self

When Mum's The Word

5/21/2018

It's been 15 days since I've written a new post. 15 days of existing in a moment, without thinking about how well it'd be received if I shared it. 15 days of just being. Absorbing for the sake of my process rather than for a post.

Living.
Learning.
Existing.

Though, seemingly neglectful, it's been a beautiful 15 days. So often I get wrapped up in trying to find creative ways to turn my days into lessons that others could learn from, that I forget to enjoy the process of them.

This is fun work. I enjoy turning my introspection into reflections for others. But sometimes, in doing so, I miss opportunities that allow myself to just be. I want to create so much, so frequently, that I forget that some lessons are simply for my own consumption—not everyone else's.

As I continue on this quest of minimally published content in May, I'm choosing to honor these moments. I won't try to push anything out of me, nor will I exploit my self-work by exposing it all to this outlet. Rather, I will just be. In this moment. In this space. For the rest of this month (or however long this work takes).

Thank you for understanding.

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growth

Shedding the Layers

1/10/2018

The journey to self-discovery, identity, and worth is a tiresome one. It takes discipline, dedication, and work - lots of work. For a long time I wondered where that work began. What does that work look like? How long does that work take? How will I know when to begin that work?

I knew I had to learn myself, so that’s where I began. I highlighted my surface level issues—you know, heartbreak, insecurity, rejection—and figured that was enough for me to jump in. "Time to heal myself and grow," I’d say as if it was about to be a fantastic voyage.

I didn’t know the half.

I didn’t realize that surface level revelation would only produce surface level results. More fake smiles. More fake growth. I wasn't honest enough with myself to begin the work, yet. I was looking skin deep trying to change my spirit. I was trying to redefine myself by only looking at the definitions people assigned to me; by only looking at definitions that would be accepted, and were created, by society. I went no deeper than that.

I began the work blindly. Reading articles, following inspirational tweets, writing affirmations on my mirror. Those were good starts, but they weren't the work. I was putting a band-aid on a wound that needed stitches.

I recognized that much of my problem was my own willingness to get to the root and pull out what needed to be fixed. I only accounted for what I could actually see or feel, completely ignoring the culmination of things that led to that breaking point, these feelings, and these behaviors. These feelings came from more than just this one situation, they were deeply rooted. But when I began I was merely glancing at the surface, not what was beneath. I blamed the soil, not the seeds.

I realized that the work begins at the intersection of pain, insecurity, doubt, fear (the list goes on) and my willingness to identify its roots. Not by starting with the obvious things sitting on the surface, but digging into the things that lie deep beneath it. I realized that the work begins with shedding layers.

Truly shedding layers means getting to the root cause of your negative emotions and self-loathing. It is, very literally, snatching back every doubt, every worry, every insecurity, every hurt, until you reach the cause of it all. It’s peeling back your shell and revealing its foundation—what's cracked and unleveled underneath?

Shedding your layers is the beginning of the work. Pulling back every piece of pain, past, heartache, and flaw, and getting to your core. Unraveling yourself until there's nothing left but you and your bare spirit, staring at each other in a figurative mirror. You facing yourself without the mask of ego, excuses, or unapologetic-sass.

It begins with removing your titles—both self-inflicted and societally defined. It's emptying yourself of burdensome expectations. It’s revealing who you are underneath the standards of society, the pain of your past, and the worries and doubt of your future. It's just you and this core—without the hardened shell you use as protection.

Shedding your layers is not easy work, but it’s necessary work. That’s where you start—with shedding your layers. You start with bravery and honesty and intention. You start with reliving the moments you didn’t think you could survive, and removing the power you gave them to dictate who you’d become. You start with recognizing the root of your behaviors, thoughts or feelings, and discovering ways to overcome them. You start with identifying the ways you may have failed yourself and the way life may have failed you, and letting it go.

Peel back the layers beyond just brokenness; peel them back until you unveil fullness. Until you discover the woman made in God’s image. Shed the layers past insecurities, past heartbreak, past familial issues, past dead friendships. Shed them until you get to a feeling of wholeness. Of peace. Of completion.

Each layer you shed should make you feel lighter. Do this work until you feel lighter; do it until you feel like you’ve finally let go of everything you harbored. All resentment and anger and pain. All heartbreak and hatred. Peel back everything until you have fully undressed your spirit, leaving it bare and open for God to step in and re-dress you with love and positivity; take off societal demands and self-criticism, put on the promises of God. Shed your layers until you have literally addressed everything that ever put you in bondage, and break those chains with confrontation and prayer.

Peel back your layers and prune the leaves that haven't produced good fruit. That is where you must start. Get to that woman – get to your core – and build her up from there. But do not start doing so, until you have uncovered everything; until you have repaired the foundation and uprooted the negative seeds.
---
I (finally) began the work before I even realized that’s what I was doing. I sat in my bathroom pulling off layers that I didn't even realize existed. Praying to God, rebuking foul thoughts, and crying until I felt free. Pursuing forgiveness and letting things go. They came off like a domino effect, one recollection leading to another; one act of repentance followed by another. All of this I offered unto God as a sacrifice—finally giving up the woman I was, for the woman He created me to become.

I had to shed so I could bloom.
Now, it's your turn.

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growth

This Year: 6 Month Check-In

6/04/2017

It's June. Six months into 2017. It came quicker than I expected. 

They say this is the month you start to evaluate where you are with your goals; you look back at your vision board and start placing checkmarks. They say you start to shift your thinking this month; you start adjusting your tactics to finish off strong; to close out the goals that still remain. They say this is the time to really go hard; to grind out the rest of the year so you hit every target. Yep, that's exactly what they say. 

I just wish it was as easy as that.

Like many, I started my year with a list of goals. I wrote down seven outcomes I wanted to achieve by year's end. Things easily measured: increase blog views by 12,000 each month, accept 5 speaking opportunities, vend at 4 events; get a new apartment, make 2 new friends, forge 3 professional connections, lose 15 pounds. These goals were reasonable. I knew I could accomplish each one of them without burning myself out. They were all attainable by the end of the year. I'm realizing, however, as this sixth month begins, none of those things are what this year is about. None of those things were written into the first part of my 2017, and I'm not sure if they're written into the latter part either. 

This year hasn't been about blog views or speaking gigs. It hasn't been about friends or networking. It doesn't seem to be about anything I could numerically measure; it has nothing to do with business or fitness or apartment searching. This year is about being uprooted. It’s about uncovering where I've been planted to expose the negative seeds that were sown. It's about digging up those seeds; about purging the fruits that those seeds have sown. This year has been about a deeper level of self-discovery — work, life, and love pushed to the side.

This year has been about being shattered and pieced back together. About going through and coming out. This year has been about becoming a whole woman. Despite my circumstance. Despite my status. Despite my brand. This year has been about identifying the woman I am behind the beautifully sculpted words that adorn my side of the internet and resume. It's been about being deeper than what's on display. About uncovering the depths of my being and finding comfort in the woman that sat there. About existing without feeling the need to prove myself to anyone. About just breathing. And living. And enjoying. And learning. About redirecting myself to realize what truly matters in this life of mine — not blog views, but impact; not goals, but purpose; not battles or competition or validation, but love. This year has been about finding beauty in the bareness of my soul. It's been about being spiritually nude — stripping myself of this world's attitude and expectations, and focusing completely on my being in Christ — and enjoying that person. Enjoying who she is in her purest form. 

This year has been a whirlwind of unexpected nonsense and too much liquor. A tornado of torn feelings and brokenness. A rainstorm of sacrifice and suffering. This year has been every bit of the crash, burn, and rebuild that I've needed, to see myself in the same lens God uses. It's been about discovering the hidden parts of myself and not hiding them anymore. It's been about pulling them from the closet, dusting them off, and wearing them confidently. It's been about loving every bit of who I am and sharpening my iron in ways that I wouldn't have been able to do on my own. This year has been carefully constructed by God to rescue me, despite having been wildly close to defeat. 

The emotional and spiritual hardship I've experienced this year has been enough to knock me off my feet — multiple times. But as this year continues, I recognize that there's a greater purpose behind it all. I've never felt more aware of myself than I do now. I've never felt more sure of myself than I do now. I've never felt more in love with myself than I do right now. 

This year's first six months has been nothing I expected, but I trust that it's been everything I need. So no, I didn't increase my blog views by 12,000 each month, I didn't accept 5 speaking opportunities, I didn't vend at 4 events; I didn't get a new apartment, make 2 new friends, or lose 15 pounds (yet). But if you ask me where I am with my goals, I will tell you "right where I need to be." 

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happiness

To Hell With Behaving

5/23/2017

"When we go here, be on your best behavior," her mother said as she straightened the young girl’s dress and tightened the ribbons holding her pigtails. The girl stood in agreement with the plan her mother just declared, while thinking to herself what her best behavior would be like.

The last time they went out she got yelled at for touching things at grandma’s house she had ‘no business touching’. Prior to that she was scolded for speaking her mind at a community barbecue, because Aunt Sylvia’s dress was too tight and she had to let her know. The time before that, she got caught running around wildly in her new dress, you know, being a child, and wasn’t allowed outside for a week. This time, things would be different. She was dedicated to sitting still. She knew that if her ‘bad’ behavior was touching, speaking, and running while looking pretty, that her best behavior must be the opposite. The young girl dedicated the next 3 hours of her life, to being still, being quiet, and being on her ‘best behavior’. Those 3 hours turned to 3 years…then 30 years…then 33 years.

That once young girl, would find herself being still and quiet for the many years thereafter. Her mother wouldn’t know what those words would do to her or her self-expression. She had no idea how much getting her daughter to practice ‘good behavior’ would affect her ability to be herself in open spaces.

Growing up we were all fed a list of rules. A list of things not to touch in the grocery store (don’t be curious), a myriad of words not to say to an adult no matter how honest or well-intentioned they were (don’t speak your mind), a series of behaviors that are unacceptable – such as running with kids, dancing to music, or singing at the top of your lunges. These things, though harmless at the time, stuck with many of us as we grew up. We held onto the behaviors that were communicated to us as most desirable. We wanted to be well-behaved, so each time we went into public we brought these lists with us. Venturing into this world still and quiet, we’ve held ourselves captive in our own bodies at the expense of trying to be mannerly.

Many of us shut ourselves off when we exit our homes, and turn ourselves back on the minute we return. All to make those around us comfortable. To appease their desires. To make them feel like they don’t have to worry about us; that we won’t be a problem; that we were well-trained. Amidst wanting to appear as refined as our parents expected of us, we made a habit of suppressing ourselves. We didn’t know that’s what we were doing as children – we simply didn’t want to get in trouble – but as adults we’re reminded of the fact that our desire to be well-behaved comes at the expense of relinquishing parts of ourselves, because that was the only way we learned how to do it.

We’re reminded of this every time we want to run free but convince ourselves not to. We’re reminded every time words of honesty are at the tip of our tongues and we shame ourselves for wanting to share them; for feeling bad for wanting to be authentic, and vulnerable, and genuine. We’re reminded every time we want to let our hair loose, but are forced to tie it up into a bun, or a ponytail, or some goddess braid that we had to watch 5 YouTube videos to learn to do; we're reminded every time we want to let out hair loose (figuratively, too) and are told that we're 'better than that'. We’re reminded every time our best friend tells a funny joke and we try not to laugh as hard or loud as we want to. We’re reminded every time we leave the house and feel like we have to ‘put on’. We’re reminded every time we want to share a story, a picture, or a piece of our truth but decide it’s too bold; we’re too bold; or too loud; or too happy.

We let these rules dictate who we should be in public – both back then and today. We followed these rules to help our parents manage us in public; their lives were challenging enough without having to worry about us kids getting into something. But we’re grown now, and we no longer need to be managed.

So, to hell with it all. With feeling that being you isn’t well-behaved enough. With thinking that being exactly who you were created to be shouldn’t be translated into the public you’re walking into. To hell with feeling held captive in your own body. With putting the comfort of others over the expression of yourself. To hell with buns, and quiet laughs. To hell with not asking questions, and not challenging the status quo. To hell with not decorating your work desk, your car, or yourself with things that represent you. To hell with not rocking your pride (be it black pride, LGBTQ pride, or religious pride). To hell with not sharing your stories, your life, or your lunch with whoever the hell you want to. To hell with feeling like you should share your stories, your life, or your lunch with people you don’t want to. To hell with forced smiles, and small talk. To hell with being who you aren’t, to appease the people around you. To hell with accepting society’s standards of what we ought to do and who we ought to be. To hell with allowing what we were told as children to control us today. To hell with not being curious, and not being honest.

To hell with not running free.

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life

Why Do You Like Pain?

2/09/2017

I opened Google Chrome ready to log-in to 1 of 3 e-mail addresses. Chrome was the home of this one. The one I tried to avoid checking all weekend. Today was a new day, and with my renewed strength I wanted to creep back into the reality I x'd out of on Saturday. I wanted to check my Spam box; that's where the messages from people you block collect. I was expecting to find a message from someone I blocked. I expected to see the bold text that indicated a new message; that bold text would've caused my heart to sink. I wanted my heart to sink. I expected my anxiety to heighten. I didn’t want to feel it, but I knew I would, and I just had to check. 

I could blame it on my curiosity, but I've grown more than that. I knew it was my own doing. I knew that any pain felt as a result of checking that spam box, was brought on by myself. I knew at that point that I'd be responsible for my feelings thereafter. I knew that any frog in my throat or stone in my stomach would be of my own doing. I was ready to accept that, but I can't say I was ready for what I may have found. Are we ever? 

They say the reason you snoop for bad news is because you like it. You like being thrown for a loop. You like upsetting yourself. You like feeling like you got one-up on someone despite how much pain it causes. As if seeing the bad news before they tell you, is a prize. You like it. You probably love it. Because if you didn't why would you do it? Why would you check his messages if you didn't want pain to shatter your Thursday? Why would you invade his DMs if you weren't looking for tears to saturate your fresh face? 

Why do you routinely check for things you don’t want to see? Why pursue truths you don’t want to know? Why do you constantly go back to heartbreak you don't want to feel? 

A piece of you likes being hurt. A piece of you likes the sympathy you get from the tears you shed. Some of you like your anger being warranted. You like the attention you get from yelling and smashing vases against the wall. Perhaps you like the excitement of the drama you've been welcoming. Whatever it is, you like it. And I know it because you allow it. 

I know it because if you didn't like it, you wouldn't allow it. You would stop it; you'd stop unblocking them, you'd stop running back, you'd stop checking for the things that continue to hurt you. See that's how change happens. When you stop feeding the negative; stop welcoming the despair; when you cut off its supply, it stops. When there's no more phones to check, and no more man whose phone you should check, it stops. When there's no more baggage to carry, and no more source of the heartache you've endured, it stops. When you stop running back, it stops. When you decide you're tired of liking the things that bring you pain and make the conscious decision to let it all go, it stops.

We choose the things that enter our space; we allow them to enter. While some situations are uncontrollable, the amount of time we allow them to linger is totally up to us. We make that decision to let it stay. We make the decision to search for it. To respond to it. To let it sit in our chests.

We have this willful desire to search for information, hoping it won't be there, but knowing it will. A desire to go back to hurtful situations, with hopes that it'll change, but (most times) knowing it won't. The pain, though excruciating, excites us. And we'd rather be at the forefront of it happening—fully controlling when we feel it and how we find out—than in the background waiting for it all to explode. We want to feel the pain on our own terms. We want to take it in, absorb it, and handle it in our time. And by doing so—by searching for the bad—we only hurt ourselves. By fueling the negativity, be it your boyfriend, best friend, or internet stranger, we allow it to continue. We allow ourselves to constantly be dragged down by the mistreatment of those around us. And not for any other reason than because we let it happen.

So I inquire: before you check that e-mail, Instagram stalk your ex, or decide to take him back for the umpteenth time, why do you like pain so much? And when are you going to eliminate it? 

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How I Heal

11/10/2016

1. Desire to be healed

2. Pray

3. Believe/Faith

That's what I wrote down as I studied biblical principles of healing. After my most recent breakup, I was ready to get the process started. Ready to get over the rough patches and the resurfacing of the hidden parts of myself, introduced in these last 2.5 years.

Though, embracing the great times, I was ready to move on. To embrace the new, great times, with a new great being, all while acknowledging that I must heal first. Heal from the pain, the insecurities, the arguments, and from it being the most amazing love of my life, despite the rumble and tumble we’ve put ourselves through. A love that stretched us and strengthened us in ways I’m sure neither of us could’ve imagined. And, while longing for this love of transition and growth to last, it just wasn’t—to no fault of mine.

I wanted to heal because I didn't want to be weighed down by the hardship of a broken heart. I wanted to heal because love is too precious to let bitterness ruin it. Love so pure. So unconditional. I experienced that and I want it again. So I know, with such a request, I must enter with a clean slate. Completely cleansed, restored, and renewed.

I started my healing process by deleting phone numbers and social media handles. I thought it would be easier to rid myself of him completely, like I had done in all my other relationships. I wanted to erase the trace of him from my life; but it was hard to do that with the smell of his cologne lingering in my apartment, and the prints of his fingertips still etched into my skin. I knew this process would be hard—he was my best friend, knew all of me, and loved me in spite of it—but I didn’t think it’d be impossible. How many times did I have to block him in order for me (or him) to stay away?

Weeks passed and we still occupied restaurants together, churches together, and miscellaneous events geared toward our blackness together (Greek events and rallies to name a few).  I kept calling him for my biggest celebrations and my biggest mistakes—and he, me. The healing that I needed wasn’t happening because I was still (emotionally) involved. He was still there. How can I heal with his presence still wrapped up in mine?

God said: “heal now,” and I struggled to figure out how. I made up in my mind that no matter what my situation was, how often we continued to talk, or how many outings we had, I was determined to work through it—to heal—for me.

I realized that sometimes healing happens in the middle of the situation you need healing from. It happens in the middle of the sidewalk while the rain is pouring down. It happens during the car ride and the many difficult conversations. I didn't want to welcome healing during those moments. I wanted to heal my way. In my space. On my own. I wanted to heal away from him. But somehow, we kept reconnecting. We kept being friends. And, God...God wanted me to heal...now.

My biggest heartache, caused by my most meaningful love, needed to be healed in the very presence of that love. I recognized that part of the healing I was longing for—trying to chase down—was in the friendship we forged.

How do I heal? Through revelation. Through strength. Through consistency. I heal in a direction of growth and prosperity. I heal with my mind, eyes and heart on my healer. I heal constantly. Because as life happens, so should healing. In and out of situations; over and over again.

I heal through the utter desire for healing, through the prayer I need to get it, and the faith I need to believe it's already done—whether the situation is over, or I’m right in the middle of it.

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life

Spit Your Truth

10/23/2016

I had a man tell me that if my ideals don't agree with his Facebook status, then I shouldn't comment. I had him tell me that my feminism is going to my head. I had him tell me that I need to tone it down, for the sake of myself and the men of which I'm letting down. I had this man, that has tagged me on Facebook posts many times before to solicit my personal opinion, tell me that my opinion doesn't matter. While I know he was merely in his feelings at the firmness of my opposing argument, thus saying whatever he felt would offend me, I didn't let his words deter me from speaking my truth.

As a woman of God, I have a duty to uphold my commitment to empower and inspires those around me. I have a responsibility to use my voice to incite internal change in myself and in others. And no matter how uncomfortable I make people in doing so, I refuse to be silenced. I refuse to keep my mouth closed to appease those who are uncomfortable with truth. With boldness. With bravery. 

See, the voice you have is meant to be used. It's meant to tell empowering stories of tragedy and triumph. It's meant to turn lifelessness to life lessons. It's meant to make daring declarations over doubtful situations. Your voice is meant to be heard, not silenced. 

You owe it to yourself to honor your truth. To share it as unapologetically as you so choose. To be the light in a room of darkness. To show your humanness through transparency and vulnerability. And to protect yourself against all the voices trying to silence yours. So the next time someone tries to shut you up for using your voice and expressing yourself; for fully utilizing your freedoms; for being the enlightened you that you've worked so hard to become, I urge you to continue. To continue to be bold and intentional in your search for self and purpose. To continue to be strategic in your storytelling. To continue to share the deepest parts of yourself. To continue to share facts and opine on topics that you're passionate about. To continue to uplift those around you, in spite of the attacks from those around them. To continue to shine bright and be graceful. To continue to write your disagreeing opinion on people's Facebook posts. To continue to allow your feminism to go to your head. To continue to be turned up and not toned down. 

Because Queen, no one can silence you or your beliefs—and they dang sure don't deserve the right to. 

So spit your truth. And use your voice. 

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There's Always A But

8/22/2016

Body image. Procrastination. Impatience.

We all jotted down what it was we disliked most about ourselves. What issues we struggled with the hardest. What self-loathing thoughts stood in our way the most.

Not being where I want to be. I wrote down as number 3 of 5. The activity was conducted over top the soft melody of Anthony Evans—the perfect soundtrack for this moment of reflection. Being lost in myself, I wrote as I recalled the many times I felt like I didn't know myself; and thought about how not knowing myself caused me to miss out on knowing others.

Part one of the activity ended ten minutes later. Had it continued there would've been a lot of damp eyes. We talked briefly about the effect of part one; how it brought up old feelings within us; how it forced us to deal with the very things we'd been pushing into the dark; how conjuring up those negative things we try to convince ourselves we don't care about, is both hurtful and therapeutic.

The facilitator instructed us to write a 'but' to the negatives we exposed on that sheet of Hilton Inn notebook paper. She reminded us that while bringing to light the darkness that lingers within, it's also important to shine a light directly on those dark places. To not just expose those things, but to reflect on the good parts of them too. That's where the but came in. That's where this post came in. 

Because there's always a but. There's always a positive that comes with every negative. There's always another reason, another answer and another way out. There's always a light to be shone into the dark nights. There's always another source of sunshine, somewhere. There's always a moment where you recognize that the bad is not what should be highlighted but that, instead, the good that comes in the midst of it is.

You may not be where you want to be, but you're not where you were.
You may be impatient, but you're effective, productive and efficient.
You may not be the weight you wish to be, but you're healthy.
You may not yet know exactly who you are, but you know what you're called to do.

but you know what you're good at. 
but you know to whom you belong. 
but you know that joy comes in the morning. 
but. but. but.

In all that we are and all that we endure, there's always a but that offers a ray of sunshine. Our task, while assessing where we can improve in our lives, is to also recognize the great things we offer. To appreciate the good that often couples with the bad; the good that's often outweighed by the bad. And, to acknowledge the but that boldly interrupts our self-defeating thoughts and brings us closer to self-love and hope.

There's always a but. Take time to find yours. 

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Authenticity: Birthday Post

8/12/2016

I wanted to write a generic birthday post. One with a list like, "27 ways to know I'm blessed" or "27 things I want to do this year". I wanted to be cheesy about the many things I learned, or about the amazing things I've done. About how grateful I am to have been able to experience another year to its completion.

I'm not going to do any of that today. I'm not going to write a post like that because that's what I've always done. I've written, spoken and made images filled with quotes and things people expect to read. I've tweeted things to purposely illicit retweets and replies. I wanted to cater my messages to an audience I needed to grow—that's what you're supposed to do: cater to your audience. But in doing so, I found myself losing a voice I was struggling to find and establish. I was forcing a voice that wasn't my own. I was losing myself in my own brand, my own creation, at the expense of trying to portray what I wanted to become. Who I wanted to become. That, however, is not how this works.

People are attracted to authenticity. They're attracted to genuineness. They don't care about what you want them to hear, what you ought to say, or who you want to become; they care about who you are, and using that person to spread a message. A message they need to hear. A message God wants you to deliver. 

Learning the truth about authenticity is what I spent the latter half of my summer doing. Recognizing that it's not about who you hope to be, or the you, you wish you convey. It's about being you—whether you've yet learned who that person is or not. You, as whole or as broken as you may be. It's about being unashamed of that confusion. It's about being genuine in that discovery of self, and not appearing to be found; it's not about being lost either though. It's just about being. 

You don't have to force yourself into a category. You don't have to "me too" your way through to fit in. You don't have to place yourself in a box. Authenticity isn't about boxes. Authenticity is about the doodle drawing that took over your blank page. It's the direction in which the lines were drawn—in no systematic way—just free and all over. No, it's not a box, or any other figure you created when you forced the lines in a direction you didn't intend them to go. Authenticity is the mess. It's the squiggly lines. It's the inability to 'fit' in a mold, and the desire you have not to. Authenticity is you. It's you without thinking about it. The thoughts you think without second guessing. And it's what people like most about a brand and a person.

In year 27, I vow to be my most authentic self. Being more of who I am, not who I ought to be. Saying more of what I need to and less of what I think I should. Falling freely from wherever the hell I will fall from, and writing, tweeting, posting and sharing about it once I hit the ground. I will be more of me in my brand, but most importantly in my life. I will not be ashamed to laugh at the jokes I think are funny; I will not restrict myself to the interests of those around me. I will not attempt to relate to those I simply do not; no more forced connections for the sake of having them. Because authenticity is sincere, it's honest, it's open. You cannot force that into a box—and I will no longer try to. 

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My Black, My Truth

6/22/2016

I struggled for a long time with deciding to change my target audience. Perhaps I could relate my posts and experiences to all women and not just black women. Every woman needs empowerment – right? These thoughts rang over and over in my head as I plotted out a new path for DEAR QUEENS.

Maybe I should change my focus. Write about things that everyone can relate to. I suggested that I utilize a more general perspective, instead of focusing on issues that are ever-present in black womanhood and black culture. Issues like black girls being magic, ignoring society's perceptions of our physical beauty, and using 'Lemonade' as an outlet to tell our own stories.

These thoughts even trickled into my real-life interactions – being able to connect better with my African American counterparts, than any others. Not because of any prejudice, but because of our similarities. Because of our stories. Because of the unignorable beauty of our culture and the connection we forge because of it. For much of my adult-life, I felt this to be a hindrance to the woman I'm trying to become, both in my purpose and in my professional life. Maybe I should try to relate more to others, even if it doesn't come naturally. But the more I dive into me, the more I realize this is who I am and I have to love it.

As important as it may be to empower every woman, I can not speak to every woman's experience, because, I, myself, am a black woman, with a black woman perspective – and this black woman journey is all I know.

To water down my truth in an attempt to appeal to a wider range of women would be doing a disservice to those who're constantly being unserved: black women. To change my black voice to one that fits the general population will mean losing my voice. The voice that encouraged me to create this outlet of inspiration. The voice that's been keeping this thing afloat. The voice that has provided the lessons and insight I lovingly share here. The voice that forms the words of this process and uses it to connect with others like me. The only voice I have. 

See, I love my blackness. I love my black experience, my black journey – and every ounce of love and hate it may come with. I love how my melanin generates both great struggles and great triumphs. I love how my stories are not from a place of just womanhood, but of black womanhood and how unignorable that is. I love how my A.M.E Zion church is rooted in tradition. I love how my history – though heart-shattering – is synonymous with strength and rooted in perseverance and unity.  

I love how my red-toned skin tans. How my brown body looks in coral bathing suits and floral print sundresses. I love the dark brown freckles that grace my body in unforeseen places; and the darker brown beauty mark on my thigh. I love my lips, my nose, and my almond eyes. I love how my curves fill out jumpsuits, and how this lent its way to insight about street harassment. 

I love how black music, black art and black culture is used as a blueprint for what's "hot". I love how in the midst of its appropriation, black style cannot be mimicked. I love the creativity of my black counterparts and how we often turn our black trials into bold black testimonies. I love how my blackness cannot be avoided nor ignored – forcing me to accept and appreciate every inch of this blackness in ways that only other black bodies can understand. Can receive. Can wallow in. 

See, I love my blackness. I love my black life, my black struggles, and the journey of this thing called black womanhood. My blackness cannot be ignored, nor should my black voice be silenced. So, while appealing to a wider audience may be great, I love my blackness too much to water down my experience. I love it too much to water down yours too. We need these lessons in the brown skin context of which they come, and I will continue to provide them through these brown fingertips. 

There will be things we all can relate to, but there are some things that can only be shared through my black woman perspective. And I learned to be completely okay with that. 

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Here's to a Summer of Me

6/20/2016

I'm always good is usually what I say to mask my own trials, while I reach out to others during theirs. It's how I excuse myself for worrying more about others than myself. "I'm always good," I say to uplift myself, as I lend an ear to others, make plans to get their mind off their troubles, and become whatever it is they need to get them through the moment they're going through. Even when all I want to do is handle my own moment.

I find myself trying to make sure everyone around me is happy – often times at the expense of my own happiness. I check on their satisfaction, more than I assess my own. I do things and make changes to accommodate them. Their fulfillment automatically becomes more of a priority to me than my own. I work double time to help those who've never experienced happiness, get it. Feel it. Live it. 

Even when it costs me my own.

I realized this a few months ago when an outing to make myself happy, still lent itself to trying to make those I'm around happy. When I began to stress myself out checking on the enjoyment of those I'm with. When my own laughter is halted so I make sure everyone else is laughing. Looking out of my eye's side to check on their smiles. Listening closely to hear their laughter or sounds of disapproval. Being careful and strategic to agree or disagree with how they feel about a particular event at any particular moment. An outing, a trip, an excursion, a night dedicated to me, often shifts into me dedicating it to others.

And while this all just hit me recently, it's been this way for a long time. 

So this is to the summer of self and the three months I choose to cater to me. The summer of doing new things and not begging anyone to do them with me. The summer of travel, cookouts and tequila. The summer of doing what I want to do (in the confines of spiritual obedience) and not worrying about what others may think of it. Not worrying about the validation of others, the satisfaction of others, or the happiness of others over my own. It's to a summer of going places alone, traveling, and doing whatever the hell I want – with or without others. 

It's about making the decisions I want to make without worrying about it making others happy. It's about making me happy before anyone else. It's about going where I want to go, smiling how I want to smile and living how I want to live.

It's about me. My happiness. My enjoyment. My fulfillment.

This is to a summer of me and the fun, friendships and revelations it may bring. Cheers!

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Reality Check: I Believe

12/12/2015

It was exactly one week ago. I was running late. When I arrived, I pulled a chair up to the table, sat down and immediately whipped out my notebook. The prompt was "I believe". The discussion began as people rattled off things they believed in.

"Love, life and liberty." "The pursuit of happiness." "Karma." I kept silent. I decided to read the room first. It was a small intimate crowd, all seemingly connected. Me, I was the outsider. I didn't want to say the wrong thing, and I didn't want to say the right thing - the thing that'd require me to speak longer than I'd felt comfortable.

The moderator prompted us to select the one thing we believe in and elaborate. She gave us 10 minutes to write our thoughts before she encouraged us to share them. Share them?! We have to share!?

I grabbed my pen and wrote. I scribbled. I scratched things off and wrote new things down. I got caught up in having to share and then let it go. My final thoughts came together. As all over the place as my feelings usually are.

People tell you to believe in yourself. They encourage you to speak victory and seek confidence. They tell you that in order to do anything you have to say "I can" more frequently than "I can't". And while I believe in the power of the tongue, I don't think that's enough. Because there are times that I don't believe in myself. There are times when no matter how much I say good things or how loud I may yell my positive affirmations, they're just not enough. There are moments where my "I can's" are drowned out by the impossibility of the task. There are times where my "I believe in me's" are just words I say to get by - because that's what I'm supposed to do. 

So more than just believing in the power of the tongue, I believe in believing the tongue. I believe in the true power coming from that belief. And, I do, undoubtedly believe in God's power. Perhaps that's all the belief I need to believe in me. 

I didn't want to share. I didn't want to display my rebellion by reading about how much I don't believe in myself (sometimes). No one wants to hear that, ever. But it's true; and I believe in truth. 

The conversation continued. Everyone owning their beliefs. Everyone releasing a little bit of their truths. Everyone adopting new beliefs and believing in the power of each other's openness. I kept quiet. Read the room a bit. And began to start my process of owning my beliefs. Because while we all believe in different things, there's beauty in believing in something, even if it's not yourself.

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