I’ve written you too much this week, please forgive me.

I am trying to survive. I’ll pause after this…

I am $234 short for rent.

My Lyft will be here soon, I’m headed to the credit union.

Cost: $40.

I’ll withdraw $500 from my secondary account and deposit it to my primary. My secondary balance is $0 but the overdraft protection will cover it for a $20 fee. I’ll pay rent and have a little left for food, bills etc.

My account will be negative $520 but at least I’ll be housed.

Poverty is expensive.

As for rent, I pay $2100 for a studio. That’s egregious.

I live in an expensive apartment because they said yes. That’s it.

And because of corporate greed.

As a poor person, my housing options are slim and I am often denied.

But it was a new build, they needed renters.

The property offered incentives:

• 3 months free rent

• Free parking

• Free wifi.

And, they worked with the Guarantors.

The Guarantors is a predatory program that capitalizes off desperate renters like myself. It’s for people who have bad credit and don’t have a co-signor.

I paid $2500 in addition to my move in fees. (I had help.)

I have to pay $2500 each time I renew my lease. It isn’t refundable.

This country is a scam.

I was told my rent would be $1600, I even confirmed it several times. I wanted to be sure. Maybe I didn’t word it correctly. Or maybe the fast talking rental agent didn’t care enough to listen. My first bill included $400+ in extra fees. To be fair, they were detailed in my lease. But my exhausted mind didn’t read the entire ten pages.

Why do I pay for electricity in the lobby and valet trash I never use?

I wish I’d had a person in my life to say “wait, let’s read this together.”

The cost of surviving alone has been high.

As for money, I know I’m judged for not having a “real” job.

I’ve worked hard my entire life. However, I can no longer sustain regular employment because (after a lifetime of chronic stress / trauma) my brain doesn’t function the way it used to. I have days when it’s hard to think, learn and remember basic information.

I am an entrepreneur out of necessity - not by choice.

Thankfully I’m creative. But when it comes to making money? I am at a loss.

• I have 100 paid Substack subscribers after 3 years. That’s really bad.

• I’ve sold 2 copies of the Buy Black Plan. Not good.

• I even tried Rent-A-Robin yesterday in a last attempt for rent. Crickets.

My digital products would be successful in the hands of someone else.

But in my own? The effort feels wasted.

I’ve started to lose confidence that I’ll make it out of this country.

I want to leave than anything else. Believe me, I do.

But I’ve been saying “one day I’ll be financially OK” my entire adult life and…

Why do I think it’ll be different in another country?

This is one of the reasons (there were others) why I delayed my move.

I want tangible proof that I’ll be able to cover my needs with ease.

I refuse to write a “please help me” post from a different country.

If you’re tired of my poor people stories then imagine how it feels to live it.

I’ll continue to have faith in my abilities and take consistent action. But I'd by lying if I said I wasn’t close to giving up. It’s been such a long, hard road. I know how to pick myself up. I’ve done it over and over again. And now, I am weary from the fight.

My spirit wants to rest.

But no, I’m not ready to quit yet.

There’s a beautiful life ahead and I want to be here to see it.

Today I’ll go to the bank.

Later I’ll post online for the four people who’ll like it.

Tonight I’ll spend ten minutes visualizing my life abroad.

Tomorrow I’ll do it again.

If you’re able to invest in someone, please do.

Not necessarily me.

Many of us have everything we need to be successful except resources.

It really does take money to make money.

I’m proud of what I’ve created while depleted.

I can only imagine what I’d do if I was resourced, rested and well.

If you have Community Care to share, thank you for making my day softer.

Venmo:@ divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

It shouldn’t be this hard to exist.❤️

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In 2019 I drove Uber. Then my car broke down and I couldn’t afford the repair.

I had to think quick.

The next day, I made a Rent-A-Robin post on Facebook to help with basic tasks.

One of my first tasks was to organize a home.

The client was so pleased with the results that she referred me to friends.

Within a week, I had a business that was booked solid : Your Divine Organizer.

My last name has served me well.

Then Covid hit and I was shut down overnight. Welp.

But that ain’t the point.

The point is that I forgot about Rent-A-Robin until last night.

I’m $1450 away from rent.

And since I sold my car (I was about to move abroad!) eviction is not an option.

It should never be an option but you know what I mean.

I’ve been homeless four times.

The only reason I wasn’t on the street was because of my car.

I refuse to be unhoused ever again.

And with that, Rent-A-Robin is back!

Tasks you can hire me for:

• Basic admin work

• Mutual Aid group workshop

• Research projects (I can find anything)

• Create your personal Black Business Guide

• Or anything else you need

We can also share space. I can be an active, compassionate listener for you. You can speak over my life and encourage me. We can just talk and vibe, I’m delightful as hell.

The price: You choose. I trust you.

The Buy Black Plan is available as well. ($47)

It teaches an easy 5-step system to build buy Black habits that last.

There’s even classic throwback music included.

Stevie Wonder, Frankie Beverly & Maze, Donny Hathaway…

Out of every resource I’ve created, it’s my favorite.

This is the one that will change my life and help me leave the country. I can feel it.

Use my payment handles to schedule a task or purchase a guide.

*Please leave your email in the comments.

If you prefer to share Community Care, thank you.

Venmo:@ divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

Paypal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

To close out…

These are not helpful:

• Offers for a place to stay

• Shelter recommendations

• Government program referrals

Please stop. Been there. Done that.

Having to explain why that hurts (again) depletes my already limited energy.

I’m out to finish the daily Buy Black Challenge on Threads.

Kinda talking to myself over there but it’s ok, I’m having big fun. Come thru…

May September be prosperous, peaceful and include a plane ticket. ❤️

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Whichever one it is, I apologize.

I’m sick of me too.

I do not mean this in a self-deprecating way but, I’m not sure why I’m such a loser.

I’m unclear why I remain an incompetent human at my big age.

• Relationships are hard

• Financial health is trash

• Mental health is in shambles

And my move abroad.

I promise, I really did intend to leave

I almost pushed myself to go on my original date because I didn’t want to disappoint people. You all supported me in good faith and I didn’t want you to think your generosity and care had been wasted.

All that excitement and folks rooting for me….

I felt terrible. I was rooting for me as well.

However, I’m grateful I waited.

There were too many warning signals that said “yes, but not quite yet.

My intuition (not fear) said no.

Also, I would have been incredibly sick in a new country.

I know I would received top tier care. But having to navigate a new place likely would have overwhelmed me. Although my care here was minimal, I at least had the familiarity of my own bed.

As for money, I am trying my hardest with the capacity I have.

• I’m sharing on Threads.

• I’m focused on one product

• I’ll be back on Youtube this week.

There is interest for my work. One of my first Threads had 2.3k likes. I just haven’t figured out how to turn interest into sales yet. But, I will. I just have to stay consistent.

I want to like who I am as a person.

And right now, I don’t.

• I don’t like the way I interact with people.

There are humans I deeply care about but am unable to sustain a connection with.

I am so sorry. You are my mind more than you know.

• I don’t like how much help I need.

And I don’t just mean the past few years, I mean the majority of my life.

I’ve had one year (2007) where I was ok financially.

Corporate job. Rent paid early. Bills on autopay.

Then a $400 wage garnishment for a student loan destroyed me.

Making payment genuinely wasn’t on my radar.

I didn’t receive notices (or missed them) and it never occurred to me to check myself.

I am intelligent in many way but clueless in so many others.

Mainly, the ones that come with being a responsible adult.

I am not a grown up and I never have been.

I am stuck at 11 years old.

As for this space, if I fucked up please tell me. It’s ok.

Or you’re just tired of my story then I understand because, same.

But I am determined to make it through this.

My only hope is that the years of hardship don’t diminish the joy once I make it there.

If you continue to have faith in me and want to offer support, I’m grateful.

One day I’ll be the one who can help.

As for rent, I don’t know what to do.

Total due: $1950

The amount was less yesterday.

However, I made my monthly payment to the kind person who gave me loan. They’ve told me numerous times to wait until I’m in a better place financially to pay them back but the guilt won’t let me.

I want them to know I am trustworthy and won’t ghost them. I want them to know I’m a decent person. But now that I write it, maybe I’m not trying to prove it to them. I think I’m trying to prove it to myself. I don’t feel like a good person anymore.

Lately I’ve felt like a taker. And by lately, I mean the past two decades.

That’s not who I want to be.

All the care, kindness and love that’s been shared with me here…

One day (once I’m well) I will pay every bit forward.

That’s who I want to be, a creative who is a giver.

If you’re open to still share, thank you.

Venmo:@ divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

If not, please find someone else who needs support. We are out here. Many of us are in dire situations because we lack a safety net of support and live in a cruel society that does value care.

Life is not supposed to be this hard.

I haven’t been able to look at my unsubscribes because I don’t want to know.

I do know there are many.

But it’s not about the number, it’s the names.

There are many of you I genuinely care about.

Knowing who I may have upset or disappointed is too much to handle at the moment.

I am sensitive to a fault.

One day I’ll have joyful stories to share.

A sweet new puppy, my beautiful home, a life I love abroad.

That’s what I really want to write about - it always has been.

Thank you for walking with me ‘til I make it there.❤️

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One reason I am deficient in doubloons is because this country sucks.

I am at rock bottom emotionally, financially and physically.

My desire to be palatable is in the wind.

White women, please do more.

The resources you have exist because they were stolen.

You didn’t directly do the pillaging yet you continue to benefit from the privilege.

What can you do?

Redistribute your wealth.

I recently received a Venmo that said “I got paid today, you should too.”

That’s how you do it.

I appreciate the real ones who understand.

And please hear me, it’s never about the amount.

There are several of you who already do this - thank you.

As for the others who support me…

• Women of the global majority are consistently generous.

• I’ve received Community Care from one Black man. (A favorite author of mine.)

• White men have offered sex work, breadcrumbed support and called me a project.

White women, this is on you.

An idea I’d love to see:

Collectively pool your resources to help Black women who want to leave the country (like me) get up outta of here.

I’ve taught mutual aid to thousands of people online.

My reach on LinkedIn was bananas.

If just 10 people (who claimed to benefit from my knowledge) had organized to raise or contribute $1000 each, I’d already be living my best life abroad.

Mutual Aid is important. But Collective Community Care? That’s where it’s really at.

The cosmic joke is that I’ve crowdfunded $10,000 more than once.

The problem was that it trickled in slowly which diluted the impact.

It’s hard to save for the future while drowning in the present.

If you read this and think I’m entitled then, yes and no.

No - I am not entitled to the deed of your home.

Yes - I am entitled to repair and reparations.

What did you say? I want others to fund my life so I don’t have to work?

lol no, you’re the worst. Stop that.

• I want to leave this country because it is actively trying to kill me.

• I want the resources to hire help so my business can flourish.

• And I want to create! My goofy butt wants to work more.

Just not for these corporations, for my community.

But first, I have to escape the Cycle of Suck™️ I’ve been stuck in for decades.

People can become stuck in a COS when they lack the resources, time or support they need to recover.

I am people.

Trying to survive this greedy, corrupt society is bleeding my bank account dry.

Once I’m abroad, I’ll have a home I can afford as well as medical and dental care.

I’ll never have that here.

As for what I need: Rent money

I’m $1750 short.

(Thank you to those who sent care.)

And then, I need “please help me leave this terrible place” money.

I already have support with the plane ticket.

$5000 would help me have a soft landing.

$10,000 would give me 90 days to rest, recover and exist.

I would love to just be for a moment…

Venmo:@ divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

I’ve given so much of my life away and had even more taken.

It’s my turn to save what’s left. ❤️

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“I don’t think y’all realize that people with no support system gotta operate completely differently.”

-A quote from Threads.

Awww, look at Robin on her honeymoon cosplaying happiness.

Wait. Why are there fingerprint bruises on your arm? You’ve had such a lack of support in your life that you’ll accept any ol’ crumb of care, huh? I’m so sorry you haven’t been protected. You deserved tenderness, love and real care - you still do.

But that’s not why I’m here.

What an emotional ass month…

In April I wrote about my pup Nico. We were struggling. And by “we” I mean, me.

I was sent several recommendations for a trainer, one stood out. We were on a video call a few days later and the vibes were right.

Did I have money for a trainer? lmao no.

Was I about to figure out how to pay by any means necessary? You bet your ass.

I was honest about my commitment to Nico’s care despite my lack of doubloons.

“I just finished work with a pro-bono client” she said. “I have a spot open. Opportunities often align for a reason, this feels like one of those times.”

I believe that as well.

We started virtual training 3x a week.

First session: she recognized Nico’s fear and my anxiety.

Second session: he learned how to “sit” in minutes. My flabbers were gasted.

Third session: she invited Nico to stay for a week to work 1:1.

But also, she knew we both needed a damn break. A traumatized, fearful pup and a human with debilitating anxiety is a rough combo…

I drove him to Tennessee a few days later.

I felt at ease the moment we met. I silently sent gratitude to the person who connected us. As I headed home, I received a video that said “he’s doing beautifully.”

And, he was.

Nico was cautiously interacting with another dog while exploring the yard. He wasn’t socialized by his last person and this was his first time around other pups.

I started crying because of course I did.

As for me, I thought a quiet home would be a relief. But the moment I walked in and saw a single piece of food on my bed, it was a wrap.

(He takes one nugget, finds a comfy spot, eats it and repeats. It’s adorable.)

But ain’t nobody got time for emotions.

I told my raggedy feelings to go to hell and went to the co-working room.

That night, my senior cats (Nalo & Mila) slept on my bed for the first time in four years.

From the day I adopted him, Nico took on the role of pint sized protector and refused to let them near me. I missed my girls. I cried again.

My heart continued to ache when I woke up.

I knew It’d be an unproductive work day at home so I said “fuck it” and drove 10 hours to Ohio to clear out my storage. I needed a productive distraction. I had $2.17 in my account but I said “fuck that too” and used my overdraft checking to pay for the trip.

Arrived at 2am. At the gate by 6am. Car packed by 11am. Home at 10pm.

We give thanks.

As for Nico, my chicken tender thrived. I received another text towards the end of the week that said “he’s started to melt.” I’d never seen him that comfortable before.

I’m really tired of these damn tears…

We agreed that he’d benefit from more time there. I picked him up for a short break and planned to drive him back a few days later.

Nico, Nalo & Mila adjusted well. As for me? My heart was shattered but, I thrived too.

Humans are hard for me. No, seriously - they hurt. My nervous system has been trashed for decades. Hearing them talk, seeing them, having to interact…

It causes physical pain.

For 4 years I’ve pushed past my discomfort and tolerated people 4x/day for our walks.

After my Ohio trip, I didn’t see another person for days.

The healing my spirit felt was remarkable.

“Quiet. Peace. Calm. “This is what I need” I said to myself.

For our move abroad, I had planned to find a house with a backyard for Nico. But to keep it a bean, I’d prefer to live in a condo while I read books by my fireplace, barely leave home and have everything delivered because, please leave me the hell alone.

I desire to be unavailable to anyone for six months, mayhaps a year.

Life has worn me thin.

Anyway, Nico came home.

He was bored. My anxiety spiked. The cats were annoyed.

I replayed the videos the trainer had sent.

My boy was happy.

I realized how boxed in his life would be with me. However, I couldn’t imagine my own life without him.

I love my little dude.

Yesterday I drove him back to Tennessee. When he saw the trainer and his buddy Navy, he was over the moon. My heart sank. I knew what I had to do. We sat in the backyard and talked.

I cried like a baby goat as I asked her to help me rehome him.

Nicole was incredibly gentle with me.

“Of course” she replied.

We talked about options and then she said “I have room in my pack here too.”

And with that, Nico had a new forever home.

He’s now living his best life as the tiniest member of a gang called “The Khaki Killers.”

He jumped in my lap a few times to comfort me and I whispered goodbye each time.

I left quietly while he played inside.

I hugged the trainer and thanked her but “thank you” wasn’t enough - it couldn’t express the relief I felt knowing Nico would be well loved, safe and cared for.

I’m beyond grateful that every step of this experience felt aligned.

I parked at a rest area on the drive home and slept for hours.

Grief had overwhelmed my body.

Today I’ll pack his toys, maybe tomorrow I’ll sell his crate - we’ll see how I do.

Am I crying as I write this? Why yes, yes I am.

My heart will take a while to heal and that’s ok, my boy is happy.

As for my own happiness…

I plan to GTFO out of this country by July 1st.

I’m serious.

• Storage is cleared out

• I’ve donated the majority of my items

• My car is headed to someone who needs it

The only piece I need is money.

If I’m forced to move with only $2500 then I will.

I know how to do life hard even though I shouldn’t have to.

I’ll make it work.

With that said, my weary spirit craves a soft landing.

Community Care is appreciated as always.

Venmo:@ divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.

To my sweet Nico -

If my assignment was to care for you to until we crossed paths with your forever person, then thank you for choosing me. It has been my privilege to be your kahu.

I’m so glad you’ve found home, now it’s my turn.

Be happy. Run free. Live well.

I love you. ❤️🐾

And just received a text with a picture of him at a family BBQ. She said he’s doing beautifully. Look at that face, I have no doubt that I made the right choice.

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Have you ever been dragged for filth by a Black elder?

Recently I was sent Community Care for a dental visit. (Thank you.)

Since I can’t afford the extensive work I need, I just wanted a new flipper.

Cost: $500.

Dental flippers are a lightweight, removable denture worn after surgery until permanent implants or dentures are placed. They’re typically worn for a couple weeks to a few months.

Mine broke in half two years ago which is why I lack side teeth.

I’ve had it for 18 years.

I searched online for a Black woman who specialized in dental shame.

My appointment was yesterday.

The doctor was 20 years my senior, she cursed loudly and often, she proudly displayed her mixologist certification and Delta Sigma Theta plaque next to her numerous degrees, she wore neon leopard print leggings and had an emotional support Yorkshire Terrier named Coco that sat with me as I signed paperwork.

I am in the right place.

After the exam, she paused.

“What happened?” she asked without judgment.

I shared my usual pathetic story: poverty, chronic depression, lack of quality care etc…

“Do you work?” I could see her brain trying to connect the dots between the put together woman I (falsely) present as and my atrocious dental health.

I’ve seen that look often in medical care.

Me: “I do. I’m a freelance writer but I’m uninsured and can’t afford care.

Her: “Who made this for you?” She held up my flipper.

Me: “My uncle, he was an orthodontist. He was trying to help.”

Her: “Is he still here?”

Me: “No, he passed.”

Her: “Lucky for him because if he was I’d call him and cuss him out.”

Wait. What did she just say?

“He did you a disservice. That was not care. I won’t give you another temporary solution, that would be unethical. There is a dentist who will but it won’t be me.”

She pointed at the screen.

“See this? That’s an infection that’s about to make your life hell in two weeks.”

Cool. Good to know…

“Are you on psychiatric medication?” she asked.

I told her no but failed to mention that I have an appointment in April to start.

There was care in her words but no softness.

“I’m sensitive to mental health issues, I am. But outside of suicide and homelessness, there is no excuse for this. I don’t do excuses.”

My face flushed with anger.

She was unmoved by my circumstances, my story or me.

I wanted to scream “lady, you don’t know what I’ve been through!”

However, I didn’t say anything. She was right.

I’ve been writing Poverty Sucks for 3 years yet remain in poverty.

Yes, I’ve been stuck in a Cycle of Suck™️ that I didn’t create.

Capitalism, racism, systemic oppression…

But I’ve also been stuck in my story.

Both are true.

If I’d used my energy to take consistent action towards escaping poverty instead of writing about it and reliving the past, I’d have a completely different reality by now.

It makes me sick to think about.

I felt the tears start. I quickly began listing the ways I’m trying to improve the quality of my life but she stopped me mid-sentence. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

I felt like a child being scolded.

I had just proved her point that I was stuck in the story.

Her tone softened but she gave no damns about my tears.

“Listen, we can fix this but you can’t wait. I need you back here by April. The cost is $30,000 - I’ll do your ortho for free. You can have a new smile in 6 weeks.”

She took out a camera.

“Smile as though you have the teeth you want” she said.

It took a while for my face to cooperate, it was an unfamiliar feeling.

The screen generated an image of how I’d look after treatment.

For the first time in my life, I had a beautiful smile.

She removed her blue horn-rimmed glasses and leaned back in the chair.

“I know you didn’t qualify for financing. Is there someone who cares about you that can co-sign? A relative, a friend, anyone?”

I shook my head no.

“If you really want this then you’ll find a way.”

She started to clean up while I gathered what was left of my snatched edges.

As we walked to the lobby she stopped me.

“Wait, I want to show you this.”

She cut a long piece of floss and stretched it out.

“Say you live to be 100. You’re already 50, half your life is over.

She doubled the floss.

“Say you live to 85…”

She brought the ends closer together.

“And if you only make it to 60 due to your health…”

She shortened the floss until only an inch remained.

“Do you see? This is your life. We’re all going to die. How you take care of yourself in that time is your choice. No one is coming to save you. You have to save yourself.”

She dropped the floss in the trash.

“Thanks for dragging me to hell” I said.

I sincerely meant it.

“You’re welcome” she replied as she fist bumped me.

“You cool?” she asked.

“I’m cool” I said. (I was not cool.)

I reached for my wallet to pay but she shook her head ‘no’ as she firmly but gently waved me out of her office like an annoyed Auntie.

That was the most chaotic three hour dental visit I’ve ever had.

I hadn’t planned to share that experience but apparently I needed to process it so here we are.

My original intention for writing was to make an ask.

I need a co-signer.

There are three programs available: Care Credit, SunBit and Cherry.

You don’t have to put any money down and you don’t pay unless I default which I would never do. That’s not who I am. And, I don’t want that smoke with the Universe.

I’ll make the manageable monthly payments on time.

If you think “there’s no way anyone would do that” then this ain’t for you.

Please expand your beliefs about the ways we can care for each other.

But if that is you? Thank you. ❤️

As always, Community Care is appreciated.

Venmo:@ divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

My little feelings remain crushed.

But in six weeks I may have a healthy, confident smile and newfound self-esteem.

Completely worth it.

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A letter of appreciation to myself….

You made it to 50, little one. I’m proud of you.

You’ve had more hard years than you deserved but this one? It cut extra deep.

Your Mom died at 49. You’ve spent this year wondering if you would too.

Between chronic stress and ruthless ideation, I wasn’t sure you’d survive - but you did.

I’m really glad you’re here.

Most days I know you don’t want to be.

And that’s ok.

But please, listen.

You’re here for a reason and it’s not to serve or teach.

You do beautifully at both. However, that isn’t why you’re here.

You’re here to find joy.

You’re here to live for you.

You’re here to love your life.

You’ve lived five decades of your life prioritizing others over yourself. Of course you’re exhausted and ready to quit. You were born to a family of broken branches who taught you their harmful ways. Your direct bloodline has never known happiness.

And that, is why you’re here.

The move abroad will be good for your heart.

You picked a location that’s overcast and rainy on purpose. You plan to wrap yourself in blankets in front of your fireplace and hide away from the world forever. It’s understandable, you’ve been so hurt. You want to protect yourself. You want to feel safe for the first time in your life.

I hear you, I do. Take all the time you need.

But please know that isn’t where you’re meant to stay.

One day you’ll wake up to your life.

You’ll want the sun and the ocean. You’ll want to walk the streets to buy fresh flowers. You’ll decorate your home with vibrant colors instead of muted grays.

Your home will reflect the light you carry.

As for other people? One day they won’t hurt.

I don’t mean you won’t be disappointed or have your heart broken - you will.

Instead, basic human interaction won’t cause you physical pain anymore.

I feel how harshly you berate yourself when you pull away.

Your nervous system is shattered, it has been for decades.

Please be easy on yourself.

The move will transform every aspect of your life.

I know you’re doubtful that it will happen.

The money isn’t there and the support feels minimal.

But trust, it will.

There are unseen forces at work that will unfold in your favor.

Steady your spirit. Hold the Vision. Prepare your heart.

As for your Mom, she’s proud of you.

She never felt joy here but you will.

Take her with you as you build a life you love.

She’ll be there. (She always has been.)

And for the first time, you’ll be there for yourself too.

Happy Birthday, Robin. You are loved. Job well done.

Thank you for sharing today with me.

I plan to have a quiet day, I want to read and drink tea.

As for my move, it feels stuck. The resources I need for the next steps haven’t found me yet. I’ll continue to hold the vision that abundant sums of money appear from unexpected sources with harm to none.

Birthday contributions to my “Soft Landing Fund” are appreciated.

Venmo:@ divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

Please live your life for you.

We’re privileged to exist as this version of ourselves once in a lifetime.

What a gift - make the most of it. ❤️

With love,

Robin

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Hey there.

Heads up - another hard read.

Kay, thanks.

Every month I buy one slice of honey maple turkey to give my pup Nico his meds. The butcher is a beautiful, older Black woman who wears a fresh flower on the side of her hat.

Yesterday I went to the store hoping to see her - she was there.

I was nervous. It took me a while to gather up the courage. By the time I walked over, the pint of ice cream I was holding had melted.

My voice was shaking as I rambled out the words. “I know you don’t know me but every time I come here you’re always so nice and I’m having the worst day and I don’t have people and I feel really awkward asking but can you spare a hug?”

She didn’t say anything.

She took off her gloves, walked around the counter and put her arms around me.

“Oh baby, what happened?”

I sobbed until I couldn’t catch my breath.

She pulled me in closer as I cried.

What had happened was…

Earlier that day I self-injured.

I knew it was about to happen. I’ve tried so damn hard to ignore the voice screaming at me. But overwhelming financial stress, constant emotional despair and heavy loneliness finally won. I needed relief. People have limits.

I really tried to fight…

I’ve had everything neatly organized on the table for two weeks.

One razor blade. One roll of gauze. One large band-aid.

I was just waiting for the moment that would push me over the edge.

Yesterday was the day.

Afterwards, I needed extra gauze - this one was rough.

I went to the cabinet and my supplies were gone. I stay stocked up. But now, it was empty. I sincerely believe whomever watches over me was like “nah” and disappeared that shit.

But I still needed gauze which is why I headed out.

That’s how I ended up crying like a lost child in the arms of a stranger.

I’ll be 50 in December.

Bold of me to assume I’ll survive until then. We shall see…

At my big age, the one thing I want most in life is a Mom.

I had a Mom (love you, miss you) but she wasn’t the nurturing parent who was a soft place to land. She was an exhausted, unsupported Black woman trying to keep a child alive by herself.

Now I’m an “adult” (but kinda a kid) who just really needs care.

I want a Mom.

It makes me sad that in this society, I’m ashamed to admit that.

Which is wild because, why?

Unmet basic human needs don’t disappear because we get older.

In a healthy society, there’d be a space of elder women where I could cry, scream and be held in the safe embrace of community.

But instead I’m out here fighting for my life and asking my butcher for a hug.

Thanks, I hate it.

To wrap this up -

Please hear me when I say I’m tired of writing traumatic ass posts. I’m a ridiculous, unserious, light hearted person who just wants to eat delicious international snacks and read cozy mysteries.

But at the moment, my reality is a dumpster fire.

And since I write about my life…

It’s been a craptastic start but I still feel like this is the year I finally escape my Cycle of Suck.™️

I can do this.

2025 Goal: To only write about poverty and not continue to live in it.

(And to be held.)

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There needs to be an end of life service for people who don’t have anyone. A database where you can upload your final wishes and a kind human, one who understands the pain of a lonely life, will make sure they’re honored. I think it should be called Last Writes because those are the last words that we’ll share with the world.

I came up with this idea when my Mom passed away. 

She didn’t have family or friends but she had me. 

• I honored her final wishes which were written on looseleaf paper

• I gently packed her treasured record collection with love and gentleness

• I saved her favorite books - the earmarked ones filled with notes in the margins

I did my best to be a good steward for her.

Recently I’ve started to plan the end of my own life.

I purchased When I’m Gone: A Simple and Thoughtful End of Life Planner. It’s only available on Amazon but this was the one I wanted - I appreciate simple. But please be clear: we support independent Black Bookstores every damn day over here. 

Why have I started to plan for my death?

Because life feels bleak and hopeless.

I want to live but not like this.

This is not a life, it’s daily crisis management.

Why do I feel hopeless?

Because I’m a Black woman who lives in chronic poverty. Because I’ve never had a solid support system. Because I exist in a society that wasn’t built for my survival and only values my labor, not my life.

Oh. And I am very, very bad at capitalism.

I can’t figure this shit out to save my life and I’ve tried for decades.

I feel exhausted and out of options.

I’m grateful that I’m not afraid to die. My only fear about death is that is that I’ll be as lonely over there as I am here. 

Can I cease to exist in any form? Is that an option? 

As for my own last wishes, it barely took me an hour to write them out.

• Please take my body out of racist ass Ohio and cremate me literally anywhere else

• Donate any items of use to families of the Black Fairy Godmother

• As for my ashes, scatter them in Mexico - bring my Mom too. I’ve tried to spread her ashes several times but could never let her go.

• My adorable little old lady cats, Nalo and Mila. I’ve had them for over ten years, they need to stay together. Mila is the sweetest and will melt your heart. Nalo will hurt your feelings on a daily basis. Please take care of my girls.

• Oh my sweet traumatized Nico. He doesn’t need an owner - he needs a Kahu. In Hawaiian, a Kahu is a beloved attendant, steward or honored guardian. Please love him exactly as he is. He’s been so harmed, be gentle with my boy. 

Then reality set in.

It occurred to me that no one would read my final wishes. 

Who would know the book existed? I’m alone.

• My littles would be taken to a shelter

• My apartment would be cleared out by a junk company 

• My unclaimed body would be placed in a basic random grave

No, I reject that. I deserve a good death.

This is where Last Writes would step in. 

It could work like this: 

1. I’d list Last Writes as my beneficiary 

2. I’d upload my final wishes to the database. 

3. Upon my death, I’d be matched with a “next of kin” 

Last Writes would use my life insurance to cover the costs of my final wishes and give a monetary gift of appreciation to my attendant. 

This could be a final act of community (after life) care. 

I’m grateful for the beautiful work of Death Doula’s such as A Sacred Passing. 

However, their purpose is to create a peaceful transition. After that, the family or their community carries out the last wishes. 

Last Writes is for those of us who don’t have anyone.

This idea is close to my heart as my own time feels limited. You don’t have to believe me, it’s ok.  I’m close to homelessness for the fifth time in my adult life and I refuse to live in my car again. I refuse to live in my car again.

I’d rather end my time here. 

And thank you for your kind offers, but no. It wouldn’t help to temporarily stay in your spare bedroom while I figure life out. 

• I need money. 

• I need healthcare

• I need affordable housing 

• I need to care for my basic needs

• I need to move to Mexico for my safety

I need a miracle.

And while this situation feels impossible, the spirit of my ancestors continue to remind me of the truth: there is always a way even if I can’t see it.

I desperately need resources to relocate - temporarily to Atlanta and then to Mexico.

My apartment has been packed, I could leave in a week.

Goal amount: $5000

($2000 for moving expenses and $3000 for a month in an AirBnB)

I’ll figure out the rest once I’m there…

To send Direct Community Care, please use:

Venmo: @divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

Life is such a precious gift and I want to embrace every moment. I truly believe I can create a beautiful reality, one beyond my own imagination!

But I can’t do it alone. I’ve tried so damn hard and failed.

I need help.

Please know that once I make it to the other side of this oppressive existence and I’m writing my Poverty Sucks book on a beach in Mexico, I’ll pay every ounce of kindness and support I’ve received forward.

And for real, I’ll find a way to create Last Writes because we all deserve someone.

We weren’t meant to do life alone.

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I recently had a conversation about poverty. Afterwards, I wept like a tiny baby goat. The person was completely unaware that their words had broken my heart. They shared how others in their circle (not them personally) viewed poor people.

• We’re lost causes

• We don’t deserve care

• Our circumstances are our fault

I’m aware that society hates us but to hear it that blatantly…

I wanted to scream “it’s me! You’re talking about me! We’re humans!” and slam my computer shut. Instead I choked back anger and recounted my own painful story of poverty even though I knew it wouldn’t be deeply heard or handled with care. 

It’s time for a Poverty 101 refresher class, friends.

Let’s talk about it! 

I’ve been poor my entire life - five decades. I call it a Cycle of Suck.™️ 

A Cycle of Suck is when a person hasn’t had the resources, space or time they need to heal. As for me, I’ve never healed from growing up in poverty, being raised by an emotionally unavailable parent or the multiple childhood traumas I’ve endured. 

I am stuck in a Cycle of Suck.

Why am I stuck?

One reason is because I’ve been focused on basic survival. 

Another reason is because I was raised in a family that never recovered from their own traumas. My Mom and Grandma never knew how it felt to thrive in life. Their focus (just like mine) was to simply survive. 

And no, I don’t live in poverty because…

• I’m lazy

Poor people work harder than you will ever understand. 

• I lack intelligence

lmao be serious. 

• I need to learn to budget. 

Baby, I can’t budget money I don’t have.

Please understand that poverty is systemic and on purpose.

It is not a moral failure of the individual.

Poverty is a function of society that works as intended.  Our systems aren’t broken - this is what they wanted. And unfortunately for me, I wasn’t born into a life that afforded me the resources I needed to overcome decades of systemic oppression I faced as a Black child and now, a Black woman. 

How has my own Cycle of Suck shown up? 

• I’ve been homeless four times

• I’ve never experienced financial stability

• I lack the emotional bandwidth for relationships

• I’m consistently unable to care for my basic needs

• I can’t keep up regardless of how many “little life boats” I’m thrown

Also, I currently need extensive dental work and physical therapy for an ankle injury I wasn’t able to afford care for.

But the harshest reality is how unworthy I feel as a human. 

I suck at capitalism. However, I’m creative as fuck and I serve my community.

And in spite of my creativity, I’m barely able to pay rent each month. 

I do not value my worth, my wisdom or my words.

As I shared in a recent note here:

“Do you know why my Substack is free?

I convinced myself it was because I wanted it to be accessible. However, the truth is that I didn’t believe anyone would pay $7 a month for my writing.

When you’re raised in a society that doesn’t value your existence and you don’t have a solid support system consistently reminding you the truth about how remarkable you are, you eventually start to accept the lie as your reality. It’s trash.”

I desire to create a reality where my creative labor is valued, fairly compensated and allows me to care for my neglected needs with ease. 

I’m worthy of that. 

As Khadija Meow said “Where’s the creativity? It’s locked in poverty.”

Don’t just consume the content of creatives, contribute to our care.

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To anyone already overwhelmed with content, don’t stress homie. Back to back posts won’t be a regular occurrence here. I am exhausted. However yesterday, we honored the memory of George Floyd. Today I felt called to write. 

Dear Black people, I love you. I invite you to pass on this post if you are at capacity. We’ve been traumatized (and re-traumatized) enough for several lifetimes.

Please rest and daydream. 

As for me, I sprained my ankle last week and have barely left my apartment.

Yesterday I felt kinda ok and decided to walk Nico the rescue pup at the park.

That was a mistake for two reasons: 

1. I am not healed and I should not be walking and holy crap this hurts and what in the hell were you thinking, Robin?

2. It’s Memorial Day weekend in Columbus, Ohio and I’m Black. 

The picture above is what I saw when I arrived. I was instantly overwhelmed with dread. If your first thought is “it’s just the American flag!” then, oh. 

Let’s pause for a moment. 

This country was founded on the enslaved labor of my ancestors, brutal violence, and racist systems that continue to impact my daily life. 

That’s what I see when I look at your precious stars and stripes. (For the record, I’m a military kid. I honor those who have served.)

What did you say, it’s just displaying pride in the country? 

Pride about what? Quickly.

- About the way it’s made amends to Black and Indigenous people?

- About the genuine efforts underway to repair hundreds of years of emotional and economic harm?

- About the acknowledgment, accountability and tangible actioned steps taken steps to create an equitable society? 

Got it.

I wanted to leave but I didn’t have it in me to drive anywhere else so here we are.

After our brief walk, I headed back to my car. This is what I saw. There were hundreds of cars in the lot. I only passed maybe thirty and was able to snap these pics.

I didn’t see any other Black people. Can you imagine how unsafe I felt? 

In my mind, the thin blue line and confederate symbols are constant reminders that “my Black life isn’t valued or protected” in this society.

As I sat in my car and quietly sobbed in pain and and out of anger, I started to think about the parts of life white people never have to consider.

Have you ever noticed the signs that say “proudly serving the community since 1942” or any Jim Crow inspired year?

For example, these:

It always makes me wonder “serving whomst, beloved?”

• Who exactly were the police protecting and serving in 1881?

• Could my grandparents have opened an account at First National Bank in 1905?

• Would I have been allowed to shop at the Kroger in 1883?

• Did Pilot Dogs help blind Black people in 1950 or…?

I recently snapped these pictures around town. The image of the cop car is from online. Yesterday I actually passed a cruiser that said “serving since 1906.” I tried to take a picture but the cop saw me. I put my phone down because I have common sense. 

Alrighty friends, let’s play a round of “Being Black is lit but the price we pay is expensive as fuck.” 

Let’s goooooo! 

1. My building maintenance person is a Tr*mp supporter. How do I know? He told me, I didn’t ask!

2. I live two blocks from a police station. Do I feel safe? Bless your heart, no. I fear for my life on a regular basis!

3. When I take road trips, I have to be careful to avoid certain areas after dark because sundown towns continue to exist in 2024. It’s not inconvenient, it’s an adventure!

4. My neighbor flies a Tr*mp 2020 flag. I feel unsafe and don’t walk in my own neighborhood anymore. I pay to live here! 

5. When I delivered with Uber eats, there were multiple times I’d deliver to a home with one of the above mentioned symbols on their property. After an issue free delivery, I’d see that they’d reduced the tip to an insulting amount or deleted entirely. I wasn’t demoralized or financially impacted one bit!

6. When I was 15 years old, I walked home from school. A man sitting on his front steps leaned in and whispered “would you rather die for no reason or because you’re a n…..?”  To this day I’m unclear why this was my response, but my ridiculous self actually paused to reflect on his question and said “not sure!” then continued home. 

7. I drive two hours away to the nearest Black vet because the ones in my area treated me and my pup like trash. Shoutout to Dr. Jones!

8. There is a car in the parking lot of my eye surgery center with a blue lives matter sticker. It’s been there each time which means, they’re probably an employee. How fun! I wonder if I’ve ever been in their quality, unbiased “care”? 

9. Recently I was pulled over by the cops. The first words he said were “you’re lucky - a less experienced cop would have shot you on sight.” Good to know, my guy!

To end my traumatic walk down memory lane…

10. When I was 11, my Mom married a terrible man. He moved us from my safe, diverse town in Maryland to an all white town in Illinois.  I attended a public school with 1200 people and was the only Black person - student or staff. My home life was a nightmare. And yet, it was my time at school that escalated the decline of my emotional health. 30+ years later and I continue to think about the cruelty I from both the kids and the adults. (The adults were worse.)

Please don’t ever do this to your children.

These examples are the first ten that came to mind. Pleas know that I have so many others. While I’m able to make light of them now, each one caused me an immense amount of pain.

I say this in every post and I‘ll say it again in this one: I need to leave this hateful country and move to Mexico.

Any help to make that a reality is appreciated.

Venmo:@ divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

White folks, next time you’re out, take notice of your environment.

• Who is there? Who isn’t? 

• Is it a place where you think I’d feel safe? 

• Are you ok living in a society where I have to ask these questions? 

My goal is to not be here to find out. 

I want to experience not living in fear for once in my life. For those of you who stay by choice or by circumstance, please stay safe. 

For anyone interested to learn more about the history of injustice against Black people in this country, subscribe to the History of Racial Injustice daily email from the Equal Justice Initiative.

Black people deserve better.

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TW: self harm, suicide 

This is not about Beyoncé. 

Honestly, I barely notice her in the picture. This is about the two people beside her. 

Mainly, Kid Fury. If you know, you know. 

Kid Fury and Crissles host a podcast called The Read that I’ve listened to for the past eleven years. Kid Fury has been extremely open about his mental health battles since the podcast started. I’m not a pop culture stan by any means, you couldn’t pay me to care.

Cardi who? Taylor what? 

However, his genuineness about his pain is why I’ve stayed tuned in to every episode. If he’s having a shit day, then that’s how he shows up. There are certain episodes when I feel as though he’s the only person in the world I relate to. 

Kid Fury attempted to end his life last year. 

He took a break from the show and checked into a program for help. 

His comment section was filled with kind words saying how relieved and grateful they were that he was alive. As for me, my heart ached. Please understand, I’m glad he’s here as well. Kid Fury is a light in this dark world. And yet, he has no clue how brightly he shines or the impact he’s made in the lives of others - mine included. 

My spirit was broken because I know how it feels to fight every damn day to stay alive. I know how it feels to live with a voice in your head that constantly screams “just fucking end it, loser” because who cares. I know how it feels to walk past razor blades and double back because “a couple dozen cuts would really ease the pain tonight.”

This is my everyday life. It hurts. 

I’m grateful that people love me and want me to be here but, I don’t wanna be.

And if I don’t want to be here, then what’s the point?

My brain is cruel as fuck and I don’t know how else to escape.

How does Beyoncé fit in this? Stay with me…

Fury and Crissles have loved her from day one. They’ve been to every tour (even back when they were broke) and have dedicated entire two hour episodes to stan projects she releases with her manager, Blue Ivy. 

Last week, they met Beyoncé. To be clear, Beyoncé requested to meet with them. They had no clue what was about to happen until the moment arrived. 

After their visit, Fury wept in Crissles arms. 

On the latest episode, Fury shared this as he held back tears:

“I wanna live, I wanna be old, I wanna make stuff that matters. I wanna feel that I can better go to war with the part of me that lies and destroys.” 

That moment validated the beauty of life for him. 

It made him want to be here. It made him want to live. 

I want to be here too. I want to live. 

Do I need to meet Queen Bey to make that happen? Nah.

My need is different - I need to feel as though I belong here. I need to feel that my life has value. I need to feel as though I have people.

Last year, I felt that type of love for the first time in my life. I crossed paths with a human who showed me a depth of care that I had never experienced.

We became friends.

For a handful of months, my shattered heart felt whole.

I felt as though I belonged in this world.

I wanted to live. 

One time we were in my apartment and out of the blue, I dropped to my knees and openly wept in gratitude for her presence in my life.

If you know the end of this story, then you know it didn’t end well. My already fragile emotional state was devastated by her sudden absence. It’s been nearly a year and I have yet to recover. 

Often I wish I had never met her but, that’s not true. Did she cause me an immense amount of grief that nearly ended me? Absolutely. But do you know what else? She showed me that every piece of me was lovable. She taught me that I deserved time and attention. She created space for my pain without judgment. 

In spite of my rage, I’ll always cherish the part she played in my life that afforded me moments of healing. I continue to miss her care.

I’m unclear what it’ll take to make me want to live. But for now, I’m alive.

I hope I’m here to see whatever life has for me.

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Dear Mom,

This entire year I thought I was 48 about to turn 49.

Turns out I’m 47. I’ll be 48 next week. You already know that.

I’ve been in my feelings because I thought I was about to turn the age you were when you died. I can’t believe you didn’t see 50. I think I will, but I’m not sure. Who knows. The truth is that none of us know.

However, you knew. A few days before you passed, I came home to find you hauling boxes of your journals to the curb. The next day you stocked the fridge - you only did that when a snow storm was headed our way. I realized later that you had thrown your wallet out too. What was in your wallet? Did you ever carry my picture?

Is that why you left your insurance card on your nightstand? You tried to make it easier. As for the journals, you cleared out parts of your life that a child shouldn’t know about a parent. The food was for me. You knew I wouldn’t be able to leave the house for awhile and you were right. Thank you for the comfort snacks, ma.

I thought I saw you in a dream the night before. And, I did. You said goodbye. Were you there when I found you? You probably were. I pray you didn’t see the relief on my face once I stopped screaming and realized you were gone.

I was glad you weren’t here anymore. That’s not true. I wasn’t glad but I was grateful. I was grateful that you didn’t have to live in your cruel reality and that I no longer had to watch you suffer. That was hard on me, Mom. 

I barely knew you as an adult. I don’t think you knew yourself. You’d been so beaten down that the only part of life you could focus on was survival. You played the cello and wrote beautiful poetry. I’m sad that the world didn’t create space for your joy. You started every day with a cigarette and a beer - that’s how you coped. Remember when I turned 18? I wanted you to quit so damn badly that I threatened to take up smoking. You laughed in my face and offered to buy my first pack. It was insensitive of me to want you to give up of the pieces of comfort that made life tolerable. I just wanted you to be around, I couldn’t imagine living without you. But now? Now I know that your existence was hell. I understand now. Please forgive me for wanting you to endure. You had already given the world so much. 

I wonder what life would be like if you were here. I think we’d be friends as adults. Our parent-child dynamic was a dumpster fire because as you once told me, you didn’t want to be a parent. I wish you’d had the support you needed to make a different choice. I’ve made peace with our relationship. Or, the lack of it. If we ever cross paths again, we don’t have to talk. If you’re at ease, then that’s all I care about. A brief smile of acknowledgment to say “ I see you kiddo, you did good” is enough for me. 

I love you, Mom. Rest easy. 

Your kid, 

Robin 

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