Sometimes she drifted off after lunch

in the abandoned lot next to the library –

the weeds had overgrown

into a lush green blanket

that smelled of roses

after the late summer rains.

She always returned from her midday break

a few minutes late,

and a little more grateful

for the dirt.

Illustrated by me, a Black woman artist. Subscribe to support my work and Black art.

I’m glad you’re here 🤎

The days’ obligations

are already calling,

demanding her attention –

But if she closes her eyes

and counts to eight,

she can hear the sun rise

and smell that her coffee

is made just right –

Splash of cream,

two sugars,

stir.

Illustrated by me, a Black woman artist. Subscribe to support my work and Black art.

I’m glad you’re here 🤎

The house is quiet,

holding its’ breath

as it awaits a new week.

She lights a candle

and sings the house a song

as she wraps her hair

in her old satin scarf —

She had braided the lyrics

into her hair for safekeeping,

as an offering to the week

to be kind.

Illustrated by me, a Black woman artist. Subscribe to support my work and Black art.

I’m glad you’re here 🤎

Somewhere along the journey through the hormonal hell that exists in your mid 30s, by brain decided it no longer likes to sleep between 2 and 4 AM. I’m on a hiatus from short-form social media, so doomscrolling is not an option, and reading substack articles requires more brain power than I have in the middle of the night. Most nights I write, or simply contemplate my entire existence. But the other night, my racing middle of the night thoughts took me back to a year I cherish deeply — 2016.

The year 2016 was a fever dream. Why so many millennials collectively experienced such magic that year we may never know; but chileeeee, we had a TIME.

In 2016, I was recovering from the breakup of the most toxic relationship of my life. I was living alone for the first time in my adult life, making big-girl money as a new nurse, and swiping on Tinder like I was trying to break a record. Mistakes were made, hangovers were gone by brunch, and I don’t think I owned any shirts that covered my navel. Ya girl was OUTSIDE.

A trip down my 2016 memory lane wouldn’t be complete without swinging by to check in on Trainset. Now you may be asking, “Dee, did you really fw a nigga named Trainset?!” And I would tell you:

1. His name was not actually Trainset; That’s just what my friends called him in the group chat.

2. Yes, I did. See above where I said “mistakes were made.”

Trainset was my neighbor. You know how everyone and they mama knows that getting involved with coworkers is a no-no? I raise you by getting involved with the fraternity brotha from accross the hall.

Don’t do that shit.

One summer evening in 2016, I was dolled up and on my way out for a glamorous evening — I was dressed head to toe in the best the Charlotte Russe sales rack had to offer, and headed to a disgusting college bar that sold frozen margaritas for $1 in plastic cups. I lived in a 3rd floor walk-up, and was teetering down the stairs in heels I had no business wearing when I ran into my neighbor for the first time.

It may have been the raging hormones, but 2016 Dee thought this man was FINE (he wasn’t). We locked eyes, said hello as we passed, and not-so-subtly glanced back at each other at the exact same time. I could feel his eyes staring at my ass in that bodycon dress as I almost tripped down the stairs.

Oh, it was on.

When I poured myself out of my apartment the next morning to get a crispy McDonalds Coke, he had left a note on my door. Just a phone number and two simple words:

“Text me.”

And you bet your ass I did — I texted, he came over, and thus started our short-lived fling. It was fun, unserious, and just what I needed at that time in my life.

I knew from jump I could never date this man seriously. For one, he was 3 years younger than me — which at 22, meant he had another 5 years or so before his frontal lobe finished developing, and he had some sense. There were plenty of red flags I blissfully ignored for weeks; but most relevant to this story, the man did not own a screwdriver.

I’m a traditionalist when it comes to my expectations from a man. I don’t kill bugs, take out trash, or touch gas pumps. So when this man came to knock on my apartment door asking if I had a screwdriver a few weeks into our fling, I knew it wasn’t gonna work out.

I am by no means a handyman, but my dad taught me the basics so I can put together furniture and do minor household fixes without having to call him — I have always owned a basic tool kit, and so should every adult living on their own. So….of course I had a fucking screwdriver?!

At first I thought he was trying to just use a lame excuse to come over (“can I borrow a cup of sugar” head ass 🙄), but this nigga really needed a screwdriver. I gave him one, but my curiosity was piqued, so I asked him if I could come peek at whatever he was working on. Giggling like a school girl, he said yes led me across the hall into his apartment.

I’m sure you can guess at this point in the story that he was building a train set — in the middle of the afternoon, on his day off from working the drive thru at Whataburger, this man-child that I let touch me the night before was using those same hands to put together a fully functional, battery-operated train set.

Now, the train set itself was not the problem. Building model train sets is a perfectly healthy hobby, and I’m not about to yuck someone’s yum! 2016 Dee knew this too, and after watching my face to determine if I was going to bust out laughing at him, I told him exactly that —- build your train set, boo! But then he told me what he was using the train set for.

Chat, I want you to guess what a 22-year -old man would be using a train set for in 2016.

Think real hard before you lock those answers in; got your pick?

You’re wrong. He was using the train set to play Pokémon Go.

Y’all remember that game? Everyone was playing it. You used your phone camera, ventured around your city, looking for Pokémon. I vaguely remember that it was so popular that they had to add safety features to the app because idiots were playing while DRIVING.

As I said above, 2016 was a TIME, ok?!

It was such a time, that this grown ass man I was fucking spent real American dollars to purchase and build a train set, so he could attach his phone to it, let it go in circles, and simulate distance on the games’ location feature — all so he could catch more Pokémon.

Bruh.

I pretended to be interested in his strategy. I feigned interest in those little cartoon creatures I could not name. I even threw in a “You are so smart!” for a little razzle dazzle.

Then I took my screwdriver, went back to my apartment, and never let than man near my vagina again.

From then on, he was dubbed Trainset in the group chat: my friends tore my ass up for entertaining that man, and rightfully so. The dick was mid at best, and he pronounced library as “lie-berry”. The train set was honestly just the icing on the “Bitch, you can do better” cake.

As I lie awake at 3am the other night, I wondered what Trainset was up to these days. I hadn’t spoken to him since I moved out of that apartment in 2018, and our fling was so casual we weren’t even FB friends. So I Googled him:

First result — “Trainset: 1994 - 2020.”

An obituary. That nigga really up and died.

I have no idea what happened to him, and clicking around on Google didn’t reveal any type of tragedy I could find. It was a strange feeling, discovering his death in that manner: I didn’t know him well, nor obviously had spoken to him recently, so it wasn’t shock or sadness just…damn.

RIP, I guess?

All jokes aside, I hope Trainset is at peace. He was young, so however he passed was a tragedy to those who loved him. I hope he’s up there eating all the honey butter chicken biscuits he can stomach, and catching all the Pokémon his little heart desires.

And no — the train set trick did not work.

Honestly,

Dee 🤎

Last time on From the Couch: Fuck these jobs.

It’s 9:59 AM on the morning of my birthday. I’m currently in a Lyft, headed home to my family.

Twenty-ish hours ago, my husband dropped me off at a hotel downtown for one of the most thoughtful birthday gifts he has ever given me — the chance to usher in my 35th year at a swanky hotel, alone.

To some close to me, the gift made no sense. I even questioned it myself a few times, right up until the moment my keycard unlocked the hotel room door. But luckily for me, my husband has a (sometimes annoying) knack for seeing me, and exactly what I need to not lose my shit.

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So yesterday morning I packed a bag with all the essentials for a good rot sesh, and checked into a solo celebration of my three and a half decades on this Earth.

But of course, I had to cry about it first.

After all, I am really just a girl.

I cried when my husband and I stopped for a quick bite and a beer before dropping me at my hotel. I cried before I forced myself out of our SUV when he dropped me off. But I wasn’t crying out of guilt or separation anxiety — my husband was actively rolling his eyes at me to hurry the hell up and get out of the car, he and our toddler had things to do. I cried purely because sometimes I feel so deeply and so much that if I don’t cry, I will explode. Crying for me is purely an emotional release. In happiness, in sadness, in fear, and in hope, ya girl will always cry. I used to feel ashamed about it, but I wear my sensitivity badge with pride now: I’ll always do what I need to do, I just have to cry about it first.

The tears were long gone by the time I clumsily pushed my bags through the door to my hotel room. The waves of emotion had been replaced by another old friend: embarrassment. It was 2:30pm, I could do whatever the fuck I wanted for the next twenty something hours before checkout, and I was just…frozen.

Unpacking

I legitimately had no idea what to do with myself. I had my Kindle, a backup paperback, my journal, and two fresh Pilot G2 07s. My good over-ear headphones were charged and ready to play the soundtrack of the perfect hot girl walk through the city. I had even saved a few true crime docs and feel-good rom coms to stream. I had plenty to do in my bag of tricks, but after getting to my room, I couldn’t find the courage to actually pull any of them out.

When the stay was booked, I spent time and effort to plan and make sure I made the most of my birthday solitude. I had a plan A, B and C, in an effort to combat my usual bad habit whenever I get alone time: getting so overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of complete freedom that I just freeze and do nothing.

In an effort to busy myself doing literally anything, I started to unpack my suitcase and neatly place things on the bathroom counter and nightstand, then stopped and said to myself, “It’s literally just you in this room; be a little messy, girl!”

So then I averted my attention to the rooms’ TV: I was looking forward to using the complimentary Chromecast, and attempted to connect my phone. I went from being frozen like a deer in headlights, t o hyperfocusing on why my iPhone kept failing to connect to Chromecast for over an hour. Thanks ADHD — Reddit and my squirrel brain were made for moments like this.

When I realized I was wasting precious moments fiddling with a TV remote, I forced myself back on track: celebrating my birthday. I pulled out the gold ‘3’ and ‘5’ balloons I got on Amazon to blow up for the cute pictures I planned on taking; the 3 blew up just fine, but the 5 took some Scotch tape magic after I accidentally poked a hole in it with my press on nail.

It took a little bit, but my nerves started to settle. As I started to put on makeup for a leisurely city stroll and solo dinner date, I began to unclench. I took my time on my brows, and let my eyelash primer get perfectly tacky. I danced in the mirror and sipped on the Kirkland brand Prosecco I brought with me. In reality, I was going to get an early dinner and probably be back in my room and in bed by 8pm; but my spirit drifted back to my early twenties, when I didn’t even start getting ready until 9pm, and being outside was permanently penciled into my calendar.

The key to unlocking the final level of my pre-birthday jitters was an old fashioned golden hour selfie session: I realized recently that somewhere between the chaos of new motherhood and body dysmorphia, I stopped taking pictures of myself. I scrolled this past week, and discovered the last selfie I took and didn’t cringe at and ultimately delete was in 2022. So standing in the warm golden sunlight pouring through my hotel room window, I stood and took selfie after selfie. The sun did more for my skin than makeup ever could, and I didn’t delete a single one.

Hot Girl Walk

After my photo shoot, I took a stroll through downtown. I took my time and slowed down when I wanted, and took time taking pictures of things that interested me. I had planned to find a restaurant and eat dinner out, but ended up getting lost in the audio book for Kennedy Ryan’s “Reel” and walking for over an hour. I remembered I had a free birthday slice at the Cheesecake Factory, ordered a slice of Oreo Dream and the steak & frites on my phone, and picked it up on the way back to my hotel.

Back in my room, I ate, drank more Prosecco, and watched the final two episodes of the second season of White Lotus. I fell asleep sometime during the season three premiere, and woke up a few hours later just after 10pm.

Waking up from hotel naps are one of my favorite human experiences: The blackout curtains had me momentarily confused about what day it was. It was so cold in my room from the AC blasting on 67, prying myself from underneath the warm cocoon the king-sized hotel comforter seemed impossible. But I did it, and made my way to the bathroom for a long hot shower complete with eucalyptus and mint shower steamers.

Late Night Dee

Freshly exfoliated and moisturized, I realized I was starving. It was half past 11pm, and so started an internal monologue scolding my late night cravings: You aren’t that hungry. Girl go to bed, it’s late!

Me and my internal monologue (I named her Regina – the ultimate mean girl) have been beefing lately, so I challenged her back: It’s not ‘late’ — time is made up and who’s gon’ check me, boo?! I’m ordering a pizza.

So I did just that. I threw on sweatpants and went downstairs and up the block to smoke a blunt and read my Kindle while I waited for my dasher. I took my bbq chicken pizza back up to my room, put on a mud mask, and ate and watched Brown Sugar — high as a kite and happy as a could be, the clock struck midnight on my 35th birthday.

35 and ticking

When I woke up this morning, I was momentarily frozen again. I rolled out of bed around 6am, and only had a few hours until checkout. Regina tried to convince me to ditch my plan to take a head-clearing birthday morning stroll, but I told her to fuck off and pulled on my favorite running shorts.

I ended up walking over three miles: I had a delicious blackberry latte, and stopped to write my morning pages while I people watched at the train station. I prayed. I pretended I was in a ‘00s Rihanna music video. And of course, I cried.

I sit here writing the final sentences of this essay from my own bed at home — my husband snuck me back into the house and past our toddler to avoid a meltdown (bless him). I am eating my slice of Oreo Dream cheesecake, and lazily watching Bring it On in my underwear. And it’s my 35th birthday.

In year 34, I got a little lost in motherhood and the comfort of a predictable routine. In year 35, I hope to take care of myself a little better, and remember to exist outside of my day to day responsibilities – even if that means forcing myself to be uncomfy, and facing twenty hours alone in a hotel downtown.

Those hours were short, but now serve as the backdrop of a most cherished birthday memory. Facing the complete freedom of a simple night alone forced me to love on myself – and remember who the fuck I am.

Honestly,

Dee

To no ones’ surprise, another diaspora debate on wearing bonnets in public has recently surfaced.

Cousins, are we not tired?

I could write another think piece to add to the pile on the dangers of respectability politics and anti-blackness in professional and academic spaces, but most of y’all aren’t trying to hear allat. I could also ramble on about bodily autonomy, and the fact that one could simply choose to mind their own damn business when it comes to others fashion choices, but most of y’all aren’t trying to hear that either. So this is my contribution to the conversation:

‘B’ is for bonnet.

Last year I wrote, illustrated, and self-published a coloring book, The ABCs of Black Girlhood. It’s my love letter to Black girls — each letter representing something from my childhood deemed too much, too loud, and too Black.

And in my Black girl alphabet, ‘B’ is for bonnet.

So while the aunties and young hoes argue on Beyonce’s innanet every quarter about wearing bonnets in public, I hold on to hope that my little book is out there doing the real work: A young Black girl somewhere humming her favorite song, and coloring the ‘B’ page in her book — blissfully unaware that her bedtime hair attire can cause such a fuss.

‘B’ is for bonnet.

Illustrated by me, a Black woman artist. Subscribe to support my work and Black art.

I’m glad you’re here 🤎

Some part of her always chases

the childlike freedom

of dancing

naked,

alone,

in her first apartment.

Illustrated by me, a Black woman artist. Subscribe to support my work and Black art.

I’m glad you’re here 🤎

A few weeks ago, my husband and I collapsed into bed, exhausted from another day of being full-time professionals and parents to an extremely cute (but feral) toddler. I was literally fishing a goldfish cracker out of my bra when my beloved announced,

“Let’s drive to Michigan.”

Chat, we live in Colorado.

I looked at him like he lost his rabbit-ass mind, and whipped out my phone. Door to door, Google Maps told me we were looking at 1,263 miles and 18 hours and 46 minutes of JUST drive time one way. We have a 20-month-old still in diapers, and two senior black labs — one of whom is ALSO in diapers.

So my initial reaction? HELL nah, my guy.

But life has been life-ing lately, y’all: My husband’s grandmother is sick. We recently found out that one of our senior pups likely has cancer. And to keep it a buck, we both have been struggling with burnout from the seemingly endless cycle of “wake, work, survive, repeat.”

So maybe a spontaneous 2,400-mile round trip, cross-country side quest was exactly what we needed. There was only one roadblock:

Work.

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My husband is in corporate sales. I am in healthcare management. Springing a last-minute PTO request on our bosses immediately sparked anxiety, and almost made us ditch the idea entirely. But we slept on it, and talked it over for several nights before we reached our conclusion:

Fuck these jobs.

Now, don’t get me wrong: it is an absolute privilege to have paid time off. It’s a privilege to get any time off at all, or even have a steady, stable job in this market. I am not minimizing that, or that most folks don’t have the luxury to up and take time off of work to have an existential crisis. What I am speaking to specifically, is work-life balance.

Hearing the phrase “work-life balance” generally makes me roll my eyes: I have filed it under “corporate buzzwords admins and managers throw out in meetings to connect with us young folk, boost morale, and make it seem like they care about employee burnout.” Professionally, the phrase never held a lot of weight to me, especially after years of denied PTO requests and guilt trips about staffing if I ever dared to take a day or two off.

Practically, I was now faced with a sick loved one and a terminally ill fur baby. Yet somehow I still found myself prioritizing work and questioning if that was reason enough to take an unplanned sabbatical. And since apparently hitting my mid-30s means having an existential crisis and questioning everything, I paused and asked myself: Why?

Why am I willing to consider sacrificing time I needed for my family, for a job that would have my role on LinkedIn by EOD if I unexpectedly went on to glory? Why do I need to give a 3-page dissertation explaining why I need the 3rd Tuesday in September off for a dentist appointment?

In short: Why am I prioritizing a job that is already sucking the life out of me, instead of what matters most — me and my family? I am not doing it anymore. And I am going to be the little devil on your shoulder, and encourage you to stop doing it too.

So, I practiced what I’m preaching and did just that: I requested the PTO, told my boss I simply needed some time. She approved it — likely out of fear that if she didn’t, I would quit. But a win is a win, am I right?!

We took that 2,400-mile side quest, and I truly believe God smiled down upon our journey: We got to see my husband’s grandmother for what might be the last time, and she got to meet her great-grandson. Our pups had the time of their lives, got lots of road trip jerky, and rolled around in the grassy bliss that is Midwest summer. My son touched the shore of Lake Michigan for the first time, and collected rocks after a magical summer storm. I visited my childhood home on the South Side of Chicago for what might be the last time, as my parents prepare to retire and move south. This trip was a core memory for me and my little family — and no amount of spreadsheets, metrics, and work emails will ever be able to outweigh that.

Having an existential crisis at almost 35 has been a whirlwind of emotions, and an avalanche of life lessons: I am learning to actively choose to rest and take breaks, when my body and personal life need it. My job sustains my ability to pay bills and feed my family, but it is not my entire existence. I am allowed to experience life outside of it, guilt-free.

This is not a PSA to irresponsibly risk your paycheck, but a reminder that just because a job gives you that paycheck, doesn’t mean you owe it your life.

Fuck that job, chile — take your PTO.

Last time on From the Couch: "We are living through another Renaissance, y’all”

Elsewhere Lane started out as a daydream. Now, it’s become a creative escape to a world I wish were real:

There’s always a chair open at the Eternal Press Beauty Shop, where your crown is scared ground, and you are always right on time.

Earl’s Corner Store is a cherished snack haven, where everyone is welcome, and everyone is safe: Pay what you can, not what you owe.

And this week, The Lit Stack has its grand opening –

A bookshop that always knows exactly what book you need to read next, its spine glowing faintly while gently calling your name.

Come see what it’s calling you toward, and take a walk down Elsewhere Lane.

The Eternal Press Beauty Shop

It’s Saturday morning,

and you are always right on time.

Sun kisses the pavement

in front of the Eternal Press Beauty Shop,

a gentle invitation

to the week’s end.

You are always right on time.

Ms. Gladys always has

an open chair for you,

and a listening ear,

ready to hear your story.

You are always right on time.

Little Black girls love their curls,

and their mothers lean into the peace

of lavender and mint

wafting from the shampoo bowl,

cold relief to their necks.

You are always right on time.

There are no decisions to be made,

no men to appease.

Ms. Gladys knows what you need,

and what you don’t.

You are always right on time.

Marcels curl Toya’s tapered bob,

a diffuser caresses Auri’s curls,

fingers retwist Natalie’s locs.

Each crown, a roadmap

to its owner’s soul.

You are always right on time.

It’s Saturday morning

on Elsewhere Lane,

and the Black girl is at peace.

You are always right on time.

Earl’s Corner Store

At the corner of Somewhere Road

and Elsewhere Lane,

Earl’s corner store is always open—

Pay what you can, not what you owe.

The neighborhood kids roam freely

through aisles of processed sugar

and too much salt,

giggling and poking fun,

as kids should.

The lights are always on

inviting in everyone

who may need a little warmth.

Pay what you can, not what you owe.

Emmett buys a pack of bubble gum,

a sweet sticky treat

after a hot summer day:

It eagerly sits waiting for him

on his bedside table

when he wakes peacefully

the next morning.

He doesn’t remember walking home.

Pay what you can, not what you owe.

Latasha thanks Earl for

her morning fuel

as she skips out the door,

in a hurry to wherever.

Earl doesn’t worry about the money,

it’s just juice after all;

Latasha will be back tomorrow anyway.

The juice will keep her cool

all the way until noon,

even in July.

Pay what you can, not what you owe.

“Wait!”

Earl shouts

as he chases Cyrus

down Elsewhere Lane;

Earl is eager to give him

a pat on the back

and to tell him he hopes

he has a good day.

Cyrus stands a little taller

the rest of the afternoon.

Pay what you can, not what you owe.

Earl’s corner store is always open—

The children are safe,

their bellies are full,

their laughter is loud,

and their joy is pure.

Earl’s corner store is always open;

Pay what you can, not what you owe.

The Lit Stack

The books at the Lit Stack,

on Elsewhere Lane

have a way of knowing

exactly when you need them –

Their spines glow faintly

as they gently call

to their next reader;

But only when

they are ready.

What book will call you next?

You can purchase tiny glass jars

of the jolt of anticipation

you feel when a plot twists

for the very first time;

The instructions simply say,

“Take 1 to 2 sips

while revisiting your favorite stories

to relive the best parts.”

Each jar is just a nickel,

and the shop is never

out of stock.

What book will call you next?

The luckiest patrons

find the strangest books,

seemingly written

just for them –

Cora is called by a cookbook

full of her Granny’s old recipes

for collard greens

and macaroni and cheese.

If she stands really still,

and closes her eyes,

the pages emit wafts of the scent

of Granny’s sweet potato pie.

What book will call you next?

The books at the Lit Stack

on Elsewhere Lane

have a way of showing up

right when and where they

need to –

But only when

you are ready.

What story will call you next?

Elsewhere Lane continues to grow — what shops should we visit next?

Previously, on Elsewhere Lane: Welcome to Elsewhere Lane

All artwork illustrated by me, a Black woman artist. Subscribe to support my work and Black art. 🤎

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I recently read Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings for the first time as a mature-ish adult, and still have not quite recovered. I listened to the audiobook, narrated by Ms. Angelou herself, which I cannot recommend enough – the soothing timbre of her voice was the perfect companion for my Hot Mom Walks this summer.

I first read Angelou’s autobiography when I was 18 or 19, long before I had enough life experiences to truly grasp the weight of most of her own. By the end of it, I found myself clamoring to revisit more of her works, and those of other prolific writers I didn’t appreciate enough as a young adult. I have loved my trip down literary memory lane, but it has left a question floating in the back of my mind:

Who is the next Maya Angelou?

The Harlem Renaissance of the 20s and 30s was a Black cultural and artistic movement, driven by the Great Migration. Blacks looking North and away from the Jim Crow South, found solace and community in art, music and literature, producing some of the most prolific expressions of Black American culture to date.

One can’t discuss Black art and literature in America without acknowledging the influence of legends like Aaron Douglas, Zora Neale Hurston, and Duke Ellington. Their works are tangible evidence of the joy and pain of Black life in post-slavery America, and will continue to influence and inspire us for decades to come. But while we continue to acknowledge the invaluable impact of the greats that came before us, it’s hard not to notice that younger Black generations are emerging with a cultural movement of our own.

I was yapping on the phone with my mama recently, and she said something that struck a nerve:

“You guys [millennials] don’t know what suffering is.”

In a sense, she ain’t wrong – I have never had to face violence when trying to vote or go to school. I know nothing about segregation, using Colored water fountains and bathrooms, or the terror of finding myself in a sundown town a little too close to dark.

But I have still seen some shit.

I will never forget eating cereal on that Tuesday morning on 9/11, while watching the second plane hit the Twin Towers live on TV. After Columbine and Sandy Hook, metal detectors and mass shooting drills in elementary and high school were the sad norm. My PTSD from spending 2020 putting patient after patient in body bags during the COVID pandemic will never leave me. And the visceral anger, sadness, and defeat that I feel every time I get another news alert reporting the death of Black person at the hands of police brutality will never ease.

Our experience may look different than those of our mothers and grandmothers, but they are still valid. And those experiences need to be documented.

Those in the 92% know what I am referencing when I talk about that moment in the early morning hours of November 6th, 2024, when something shifted. I distinctly remember waking at 2:08am, knowing in my gut that moldy orange peel was going to have access to the nuclear codes again. I don’t know about y’all, but something changed in me in that moment – Feelings of defeat morphed into intention. That day and every day since, I have actively chosen to prioritize myself, my family, and my happiness. Living so intentionally has helped to shatter creative blocks I have had for years, and allowed me to freely express myself.

What has resulted is pages of poetry in my journal, enough drafts of random thinkpieces in my Google Drive to fill an entire magazine, and dozens of illustrations of my everyday life. My art tells the story of my life as I’ve lived it and how I see it, and so does yours.

Every day, I encounter another writer, illustrator, musician, or creative who is in the midst of some sort of artistic breakthrough, and pumping out fire like no one’s business. I’ve read brave declarations of poets who have found the courage to share their work for the first time. The writers are writing again, and indie Black bookstores are carrying their books. Black cinema depicting our regular, schmegular existence is in, and Black trauma porn is out. We are no longer wasting energy defending our humanity and culture to those determined to disregard it – Instead, we are reading, writing, and creating art.

Black artists up by 1000.

I hope generations of the future look back at this period in history as another cultural renaissance for Black people in America, and across the diaspora. I am excited to see who the next Maya Angelou is, and who else emerges as part of the next generation of prolific Black artists. But to get there, we have gotta keep creating, y’all.

Lock in.

Honestly,

Dee

Last time on From the Couch: “That one time my ex’s dad told me he almost joined the KKK.”

Yeah.

Let’s just get right into it, chile.

When I was 22 and still an absolute idiot when it came to pretty much everything, I dated this guy for 3 years. Let’s call him Jim.

Jim is white. I am Black. He came from a well-off, conservative, Catholic family from South Texas. I came from a not-quite-middle-class, moderate-leaning family on the South Side of Chicago, that only went to church on Easter.

It ain’t work out.

Jim and I didn’t fail because he was white, and I’m Black; or because he came from money, and I didn’t. I honestly don’t think his mom even really cared that I had zero interest in going to mass. We didn’t work out because he, and his entire family, were raging bigots.

Now you might be asking yourself, “Dee, how in the world did you willingly sit through three Christmases with a racist white man and his family?” And the answer is simple:

I was naive, self-hating, and my frontal lobe had about 5 more years of developing to do before I had sense.

I’ve talked about, cried over and unpacked this relationship and how it affected me ten times over in therapy, so we can skip all of that. I had no business with that man, and I thank God for finally giving me the discernment to get the fuck out – Because I was dangerously close to ending up with the same fate as Nolan Wells.

May he rest in peace, and may anyone who harmed him never know peace again.

At 22, I was lost. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life after 4 years of floating aimlessly around UT San Antonio’s campus. Jim was a coworker, and the beginning of our doomed romance is not the least bit interesting. And if I am being honest, neither was he. I was a thick, dark-skinned, Black woman who ended up in a social circle with people that looked nothing like me, and that I had nothing in common with. But they let me tag along on their outings at a time when I was lonely, and Jim gave me attention at a time when I was getting none.

My bar was in hell.

Jim of course didn’t let his white supremacy fly freely in the beginning. He treated me well, and only occasionally let his mask slip: A casual “you people” thrown into conversation occasionally, or making “jokes” while wearing a giant sombrero and fake mustache on Cinco de Mayo. In my naivety, I wrote off his slips as harmless; They were clearly just a result of his upbringing in the Texas Hill Country, right?

Right??

About 12 months in, the neon signs that I would go on to ignore for another 2 years started flashing in my face. The highlights:

Family Pictures

It was summer, Jim and I were hosting a small bbq at his house. At one point I excused myself to the bathroom, and accidentally overheard Jim and his best friend (let’s call him Ben) having a conversation outside through the bathroom window:

Ben: “How’s things going with Dee?”

Jim: “Good, I like her!”

Ben: “What does your mom think, she cool with it?”

Jim: “She’s a little worried she will mess up the family pictures, but otherwise (shrugs).”

The Dinner

We had been invited out to dinner with Jim, his parents, his younger sister, and a few of his parents’ friends. I was the only melanated face at the table. Dinner conversation landed on politics. I stayed quiet and picked at my food. One of his dad’s friends didn’t appreciate that, and demanded the Black girl’s opinion:

“If Obama did soooo much for Blacks, how’d it make YOUR life better? You’re the only one here, so chime in!”

The Christmas Party

We were living together. We threw a holiday party, and I invited some of my classmates from nursing school. We were all in the backyard yapping, and got on the subject of our futures, talking marriage and kids.

I don’t remember the exact phrasing, or even the context of what came next, but I will never forget the impact.

Jim drunkenly referred to our hypothetical children as “niglets”.

It gets worse.

The Wish

His parents’ friends threw a party, and invited Jim and me. We went. I don’t remember much of the night, but I remember one distinct sentence that came out his father’s mouth:

“Dee, you’re great. I just wish I could turn you white; then you’d be perfect.”

Yet, it gets worse.

Beyoncé-Bowl

Superbowl party, 2016. I had no desire to go to his parents’ watch party, but Beyoncé was performing at the half time show and we didn’t have cable. So we went. And you guessed it: I was the only POC in sight.

The game is on. One of his parents’ guests, an older white guy in his 50s or 60s, gets up out of his chair and screams at the TV to the Black player running the ball down the field:

“RUN, LITTLE NIGGER, RUN!!!”

Hard ‘r’. No one in the room even flinched, including Jim.

And yet, it gets worse.

The Lakehouse

Jim’s family had a lakehouse, and a boat. We went often, and especially on big holiday weekends. One year on the 4th, we drove down to the lakehouse for the weekend. His parents, sister, and a couple of their friends were there. We went out on the boat, rode jetskis, and ate burgers. I thought I was having a blast.

Jim, his dad, and I were the last people up one night. It was late, and we were sitting on the back deck talking. His dad was recounting some story of recently stopping to help a family with a blown-out tire on the interstate. Described them as “good folks”, and lamented how he wishes he saw more families like theirs:

“The kids were both blonde-haired, blue-eyed…you don’t see that anymore!”

Jim feigned disgust and gave some half-ass reprimand to his dad, but he went on:

“Ya know, I almost joined the Klan. Dude came knockin’ on our door, recruitin’. But I told him, ‘I got young kids, I can’t be wrapped up in all that’.”

The Aftermath

By the grace of God, I am still here to recount this today. There are people in my life, including my own parents, who to this day do not know about any of what I wrote above. For 3 years, I suffered through that relationship in silence. And for the last 10 years, the only people I have completely confessed to are my husband and my therapist.

Part of my secrecy was due to plain ole’ embarrassment. I really sat there and endured years of casual racism, because I didn’t love myself enough to leave. The woman I am today doesn’t even recognize the girl who lived through all that, and I am grateful. Being stupid over a man is a rite of passage for most young women, but took it a few steps and a jump too far — I repeatedly and intentionally put myself in actual danger.

Jim, his parents, and their friends smiled in my face for years. I was their token, their moral permission slip to continue to be bigots because they had a Black “friend”. They pretended to enjoy my presence, while resenting my existence. They happily invited a Black girl to their parties and bbqs, and then had casual conversations debating if Michelle Obama was a man in front of her. They were the worst kind of racists: The kind that act tolerant in public, and only put on their hoods in private.

I never intended to repeat my experience to anyone, let alone write about it for God-knows-who to read. But hearing about the tragic story of Nolan Wells over the holiday weekend was a stark reminder to the Black community of what too many of us are forgetting to teach our children: Everyone ain’t your friend.

And we need to start teaching that lesson again.

My parents and the generations before them grew up believing that proximity to whiteness was the goal. They believed that if we carried ourselves well, got an education, and stayed out the streets, we would be successful. And if we were successful, we would be accepted. So we did the things: We used “proper” English. We got the degrees. We stayed out of trouble. And yet, they are still killing us.

Nolan Wells probably thought he was with friends. So did Tamla Horsford. They probably thought they had been “accepted”. And now, their families and our community mourn as we claw for justice in a system that takes months and years to “investigate” what we all know weren’t accidents. Yet we still face vitriol when we dare to speak about the pain inflicted on our community, every time we have to endure stories of violence against another Black body, at the hands of someone they should have been able to trust.

Being Black in America doesn’t mean you can only have Black friends. But it does mean that in spaces where people don’t look like you, you need to have discernment. You need to be able to silently determine who is safe, and who is not — and gtfo the minute you realize something in the milk ain’t clean.

Sometimes, I wish I had a time machine, to go back and slap some sense into 22-year-old Dee. But in reality, I am strangely grateful for those 3 years. If I had never hit the absolute rock bottom of self-hate and insecurity, I would have never reached the summit of Black pride. And y’all, they view is great up here.

I don’t know where Jim is today. Hopefully he’s aging like milk, and was cursed with erectile dysfunction and the same receding hairline as his racist daddy. But more importantly, I hope his mother is still pissed every time she looks at the family pictures from Christmas 2015.

Honestly,

Dee

Last time on From the Couch: “I Have No Friends”

I have been drawing ever since I can remember. Afternoons spent tracing my picture books as a young girl turned into hours spent sketching as a teen. I took art classes at our local rec center and was enrolled in art camps every summer. If you were to ask little Dee what she wanted to be when she grew up, the answer was always the same: “an artist.”

I wish this next sentence were the proud revelation that I followed my childhood dreams, and now have a thriving career as an illustrator. Unfortunately, reader, ya girl played it safe – I’m a registered nurse.

I am not knocking the career that has kept me clothed and fed for over a decade. My nursing career has been pivotal in shaping my life thus far, and I hold the privilege of being a healthcare professional near and dear to my heart. My dad affectionately calls me “Nurse Dee,” proud that his dream was realized: his Black daughter from the South Side of Chicago broke barriers, went to college, and is now a successful professional.

But it wasn’t my dream.

Somewhere between my first and last day of high school, my goals shifted. Art camp was replaced by camps for kids interested in medicine. I passed up AP Art for AP Bio. My parents were gently nudging me toward a career in STEM and away from art, wanting me to get an education that guaranteed the stability and financial freedom they didn’t have. I don’t resent them for it – they were doing their best and wanted what they thought was best for me. And to be honest, I didn’t fight them on it; The shy introvert who was already struggling to fit in had no problem taking the path of least resistance.

I pivoted, but I never completely gave up on creating. I doodled for fun here and there, and had an Etsy shop at various points throughout the years. Unfortunately, #adulting is real, and something was always more important than my art. But after college, marriage, and a baby, something broke — Nurse Dee was burnt out and bored. Luckily, “Artist Dee” was right there waiting for her chance in the spotlight.

Like many nurses who endured the worst of it, I hit my breaking point during the COVID pandemic. I spent the bulk of my career as an ICU nurse and was on the front lines during the worst of 2020. While most people were navigating WFH and discovering TikTok, I was working 48+ hour weeks, using garbage bags as PPE, and comforting grieving families as they watched their loved ones draw their last breaths over FaceTime. After months of seeing more death than any person should have to endure, I was left with only one positive thing: a deeper respect for the short time we have on this Earth.

With that newfound perspective, I finally picked up my pencil and sketchbook again with intention. Being constantly confronted with the fragility of life encouraged me to make sure I spent mine doing what I love. And as much as I love nursing, I love creating more.

I had zero intention of up and quitting a career I had spent years dedicated to. But when I casually told my family I was going to pursue my creative dreams, you would have thought I was already standing in front of the unemployment office.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family and we are as perfectly imperfect as one can be. They aren’t unsupportive of my art – they have purchased from and shared my Etsy shop whenever it was open, and bought my coloring book that I illustrated and self-published. But that’s pretty much where the support ends. Excited explanations of pieces I’d poured weeks into got lukewarm “Oh that’s nice” responses. Hopeful declarations of dreams I wanted to come true fell on half-listening ears. It literally felt like talking to my family about my passion was akin to talking to a brick wall, and for a long time, I resented them for it.

I thought I needed my family’s validation of my talent and dreams to pursue them. If my parents didn’t sign off on my permission slip, was I even really an artist? The answer is obviously “yes,” but my frontal lobe needed to develop a bit more to figure that out:

My family is a collection of Type A planners. They thrive on stability and predictability. I love that for them, but I have accepted that I am wired differently. Where they make pre-planned steps, I am impulsive. Where they see black and white, I see grey. We are different, but we are still family. And maturing has helped me realize that being different from my family is only a battle if I make it one.

Letting go of the need for their validation has been the best gift I have given myself. Their indifference allows me to create freely, without dimming my light and censoring my art. It allows me to take risks and make moves I know they would raise an eyebrow to, and still make them anyway.

It has also shown me that even when they don’t understand my art, they will still support it. My grandmother would absolutely frown at the illustration I did recently of a woman with her tiddies unashamedly out, but she would still tell me it’s beautiful. My dad might not quite see the vision behind my Elsewhere Lane series, but he would still share it with his friends. Ultimately their support, despite their indifference, means more.

Maybe if I become an award-winning author, or illustrate the cover of a NYT bestseller, their indifference will shift. Maybe it won’t. But at the end of the day it doesn’t matter – my art is for me, and I am the only person who needs to validate pursuing it.

My permission slip is now signed, and it’s been signed by yours truly. Nurse Dee is still around for now, but Artist Dee is now captaining the ship. So stay tuned.

Honestly,
Dee

Thanks to some unresolved daddy issues, and PTSD from my career as an ICU nurse (shoutout to COVID), ending up in therapy after being diagnosed with postpartum depression was far from a surprise. But what I did not expect from my time on a therapist’s couch, was losing so many friends.

Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t go to therapy and subsequently decide to ditch all my girls. But talking through my demons did give me the tools to ditch some pretty bad habits: Poor boundaries. Negative self-talk. And most relevant here, people pleasing.

I was the resident Captain Save-a-Ho amongst my friends, always willing to give up or water down parts of myself for the benefit of others. I made excuses for bad behavior, and let friends shine in moments the spotlight should have been on me. It was exhausting, and by the time I ended up in front of a professional, I was pouring from an empty cup.

Therapy helped me realize that no, my best friend did not bizarrely run out of a restaurant in tears during a dinner celebrating me finding the perfect wedding dress because she “just missed her boyfriend”. An exercise on boundaries helped me see that another close friend’s casual racism and unwavering support of that moldy orange peel in the White House, was in fact a good enough excuse to end the friendship.

After a year back in therapy, I had a growing pile of friendships I was mourning. I knew the relationships I’d ended or stepped back from warranted that extreme. But realizing I only had two kinda-friends to add to the guest list for a party my cousin and I are planning, made me ask myself:

Is it me? Am I the drama?

I do not and will never claim to be perfect; for every therapy breakthrough I have about a toxic relationship in my life, I have another two about a toxic behavior or habit I can’t blame on anyone but myself. Ya girl is healing, not healed.

But I think it’s important to acknowledge the self-doubt that creeps in when you start to make progress with your mental health. That friendship from college you’ve outgrown may need to end. You may have to spend a holiday or two solo, because accepting an invite to your mean ass auntie’s house is not the move. Healing requires growth; and sometimes, that growth can be quieter than what we are used to.

When the quiet started to get too loud with thoughts of self-doubt, I traced my uncertainty back to therapy: Am I really making progress if I don’t have any friends to share it with? The thought challenged me to explore why I was reaching back for relationships that no longer served me, and realize that my emotional loneliness won’t be solved by anyone’s physical presence in my life. I needed to find comfort in myself, before I found any solace in anyone else.

I don’t know when I thought I would have my “midlife crisis”, but I did not think it would come at 34. I also did not think that it would look like analyzing every relationship in my life, to the point that some had to come to an end. While I mourn the friendships I had to step back from, I am also at peace looking at them through the rearview mirror. And I have faith that when I do find my tribe, they will be meeting the best version of (mostly-healed) me.

Last time on From the Couch: “I Illustrated and Published a Book I Was Afraid to Tell People About”

Y’all ever have one of those moments when you realize the only person holding you back from something you want is…you?

I have, and it felt like a lightbulb suddenly flickering on in my brain, flooding it with light and illuminating all the ideas I had let gather dust in the corners of my mind.

It also felt like the ancestors slapping me upside my head and telling me, “Girl, get up!”

So I did.

Last November, I wrote, illustrated, and self-published a coloring book. Cover to cover, it was designed, formatted and hand drawn, all by little ol’ me. I will never forget the feeling when I got my first author copies in the mail: I had an idea, I brought it to life, and now it was sitting in my hands. Tangible evidence that I — the procrastinating ADHD queen — could actually finish a creative project.

This coloring book was not just made by me, but it was for me: The ABCs of Black Girlhood is a love letter to my inner child, and every little Black girl that deserves to see their culture and existence celebrated.

So I proudly took my book and its Amazon link over to Facebook and Instagram, sharing it with family and friends. I penned heartfelt calls for support in buying my book for those that could, and a like and share for those that couldn’t. I got modest support from family and sista-friends for a few weeks. An aunt who is an elementary school principal even convinced all of her school’s teachers to purchase copies for their classrooms. After years of creative trial and error, I had finally gotten something right.

The reception to my book was overwhelmingly positive, and I am so grateful for how my internet aunties and cousins showed up and out. I was especially moved by my circle of non-Black friends, who purchased and gifted copies not only in support, but to provide a lesson to their own little girls about embracing cultures different from their own. But after the initial fanfare wore down and it was up to me to continuing to share my work so people other than my aunties’ friends would buy it, the seeds of doubt started to bloom:

What if people thought it was AI? What if people thought my illustrations were trash? And the most daunting of all, what if me putting out a project specfically for Black girls made people feel some type of way?

It was a feeling of self-doubt that I am unfortunately all too familiar with. Conversations where I talked about and shared my book faded. I stopped checking my KDP account. Somewhere between stalled book sales and my therapist’s couch, I once again had watered myself down out of fear.

I’m not sure if I can pinpoint the moment when I stopped giving a fuck. It could’ve been the exhaustion of ending a close friendship with someone who I realized wasn’t rocking with me for real. It could have been my therapist (shout out to Loretta, the real MVP), or divine intervention. But at some point in the last six months that lightbulb flickered on, and I realized:

Who gon’ check me, boo?

I could probably write a think-piece about Black women and girls having to unlearn toning down their Blackness to be more palatable to other people. But to keep it a buck, I don’t want to. I’m tired of defending my existence on this earth. I’m tired of trying to explain my humanity, my intelligence, and my autonomy to people that have no interest in hearing about it. And I’m tired of defending that I am allowed to celebrate my Black girlhood. So I am actively choosing to just exist, and anybody who doesn’t like it can kick rocks with sandals on.

So to the three people that will read this article: I wrote and illustrated a coloring book. It is a celebration of Black girlhood, and a celebration of me. I would love if it resonated with you to the point that you could share it with friends, or purchase a copy for a little Black girl in your life. And if it’s not for you, so be it.

I am actively and intentionally killing those seeds of doubt in my head, and I encourage you to do the same. Life is too short to be worried about what other folks are gonna think. Because in all honesty —

Who’s gon’ check you, boo?

Last time on From the Couch — “Welcome to the Creative Living Room”.

I dream of a place

where the Black girl is loved,

and the Black boy is safe.

Sharing a piece

of sweet potato pie at the bakery on the corner

heals broken bonds.

The bookshop knows

exactly what book you need to read next,

and glows faintly to tell you its name.

You can never be too early or late

to the beauty shop,

where your crown is sacred ground.

Welcome home.

Welcome to Elsewhere Lane.

-Dee Lovely

Illustrated by me, a Black woman artist. Subscribe to support my work and Black art. 🤎

Subscribe now

Elsewhere Lane exists in all of us, as equal parts fiction and hope. It's the quiet corner of our mind we escape to when reality gets to be a little too much. Its magic is gentle. Its peace, impenetrable. Elsewhere Lane exists wherever, whenever, and however you need it to.

My Elsewhere Lane

Before last week, I had never written a poem.

Welcome to Elsewhere Lane was born from yet another almost-abandoned drawing, and somehow led me to a creative outlet I didn’t know I had. I worked on the illustration for weeks, endlessly toying with rendering and light. When I finally put down my Apple Pencil and declared creative victory, I needed the drawing to come alive. So I decided to write.

What started as a portfolio piece became a tangible, literary version of my dream world. A bookstore with magic you can’t quite explain. A tea shop that brews exactly what you need. Elsewhere Lane is my personal utopia; I’m not sure what lives at the end of it, but I’m excited to build the world along the way.

So I invite you to close your eyes, take a breath, and walk down your own Elsewhere Lane.

What does it look like for you?

The summer air

is thick with smoke from the pit

and Granddaddy’s deep laugh.

I’m a big girl now,

so Granny tells me to go make

a fresh pitcher of Kool-Aid;

One packet red,

three cups o’sugar,

water, and stir.

I carry the pitcher

heavy with red drink,

to the big table in the yard.

It sits proudly in the middle,

flaunting its defeat

of the hot Texas sun.

Beads of condensation

drip down the glass,

like the beads of sweat

drip down Unc’s forehead

as he tends to the pit.

He’s grilling ribs and chicken,

smoking a love letter to his family and friends

through the sweet and savory meat.

The translucent liquid gleams red,

like Auntie’s long nails

as she loudly defends her title

as the Potato Salad Queen.

But her point was always moot;

she had no real competition.

The pitcher sits center stage

overlooking the spread,

as Granny sits in her chair,

overlooking her entire world:

Cousins playing,

siblings arguing,

family loving,

and living,

free.

I’m a big girl now,

so Granny tells me to go make

a fresh pitcher of Kool-Aid:

One packet red,

three cups o’sugar,

water, and stir.

All works written and illustrated by me, a Black woman artist. Subscribe to support my work and Black art.

I’m glad you’re here 🤎

Some houses hold memories.

Others remember you back.

The Time Between Rooms is a story about returning, and finding your voice.

Honestly,

Dee

The Time Between Rooms

by Dee Lovely

1

It had been thirteen years since Jade had stepped foot into her grandmother’s house.

The foyer looked exactly the same, as if time itself had paused. The scent of freshly pressed linens lingered in the air, carrying whispers of the past. The floorboard at the base of the stairs creaked beneath her step, singing the echoes of those who had walked across it.

Battling a strange mix of dread and familiarity, Jade stepped farther inside, feeling the walls watch her return.

She padded through the dining room along the old blue carpet, until she reached the kitchen. It was smaller than she remembered, but the bright yellow paint still caught the sunlight pouring through the window above the sink. She ran her fingers along the countertop, tracing familiar grooves and nicks.

She was home.

“Just leave the bags by the stairs,” Jade called to her husband, Caleb, who was still hauling luggage from the car. After fourteen hours on the road, he was ready to collapse.

“Let’s just get it over with while I’ve got a second wind,” Caleb said, following her voice into the kitchen. He glanced around. “So, this is it, huh? Grannydear’s house.”

“Yup,” Jade replied with a small smile. “Want a tour?”

“After we get unloaded,” he said, nudging her playfully. “If I stop moving, I might fall asleep.”

Jade led the way back outside, across the sprawling green lawn toward their overpacked SUV. Her father was cooing at her nine-month-old son still strapped in his carseat, wiggling and eager for freedom.

“Dad, you didn’t have to come let us in,” Jade teased. “I used to live here, remember? I know my way around.” She reached for a suitcase, setting it on the curb, then glanced back toward the house. Its windows caught glimmers of the afternoon light, still watching her.

Her father scoffed. “If I wasn’t here, who’d keep an eye on this little guy while you unloaded?”

Baby Isaac grinned up at him, gums gleaming.

“And there’s a couple… things I need to show you,” her father added, his tone shifting slightly.

Back inside, he rattled off the house’s quirks.

“The upstairs faucet drips, so make sure you turn the knob all the way. And don’t leave too many lights on, you’ll trip the breaker.” He paused, double-checking his mental list.

“And steer clear of the basement,” he added. “It’s a mess down there. Just keep the door latched — it swings open if you don’t.”

“That’s it?” Jade laughed.

Her father hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the basement. “Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s it.”

He started toward the foyer, speaking over his shoulder. “Just… be careful. It’s an old house.”

2

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Caleb asked, stuffing extra diapers and formula into their son’s already bulging bag. “Mike’s making that brisket queso you love.”

“I’m sure,” Jade said, trying to sound sincere. “I told myself I’d use this trip to write, so I’m going to write.” She kissed Isaac’s soft cheek and handed him to Caleb. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

Her voice carried more conviction than she felt. She hadn’t written anything worth keeping in months. Two deadline extensions, one worried editor, and an inbox full of polite reminders later, she’d packed her bags and left the city, hoping a change of scenery might inspire…something.

She hadn’t planned to come here, though. Not to the house where every wall still held her late grandmother’s voice. But when her father offered the keys, she couldn’t bring herself to say no.

Now, standing alone in the house’s eerie stillness, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. The air felt too quiet, like the house itself was listening.

A sudden shriek from the kitchen shattered the moment.

Jade hurried to the stove and turned off the burner under the tea kettle. The sound dissolved, leaving an even heavier silence behind. From the cabinet, she was drawn to her grandmother’s favorite mug – an ornate white ceramic cup edged in blue and gold florals. It seemed to gleam in the low light, calling to her.

As she poured hot water over her lavender tea bag, something flickered at the edge of her vision.

The basement door stood open.

Jade froze. She was sure she had latched it.

She set down the kettle and slowly crossed the cool tile floor toward the basement door. The staircase loomed before her, vanishing into shadows. She listened.

Nothing.

No breeze, no movement. Just silence.

Jade closed the door and latched it firmly.

Tea in hand, she wandered from room to room, her favorite notebook tucked under her arm. Each space seemed smaller than she remembered, littered with boxes and old furniture. Yet each room was heavy with memory. This house always did carry time differently—

In the living room, she could hear the thunderous laughter of her cousins echoing against the walls. In the dining room, the faint scent of her auntie’s cornbread drifted through the air. As she climbed the main staircase, she could hear the low hum of her grandmother’s favorite gospel station.

The house was full of stories. All she had to do was listen.

At the top of the stairs, Jade stepped into what used to be her childhood bedroom. It was cluttered now, with broken furniture and leaning towers of boxes scattered throughout. She set her cup and notebook on a nearby box and closed her eyes, letting the years fall away. She could still see her bunk bed by the window, the overflowing bookcase against the far wall.

When she opened her eyes, a doll sat in the middle of the floor.

She froze.

The doll hadn’t been there before. It stared back at her, almost teasingly.

Jade bent to pick it up, studying it carefully. The doll felt warmer than it should have, softer. Jade frowned, and glanced around the room. Something had shifted.

The air no longer smelled like dust. The clutter and boxes were gone. Jade’s chest tightened as she turned slowly, and saw her old bunk bed by the window.

Except it wasn’t a memory from the past, it was there, where it had always been.

3

Jade stood still.

Sitting on the bottom bunk of the bed she had been reminiscing about only moments before, was a little girl.

She looked familiar. Jade stared at her, wracking her brain to place the girl’s face. Where did she know her from?

The girl was humming softly, seemingly unaware of Jade’s presence. And in her hands was a doll. Jade looked down at her own hands.

They were empty.

Her breath hitched as she looked back at the child. Slowly, she stepped closer, trying to get a better look at the doll in the girl’s grasp.

It was the doll. Her doll.

Yes, she remembered now. Addy. Jade had gotten her as a gift for her eighth birthday. She was sure she still had her, tucked away somewhere in a box in storage.

She began mentally retracing where the doll could be now, rummaging through memories like old drawers. She was occupied by her search when the strangeness of the moment came rushing back.

Jade looked toward the bed again.

The little girl was staring right at her.

It wasn’t fear that filled her big brown eyes, but curiosity. They shimmered as she studied Jade, her small hands clutching Addy tightly. Neither of them spoke.

Jade took another cautious step forward, returning the girl’s gaze.

“Do you want to play?”

The little girl’s eyes shone brightly, eager for Jade’s response.

She nodded before she could stop herself.

The little girl hopped down from the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor at Jade’s feet. She pointed to the cedar toy chest at the foot of the bed, its lid open and glowing faintly with golden light.

“My other dolls are in there,” she said brightly. “You can play with any one you want! But Addy is mine. She’s my favorite.”

Jade’s chest tightened at the sound of her doll’s name.

Still, she obliged, drawn toward the light. She knelt beside the toy chest and reached for another doll resting inside.

“That’s CeCe,” the little girl said in a sing-song voice, combing Addy’s hair. “I like her too.”

Jade sat on the floor opposite her, picking up a small brush from a pile of doll accessories that had appeared between them. She began brushing CeCe’s thick black curls, the rhythm oddly calming.

The girl kept humming softly, tending to Addy with gentle, deliberate strokes.

“So,” the girl said after a moment, not looking up, “what are you doing here?”

Jade blinked, caught off guard. “I…” she started, but the words tangled.

Then she heard it: a familiar sound drifting in from the hallway.

Gospel music. The low hum of her grandmother’s favorite station.

“Grannydear is calling you,” the girl said simply to Jade, still not meeting her gaze.

Jade looked at her, then stood and turned toward the doorway. The bedroom door stood open, the light in the hallway pulsing slightly.

A warm shiver rippled through her, like a memory brushing past her skin.

“Where am I?” she whispered, half to herself, half to the girl. “I don’t understand how…”

She turned back.

The little girl was gone.

4

Jade stood in the same spot, looking around in bewilderment.

The little girl and Addy were gone.

The smell of dust and a cold shiver consumed her. The broken furniture and leaning towers of boxes had returned. She might have believed it was all imagined if it weren’t for the music.

The faint hum of gospel still flowed from the room across the hall, beckoning her. The door to her grandmother’s room remained closed, but a soft light glowed from beneath the frame.

Jade walked across the hall, reaching for the doorknob. It pulsed slightly beneath her fingers, inviting her inside.

She expected to find an unoccupied hospital bed and scattered home medical supplies behind the door. Instead, it was another time capsule:

The light in the room was different than it should have been. Lighter. Golden.

Brightly colored dresses and modest heels were scattered across the floor. The faint floral scent of Grannydears’ signature perfume lingered in the air. Gospel music flowed from the big radio atop the dresser.

It was Sunday. Grannydear was getting ready for church.

Her grandmother sat at her vanity, humming and carefully removing curlers from her hair.

Grannydear caught Jade’s bewildered gaze in the mirror. “Well, come in, chile! Don’t just stand there looking crazy. And close that door! You’re letting my heat out.”

Jade obeyed, shifting to shut the door behind her. When she turned back, Grannydear motioned her into a chair that had appeared next to the vanity.

“Now come on, sit! I need to do your hair for church. You look like you’ve been running wild with those braids.”

Jade instinctively touched the thick curls she knew were on her head. Braids?

Grannydear motioned impatiently again. Jade knew better than to make her repeat herself.

She sat, chair facing away from her grandmother. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Grannydear began combing her hair.

Jade sat silently, dumbfounded but strangely at ease. She stole a glance at the vanity mirror and froze.

In the reflection sat the little girl from her bedroom – Small. Braided. And holding Addy.

Jade looked down at her own hands. They were manicured with her signature red polish, and empty. Her wedding ring glinted in the light.

She looked up again. The child mirrored her movements perfectly. It was her.

Grannydear continued singing softly along with the radio. Jade closed her eyes, forgetting the impossibility of the moment. She hummed along with her grandmother, savoring the warmth of her voice and soaking in the subtle floral scent of her perfume.

“So…what are you doing here?”

Jade jolted awake from her trance and turned toward her grandmother. “What did you just say?”

“You know I don’t like repeating myself.”

Grannydear raised a disapproving eyebrow at her granddaughter. “I said, what are you doing here?”

Jade stood abruptly. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed, voice shaking. “What is happening? Where am I?” She clutched at her hair in frustration.

Grannydear said nothing, calmly observing.

“Say something!” Jade barked.

Her grandmother returned to primping her own hair, humming softly, ignoring the outburst.

“I can’t help you, chile” she finally said, “but you’ll figure it out. You just have to learn to use your head for more than a hat rack.”

Grannydear hummed again. She was done talking.

Jade spun on her heels, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

She paused, breathing heavily. She closed her eyes and began counting slowly: One… two… three…

She inhaled deeply, relaxing her shoulders as she exhaled. The tightness in her chest began to ease.

Jade turned and again reached for the doorknob to her grandmother’s room. Relax, Jade, she told herself.

She turned the knob and reopened the door.

The room was empty.

5

Jade closed the door again, eyes squeezed shut, willing her grandmother to reappear. She took another deep breath, opened her eyes, and turned the knob once more.

Still empty.

Grannydear was gone. It was as if the room erased her.

No music. No bed. No boxes. No trace she’d ever been there.

Light spilled differently now over the bare hardwood floors. Thinner, quieter.

Jade backed from the doorway in confusion. Then she heard it -

Click.

Her stomach dropped. She knew that sound.

The latch to the basement door.

Jade groaned softly. The basement always was her least favorite part of the house. It was dark, damp, and full of shadows that stretched too long. Her father’s warning echoed in her memory: “Steer clear of the basement.”

Reluctantly, Jade made her way down the stairs to the main level. The basement door sat slightly ajar, its latch undone by some unseen hand. Beyond it, the stairway disappeared into darkness.

“Not today,” Jade muttered. She was done with this house and its tricks. Whatever story it was trying to tell, she didn’t want to hear it.

She reached for the handle, ready to slam the door shut when she saw it –

A faint golden light was flickering somewhere in the basement.

Jade stood still, listening. Nothing moved, but the glow pulsed softly, inviting her.

“You’ll figure it out”, Grannydear’s voice whispered in her mind. “You just have to learn to use your head for more than a hat rack”.

Jade sighed heavily. “This is exactly how folks die in scary movies,” she muttered. But the words felt thin as soon as they left her mouth.

She flipped the switch at the top of the stairwell. Nothing.

“Of course,” she grumbled.

A tender shiver slid down her spine, pushing her forward. Step by step, she descended the basement staircase.

Her heart pounded as she tried to remember the basement’s layout: the shelves, the old furnace. But when she reached the bottom step, none of it matched.

This wasn’t the basement she remembered.

Warm light flooded the room, revealing a cozy oasis. A record player spun soft jazz in the corner. A fire crackled in the hearth before a deep green velvet couch. The air smelled faintly of lavender and cedar.

And in the far corner stood an old wooden writing desk, glowing faintly.

Jade’s breath caught. She walked toward it, drawn like a moth to flame.

At the center of the desk sat her grandmother’s favorite mug. It was still steaming with lavender tea.

Jade’s pulse quickened. She looked around the room wildly.

“None of this makes sense,” she whispered.

Then she saw it.

Her notebook. Sitting on the desk’s edge.

“Impossible…”, she whispered. Didn’t she leave it upstairs?

Jade’s throat tightened. She reached for it carefully, the leather warm under her fingers. It glowed faintly as she opened it carefully.

Inside were pages upon pages of Jade’s own handwriting.

The notebook was full of stories she didn’t remember writing, but somehow recognized. The words shimmered faintly, lifting from the page like dust caught in sunlight.

She examined the notebook closely. Her initials still marked the inside cover. A faint months-old latte stain still bled across the back. This was definitely her notebook.

Jade clutched it to her chest, a strange calm washing over her. She took the mug, still miraculously warm, and walked over to the green couch.

The fire crackled. The record player crooned.

Jade curled into the couch, and started to read.

6

“Babe… hey, babe. Wake up.”

Jade blinked. The firelight flicked once – and vanished.

Sunlight flooded her vision. She looked around, taking in her new surroundings.

She was in the passenger seat of their SUV, daylight spilling through the window. Isaac slept in the car seat behind her, a tiny fist curled near his mouth.

“You were out cold,” Caleb says, smiling as he steered down the tree-lined streets of her grandmother’s neighborhood. “We’re almost there. You must’ve been dreaming something serious; you were mumbling about a doll.”

Jade sat up, her heart still thudding faintly, the remnants of warmth and gospel music echoing somewhere deep inside her. She glanced down at her lap. Her notebook rested there, open to a blank page. She slowly thumbed through it.

Empty.

They turned the corner, and Grannydear’s old Georgian house came into view. The white-painted brick and blue shutters were weathered, but it still had that same watchful air, waiting for her.

They parked. Caleb began unloading bags while Jade unbuckled Isaac. The air smelled of coming rain, with a faint hint of lavender.

“Hey there, Miss Jade!”

She turned toward the neighbor’s house, seeing a boy she didn’t recognize. He waved at her. Ten, maybe eleven, a football tucked under one arm. He looked at her curiously, then tilted his head.

“So, what are you doing here?”

The question hung in the air. Light, but heavy.

Jade opened her mouth to answer, then smiled instead.

“I’m here to write,” she said softly.

The boy nodded, as if that made perfect sense. He waved again and ran off.

Jade turned back to her family, entertaining a wiggly Isaac as Caleb hauled more bags from the car. A familiar sedan pulled up behind them. Her father emerged from the driver’s side door, keys to the house in hand.

“Looks like I’m right on time!” he said, waving.

“Perfect,” Caleb says, relieved. “We can get everything unloaded while I’ve got a second wind.”

They gathered their things and trekked across the sprawling green lawn toward the house. Her father unlocked the front door and motioned Caleb inside before him. Jade stepped forward to follow, but he stopped her, looking at her with an intensity that made her pause.

“You went into the basement, didn’t you?”

© Honestly Dee | The Creative Living Room 2026

Stay awhile.

Recently I realized I don’t have a safe place to land.

Don’t get me wrong; I am clothed, fed, housed, and loved. I have an amazingly supportive husband, and an insanely cute toddler. My life is good.

But in all that “good,” something was still missing.

It’s loudest in the quiet hours after my toddler goes to sleep. It shows up in the dozens of Notes in my phone, as random thoughts and half-fleshed-out ideas.

“It” is a space where I can be my complete, unapologetic self: Not Mama. Or Babe. Just Dee.

My entire life, I have subconsciously looked for that space in places and communities that already exist. I tried to mold my interests, desires, and quirks to fit into spaces they didn’t quite belong, just to feel like they mattered.

It took me thirty years and change to figure it out, but if the space I need doesn’t quite exist…why not just create it?

The Creative Living Room is my Black girl oasis — a space for the poet, writer, and illustrator I am still becoming. Art, stories, and quiet moments. A place where I can ramble about nonsense, share the doodles from my iPad, and be authentically me. I’m figuring it all out here, out loud, and you’re invited.

I want to create a space that feels safe for me, and for Black women like me: Too often, Black girls learn to stifle their creativity, their weird interests, and their thoughts to fit into spaces that were never made for them: The Creative Living Room is that space for me. And it can be that space for you, too.

So grab a spot on the couch, and stay awhile.

Honestly,

Dee