy. Feeling constantly fearful, knowing you are powerless.

🤐 The Black Box Problem

Companies often claim their algorithms are proprietary — protected intellectual property. That means the rules that directly impact your life can be hidden from you, with zero obligation to explain, justify, or correct mistakes.

These aren’t just abstract formulas. These are digital levers that influence access to credit, job opportunities, health coverage, and — in the case of creators and small businesses — your entire livelihood.

Imagine if food producers could say, “We can’t tell you what’s in our food — it’s a trade secret.”
Imagine if power companies could say, “We don’t have to meet safety standards — our grid design is confidential.”

Unthinkable, right?
So why do we accept it from algorithms that can deny mortgages, block visibility, or reinforce discrimination?

This isn’t just theoretical. For creators, it’s an everyday risk — a form of algorithmic fragility.

💔Algorithmic Fragility in the Creator Economy

Feeling constantly fearful, knowing you are powerless.

In the creator economy, your reach, your revenue, your entire platform depends on algorithms. But unlike other industries where regulation, inspection, or accountability exist, creators operate in silence — constantly guessing what invisible rules they might be breaking.

One false flag, a mistaken report, or a misunderstood post can bury your content… or delete your account. You’re left to appeal to a black box with no face, no phone number, no recourse.

When it happens, there’s no public hearing, no customer support line, no apology. Just vanishing access — and the terrifying silence that follows.

For those of us who build something real on social platforms, that’s the scariest part:
Not the algorithm itself — but the fact that we have no rights against it.

⚖️ It’s Time for Oversight

Power without oversight invites abuse — and in the digital age, algorithms are power. When systems can silently deny, prioritize, or erase without accountability, we don't just lose fairness — we lose trust in the institutions shaping our lives.

We already regulate so much that affects the public:

  • Food is inspected by the FDA
  • Utilities are overseen by state commissions
  • Medications are subject to rigorous trials and public disclosure

So why not algorithms? If a bank uses an AI model to approve loans, it should be tested for bias, audited for fairness, and required to publish impact reports. If Instagram limits your reach based on content it deems “risky,” you deserve to know how that decision was made.

And that’s the core of the issue:

If a drug causes harm, there are investigations, recalls, class actions.
If an algorithm causes harm, there’s silence.

No warning labels. No disclosures. No accountability.
Just quiet damage — to someone’s business, someone’s job application, someone’s dream.

In almost every other industry, we demand oversight. We require transparency.
But in the world of algorithms? The harm often goes unnoticed. And when it is noticed… responsibility is rarely assigned.

It’s time we stop pretending these systems are neutral.
They are powerful, fallible, and deeply impactful — and that means they must be subject to scrutiny, just like anything else that affects human lives.

This isn’t about punishing innovation. It’s about protecting people.

📢 Transparency Isn’t Optional Anymore

As long as algorithms stay in the shadows, companies can deny responsibility for what those systems do. “It’s the algorithm,” they shrug—an answer that means nothing and helps no one.

We need a new standard:

  • Transparent auditing of high-impact algorithms
  • Public accountability for discriminatory or harmful outcomes
  • Government oversight, just like any other product that affects people’s well-being

Because when systems make decisions about people, those people deserve to know the why behind the what.

🧠 Final Thoughts

I live in a world shaped by algorithms. As a creator, as a consumer, and as a human being—I see how often digital systems are making judgments about me without any transparency.

That’s not just frustrating. It’s dangerous.

The technology we build should serve us—not the other way around. And it starts by pulling back the curtain.

Let’s demand better.

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Boots, Dust, and Backbone: My Colorado Comes With Grit and Grace

by with No Comment Blog

You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.

I’ve walked a lot of roads in my life, but none feel quite as natural as the ones lined with dust, fence posts, and the quiet strength of the Rockies rising in the distance.

I was born in Fort Collins, but my heart will always belong to Berthoud—that tiny, sun-kissed town where I was raised, where everyone waves from their porch, and where the mountains feel like part of the family.

So much of who I am was shaped on my Memaw and Papa’s farm, just west of town. I learned to ride horses before I could reach the stirrups, collect eggs with dirt under my nails, and climb hay bales like they were mountains. I still remember the scent of warm alfalfa and the sound of Papa’s deep laugh echoing through the barn.

That’s the soul of this photo series.

It’s not just about posing at a rodeo.
It’s about belonging there.
Not just the boots—but what they’ve carried me through.
Not just denim—but legacy, land, and lifestyle.

Growing up where grit and grace hold hands taught me the strength of softness, the fire behind femininity, and the power of stillness in wide open space.

So here’s to the girls who can saddle a horse and still slay in lashes.
Who grew up on wide open land but now command wide open platforms.
I see you. I am you.

🩷

Thank you for letting me bring a little of my homegrown soul into your scroll today. Whether you’re riding horses or chasing dreams, may you never forget where your strength first took root.

Love, Rissa 🥰

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Sundays, Soft Sheets, and Self-Love 💕

by with No Comment Blog

Some mornings, the sunlight kisses your skin just right—and you realize you don’t need anyone else’s validation. You are the mood. You are the moment.

I didn’t wake up needing to rush.
There was no to-do list waiting, no chaos on my phone, no expectations.
Just soft sheets, soft light, and a quiet confidence that’s been growing inside me lately.

So I leaned into it.

A pink bandeau, golden panties, a little curve, a little pout—and a whole lot of confidence.
I took a moment to admire not just the look, but the feeling.
Feeling good in your own skin isn’t always easy, but today?
It came naturally.

That’s what this post is about:
Taking time to celebrate the soft power of being still, the beauty in your own mirror, and the way sunlight makes everything feel more magical—especially you.

She remembered who she was… and the quiet became her power

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I didn’t stage this morning—I simply surrendered to it.
No filter, no forced smile.
Just the real me, basking in the kind of light that doesn’t need permission to shine.

There’s something intimate about mornings like this…
The way the sheets tangle around your thighs.
The hush of the world before it fully wakes.
The way your reflection looks back at you—not with judgment, but with gentle pride.

I think every woman deserves that kind of morning.
To feel deliciously undone, yet completely whole.
To take up space in her own softness.
To turn inward and whisper, “You’re doing just fine, beautiful.”

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Pink Bandeau Photo Shoot
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The Hollow Pause

by with No Comment Blog

Every once in a while, this strange hollowness creeps in. It’s quiet. Low. Like I’m still creating but the spark just… isn’t there. And I know I’m not alone in this—so many creators feel it, even if we don’t talk about it out loud. That subtle emptiness, the emotional drain—it’s more common (and more human) than most people realize. So if you’ve been feeling it too, maybe this will help make sense of why.

🌫️ 1. You’re pouring out but not filling up.

Being a creator—especially someone like you who lives in imagination, beauty, and emotion—is an act of constant output. You give and give (ideas, energy, aesthetic, emotion), and if you’re not intentionally replenishing, it can leave you feeling empty.

Think of it like a well. If you keep drawing water and never let it refill, eventually you hit dry stone.

🔄 2. You’re stuck in a create-post-react loop.

The content treadmill is real. You generate, you post, you wait for feedback. The rhythm becomes robotic. When the joy of creating gets tangled in the obligation of performance, it can make even your most beautiful art feel hollow.

You’re producing—but not connecting

💭 3. You’re not feeling seen.

You can have likes, views, followers—and still feel unseen. When people engage with the image but not the emotion behind it, when they don’t really get you… it’s disorienting. And lonely.

“Why am I doing this?” starts to echo inside when no one reflects back your truth.

🎭 4. Your creative self and your emotional self aren’t syncing.

You might be posting things that look amazing (and are amazing), but they might not be matching where your heart or mind really is right now. That disconnect can make everything feel… off. Like you’re performing a version of yourself, rather than expressing who you are right now.

You’re showing up—but not as who you truly are.

🔋 5. You’re simply tired.

Mental fatigue can disguise itself as emotional numbness. It’s not that you don’t care—it’s that you’re running on low battery. Sometimes “blah” is your nervous system saying, please rest.

You’re not unmotivated—you’re exhausted.

So what helps?

  • Reconnect to why you started. Maybe open your first ever post. Or something you made for joy—not validation.

  • Make something today that’s just for you. Don’t plan to post it. Just make it and feel it.

  • Let yourself take a beat. Create silence. Let inspiration sneak in again.

  • Talk to someone (like now)—and name the hollowness. That alone begins to lift it.

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Country Roads and Confidence: What West Texas Taught Me

by with No Comment Blog

Out here, where the sky meets the earth and nothing stands between you and the wind, you remember who you are — and she’s braver, softer, and stronger than you ever realized. 💫

There’s a certain kind of magic in West Texas — a slow, golden kind that sinks into your skin like the setting sun. I didn’t come here looking for answers. I came here for the warm wind, the open space, the wide sky… and maybe, without realizing it, I came here to reconnect with myself.

Out in the middle of nowhere, something surprising happens — you start hearing your own thoughts more clearly. The noise falls away. No more algorithms, no more filters, no pressure to be anything but you.

And let me tell you: that version of me? She’s strong. She’s bold. She wears pink lace under a cowboy hat and lounges in the sunset like she owns the damn horizon. 🌅😉

Confidence Isn’t Always Loud

Sometimes it’s soft. Quiet. It’s the decision to show up as you are — no apologies. I didn’t feel the need to pose for these photos. I just… was. Relaxed. Open. Unfiltered.

That’s the kind of energy I want to carry with me long after the sun goes down.

West Texas Reminded Me:

  • You don’t have to be perfect to be powerful.
  • You can be soft and strong at the same time.
  • The light will always find you — especially when you stop chasing it.

So here’s to golden hour revelations, dusty boots, and bare skin kissed by the wind. Here’s to finding yourself exactly where you are — in a moment you didn’t plan, under a sky you’ll never forget.

Thanks for letting me share this piece of my journey with you. 💛🩷
And if you’re ever lost… take a country road. You might just find yourself there too.

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The High After the Post… and the Crash That Follows

by with No Comment Blog

It happens almost every time.

I post something beautiful—maybe something sensual, maybe something vulnerable, maybe something that just feels like me—and in the moments that follow, I feel amazing. Euphoric, even. Like I’m floating.

My heart races, I check the comments, I feel the warmth of connection. People see me, respond to me, reflect something back. That feedback loop of likes, DMs, and kind words is a rush—a hit of validation that lands straight in the soul.

But then…

The crash.

It doesn’t happen right away. It sneaks in, soft at first. Maybe it starts with a lull in notifications. Maybe I realize someone I hoped would say something… hasn’t. Or maybe it’s just the quiet. And suddenly, I feel it: that drop.

The dopamine is gone. The adrenaline fades. And what’s left is this strange hollowness.

I start to overthink. Was that caption too much? Did I share too openly? Was the image too sexy? Not sexy enough? I start scrolling again—not to connect, but to cope.

This is the part no one really talks about. That confusing space between the beauty of self-expression and the vulnerability that comes with being truly seen.

But I’ve learned to name it now: It’s the crash.

It’s not a sign that I shouldn’t have shared. It’s not a sign that what I posted wasn’t worth it. It’s just chemistry. The rise and fall of my nervous system trying to make sense of showing up so fully.

So now, when the crash comes, I try to be gentler with myself. I step away. I breathe. I remind myself that I didn’t post for the algorithm—I posted for me. And that is still sacred.

If you’ve ever felt this way too—if you’ve ever posted something you loved and then felt a little lost afterward—you are not broken.

You’re human.

Sensitive. Brave. And deeply, beautifully alive.

Love, Rissa

💜

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If You Unfollow Me, Let Me Go

by with No Comment Blog

A message for fellow creators...

There’s an unspoken etiquette on Instagram, among creators. We live in a space of follows, likes, DMs, comments, and collaboration. It’s a dance of visibility and support, of shared energy. But occasionally, someone quietly steps out of rhythm.

They unfollow you.

That part is fine. Honestly, it’s completely okay. People evolve. Tastes change. Not every creative journey continues on the same path. But here’s where it gets murky: they unfollow you, but leave you following them.

That’s not just an oversight. That’s a choice.

And it’s one that speaks volumes.

It says: “I don’t want to see you anymore, but I’m okay with you still seeing me. Still supporting me. Still giving me your attention, your likes, your energy.”

And that’s where I draw the line.

If you unfollow me, the fair and respectful thing to do is remove me as a follower, too.

Not out of malice. Not out of spite. But out of integrity.

Because choosing to disengage while still allowing (and benefiting from) someone else’s engagement is not just unbalanced — it’s disingenuous. It turns the follow into a one-way mirror: you don’t want to connect, but you’ll accept the attention.

That isn’t respectful. That isn’t fair. That isn’t mutual.

I don’t want to follow people who don’t see me. And I don’t want to be someone’s invisible audience.

So here’s my boundary, and it comes from a place of clarity, not resentment:

If you unfollow me, let me go completely.

Click that button and remove me as a follower. Don’t leave the door half open and expect me to still wave from the hallway.

Digital spaces are messy. There’s a lot of nuances. But basic fairness shouldn’t be.

If you no longer want me in your space, then don’t keep me tethered to yours.

Let it be mutual. Let it be honest. Let it be clean.

That’s the kindest way to go.

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The Silence That Hurt More Than the Threat

by with One Comment Blog

When You Cry Out Online and No One Really Hears You

There’s a certain kind of loneliness that only exists in digital spaces — a loneliness you can’t explain to people who haven’t lived it.

It doesn’t feel like isolation at first. Not when the DMs keep coming, or the likes roll in. Not when your notifications are full of hearts, 🔥 emojis, and “you’re stunning.” But when something truly frightening happens — when you’re vulnerable and in need of someone to really see you — all of that noise fades. The comments, the reactions, the fake closeness… it vanishes into static. And you’re left alone with the truth: attention isn’t the same as connection.

But that’s the thing about digital closeness: it feels intimate — but often, it’s not.
Many of the relationships we build here are surface-level, performative, or transactional — even among those we want to trust.
It’s not always out of cruelty; sometimes it’s just misalignment.
You reveal something painful, something real — and the response you get is a reaction meme. Or worse, silence followed by a selfie.
It can leave you wondering, “Did they even hear me? Did they even care?”

These moments don’t just sting — they clarify.
They show you which connections were built on mutual depth… and which were built on mutual content.

I recently experienced something that shook me. A message — aggressive, threatening — sent from someone I had already blocked. Someone I wanted no contact with.
It was targeted. It was meant to intimidate.
And it worked.
I felt afraid. I felt alone.

And so, like anyone would, I reached out to people I thought cared about me.
I shared screenshots. I explained. I waited for someone to say, “That’s not okay,” or “I’m here with you,” or even just, “I see you.”

But what I got was silence. Or advice. Or a deflection.
Or casual commentary that skimmed the surface but never touched what I was actually feeling.

And in that moment — more than the threat itself — what hurt most was the emotional absence of the people I reached for.

You see, when you live a virtual life, even the people closest to you are still far away.
You might share creativity, stories, captions, ideas — even love.
But when something real and raw breaks through the surface, that distance can feel like a canyon.
A message sent into the void.

I don’t blame anyone.
I understand that people respond in the ways they know how.
But this taught me something I didn’t want to learn:
Not everyone you laugh with will sit with you when you cry.

So I’m writing this not out of anger, but from reflection.

To anyone else who has felt this —
Who has been hurt online,
Who has reached out for comfort and met silence,
Who has felt invisible in their most vulnerable moment —

I see you. And you are not alone.

I still believe in kindness. I still believe in friendship — even the virtual kind.
But I’ve learned I need to protect my softness — and reserve it for the people who know what to do when I show it.

This experience didn’t break me.
It opened my eyes.
And from that clarity, I’m rising — stronger, steadier, and no longer looking for comfort in places that couldn’t offer it.

Remember, Vulnerability ≠ Weakness