Writing from the middle of an unfinished story. This week, I got to spend a few days with someone who has been an important part of my life. A year had passed since we’d last seen each other, and somewhere in the quiet space between then and now, we’d both become different versions of ourselves. I’ve realized we spend so much of our lives trying to figure out what a moment means that we forget to simply experience it. Normally, I write from the other side of things. After I’v

A man I dated once told me his family thought I was crazy. They had never met me, but apparently they had read my posts and watched my videos long enough to reach a verdict. I laughed when he told me. Not because it didn’t bother me, but because it finally explained something I had been feeling for months. I wasn’t being misunderstood by him. I was being evaluated by people who would never understand me in the first place. For some people, writing about your life is attention

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a familiar feeling. Not heartbreak exactly. More irritation. Confusion. The kind that arrives when someone who told you they weren’t looking for a relationship suddenly appears in one. Not long ago, I spent time with someone who was very clear about who they were and what they wanted. Or at least I thought they were. They described themselves as independent, nontraditional, uninterested in the kind of commitment I was seeking. Eventually, our co

Recently, someone from my past reappeared. Years ago, when we first started dating, I genuinely liked him. He was intentional. He planned dates. He picked me up. He brought flowers. There was effort. Until there wasn’t. Over time, the relationship became increasingly centered around physical attraction and sexual tension. As that happened, something else seemed to decline: his effort. The less interested I was in rushing into something physical, the less interested he seemed

Sometimes leaving has nothing to do with whether you still desire them. That’s the hardest part. Because I wanted the romance. I wanted the good sex, the date nights, the laughter, the intimacy, the feeling of being chosen with intention. I wanted the version of us that existed in potential more than the reality we were actually living in. But eventually I had to ask myself a painful question: Was the little I was getting worth the amount of myself I was losing? I don’t think

There is a certain kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying everything alone for too long. Not just responsibilities. Not just grief. But yourself. Your sadness. Your fears. Your healing. Your loneliness. Your hope. For a long time, I convinced myself that being “good alone” was strength. I wore hyper-independence like armor. I told myself I didn’t need much. I could figure it out. Carry it. Survive it. Hold myself together quietly. But grief has a way of exposing the plac

I used to think romance would feel like arrival. Like one day, I would meet someone and everything would click into place. The conversations would flow, the energy would be mutual, and the consistency would feel natural. I thought that if something felt good, it meant it was right. What I’ve learned instead is that romance is not what completes you. It is what reveals you. And more importantly, it reveals what you are no longer willing to tolerate. One of the first connection

There was something about him I couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t my usual type, but we talked for hours in a club like we had known each other before. We danced the night away, and for a moment, everything felt easy. He was assertive. Clear. Certain. The kind of man who didn’t hesitate. The kind who asked real questions. Would I let my man take care of me? Would I still work? I liked that. I liked his dominance, his edge, the way he moved like he didn’t care what anyone thought. Th

I am not confused about what I want. I want monogamy. I want marriage. I want devotion. I want a man who is steady in his masculinity and secure in his love. I want partnership that feels like legacy. I want children. I want structure. I want a spiritual union that is rooted, not restless. That is my North Star. But I am not rushing toward it. There is a difference between knowing your destination and trying to teleport there. I do not need to fast-forward my life to prove th

There is no shame in non-monogamy. Let me begin there, clearly and without hesitation. For some, it is an intentional, ethical, and deeply honest way of loving. When chosen consciously, it is not confusion. It is clarity. It is spoken early. Named directly. Held with responsibility. And that distinction matters. Because what I have witnessed, both in my own life and in the lives around me, is that confusion is often mislabeled as freedom. Sometimes what looks like openness is

There is a kind of desire that does not whisper. It announces itself loudly in the body. Heat pooling. Breath shortening. Attention narrowing. It aches. It asks. It presses. A sexual tension so tender it feels sharp. I am here now. Wanting someone so intensely it feels almost urgent. Wanting touch, closeness, release. Wanting in a way that could easily collapse into momentum if I let it. And still, I am here, choosing not to rush. Not because I doubt my desire. But because I

(for healing, attraction, renewal, and reclamation) There comes a moment when the heart grows tired of waiting for someone else to see its light. So you turn inward. You gather the pieces of yourself scattered in other people’s hands. You remember that you are the altar, the offering, and the answered prayer. This spell is for that moment, when you’re ready to release what hurt, reclaim your softness, and return your power to its rightful place: with you. I lost the most imp

(There’s a version of self-love that isn’t loud or performative — it’s quiet, grounded, and honest. It doesn’t always glow; sometimes it sits in silence, sometimes it sheds, sometimes it simply breathes. This reflection is about that kind of love — the one that grows from tending, trusting, and returning to yourself, over and over again). Self-love, for me, has become less about the grand gestures and more about the rhythm of my days. It’s the quiet rituals that bring me home

Before the ceremony, I told my therapist that I felt it was time to release Michael. He agreed. He said keeping him in orbit, even from a distance, isn’t good for either of us. It delays the work we both need to do. And I knew he was right. Allowing small pieces of connection to linger kept me tied to an old version of love. It felt tender, but it wasn’t healing. So tonight, I honored that truth. I blocked Michael, then I lit two candles -- pink for me, purple for him (I mea

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