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

We’ve become so obsessed with aesthetics that we’ve forgotten about soul. Everywhere I look, people are curating beautiful lives. Beautiful homes. Beautiful outfits. Beautiful content. Beautiful brands. But beauty without personality eventually starts to feel hollow. And lately, that’s what I’ve been noticing. Not a lack of creativity. A lack of humanity. As I scroll through Instagram, walk into restaurants, browse furniture stores, or simply observe the world around me, I ke

Since becoming a member of the SCAD FASH Museum, I’ve spent more time thinking about fashion beyond the clothes themselves. Walking through exhibitions, seeing pieces from the closet of André Leon Talley, reading his memoir, and learning more about the history of Christian Dior and the designers who came after him, I keep finding myself returning to the same question: What happened to personal style? Not fashion. Not trends. Not luxury. Style. What struck me most about Talley

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

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 a version of me, not too long ago, who said yes to everything. Yes to the late nights. Yes to the extra drink. Yes to the invite that came in at 10:47 p.m. when I was already showered, moisturized, and halfway in bed. And I had fun. Real fun. The kind where you laugh too loud, dance like no one’s watching, and let yourself be seen without overthinking every little thing. The kind that reminds you you’re still alive in your body after everything it’s been through. Fo

I truly don’t believe we can align with our forever lovers, our soulmates, or our true life partners without first doing the work of healing. Someone once told me that a good relationship could heal you, but I think that’s false. A relationship can support your healing, it can offer safety and comfort, but it cannot be the cure. Healing is an inside job. You must first become whole. You must love yourself, know yourself, and pour into yourself before you can genuinely give yo

I wrote recently about Soft Wanting about allowing desire without gripping it, without turning it into a project or a prophecy. This feels like the next chapter. I’m experiencing someone now in a way that feels gentle and intentional. There’s attraction. There’s curiosity. There’s chemistry that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to outrun itself. And what’s surprising me most is how regulated it feels. I’m not collapsing into fantasy, even when I’m daydreaming. I’m not abandonin

I’ve been thinking about the woman I’ve become and how intentional she is. I didn’t wake up confident. I earned it. Confidence came from surviving moments that tried to reduce me. From realizing that no one was coming to save me, soften the blow, or explain my worth on my behalf. I learned to speak plainly because being misunderstood was more painful than being disliked. I learned audacity because silence never protected me. I stopped asking for permission when I realized I w

Lately, I’ve been noticing a quiet shift in how I experience desire. Not the loud, consuming kind. Not the kind that rushes me into meaning or makes me grip tightly at potential. But something slower. Warmer. More intentional. I’m learning not to rush affection. I’m learning to enjoy connection without needing to define it immediately. I’m learning that I don’t have to cling to things—or people—to feel secure. There’s someone in my life right now who has been teaching me pati

Every time I come back home, I’m reminded why I left. Not because I don’t love my family. I do. Deeply. But because loving people does not mean I can live inside the conditions they’ve learned to tolerate. This visit stirred up an anger I didn’t expect, or maybe one I’ve been avoiding. It wasn’t explosive. It was quiet, simmering, lodged in my chest. The kind of anger that asks, How do y’all live like this? and then immediately checks itself for sounding ungrateful. But I’m

There are parts of me that I am still learning to look at without flinching. Parts that aren’t soft or holy or enlightened. Parts that crave, ache, cling, or enjoy things I wish I didn’t like. Parts that came from survival, not intention. I don’t judge them anymore. I just want to understand them. There was a time in my life when intensity felt like love. When someone checking for me, showing up unannounced, being territorial or possessive felt like passion instead of control

Lately, I’ve been feeling triggered in ways that caught me off guard. A familiar ache rose in my chest when I noticed old connections resurfacing. These were people who saw me at my lowest, people who disappeared when I needed gentleness, people whose judgment still lingers in the corners of my memory. It hit me. They witnessed a version of me that wasn’t my truth. They saw me in survival mode: overwhelmed, grieving, unraveling. They mistook that moment for who I was. And tha

There comes a point in your healing where you realize the past is not a place to return to, it’s a place you outgrew. Sometimes people reappear not because they belong in your life, but because they want to see if the door is still open. Sometimes curiosity brings you back to a familiar page, but that doesn’t mean you’re meant to reread the story. Recently, I had a moment of clarity: your exes are your exes for a reason. Not because they were all bad people. Not because the e

(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

The trick to manifesting and dreaming is aligning the subconscious vision with the tangible goal. It doesn’t matter how realistic or unrealistic the manifestation seems. If it’s clearly defined in your imagination, your subconscious will begin working toward it. Writing it. Affirming it. Speaking it. These acts invite you to walk the path, consciously and subconsciously weaving your desires into existence. When I want to take a trip, I talk about it with my therapist and my t

They call me angry, but really I’m just expressive. Direct. Liberated. Free. Most Black women in America’s anger is misunderstood....