Jana on tiktok Morning Routine at the library

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Naturally, as a psychology major, I have to try it out myself. For the next four weeks, I will be doing a morning at the library on Monday and Wednesday to see if the morning-at-the-library ritual is worth it before my 10 am class. I followed Jana's routine on TikTok to get the best out of it for the next four weeks.

Things I want to know:

Will it calm your nervous system?

Will it give you the extra pep in your step?

The goal is to get to the library 45 minutes to an 1 hour before my class on Mondays and Wednesdays. What the routine consists of:

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Brain dumping

Fill out a full page and get everything running through my mind out on paper. What am I nervous about? What do I need to focus on more in my life? What am I struggling with? It can be anything.

Gratitude journal

Three things you are grateful for

The goal is to give my brain somewhere to put all those thoughts before I start my school day.

A puzzle to exercise your brain

Incorporate a small puzzle or brain game to give yourself something mentally stimulating that isn’t schoolwork.

Think of it as a little warm-up for my brain.

Reading a book of your choice

It could be a fun book, or it could be a book for your specific major. My reading plan on Mondays and Wednesdays will be a psychology book because I’m a psychology major and want to develop the habit of reading books that support my future career. I am reading Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb

Check your email

I’ll take a few minutes to check my university and school-related emails, so you know if anything important needs my attention. Then start your day

What Am I Actually Testing?

This isn’t a scientific study or a clinical experiment. It’s a four-week personal self-experiment.

I’m interested in whether creating intentional quiet time before class changes how I experience the rest of my day.

I’ll pay attention to things like:

• My mood in the morning

• Stress levels

• Mental clarity

• Motivation

• Energy

• Focus in class

• How prepared I feel

• Productivity throughout the day

• Whether I feel rushed or calm

• Whether I actually enjoy the routine

I’ll also pay attention to something that can’t necessarily be measured on a spreadsheet.

JOIN THE EXPERIMENT WITH ME!!

I ask that you join in with me, and each week we will give each other updates on our progress. I will create a chat called the Morning Library Experiment where we can all chat and connect; just make sure to subscribe.

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You don’t have to be a college student or even go to a library. This could even be a way to get ready to school and to romanticize calming your nervous system. The point is to create 45 minutes to an hour of intentional quiet time before your day begins.

Find a library, coffee shop, or your favorite corner at home- wherever you can create a little space for yourself.

Try the morning at the Library/coffee shop/ in your room ritual:

📝 Brain dump + gratitude

🧩 A puzzle or brain game

📖 Read a few pages of a book

📧 Check your email/messages

🎓 Then start your day

For the next four weeks, I’ll be sharing what I notice about my mood, mindset, focus, and overall day. And I want to know what happens for you, too.

There are no right or wrong results.

We’re just experimenting with what happens when we give ourselves a little more intention before the day starts.

So grab your book, your journal, and your favorite morning drink, and meet me at the library. ☕️📚 Let’s see what happens.

With excitement and love,

Lady Moni

Want to read more of the Cherry Hour?

Most popular essay - The Pretty Ugly Black Woman - What reality TV, body image, and a poem read backwards taught me about worth.

Last week’s essay - A Child’s Side to Divorce - What the courtroom never hears

A poem that will speak to your soul - Stripped down to the Skeleton - The Heart Beneath the Bones

I told myself I would be present, that I would make it count, that I would give Amara something solid to hold onto while I still could. But even in those first hours, I could feel something in me moving differently, like I was already splitting between who I had been with her and who I was becoming without her.

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At first, I tried to make it feel normal. I stayed close, I laughed when I was supposed to, I held her hand like it still meant the same thing it used to. We went everywhere like we were trying to outrun the fact that time was still moving forward no matter how tightly we tried to hold onto it. The pool, the late nights, the quiet moments that used to feel easy. She looked at me like nothing had changed, like I was still the same person who left, and I kept pretending that was true long enough to believe it in small ways. But even when I was with her, there were moments I felt far away, like I was watching myself instead of living inside the moment.

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She never stopped reaching for me. That was the part that made everything harder. She would talk like we were still aligned, like the future we used to imagine together still existed in the same way. But I started struggling to meet her there. My answers got shorter without me planning them to. My attention drifted even when she was right in front of me. And every time I noticed her trying harder to stay close, I felt something uncomfortable in me that I didn’t know how to fix, so I started pulling back instead of reaching in.

By the time the Marine Ball came, she looked like someone I should have been able to fully recognize but couldn’t hold onto the same way anymore. She was stunning in a way that should have grounded me, and for a moment it almost did. I remember thinking she took my breath away, and I remember feeling something ache behind that thought that I didn’t know how to name. Because even standing next to her, even holding her hand, there was a distance between us that didn’t match the closeness of the moment. Like I was already learning how to leave without saying it out loud.

After that, it only got quieter between us. Not suddenly, not in a way either of us could point to as the exact beginning. Just slowly. I started responding less, explaining less, being less available in ways I told myself were necessary. I would see her messages and not always answer right away, and sometimes not at all, not because I wanted to hurt her, but because I didn’t know how to show up in the same way anymore without feeling like I was failing at something I couldn’t understand. And I could see what it did to her. The way she started asking smaller questions. The way she started shrinking her words like she was trying not to overwhelm a version of me that no longer felt reachable.

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I told myself I was focused. I told myself I was overwhelmed. I told myself distance was part of what I had to become. But what I was really doingi was disappearing in increments that felt easier to live with than a clean ending. When I told her about Japan, I said it like it was just another step forward, something practical, something separate from us. But I saw it land in her immediately, like she understood before I even finished speaking that something between us was being stretched past what it could hold.

After that, everything between us felt like silence even when we were still talking. I started avoiding conversations that asked me to define what we were, because I didn’t have an answer that didn’t feel like losing something either way. So I gave her distance instead of truth. I gave her uncertainty instead of clarity. I gave her less of myself every time she reached for more, until she started waiting differently, like she was learning how to expect me in smaller and smaller ways.

And then I sent the message.

I didn’t think of it as something big in the moment. It felt like something I had already been building toward without admitting it. I told her I couldn’t do it anymore, that I needed space, that I needed to focus on everything ahead of me. I didn’t say it cleanly in my head as I was writing it, but I knew I was ending something I didn’t know how to carry properly anymore. And after I sent it, there was no relief. Just silence. Just the weight of knowing she would read it alone.

Because the truth is I didn’t leave all at once. I became the darkness slowly, long before the message ever existed.

Amara — 10:43 PM

He sent the message at 10:43 PM.

I know because I kept staring at the timestamp like it meant something, like it might explain him, like if I understood the exact second he decided to become someone who could do this, it would hurt less. It didn’t. It just stayed there, frozen on my screen, like proof of something I didn’t want to accept.

I read it over and over until the words stopped looking like words. Until they turned into something heavier, something I couldn’t hold without shaking. Each time I read it, I tried to find a softer version of him inside it, a version that hesitated, a version that cared enough to struggle through it instead of choosing distance so easily. But there wasn’t one. Just final sentences from someone who had already left in every way except physically.

And I hate him for sending it like that. I hate how clean it was. How late it was. How he chose 10:43 PM like I wouldn’t still be awake holding onto him. I was strong for him in ways he never had to ask for, and he still couldn’t meet me there when it mattered. I don’t know when I started disappearing inside of him, only that I did slowly, piece by piece until I couldn’t tell where I ended and where he stopped trying. In the end, she lost the light and grew something darker in its place.

From a girl who saw herself in Amara and still hopes Leo finds the light again,

— Lady M

Today marks the beginning of something I’ve been building toward for a while: The Cherry Hour Mail Club. This first drop is a small test to see if there’s interest in turning it into a monthly mail experience.

Recieve snail mail

One of my absolute favorites is sending and receiving letters from carefully chosen pen pals. These letters are handwritten and sealed with intention. There’s something incredibly special about opening your mailbox and finding something thoughtfully crafted just for you.

Inspired by this feeling, I wanted to create a space that rekindles this cherished tradition.

Each mail drop includes:

A printed letter from me to you

A 12 page zine with your favorite Cherry Hour pieces & unpublished poem

An unpublished essay you won’t find online

A printed art print from a popular essay with a unpublished poem on the back

A sticker you can put on your laptop, phone etc.

Join before May 30th to receive snail mail, limited spots available.

This first launch is limited to 30 members only.
Sign-ups are open until May 30th or until all spots are filled.

Recieve snail mail

I wanted to show you my creative process and give you a sneak peek of the mail I’m packing just for you. I’ll be going live while I prepare your snail mail every drop called the Sealed at 5. A link to join will be scheduled and sent out, so make sure you’re subscribed.

How to join:

Reserve your spot through the website below. Limited to 30.

Be part of the cherry mail drop

Details:

✸ Open internationally (US + worldwide shipping available)

✸ Sign up before May 30th to receive the first edition

✸ Ships shortly after sign-ups close

✸ Cancel anytime

Sorry this letter was so long. I can’t wait to send this first envelope out into the world, something made slowly, and meant just for you.

Sealed with a cherry,

Lady M

From The Cherry Hour

This relationship was something I didn’t yet have the language for, only the kind of light that makes you believe it will always stay. I met him in college through a mutual friend, Heat Waves was playing so loudly in my ears that when he told me his name, I didn’t catch it.

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I was getting a ride that day, and he just happened to be in the car too. It felt small, almost forgettable at the time, the kind of moment you don’t realize you’ll remember later.

If I could go back, I would tell that version of myself to run in either direction. Not because love isn’t worth it, but because some versions of it ask for more than they give. Still, there’s a part of me that understands why I stayed. It’s easier to recognize the cost of something once you’ve already paid it.

From that one car ride, something just clicked. Leo and I bonded over the same little things, and what started as a moment turned into a friendship that felt easy, almost natural. Over time, that ease turned into something more. I remember going to Ruby Tuesday for our mutual friend’s birthday, sitting there while she leaned over and told me he had a crush on me. It didn’t feel shocking, just quietly confirmed what I think we both already knew.

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After that, I started inviting him to games, finding small reasons to be around each other. Then Christmas came, and everything shifted. We were sitting in the car when he told me he liked me, and I told him I liked him too. It was simple, almost soft in the moment, and then we kissed. I hated the kiss. Like kissing a stranger I was supposed to already know by heart. Still, we stayed. We always stayed. After that, we started going on dates, and just like that, something that began so casually started to feel like the beginning of everything.

We used to talk about our futures like they were something we could plan together. He said he wanted to be a doctor, and I said I wanted to be a therapist. It felt aligned in a quiet way, like we were building something with direction even if we didn’t fully understand it yet. He would mention the military sometimes, saying he might join the Marines to help pay for school, but it always sounded casual. Distant. Like an idea, not a decision.

And then one day, it wasn’t an idea anymore.

He sent me a Snapchat like nothing had changed. A recruiter sitting in his house. Papers spread across the table. A pen in his hand like it belonged there more than he did. January 20th, 2022. I stared at the screen too long, waiting for it to turn into a joke. It didn’t.

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Something in me went quiet in a way I didn’t know how to name. Not loud heartbreak, not panic. Just the slow realization that I was no longer standing in the same version of the future I thought I was building.

It wasn’t that my world ended. It was that it shifted without asking me first. He asked me to be his girlfriend on February 2nd. I said yes before I could think too hard about what yes meant.

Then he left.

The military took him in a way I didn’t know how to prepare for. Suddenly love became letters. Not texts, not calls that lasted too long, but paper. Ink. Waiting. We wrote like we were trying to keep each other alive in different time zones of the same life. He told me about training, about exhaustion, about learning how to exist inside something that didn’t care if he was ready.

I told him about college like it was still normal. About walking across campus. About working. About pretending I wasn’t counting days between when I would receive a letter. It felt like we were in the 1900s sometimes, two people trying to hold onto something through anything that could carry a name across distance.

And then I went to Parris Island for his graduation.

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I still don’t know how to explain what it felt like to see him again after all that silence stretched thin between us. He looked different. Not just in appearance, but in the way he stood, like the world had already started shaping him into someone else. Someone I had only ever known in pieces.

When I saw him, I didn’t think. I just moved. I hugged him like if I let go too soon, he might disappear again.

He held me back like he had been waiting for something he wasn’t allowed to reach yet.

For a moment, everything felt like it could still be ours.And then, right there in that parking lot, surrounded by uniforms, noise, and goodbyes that didn’t belong to us, I started to understand something I wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Because sometimes love doesn’t end when someone leaves.

Sometimes it begins right there.

And you don’t realize which one it is until you’re already in it

Leo - The Darkness That Creeped In

I hugged her at graduation, and for a moment it felt like something in me softened like she pulled something heavy out of me I didn’t know I was carrying. Like I could stand there and just be a person again, not something being shaped into something else. But even as I held her, I didn’t know then that it wouldn’t stay gone. That the darkness didn’t leave me. It just learned how to wait.

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To be continued — next week, Leo tells the rest of the story through his point of view.

With Love,

Lady M.

Before you begin, press play to read with instrumental music. “You might not like her” by Maddie Zahm

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For centuries, a woman’s worth has been tied to whether she is “pure.” Once that’s gone, people act like something in her is gone too, like she’s been handled, like she’s less valuable. Men were never measured the same way. No one called them “damaged goods.”

Even in the Bible, the message is clear: no sex until marriage. I wanted to wait either until marriage or until I felt completely, undeniably ready. I didn’t want to rush something that felt so permanent, so defining. But no one really talks about what happens after that line is crossed.

No one tells you how your body becomes something you suddenly have to manage. How the first time you have sex, you'll cry because I sure did. I felt like it was about of body experience. How your hormones can feel louder than your thoughts. How emotions, attachment, and desire start to blur together in ways that are hard to separate.

It’s not just physical. It’s mental. It’s emotional. It’s a shift.

And with that shift comes responsibility, heavy, quiet, and constant. The kind that sits in the back of your mind after every decision. The kind that reminds you that your body is not just yours in the way it used to be, that there are consequences you have to think about now, real ones. Pregnancy becomes a possibility instead of an abstract idea. Nine months stops sounding like a long time and starts feeling like a ticking clock.

So you turn to prevention.

And even that isn’t simple. Birth control is supposed to be the solution, but no one prepares you for what it asks of you in return. The side effects. The way it can change your mood, your body, your sense of self. The silent trade-off—your comfort for your control.

Somehow, that responsibility falls almost entirely on women. And now more than ever, a woman’s body should be her choice, no man should ever think, say, or have authority over it.

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I remember being on birth control and feeling like my whole body shifted like something in me crumbled, like parts of me went quiet. Not gone, but harder to reach. Like I was moving through myself instead of fully living inside it. It’s a strange thing, to feel disconnected from your own body while also being hyper-aware of it, knowing it’s yours, but feeling like it’s being managed, measured, adjusted.

And at the same time, the world doesn’t let you forget how visible you are. Walking down the street in something as simple as tights, and suddenly your body isn’t just yours anymore, it’s being watched, commented on, reduced to pieces by strangers who feel entitled to it.

And there’s another layer to it, the reality of being a Black woman, where your body is not only seen but often stereotyped, over-sexualized, and misunderstood. Where people project things onto you that were never yours to carry. It becomes exhausting, trying to exist, to feel whole, while constantly navigating how others might see you, judge you, or take from you. And somewhere in all of that, you’re still expected to know yourself, protect yourself, and make the “right” choices.

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Growing up, I couldn’t imagine having a child, let alone having a boyfriend in high school. It all felt so far away from me, like a life I would never accidentally step into.

I thought there was a clear line between “that life” and mine. But the older I get, the more I realize that line isn’t as bold as I thought it was. It’s thin. It’s fragile. And sometimes, it’s invisible until you’re standing right on it.

Because this was never just about rules. It was about fear, control, and protecting something the world told me I could lose but never fully explained. No one sat me down and talked about desire without shame. No one explained how to navigate intimacy without fear. No one said that you could make thoughtful choices and still feel confused afterward.

Instead, I was taught to avoid, to preserve, to stay untouched for as long as possible to be a flower.

Delicate. Careful. Something to be protected.

But flowers don’t survive without defenses. Not in the real world, not in environments that expect them to stay soft while everything around them is sharp.

So we grow thorns. In caution, in overthinking, in questioning ourselves, in holding both curiosity and fear at the same time. The thorn is the part no one romanticizes, the part that learns, adapts, and protects what softness remains.

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Because innocence was never meant to last forever. But that doesn’t mean growth has to feel like loss. Maybe becoming isn’t about losing your petals, maybe it’s about learning how to keep them while still knowing when to let the thorns show.

Big Sister Guide 101

1. Your body is yours, before, during, and after anything. No experience gives anyone ownership over you.

2. You are allowed to change your mind. About sex, about relationships, about what you’re ready for at any time.

3. Pay attention to how you feel in your body. If something makes you feel unlike yourself, don’t ignore it.

4. Desire and boundaries can exist at the same time. Wanting something doesn’t mean you owe it to anyone.

5. Protection is more than physical. Your emotions, your peace, and your mental space matter too.

6. Not everyone deserves access to you. Being wanted is not the same as being respected.

7. What people project onto you is not who you are. Especially as a Black woman, you don’t have to carry those assumptions.

8. There is no timeline you have to follow. You are not behind, and you are not late.

9. Talk to someone you trust. You don’t have to figure everything out alone.

10. Softness is not weakness. You can be gentle and still protect yourself.

A song I think you should listen to:

From a girl who was taught to be soft and had to learn how to grow thorns,

Lady M

Want to read more of the Cherry Hour?

Most popular essay - The Pretty Ugly Black Woman - What reality TV, body image, and a poem read backwards taught me about worth.

Last week’s essay - A Child’s Side to Divorce - What the courtroom never hears

A poem that will speak to your soul - Stripped down to the Skeleton - The Heart Beneath the Bones

Each of these writers deserves to be acknowledged, celebrated, and appreciated. As always, I’ve added a personal touch to this episode by pairing each essay with an instrumental song. I believe that these songs complement the essays perfectly and will enhance your reading experience. I encourage you to listen to the essays and I chose a quote from them, as they have captivated my mind and I’m sure they will do the same for you.

FIVE SUBSTACK PIECES THAT WILL CAPTURE YOUR SOUL

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Enjoy the songs, these wonderful essays and show the writers some love:

1. Love me the first time you get me by

A Million for My Thoughts

Love Me the First Time You Get Me

I’ve always been the one that got away—maybe even left behind, if that sounds more realistic for you…

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4 months ago · 10 likes · Jamiya, the Writer

The part that truly captivated me was:

And in that space of being left behind, being the one who slipped away, I began to believe the lie that perhaps I wasn’t destined to be loved at all. I convinced myself that I wasn’t worthy of a love that endured, a love that lasted.

The song I’ve paired with this essay is

2. Are you holding yourself back? by

Living Her Life

Are you holding yourself back?

When someone asks, “Are you okay?” you want to say you’re not. But then they’ll ask why, and that requires a lot of explaining, so you choose to say, “I’m good.” It’s easier that way. They don’t ask further, and you don’t have to expand your answer…

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4 months ago · 15 likes · 6 comments · Mira

Sometimes, we overlook what we already have, forgetting that what we have now was once something we only dreamed of. Don’t take today for granted. Use the resources you have. Start from where you are. Because you will always be figuring it out as you go.

The song that pairs with essay because life is a quiet journey and are you holding yourself back from your journey through life:

3. On being palatable by

kaida flowers

on being palatable

i have smiled through things that deserved a response…

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4 months ago · 12 likes · 2 comments · soft as sunday

for girls especially, these lessons come in early and they come in constant. the whole architecture of how we’re taught to move through the world is built around managing other people’s comfort. be polite. be sweet. don’t be difficult. don’t do too much.

This song pairs well because it sounds like someone holding themselves together in quiet ways soft, careful, almost too gentle.

And So I walk alone in the park Every Single Day by

demure brain vomit

And So I Walk Alone in the Park Every Single Day

I walk alone in the park every single day. It’s become one of my favorite pastimes. I used to fill the silence by listening to my friends’ voice messages and calling whoever came to mind. But truthfully, the messages started drying up, and not many answered my calls anymore. Initially, it felt like an arrow to the heart, puncturing both my arteries in a…

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5 months ago · 5 likes · 2 comments · demure brain vomit

Realizing that no one is around to check up on you as you’d like is disheartening. Your mind may be swarmed with thoughts of self-consciousness and inadequacy, which is understandable.

A feeling I was afraid to admit and with this song paired it made it real:

5. ADHD people aren’t built for careers, they are built for calling by

Because the truth is…These environments were never designed for people like me.Or people like you. They were built for: Predictability, Uniformity, Control Not: Creativity, Emotional depth, Neurodivergence. So when you struggle in them? They label you. Instead of questioning the structure.

This podcast episode felt like a big sister sat me down and we talked about ADHD and life as a girl who’s been struggling with her ADHD lately. You can read it or listen to her. If you decide to read, I think this song goes beautifully. It felt ethereal finally listening to someone who understands ADHD.

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I hope you take your time with these, read a little, listen a little and enjoy every moment . Some pieces might stay with you longer, and that’s kind of the point. Thank you for being here, for reading with me, and to the writers for sharing these wonderful written pieces. Until next Friday, be gentle with yourself and hold onto the things that make you feel something.

With love always,

Lady M

Enjoyed the Friday Cherry ?

Check out last week’s: The Friday Cherry — Vol. 02 - Painting, Poems & Jazz that capture the soul

Most popular essay - The Pretty Ugly Black Woman - What reality TV, body image, and a poem read backwards taught me about worth.

This week’s essay - A Child’s Side to Divorce - What the courtroom never hears

Divorce was never just a word to me, it was something I watched unfold in real time, in the lives of family members and friends. It moved through households like a quiet storm that eventually became loud, unavoidable, and permanent.

I saw what it did to people, how it shifted the air in a room, how laughter turned into tension, and how homes stopped feeling like homes. It frightened me in a way I didn’t fully understand as a child. I carried that fear quietly, wondering if one day it would reach my own parents too. But somehow, they defied all odds. They stayed. And because of that, I grew up not inside a divorce, but always close enough to feel its shadow.

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What stayed with me most was never just the separation of two people, it was the child caught in the middle of it. Everyone talks about the couple, the arguments, the breaking point, the legal process. But no one really talks about the child sitting in the background, listening. The one who hears every raised voice, every slammed door, every word that should have never been said out loud. The child who begins to understand conflict before they even understand love. From the outside, it looks like something between two adults. But from the inside, it feels like the ground is shifting beneath someone too small to hold it steady.

I saw how that experience lingers. It doesn’t end when the papers are signed or when one parent moves out. It follows the child into friendships, into love, into the way they trust or don’t. It plants quiet questions: Will people leave? Is love supposed to feel like this? Can something good last? The damage isn’t always loud. Sometimes it shows up as distance, hesitation, or the inability to fully believe in something stable. It becomes a kind of emotional inheritance, passed down without permission.

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This piece, particularly the poem, was written for a friend who trusted me enough to share her story. One memory that will forever be etched in my mind is when we were little, sitting and playing. She came over and told me that her Mommy and Daddy were fighting again. She recounted the arguments, how they managed to stay together, and how she grew up. Eventually, they decided on divorce, custody battles ensued, and she felt like the center of a decision she never asked to make. It wasn’t just watching the divorce; she was part of it. Somehow felt like she was the reason for the tension, the subject of discussion, and the one both parents fought over. I couldn’t help but think about how heavy that must feel. Sitting in a courtroom, having your life divided into choices: this parent or that one. As if love could be measured that way. As if a child should ever have to choose.

I wrote this not just from what I’ve studied, but from what I’ve witnessed and felt through others. Because divorce is often told as the story of two people falling apart. But there’s another story, quieter, more fragile, about the child who has to make sense of it all while still learning what love is supposed to be.

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Poem

Yelling, screaming
Words never meant to be said aloud
covering my ears to drown out
the voices that gave life to me
Fighting over who gets the couch
or the bed for the night
Father shuts the door
When he should’ve stayed so mother’s
Crying, cracking
At the pieces that will never be repaired
Splitting a household that
use to be filled with love
But is drowned out by a
splitting edge knife of a divorce
Going into a court deciding who do I stay with
When all I wanted was for both parents
Holding me under one single roof

From a child who watched closely,
Lady M

Song featured in essay/ poem:

Want to read more of the Cherry Hour?

Most popular essay - The Pretty Ugly Black Woman - What reality TV, body image, and a poem read backwards taught me about worth.

Last week’s essay - The overlooked Black Woman - Strong Enough to Hold Them, Not Soft Enough to Keep Them

A poem that will speak to your soul - Stripped down to the Skeleton - The Heart Beneath the Bones

Front cover painting by unknown

This week feels like jazz and quiet reflection.

Take a seat, get cozy, and press play.

C — Check-in/ Comment of the week

This week, we’re simply checking in on our progress. This week was quite successful. I had the opportunity to share “The Overlooked Black Woman,”which was my first paid essay. I wanted to experiment with this format and see how it goes this week. I’m currently working on a project that can be sent to your mailbox. Stay tuned for that in May, and it might be available in June. I wanted to take this project behind the scenes gradually because I’ve been dedicating a significant amount of time and effort into it.

How was your week, Anything new or exciting you would like to share? Drop it in the comments.

H — Highlights of the week + Art of the Week

My highlight of the week is the wonderful art that I saw on Substack through the Blackstack chat. An artist by the name . He creates such amazing art that should be shown. Make sure to go show him some support.

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E — Essays that touched the soul

This week, I sought poems that resonated deeply with my soul, and you all exceeded my expectations. I discovered three remarkable poems, each a testament to the artistry of three talented writers.

One of my favorites is “The Lucky #7” by This poem beautifully captures the fleeting nature of time and the importance of cherishing moments together.

Sincerely, Ms. Understood

Lucky #7

7 minutes we stand here eye to eye Chest to chest Breathing the same air 7 minutes in heaven The increase in our heart rate The sweatiness in our palms Avoiding eye contact. 7 minutes is all we have to be enclosed together Before being interrupted by the outside world Rushing at us with questions that make us shy away. 7 minutes to look deeply i…

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5 months ago · 6 likes · Sincerely, Ms. Understood.

A particularly striking line from the poem reads:

7 minutes is all we have to be enclosed together

Before being interrupted by the outside world

Rushing at us with questions that make us shy away.

The next writer , Warm enough to be misread, crafted a poem that transported me to a realm of emotions I had never experienced before. Each line was a captivating journey, evoking feelings that I couldn’t quite comprehend.

ItzSarah

Warm Enough to Be Misread

I never understood the point of holding onto something that already wanted to be let go. Maybe that’s my fault for being the one still holding. I was filled with warmth, warmer than the sun spilling gold so how could I be mistaken for cold? My heart once lived in an incubator, guarded, warm, untouched, a soft thing learning the shape of its own pul…

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4 months ago · 3 likes · Itz Sarah

My heart once lived in an incubator,

guarded, warm, untouched,

a soft thing learning the shape of its own pulse.

Last but not least, put out her poem under one of my comments and I cried reading it, It was like every single word was written perfectly and in the right spot at the right time. I was hooked every single second.

gospel for insomniacs

Sad girls still get loved

I never thought he could love a sad girl like me…

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5 months ago · 11 likes · 21 comments · alex

The lines that captured my very soul was:

In our eyes found each other, it was like we were speaking different languages. He couldn’t understand my pain, and I couldn’t understand his love.

But I let him hold me with his sight. Maybe we could start a fire from that.

R — Reminders

Remember, even nature and simple pleasures can be considered art. So, go out and capture some pictures of the leaves, trees, scenic views, the breeze, and everything else that catches your eye as you take a walk or go on a run. Share them in the comments so I can see them all. I’ll compile a collage from everyone’s photos to create the “Cherry Hour Views of the week.”

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R — Recommendations

One thing, I would recommend you doing this week is buy yourself flowers and romanticize your morning routine (open the windows, play soft music). Take a chance to enjoy this spring weather wherever you are.

Y — Your music of the week

This week, we have a song/ album featured on The Overlooked Black Woman. The artist is Hazel Scott, an American jazz and classical pianist and singer. Hazel Dorothy Scott was known for her outspoken criticism of racial discrimination and segregation. She used her influence to advocate for the better representation of Black Americans in the film industry.

As a cute farewell on this wonderful Friday, it would mean a lot if you would support these amazing writers and artists by sharing their work and showing love. If you would like to be featured in an upcoming Cherry Friday, DM me or comment with your work. I’m always looking for pieces that move the soul and your work deserves to be seen.

With love and support,

Lady M

Enjoyed the Cherry Friday?

Check out last weeks: The Cherry Friday Volume 1 - A soft place to land at the end of the week

Most popular essay - The Pretty Ugly Black Woman - What reality TV, body image, and a poem read backwards taught me about worth.

This week’s essay - The overlooked Black Woman - Strong Enough to Hold Them, Not Soft Enough to Keep Them

There’s a quiet ache in asking yourself this, not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s familiar: why am I always almost chosen? Not the one they choose every day, not the one they build with, stay with, or grow with. Just the one they come to when they’re lonely.

The one they love loudly for a moment, then slowly let go of when love requires something steadier than intensity.

And as a Black woman, that question carries weight.

You start to notice the pattern before you even have language for it. You are desired, but not prioritized. Wanted, but not kept. Seen, but somehow still overlooked. You become the in-between, the almost, the rebound, the girl they run to, but never the one they stay for.

So you start wondering if it’s you. If maybe you’re too much in the ways that matter and not enough in the ways that count. If maybe love is something you’re meant to give, but not fully receive. Because so many of us know what it feels like to be loved in theory but not in practice. To be adored when things are easy, then abandoned the moment things require consistency. To be told you’re special, unforgettable, different, only to be forgotten when it’s time to prove it. And it leaves you asking questions you shouldn’t have to ask: why can’t I be loved right then and there, without hesitation? Why can’t I be the one they’re sure about? Why am I always the lesson, but never the choice?

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C — Check in/ Comment of the week

H — Highlights of the week + Art of the Week

E — Essays that touched the soul

R — Reminders

R — Recommendations

Y — Your music of the week

I wanted a way to connect with you all, to share pieces of my week, the moments that stayed with me, and the things I’ve been loving lately. From essays that truly moved me, to small reminders, to weekly recs, books, audiobooks, shows, films, and of course, a playlist.

Because who would I be without a playlist of instrumental music to carry us through this update and into the coming week.

C - Check in/ Comment

This week was incredible. I thoroughly enjoyed writing The Cost of Being Seen too Soon. Initially, I was apprehensive about publishing but it was therapeutic to discuss imposter syndrome. Apart from Substack, I participated in a 24-hour readathon and discovered a newfound appreciation for audiobooks and enjoy immersive reading, which involves listening to audiobooks while simultaneously reading and following along with a physical book.

Fave comment was on my essay The Cost of being Seen too Soon

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H - Highlights + Art of the week

My week’s highlight was reaching 100 subscribers and having my poem featured in Stripped down to the Skeleton by . It was a genuine surprise to be featured, and I’ll cherish this moment forever.

Art of the week is by Lin Barts

Check out her website: https://linbarts.uk

E - Essays that touched the soul

I’ve decided to share two essays with you this week. Don't forget to go and support these ladies. One is from a new subscriber who shared her work in the notes section. I absolutely love her expertise in jewelry.

ARDEINAL

The Jewelry Test

The Jewelry Test…

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6 months ago · 5 likes · 11 comments · LaNiedra Chaney

The other essay is from a subscriber, who has been here since the beginning, supporting me and commenting on my work. I wanted to return the favor, and her writing is amazing.

R - Reminder

For this week’s reminder, I’m sharing a note I posted this week. Remember to identify your niche and find people who support your work every time you post. In return, be supportive of others’ work. The primary purpose of Substack is to have connections.

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R - Recommendation

My recommendation for this week is an audiobook and a TV show. I recently watched XO, Kitty on Netflix, and it’s a pretty great show. For the audiobook, I listened to King of Wrath by Ana Huang. It’s a Dual POV book, and I loved every minute of it. I recommend listening to audiobooks while doing an activity, and I chose diamond art for mine.

Y - your music of the week

The sounds of this week’s Cherry Hour, instrumentals to read with, feel with, and return to when you need a moment.

Take what you need, save what stays with you, and come back when you’re ready.

Until next Friday,

Lady M

Each piece is paired with instrumental music, meant to soften the moment and guide you into the world of the essay. Press play, and begin:

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This past week, I celebrated my birthday and gained traction on my Substack essay from “The Pretty Ugly Black Woman”, but I can’t shake off the feeling of imposter syndrome. It’s as if I’m never truly writing to my full potential, like a one-hit wonder. The overall feeling is that success can stifle creativity. One moment, I’m writing for myself, hoping someone will read my work and connect on a deeper level.

And then suddenly, that simplicity feels complicated.

I find myself stuck in this space between imposter syndrome and writer’s block, trying to dig deep and find the version of me who used to write in her notes app with no intention of posting. The version of me who wasn’t thinking about engagement, or reach, or whether her words would land in the “right” way. Just writing because something inside me needed to come out.

Because success changes the question you ask yourself.

It stops being What do I want to say?

And slowly becomes What do people want from me?

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And I don’t think I was prepared for that shift.

Success can kill that creative part of you because you start to wonder if you are writing for the people who read you now, or for yourself, hoping that people still connect the way they used to when no one was watching. The numbers and statistics start to feel louder than the words themselves. A post is no longer just a post; it becomes a measurement. A comparison. A quiet evaluation of whether you are still “good enough” to be here. Suddenly starting to compare the work of years to my four months on Substack.

And it gets overwhelming in a way that is hard to explain without sounding ungrateful.

To be seen is something I wanted. But I didn’t realize how heavy being seen could feel.

There are moments where I sit and stare at the screen, knowing I want to write something honest, something real, something that feels like me, but I hesitate. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I suddenly care too much about how it will be received. And that care slowly turns into pressure. And that pressure turns into silence.

I even debated whether to post this.

Because it feels like standing at the edge of something, fear on one side, and persistence on the other. The fear that I am losing the part of me that created freely. And the persistence that tells me maybe I just need to keep going anyway, even while I feel like this. This is what no one talks about enough: that growth doesn’t always feel like expansion. Sometimes it feels like doubt. Sometimes it feels like questioning the very thing that brought you here. And still, I keep writing. Because somewhere underneath all of this, I still want someone to read my words and feel something. Even if I’m still learning how to feel steady while I say it.

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Success was never going to feel like arrival. Maybe it was always going to feel like this, learning how to stay soft while being seen, learning how to create without disappearing into expectation, learning how to trust that I don’t have to outdo myself to still be worth reading. I’m still learning how to write like no one is watching, even when everyone is. Before you compare your work to others, remember: they might be struggling with imposter syndrome too, trying to find their creativity again behind the success you see.

From the girl who’s still learning how to be seen without disappearing into it,

Lady M

Song featured in essay:

Love this essay, read the rest of my work:

A poem called: Stripped down to skeleton - The heart beneath the bones

My most popular essay: The Pretty Ugly Black Woman - What reality TV, body image, and a poem read backwards taught me about worth.

An essay you’ll love: The Age Where Everyone Feels Behind - Learning to let life unfold on its own rhythm

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After you left me in that empty house with a broken heart, broken mind

I peeled the skin off that was touched by you

Ripped out the heart that only beat for you

Disposed of my eyeballs so I could remove the sight of you

Crumpled the spine that was tired of carrying the weight of your problems

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I stuffed my ears so I couldn’t hear the words you were yelling

Washed away the bloody hands that held your hand in the dark

Buzzed off my hair so I could never feel your hands running through it

Took out my lungs so I could stop coughing from that cigarette

Removed my knees and elbows that begged for you to stay

I pulled my brain out so I could never remember the thought of you

I peeled it all back so it would reveal my skeleton

Finally, free from the body that you claimed you loved

Now, I’ll haunt that empty house till my skeleton grows a new body

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From a Girl Who Turned Pain Into Skin and Bone,

Lady Moni

The song played in this article is:

Love this poem, read the rest of our work:

A poem called: Little Miss Not So perfect - An ode to the girl who must not fall apart on pointe

Our most popular essay: The Pretty Ugly Black Woman-What reality TV, body image, and a poem read backwards taught me about worth.

Our first essay that started it all: There are seats at the tables, you don’t even know exist! - My version of Rejection is just Redirection

Swimming isn’t a conscious decision; it’s a skill acquired through preparation for safety. When someone is thrown into a pool without these skills, panic sets in. Their heartbeat quickens, and they feel unsupported. Even when we possess the swimming skills, panic can overpower us, leading us to sink instead of swim. The truth is, the phrase “sink or swim” is misleading. It’s what we’re taught before our bodies even touch the water.

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The science of panic, as defined by psychology, is described as a sudden and intense surge of extreme fear and anxiety. In such moments, our bodies instinctively react with shallow breathing, tense muscles, and trembling due to pure fear. When we allow ourselves to become overwhelmed and lose judgment, we ultimately succumb and sink.

To explore this concept, I’ve chosen to analyze three different scenarios: the helicopter military training video, Limitless featuring Chris Hemsworth and the Grey’s Anatomy episode where Meredith nearly dies for being in the water. Each video or scene will serve as a demonstration of my theory. Limitless will illustrate the meaning of stress and the dynamics of social psychology interactions. The military training video will showcase our potential responses in such a situation. Lastly, Grey’s Anatomy will demonstrate the consequences of choosing to sink instead of swim in that scenario.

Let’s start with the episode featuring Chris Hemsworth, Season 1, Episode 1, which delves into his sources of stress. To comprehend my reasoning, we must first understand stress and its potential to overwhelm us.

Dr. Modupe Akinola, a social psychologist, engages in a conversation with him to identify the stressors that may be affecting him. Dr. Akinola emphasizes that “stress isn’t merely feeling bad; over time, it can be a life-threatening condition.” She discusses the concept of “dating your stress” and its potential to become dysfunctional.

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In this episode, Hemsworth undergoes various tests that place him in controlled yet high-pressure situations. It becomes evident that stress isn’t solely about the moment itself but rather how our bodies have been conditioned to respond to it. When stress is familiar, our bodies can regulate themselves.

However, when it becomes overwhelming or unrecognized, our bodies spiral, our hearts race, our breathing shortens, and our thoughts scatter. This directly relates to the concept of sinking, not because we choose to, but because our bodies haven’t been trained to withstand the pressure.

Similarly, in military helicopter training exercises, individuals are submerged underwater in a simulated crash. The objective isn’t to determine if they can “choose” to swim but to assess their ability to remain calm enough to execute the skills they’ve been taught. Those who panic often fail not due to a lack of ability but because panic overrides their training. The body locks, disorients, and forgets what it knows. This reinforces the idea that survival isn’t about making a choice in the moment but about preparation beforehand.

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This becomes even more evident in Grey’s Anatomy when Meredith Grey falls into the water and stops fighting to stay afloat. It’s not that she doesn’t know how to swim; she does. Instead, she’s emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed by everything happening in her life. In that moment, panic is replaced by something quieter but equally dangerous: surrender. Meredith doesn’t sink because she lacks skill; she sinks because her mind lets go before her body does.

What makes this moment so powerful is that it challenges the assumption that survival is always instinctual. We are taught that the body will fight to stay alive no matter what, but Meredith shows that the mind can interrupt that instinct. Her stillness in the water is not peaceful it’s heavy. It reflects a buildup of stress, grief, and emotional fatigue that has gone unaddressed for too long. Instead of reacting with urgency, her body mirrors her mental state: tired, detached, and unable to keep pushing forward.

Together, these examples dismantle the illusion of “sink or swim” as a simple decision. They reveal that what we often label as choice is actually a combination of preparation, mental state, and physiological response. Panic, stress, and emotional exhaustion all interfere with our ability to “swim,” even when we are fully capable.

Ultimately, the phrase “sink or swim” doesn’t measure willpower; it reflects our past experiences, knowledge, and support before facing the challenge. It demands individuals perform under pressure without acknowledging the unseen obstacles.

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The truth is, people don’t sink because they deliberately choose to. They sink because panic overwhelms preparation, stress remains unresolved, or they simply exhaust themselves. Perhaps the true lesson lies not in forcing ourselves to swim, but in learning to breathe before we’re thrown into the water.

From the girl who refuses to sink quietly,
Lady M 🌊🩵💌

I can’t help but admire

how she moves with effortless beauty,

like the pavement was poured

just for her steps.

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They call her Little Miss Perfect.

The world sees her as the prima ballerina

glowing beneath the spotlight,

balanced effortlessly on pointed toes,

every movement precise, rehearsed.

5 a.m. rehearsals,

sunlit skin like stage light on satin,

success stacked neatly beside her.

And I

I can’t help but stare too long.

Whenever she walks by me,

I’m enveloped in lemon and rose,

like a garden blooming out of season,

lavender and daffodils bending toward her light.

My mind wanders into a world

where she’s the center of everything

where even the air shifts

just to make space for her.

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My friends try to snap me back to reality,

but she is the person I think about

every second of every day.

But what they don’t see,

what I’m not sure anyone sees,

is that perfection is only her outer layer.

Beneath it,

Each layer holds a different version of her

one burned by untrustworthy hands,

one cracked by broken love,

one bruised by the silent pressure

of being palatable, polished, perfect.

The world applauds the shine

but would it stay if the gloss peeled away?

What she sees in the mirror

is not the myth they worship.

It’s an altered version of herself

a girl terrified that if one layer slips,

she’ll unravel entirely.

And I wonder

does she know

that even her cracks look like constellations?

That the broken, worn-down parts

don’t make her less perfect

they make her real.

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Maybe one day

she’ll look at me

the way I look at her.

Not as the flawless girl

the world invented,

but as the one

who is allowed to be soft,

allowed to be healing,

allowed to be more

than Little Miss Perfect.

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And maybe one day

she’ll see

that she was never meant

to be untouchable

just loved.

~ Wanderwall (adj.) Someone you find yourself thinking about constantly, a person you are completely infatuated with, even after you’ve seen the layers beneath the shine. ✨

From the girl trying not to fall apart on pointe,

Lady M

To get the full Grey’s Anatomy experience, listen to:

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Like how Girl Meets World taught me self-growth and having a small friend group is normal. How Living Single shows the lives of different friendships and living in the world as Black people in their 20s.

This is about the lines in Grey’s Anatomy that rewired my brain chemistry and how they might do the same to you. (Consider this my official justification for binge-watching 21 seasons post-COVID, until now as someone who didn’t watch the season with everyone else.)

The opening line of Grey’s Season 1 episode 1 is something that lives in my head rent-free.

This is your starting point. This is your arena. How well you play? Well, that’s up to you. - Richard Webber

I remember this line every time something new happens, from starting this Substack, to walking into my first college class, or when I walked into my flight attendant training class, hoping I would get those wings that every trainee fights for.

The reason why I love writing is connecting, and sometimes we’re worried about writing the next great thing and not taking in the world around us. That we don’t realize that it might be the last time we write or the last time we made someone feel something. Meredith Grey said it better.

Cause you never think the last time is the last time. You think there will be more. You think you have forever, but you don’t. - Meredith Grey

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Next up has to do with the things I worry about and struggling trying to be perfect and carrying about the ones around me.

God, the things we worry about.

It’s why we’re doctors.

It’s actually why we’re people, but somehow we forget that all that matters is people. And whether we walk away leaving them better or worse for having met us. We control that. - Mark Sloan Season 9: Episode 2

One thing as women, we sometimes forget is how powerful we are and date men that make us forget who we bring to the table.

Don’t let what he wants eclipse what you need. He’s very dreamy, but he is not the sun. YOU ARE. - Christina Yang

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Don’t ever date a man that can’t handle your power . - Meredith Grey

Translation: You are The Damn Table

One quote that everyone remembers and has a lasting effect on all of us is

The carousel never stops turning. - Ellis Grey

It’s a reminder that life moves without our permission. The world doesn’t stop for anyone, and we have to move with grace and courage.

Sometimes, life doesn’t give you a handbook. Sometimes, the only way we can learn who you are is to stumble. Denny Duquette put it simply:

It turns out sometimes you have to do the wrong thing. Sometimes you have to make a big mistake to figure out how to make things right. Mistakes are painful, but they’re the only way to find out who we really are. – Denny Duquette, S3:E4

I remember this quote whenever I second-guess a decision, wondering if I’ve messed up. It reminds me: mistakes don’t define you; they teach you. They’re part of becoming yourself, fully and unapologetically.

And then there’s Cristina Yang, the ultimate reminder that your power is yours, always:

Have some fire. Be unstoppable. Be a force of nature. Be better than anyone here and don’t give a damn about what anyone thinks. – Cristina Yang, S4:E15

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The lessons we learn from them never stop, because the carousel never stops turning and always has something to teach us. Every time life throws you into a new arena, Grey’s is whispering “ Show up, make mistakes, rise, and claim your power.”

Weekly essay question: What show altered your brain chemistry? Should we make this a series with shows and movies? Let me know in the comments.

Song included in this essay:

With love, from a girl still waiting for her McDreamy,
Lady M

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Let the song At last instrumental by Ultimate Tribute Stars (Originally by Etta James) play in the background as you read.

Growing up, I was surrounded by love stories in books, movies, and my own parents’ relationship. My parents met in college. My mom was trying to avoid these boys that liked my mom and found my dad, pretending they were in a relationship. The rest is history.

Interestingly, they’re from different countries: Liberia and Jamaica. Despite the distance, they found each other at the right time and place. My mom is from Liberia, and my dad is from Jamaica. The food at our house is always exceptional, no matter what.

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Watching my parents’ love for each other has always inspired me. My dad always puts gas in my car, and my mom doesn’t mind if he did a quick errand. He plans our trips and vacations, takes her out on dates, and finds concerts they both enjoy. Their love has always felt like something rare and special, like finding your best friend in someone who truly understands you but also serves as a role model.

In some ways, it’s good to know love, even if you never experience it or lose it. I never thought it was impossible to find someone who could profoundly influence and transform my life for the better. Someone who embodies all the qualities I’ve ever desired in a person and makes it possible for me to face each day with renewed hope. However, I sometimes wonder if the love I find will be too far out of reach compared to the love my parents have.

Then there’s the special kind of love between a black man and woman the kind of love that’s portrayed in romantic R&B songs. It makes me feel like it’s even more elusive.

Imagine seeing your parents dance to soul songs in your living room and at weddings, and then you’re out in the dating world, searching for relationships that are hard to come by. You might find yourself in a situation-ship, a relationship that doesn’t serve you well, or a relationship that seems right but you’re settling for a love that’s half-hearted.

Thought it would be nice to share some dating and relationship advice from my parents:

1. Learn to love yourself before you love anybody.

2. A relationship is give and take

3. Do not try to change a person who comes with baggage, you are looking for a partner not a person to play therapist.

4. If they like you, you’ll know, if they don’t you’ll be confused.

5. Don’t shrink your standards just because they’re uncommon.

6. You don’t have to teach someone how to love you at a basic level.

With hopes of finding a rare kind of love,

Lady M ❤️

This song is featured in the article:

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As a black girl growing up, I didn’t see people on television like me modeling and showing who they are and if they did, they would be ridiculed.

Now as a 24-year-old, watching Love Island and Love Is Blind reveals a pattern that goes beyond mere reality TV drama. You notice subtle, and sometimes overt, disrespect toward Black women. Their feelings are questioned more frequently, their tone is scrutinized, and they’re expected to be endlessly patient, soft, and understanding, even when they’re the ones being embarrassed, overlooked, or mistreated.

What’s particularly telling is how often they actively try to avoid being labeled the “angry Black woman.” You can almost sense the restraint, the deep breaths before responding, the careful word choice, the nervous laughter to soften a valid concern, and the emotional labor of shrinking themselves just enough to remain “palatable.”

There’s also the recurring theme of desirability politics. Black women are frequently chosen last, kept as backups, or described in coded language that dances around preference without naming bias. And when they speak up about it, they risk being painted as insecure instead of perceptive. It becomes a lose-lose situation: stay quiet and internalize it, or speak up and be stereotyped.

What makes this dynamic particularly exhausting is that it mirrors real life. The stereotype of the “angry Black woman” isn’t just a TV trope, it’s a societal narrative that forces many Black women to constantly self-monitor. To dilute their reactions. To smile when they shouldn’t have to. To remain composed in situations that would warrant anger from anyone else.

So when watching these shows, it’s not just about who couples up or who gets eliminated. It becomes a lens into how race, gender, and perception intersect in dating spaces. It shows how representation alone isn’t enough if the underlying biases remain unexamined. And it raises a bigger question: how often are Black women asked to perform emotional gymnastics just to be seen as “calm,” “classy,” or “deserving” of love?

Reality TV may amplify behavior for entertainment, but it also exposes cultural truths. And the truth is, Black women shouldn’t have to shrink their emotions to make others comfortable, on-screen or off.

Society puts on this persona that girls have to be skinny and proper. With so many labels that the world puts on you, it breaks you down, and I never felt that self-love. It’s hard to love yourself when you’re on a scale, checking your weight, and saying to yourself. I need to lose this many pounds, or else I’ll be called fat, chubby, etc. It’s hard to believe you’re enough when you’re told you have to be this size, this height, for another person to love you.

With the world, putting labels on people and saying, “You talk white. You’re not supposed to have weave in your hair. Your shoulders are too big, you should cover them up. You’re too chubby, you can’t wear that top. Your skirt is too short, you’re asking for it.”

As a woman, you come with all these labels being put on you, making you insecure about yourself. As a girl, being perfect in anyone’s eyes is hard; loving yourself takes a hike.

Which made me realize, if I let others depict what I am supposed to look like and act like. I’ll tear myself into pieces. Like I’m trying to scream, but society is punching my head underwater. Feeling like there’s nothing to give and just focus on the bad and not take time to look at the good.

Looking through magazines and wishing that I were like her. So after sitting in self-pity and not loving who I am. I looked at this poem called Pretty Ugly by Abdullah Shoaib, and it said:

I’m very ugly

So don’t try to convince me that

I am a very beautiful person

Because at the end of the day

I hate myself in every single way

And I’m not going to lie to myself by saying

There is beauty inside of me that matter

So rest assured I will remind myself

That I am a worthless, terrible person

And nothing you say will make me believe

I still deserve love

Because no matter what

I am not good enough to be loved

And I am in no position to believe that

Beauty does exist within me

Because whenever I look in the mirror, I always think

Am I as ugly as people say?

(Now read from bottom to top, line by line)

When reading top to bottom, your inner self is telling you that you’re ugly, but when you read from bottom to top,*READ FROM BOTTOM to TOP* you realize there is so much more to you and that you deserve love and that you’re worthy of it.

This poem made me believe that with a tiny glimpse of hope in believing I am beautiful. I may have my faults, but I’m perfectly imperfect in my own way.

Music played in essay:

With Love, Lady Moni

The Cherry Hour 🍒

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Sometimes it’s the actions, betrayal, and the lack of thinking about you. For me, it was staying in a relationship that I knew wasn’t good for me, but I stayed because I thought maybe he would eventually pour into me. This year, I’m being intentional about who I give my time and energy to. Here’s a little excerpt I wrote about it.

Your love for me was like a battery’s percentage. At the start of our relationship, you gave me 100%, the flowers, the love letters. Each day, it felt like your love grew, charging up to 100% each day.

Over time, your love dwindled like rose petals falling. It slowly slipped to 90% to 80%, decaying little by little. No more good morning texts. Each day, I was left longing for your calls.

The worst part was how this love drained so rapidly without me noticing. By the time I realized it, you were at 5%. While I was still giving you 95%. I was pulling on the rope in a one-sided tug of war. My hands and heart were growing weary, exhausted from carrying the weight of a connection that was already severed.

I loved you with 100%. I gave you everything every day. While you chose to charge your love only when you felt like it. The imbalance of it all left me depleted with nothing left to give, questioning if I was enough, wondering if I was asking too much to be seen and feel wanted.

That’s when I finally realized that: MY CUP MATTERS. YOUR CUP MATTERS. OUR CUPS MATTER. Your energy, love, effort, and time can only be given out sparingly. You can’t give what is not reciprocated. It’s about protecting your peace, setting boundaries without losing yourself in the process.

Even the stories we hear about marriage reflect it: the woman gives up her dreams to support his ambitions, making sure the house runs perfectly and his needs are always met. In the process, she forgets to fill her own cup. Over time, that cup breaks or gathers cobwebs because she believed his priorities were the only thing keeping her afloat. Yet on the first date, he was the same man who asked her, “What are your ambitions?” It reminds me of the conversation Lady Featherington had with Penelope about catering to his ambitions, showing that this pattern isn’t just personal; it’s everywhere.

TRANSLATION: You can’t pour from an empty cup and no one should convince you otherwise.

Song featured in article:

Until the next hour,

Lady M 🍒

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While you read, listen to the Bridgerton Season 4 soundtrack:

In Bridgerton, dating isn’t about chemistry or compatibility; it’s a game of rules. Who you can speak to, how long you can stand beside someone, and whether your name appears in the next gossip sheet for daring to do the unthinkable, all these factors play a crucial role. Reputation is everything, and a single wrong move or lingering glance can rewrite your romantic future overnight.

Despite these challenges, I can’t help but wonder if dating might actually be simpler in this world.

Intentions are clear, and courtship holds significant meaning. No one pretends to be indecisive or unsure of their desires. There are no endless options or half-hearted relationships. Romance is deliberate and slow-paced, with handwritten letters, calling cards, and stolen moments that carry immense value because they’re rare. When someone chooses you, it’s a public declaration of their intentions, leaving no room for guessing.

However, this clarity comes at a cost.

Choice is limited, particularly for women. Chemistry often takes a backseat to status, timing, or family approval. There’s no room for exploration, uncertainty, or personal growth. Emotional honesty can be perilous. Wanting too much, feeling too deeply, or breaking the rules can lead to the loss of everything. Love in Bridgerton is not free; it’s a carefully negotiated affair.

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Watching Bridgerton makes you realize that the ton never truly vanished; it merely transformed. Today, we don’t have grand ballrooms; we have dating apps. We don’t whisper behind fans; we converse in group chats. Reputation still holds significance, but now it’s shaped by screenshots, silence, and who appears indifferent. There are still unspoken rules, when to text back, how available is too available, and who holds the upper hand.

I’m uncertain if I could survive in the world of Bridgerton. I believe I’d be a wallflower with a loud inner world, hoping to be chosen without having to harden myself to be noticed. Perhaps that’s the same question we all ask now, just presented differently: Is there room for softness in a world that values strategy?

Dating is bound to attract rakes and players, as Benedict did to Sophie in season four. This season, in particular, intensifies this tension. It feels less like a fairy tale and more like a study in timing, who is finally ready, who has been overlooked for too long, and who is quietly realizing that love doesn’t always come when society expects it. There’s a gentler ache this season, one that lingers on the characters who have learned to wait, observe, and endure being passed over. Desire feels more internal and less performative, prompting a more profound question: what happens when you’ve done everything “right” and love still takes its time?

Most of us girls are holding out for “From the moment I saw you trying to go over the wall… I have loved you desperately. I cannot breathe when you are not near. I love you, Charlotte,” or being the bane of a person's existence and the object of all their desires. Maybe Shondaland has a way of making us want to be debutantes, making our debuts in front of the queen, hoping we would secure a lord or Bridgerton. Maybe turn to Eloise and be a true spinster and be on the shelf.

Regardless of whether it’s a ballroom or a dating app, love still demands our performance. The true rebellion might lie in choosing tenderness, honesty, and pursuing our desires even when the ton is observing.

From a girl longing to be a debutante,

Lady M

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