I’ve spent a lot of my life saying I don’t want things I’m not entirely sure I ever let myself want.

When you grow up understanding what things cost, you learn pretty quickly how to make your dreams cheaper.

I didn’t really realize this until I went to my friend’s wedding this past weekend. It was beautiful. I cried from top to bottom. But what really stuck with me wasn’t just the love story or the journey—it was the moment, and all that went into the celebration.

I’m a proud proclaimer that when I get engaged, I want to just go to the courthouse the next day. I’ve always hidden this in the idea that it’s because we love each other so much, it should be that easy.

But I’m starting to understand that the reason might actually be because weddings have never felt financially, and maybe even emotionally, available to me.

And not just weddings.

I didn’t go to either of my high school proms. We couldn’t afford the version I wanted, so I decided to no longer want it.

I think this is something that happens when you grow up overly responsible. You learn to adjust your dreams to accommodate your current reality. And honestly, that’s not necessarily a bad trait. It’s useful. It protects you. But the impact it can have on the way you move through adulthood is incredibly large.

Being responsible is a compliment when you’re a child.

Responsibility as an adult can become a blocker.

It dictates how you imagine, how you dream, how you desire.

Speaking from experience, there are so many things in life that I have decided to no longer want purely because wanting them felt too expensive, too risky, too dependent on circumstances I couldn’t trust.

Beyond trust, they were dependent on circumstances I couldn’t control.

It’s a defense mechanism. I know that. Protecting myself from the chaos of what if.

But imagine how many daydreams I’ve missed out on because I told myself no before the dream was even fully formed.

It’s scarcity dreaming.

Editing the fantasy before reality ever had the opportunity to disappoint or cost you.

But my dreams deserve to be priceless.

XX,

L

There were only two things I knew I wanted with absolute certainty as a little Black girl growing up in Virginia.

The first was to go to Spelman. New New from ATL went there, and in my mind it wasn’t just a college—it was where the hottest Black women became one degree hotter.

The second was New York.

Not because I’d been there. I hadn’t.

But because all of my favorite things lived there. Living Single lived there. New York Minute with the Olsen twins lived there. Every magazine spread, every movie montage, every impossibly chic woman carrying coffee in boots and a long coat—it all happened in New York.

I didn’t have the language for it then, but what I wanted wasn’t just a city.

I wanted fabulocity.

I wanted to become the kind of woman who looked like she belonged somewhere exciting.

And in July 2019, I finally made it happen. With $200, an air mattress, and the tightest braided ponytail (literally pulled my edges out!), I believed that my life was set to begin.

This week marked my 7-year NYC anniversary and I think about that girl a lot.

Her eyes fluttered at the thought of New York, even when it smelled like hot dog piss. She imagined the city that would be the backdrop of this glamorous life. But, instead, it was a city that asked so much more of me than any place ever has.

This city watched me grieve my family and cry on multiple Brooklyn sidewalks.

It watched me uber to and from FiDi for a crumb of a tech job promise. It’s important to note that I was a teacher and could barely afford groceries, let alone these 30 min rides to the city.

It watched me gain and lose friendships.

It watched me lose over 100 pounds.

If you would’ve asked me on my first day in Brooklyn, what I thought seven years of living in New York would look like I would’ve painted a very different picture.

I’ve laughed here, cried, screamed, done it right and also failed miserably.

I think I thought it would all just click into place and it didn’t. I’ve spent many nights in the dark wishing I picked somewhere else to live.

But even when the rats are as big as my calves, I know that I wasn’t meant to be anywhere else.

The greatest gift these last seven years have given me is that I get to imagine another seven. There was a point somewhere in the middle where I couldn’t picture a future at all. The next year was heavy enough. Seven years felt impossible.

But I survived and that’s enough to pop some champagne.

I hope seven years from now I can be as thankful as I am for the girl who moved to East Flatbush with $200 and dreams way bigger than she knew what to do with.

Maybe the story hasn’t unfolded the way I imagined.

But somewhere between the grief and joy, the tiny setbacks and the tiny victories, it’s still mine.

Bitch, we made it.

XX,

L

I saw a journal prompt yesterday that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

Write from the version of your life where it all works out.

It came from a woman I used to quietly admire online.

Years ago, I had a secret Instagram account where I’d save everything she posted. Every photo. Every caption. Every glimpse of a life that felt warm in a place that often didn’t.

The funny thing is, I never followed her.

Following felt too close.

Too revealing.

Saving let me admire from a distance. It let me collect pieces of a life I wanted without having to admit that I wanted it.

But it wasn’t really about her.

It was about possibility.

So today, I’m borrowing the prompt.

When it all works out…

The opportunities I didn’t get won’t feel like proof that I wasn’t good enough. They’ll feel like chapters I couldn’t have skipped.

When it all works out, I’ll understand why my shoulders lived so close to my ears for so many years.

When it all works out, I’ll know why God felt quiet for a little while.

He came back.

But I still wonder why it got so silent.

When it all works out, I won’t wonder whether I’m loved.

Or whether people secretly tolerate me instead of choosing me.

When it all works out, life won’t feel like balancing on a unicycle.

Everything moving.

Everything demanding.

Everything requiring me to keep pedaling just to stay upright.

I’ll know what it feels like to be still.

Grounded.

Safe.

When it all works out, I won’t be alone.

Not because I wasn’t capable of building a beautiful life by myself.

But because I let someone into the life I’d already built.

When it all works out, I’ll stop revisiting every decision like a courtroom transcript.

Should I have stayed?

Should I have left sooner?

Should I have spoken up?

Should I have waited?

When it all works out, those questions won’t disappear because I’ll suddenly become the kind of person who doesn’t care what anyone thinks.

They’ll disappear because hindsight has a way of making courage look obvious.

We love to tell ourselves we don’t care what people think.

I’m not sure that’s true.

I think most of us care deeply.

We just hope the ending will justify the risk.

Making choices before you know whether they’ll become stories of courage or stories of regret.

Trusting that your future self will understand what your present self cannot.

When it all works out, I don’t think I’ll finally become fearless.

I think I’ll finally become grateful.

Grateful that the version of me writing this today kept going anyway.

Exhale.

XX,

L

A couple of weeks ago, I made baked beans for a Fourth of July cookout.

Before I started cooking, I called my mom.

That’s normal for us.

For most of my life, it was just us.

It was just us at Christmas. Just us when a storm rolled through. Just us figuring out dinner on a random Tuesday. When you’ve spent that much of your life with one person, they stop being just your parent. They become your reference point.

So I called to tell her I was making baked beans.

“Don’t put meat in them,” she said.

The funny thing was, I’d already bought the ingredients.

I’d already decided on the recipe.

I’d already planned to put meat in them.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t yelling. She was simply telling me how she would’ve done it. The way she’d always done it.

For a second, I found myself wanting to change my plans anyway.

Not because I thought she was right.

Because somewhere along the way, I’d learned that her recipe was the recipe.

But it wasn’t.

It was hers.

And I was making mine.

That conversation stayed with me because, earlier that day, something else had happened that left me more emotional than I expected. I called my mom looking for comfort, and she didn’t really have it to give.

Not because she doesn’t love me.

She does.

Not because she doesn’t care.

She does.

But love and understanding aren’t always the same thing.

Sometimes our parents can only comfort us from the limits of the lives they’ve lived. They reach for the tools they know. They hand us the recipes that carried them through.

Sometimes those recipes don’t fit us.

That realization has followed me into adulthood more than I’d like to admit.

I’ve started noticing that we inherit much more than family recipes.

We inherit emotional ones, too.

Recipes for conflict.

Recipes for celebration.

Recipes for grief.

Recipes for what feelings are allowed to leave our bodies.

When my grandmother died, I watched my family grieve.

I also watched what kinds of grief seemed acceptable.

Over time, I learned to time my cries.

To swallow my screams.

To make my feelings small enough that no one else had to carry them.

People have told me I’m hard to read.

That I’m really calm.

Sometimes I wonder if they’re confusing calm with containment.

The truth is, I wasn’t born knowing how to swallow my emotions.

I learned.

Not because anyone sat me down and taught me.

Because children are always watching.

We absorb what we see long before we decide whether it’s serving us.

That’s what made the baked beans feel bigger than baked beans.

I’d never made them with meat before.

Partly because of how I grew up. My family had all kinds of reasons over the years for not eating certain things, and baked beans without meat were simply what I knew.

Then, a few months ago, I went to my nephew’s graduation party on my dad’s side of the family.

My sister-in-law made baked beans with meat.

They were good.

I remember thinking, I want to learn how to make mine like this.

Not because I thought her recipe was better than my mom’s.

Because it tasted like something I’d want to eat.

That’s a small distinction.

But I think adulthood is full of them.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve been giving myself permission to trust my own taste.

To travel alone.

To take myself to dinner.

To spend an evening on a rooftop with a book and a cocktail.

To build a life that is open to love but doesn’t wait for it to begin.

To yearn.

To tell the truth sooner.

To admit when something hurts.

To stop measuring every decision against what someone else would’ve done.

Not because I’m rejecting where I come from.

Because I’m finally asking what feels true for me.

My mom’s recipe wasn’t wrong.

It just wasn’t the one I wanted to make that day.

Inheritance isn’t obligation.

You can be grateful for what you’ve been given without believing you have to keep making it forever.

That goes for baked beans.

That goes for grief.

That goes for the stories we tell ourselves about strength.

The beans were a hit, by the way.

I even went back for seconds.

Somewhere between the ground beef and the brown sugar, I realized I wasn’t just changing a recipe.

I was practicing a different way of living.

One where I trust my own taste.

One where I don’t mistake silence for strength.

One where I exist not by myself, but for myself.

And yes—

one where I put meat in my baked beans.

Exhale.

XX,

L

p.s I know I dipped for a little bit, I’ve been working, living, watching Love Island (glad that’s over 😅) doing all the stuff. I should be around now though <3

In my Notes to the Summer Version of Me newsletter, I said I wanted to read one book a week.

Let me start by saying I haven’t finished this book yet.

I will finish the book because I don’t wanna pay the DNF tax my friends set up.

But I couldn’t sit with these thoughts for 28 more chapters.

Everyone I spoke to said that Yesteryear would be the craziest book I’d ever read. That Natalie was such a jarring character. It’s the kind of book that you have to sit with when you finish the last page.

Instead, I found myself not only switching from physical to audiobook to get through the pages fast but also wondering what exactly I’m missing.

This is not me saying that the book isn’t good. It’s just that I’m realizing that it takes a very specific lived experience for it to really land.

As a Black woman, I’m reading this book differently than many of the people who recommended it.

Every chapter, I keep waiting for Natalie to cross some unimaginable line.

Instead, she keeps confirming observations I’ve already made about how some white women navigate the world.

The self-preservation.

The willingness to rationalize harm.

The ability to see themselves as the victim while exercising power over someone else.

The deep investment in a particular version of womanhood, even when it comes at someone else’s expense.

None of this feels foreign to me.

It feels like a fictional exaggeration of dynamics I’ve already spent years recognizing.

That’s why I don’t feel moved.

Not because I think she’s right.

Not because I think she’s harmless.

But because I’ve never needed fiction to convince me that these dynamics exist.

I already believed they did.

The novel satirizes a certain kind of white womanhood, but the satire still feels rooted in a feminist framework that assumes exposing those contradictions is the revelation.

For me, it isn’t.

So as I read, I don’t feel like I’m watching a woman become monstrous.

I feel like I’m watching a system I’ve already recognized play itself out through one character.

That difference changes everything.

It changes what’s horrifying.

It changes what’s surprising.

It even changes the pace of the novel.

The novel asks me to be horrified by a white woman’s willingness to preserve her version of womanhood at someone else’s expense.

But I ask a different question:

Whose womanhood was being protected in the first place?

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Not because I need more plot.

Because I’m waiting for the book to tell me something I don’t already know.

I’m waiting to see if the book has anything else to say beyond what I’ve already seen.

Maybe I’ll finish the book and completely change my mind.

Maybe I just don’t get it.

All I know is this:

What other readers describe as unimaginable, I’ve long understood to be possible.

And if I’m allowed to say the quiet part out loud, maybe one of the reasons it’s so “mind bending” and left readers “gobsmacked” (I pulled those words from Goodreads lol), is because when you remove the trad wife of it all, it’s just a reflection.

Not of every white woman.

But of a way that race, power, innocence, and self-preservation have long intersected in America.

How people play with the cards they’re dealt.

I guess it easier to call it Fiction.

XX,

L

p.s I’ll come back one I finish this book!

The Knicks are the NBA Champions.

My boho braids are new.

Juneteenth is a sleep away.

But the thing I’ve been silently dreading arrives on Sunday.

Father’s Day is strange now.

Not because I don’t know what I miss.

I know exactly what I miss.

Grief taught me something unexpected: eventually someone has to decide what happens next.

How you cope.

How you commemorate.

How you live.

I mentioned a bottomless brunch a few weeks back. Besides the fun and cocktails, we had a really honest conversation about our fathers.

When my dad died, grief felt like an ending. But six years later, grief often feels more like stewardship.

Specifically stewardship of myself.

For the past few father’s days, I’ve existed between sadness and avoidance.

This looked like hunkering down in my apartment. No big production, just intentional avoidance of Instagram and snacks.

This year, I decided to try something different.

Instead of surviving the day, I’m going to participate.

This Sunday, my friend and I are returning to our

Midtown brunch favorite and having a fatherless Father’s Day brunch.

The humor is evident in its name, but its purpose isn’t.

I do have siblings, but our relationships are complex. And each of our individual relationships with our father are even more complicated.

Because of this, my grief has been a journey I’ve taken alone.

Not because no one else loved him.

But because I’ve felt safer carrying this grief on my own.

I get to choose the stories to revisit, the tears allowed to fall, and the feelings I sit with.

But that type of control isn’t realistic. One day, the heartache will be stronger than my resistance to it. And I’ll have to just give in.

So, why do it alone, when I have community?

This brunch isn’t the solution to my Father’s Day blues. But it is me deciding what happens next.

Not replacing my dad.

Not “moving on.”

Just choosing how to carry this day forward.

And sometimes that’s all you can ask for.

Exhale.

xx,

L

At a rooftop party on Saturday, feeling the lychee mint mezcal lemonades I pregamed with, I asked my friend, “what’s your dream?”

Not dream job.

Or aspirations.

Just when you think “dream”, what comes to mind.

Jodie talked about nature, the beach, the trees in Jamaica.

I talked about feeling cold (in a good way!), cozy, intimate.

Different vibes, but peace just the same.

We didn’t say promotions or marriages or houses.

We answered with environments.

With feelings.

With places our bodies could finally relax.

In the moment, it was just tipsy talk, but in hindsight, it felt oddly revealing.

Maybe because Black women are so often asked what we’re building, chasing, fixing, earning, proving, surviving.

We get very little practice imagining ourselves inside a dream that doesn’t require labor.

Whimsy is something we, as Black women, have to choose.

Not because we’re incapable of it, but because so much of our lives teaches us to prioritize practicality.

To be responsible.

To have a plan.

To make the most of an opportunity.

To keep moving.

I’ve spent a lot of time writing about accomplishments.

My career.

My social life.

The ways I’ve had to reconfigure my life after disappointment, loss, or change.

But it’s important to talk about my relationship with dreaming.

I’ve never really been a dreamer.

I didn’t really know how to dream without boundaries.

Without extraordinary measures.

Lately, I’ve been dreaming.

Small flashes that feel like a Pinterest board. Nothing earth-shattering, just imaginative.

Fun.

Not practical at all.

The thing about these dreams is that they don’t really lead anywhere.

At least not in the traditional sense.

They’re not milestones.

They’re moments.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning.

Not every dream needs to change your life.

Some dreams exist to help you enjoy what’s already in reach.

Sometimes all you need is a slightly tipsy heart-to-heart on a rooftop in South Park Slope to realize it.

Exhale.

xx,

L

A friend and I went to brunch this weekend.

Bottomless, of course.

Shoutout to Tash and Tán in Midtown!

As we got to know each other better, I said something that surprised even me:

“I think New York is where I’m going to stay.”

Now, I’ve lived here for almost seven years, so why did saying that feel so significant?

Maybe because the story of the transplant usually includes an ending.

For years, I talked about leaving like it was inevitable.

“I’ve got two more years here.”

“I’m probably moving to Chicago.”

“Maybe Atlanta.”

“Dallas could be nice.”

But lately I’ve been asking myself a simpler question:

Why am I acting like I have one foot out the door when I feel good here?

I don’t drive.

I don’t particularly want a house.

I like walking to get a beef patty or a quick Van Leewen sundae.

I like seeing the same people at the same workout classes.

I like running into friends unexpectedly.

I like living this life.

And I want to fill it with even more.

Last week, I wrote that this summer would be about becoming more alive on purpose.

I think part of that is getting curious again.

About people.

About the city.

About what happens when you stop waiting for life to come to you and go meet it instead.

But let’s be real, if you’ve learned anything about me, the only way for me to be accountable about “going after it” is to make it a part of this space.

So this summer, I’m starting a new series called “Grab a Glass With...”

The concept is simple: I invite someone to grab a drink or dinner with me and we talk. (my treat within reason!) about life, creativity, their latest hyperfixation, whatever comes up.

Sometimes it’ll be someone I know well.
Sometimes it’ll be someone I’ve only met once.
Sometimes it might be someone I’ve never met before.

The goal isn’t to teach y’all anything new.

It’s just an excuse for me to get know people better.

To try restaurants I’ve bookmarked and never visited.

To get music recommendations.

To hear someone’s middle school lore.

To spend less time consuming stories and more time collecting them.

Recently, I listened to an episode of Rich Little Brokegirls where host Kimberly Bizu talked about “flirting with the world.”

The idea is simple: get off your phone and get in the field.

Ask questions.
Say yes.
Follow the thread.

This feels like my version of that.

So, if you’re local to New York and want to grab a glass with me, reach out! <3

Let’s see what happens.

Exhale.

xx,

L

p.s I really do need y’all’s help getting this off the ground, so if any connect is appreciated.

^ My theme song for summer ‘22 and now summer ‘26 ^

I’m easing back into this writing thing.

It’s a weird journey to go from saying everything to struggling to know what I want to say next.

All that comes to mind lately are random musings and manifestations.

So, in the spirit of the radical reflection I’ve been practicing these last eight months, let me share them.

As the weather requires less time inside and I sip on this chilled moscato, I can’t help but think about all the things I want out of this season.

Truthfully, I haven’t wanted a summer this badly since I was 25.

Back then, my only real aspirations were flirting (F-), good outfits (C+), and finding reasons to stay outside longer (A-).

Lately, I feel that version of me returning.

Not the exact same girl, thankfully. But someone softer. Braver. More willing.

So, in no particular order:

• to become a regular somewhere, but mysterious enough that they don’t know my name

• to take a walk that feels like I’m Amerie in the “Why Don’t We Fall in Love” video

• a good juicy, medium-soft peach

• to party on a rooftop and look toward the sky in a moment of gratitude

• less over explaining

• more listening to understand

• chilled wine and a french fry always

• to finish one book a week

• less canoodling with people I don’t actually like

• smiles and laughs that don’t require liquid courage

• more brunches and dinners that turn into adventures we reminisce about in the fall

• to stop acting shocked people choose me

• a solid frozen margarita at 50% of my pregames for the pregame

• one really good grief cry because it means I’m living

• to say yes to visibility

• capris

• fewer “maybe next times”

• to romanticize my errands just a little bit more

• one night that feels like a movie

• enough presence to recognize joy while it’s happening

This isn’t a bucket list or options for a bingo list. It’s more me declaring that this summer, I’m taking everything I’ve learned about myself the last 4 years to be a woman becoming more alive on purpose.

May the summer respond accordingly.

I’m back outside 🤪

Exhale.

xx,

L.

Currently resisting the overwhelmed black girl urge to turn on Cleo Sol.

Since we last spoke I have turned 29.

*pause for dramatics*

I do actually feel different. More committed to the life I’m creating, a little more careless, but also ready to explore another level of life.

For the first time in my life, I understand that I have so much love in my life. My family and friends pour so deep into me but sometimes my brain can’t understand that these people are actively choosing to show up.

But this birthday, I got to see it and it overwhelmed me.

To see the community I’ve grown from scratch in such a challenging city made me examine what else I could do with my life if I didn’t hesitate out of fear.

The night before my birthday, a friend and I had a late dinner and stumbled upon a drag show.

As the queens twirled around us and Gasolina blared through the speakers, we talked men, hobbies, gossip, and motherhood.

On Monday, I had a consultation with my fertility nurse advocate to understand my coverage and more about the process of egg freezing.

Oddly enough, the conversation didn’t push me closer to motherhood or further away from it. It just made me realize the choice is mine.

When I was 22, I read More Than Enough by Elaine Welteroth.

I latched onto this quote like catfish to hot grease:

“Things are happening for you, not to you.”

Back then, it was the language I needed to survive a weird career chapter and eventually a long journey with grief.

But as I sit with those words seven years later, I think I finally understand what they mean.

To make peace with the happenings of my life.

And maybe that’s what 29 is.

At 25, I went braless. My dresses got shorter, but I still looked over my shoulder, worried about who could see me.

At 28, my shoulders lowered but I still always felt in motion. Still trying to experience the moments I missed.

At 29, though only a week in, I feel still.

Grounded in my choices, good or bad.
Always aware of what I want and willing to go after it.
Rooted in the realization that I have more agency over my life than I thought I did.

And a lot more time.

Cheers to my last year in my twenties.

May it change my life, for the better.

Amen, Exhale, and Happy Birthday to me.

xx,

L

I don’t have a full newsletter for you this week. Between life getting busy and its consequential writers block, I don’t have much to talk about this week.

So instead of forcing it, I’m pressing pause. I’ll be back next week with something to say, pinky swear.

I won’t leave you truly empty handed.

Here’s everything I’ve been consuming. My weekly R.E.P.O.R.T, if you will:

Reading: I read the craziest article in The Cut yesterday about a girl ended her friendship because her bff was on wegovy. Homegirl needs a therapist, not a byline. But yall read it and tell me what you think!

Eating: I’ve been obsessed with this little trail mix I’ve been making: cashews, sliced almonds, pumpkin seeds, dried cranberries, and semi sweet chocolate chips. I top with a little Maldon salt. Sometimes with a glass of extra chilled white wine. Ughhhhhh I love it.

Playing:

This song is a key part of my barre playlist and one of the only near clean hip hop songs I know 😅 Shoutout to VA and our new redistricted map!!! I am still a registered Virginia voter for times like this!!!

Obsessing: I’m planning out my summer right, will write about it soon. I have so many halter tops, rooftops, recipes, and cargo pants saved in various carts across the internet. Also, how do you summer in your late 20s? Can I still go to parties where Djs I like are playing even if it’s promoted? Is that a faux pas? I don’t want to have to leave nyc to get my fix. I’m obsessing over that a little too.

Recommending: Kiehl’s soy milk & honey body butter., but tbh my ideal nighttime shower routine Since I’m training about 5 times a week, showers exist to not only cleanse me, but also regulate my nervous system. I use the Cylkar vanilla body wash, then the Kiehl’s body butter, and top with a light layer of Nest’s Madagascar Vanilla oil. Fresh pj’s, a glass of cherry juice, a spray of lavender oil on my pillows, and then turn on deep brown noise. Bitch, the sleep I am getting. Be jealous.

Treating: I know folks crack jokes, but I recently added moscato back into my wine mix, to substitute the Van Leeuwan Ice cream I was eating. An extra chilled glass of moscato will always be the perfect toast at the end of the day.

-
Well that’s it for me.

Until next time.

Exhale.

Love you guys!! Let me know if you like this vibe/format. May adopt more of it for our summer newsletters.

XX,

L

“Goal: Prevent burnout.”

I wrote that at the top of my week-at-a-glance on Sunday.

Not because anything is wrong.

Just because… I know myself.

Work being busy isn’t new. That’s baseline.

But recently, in an effort to live a more full life, I added something else to the mix:

Another hobby.

Because that’s what we do.

We decide we want more for ourselves—more joy, more softness, more life—and somehow it still turns into another thing on our list of things.

For me, it’s:

Barre teacher training.

A 75 Moderate challenge with my girlie pops.

Water goals. Movement goals. A routine that makes me feel like I have my life together.

And to be clear, I like it here.

I feel strong.

I feel disciplined.

I feel like I’m leaning in spirit first, rather than intellect.

But I’ve also noticed something.

Especially in women my age.

Especially in Black women.

We don’t just pick things up.

We commit. We optimize. We make it meaningful.

We turn “I want to try this” into “I’m going to do this well.”

And there’s something beautiful about that.

The care. The intention. The follow-through.

But—

when everything becomes something we’re doing on purpose, where do we go just to be?

Where nothing has to be improved or figured out or turned into something else.

Just for a second.

It’s important that we (yes, WE) understand that full doesn’t have to mean at capacity.

Because if I’m honest, my life right now is very…a lot. On purpose.

On purpose because I want a full life.

But I don’t want to run myself into the ground trying to live it.

And I think about us when I say that.

I was talking to a good friend of mine who went on five dates last week.

Yay for the menfolk applying pressure, but so much had to be done on her end to even enjoy that “free time.”

And that’s what I mean.

Whether it’s dating or new hobbies, Black women don’t just do things.

We do them well.

And I love that about us.

But maybe in the pursuit of accomplishing, we need to make sure we can actually carry the life we’re building.

Because that’s where whimsy lives.

Not outside of the doing.

But in the thick of it.

I’m still going to do a lot.

That’s not changing.

But the real goal isn’t just to prevent burnout.

It’s to build a life that can hold all this doing…and still feel like I can breathe easily while I’m in it.

Exhale.

XX,

L

Last week, I was on vacation.

I didn’t travel, partially because I waited too long to buy the ticket and partially because of the TSA lines.

I didn’t book a fancy staycation or upscale massage, like usual.

I just did my normal schedule without working.

And somewhere between the walk home from my lash appointment, soundtracked by Sam Cooke (I may have cried), and my frozen strawberry margarita–fueled viewing of The Drama, I realized:

We’ve made rest feel way more complicated than it needs to be.

Once we grew up and unlocked our big girl wallets, rest stopped being rest and started being (and don’t fight me)… content.

Flights. Matching sets.
Perfectly timed golden hour pictures.
Ocean views and “I needed this” captions.

And don’t get me wrong, I love a beach and will be on one soon 😛

BUT

Some of us don’t actually need a trip.
We need a break.

Last week, rest looked like:

Walking a little slower for no reason.
Sitting in a movie theater with a frozen margarita.
Day of dinner reservations.
Finishing With Love from Harlem on Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.

Doing small things with no urgency attached to them.

Nothing about it was impressive.

No one would’ve double tapped it.

But that’s what made it special.

Sometimes the real luxury isn’t an aesthetic escape.

It’s having enough space to actually be in your life.

So let this be your sign to take that PTO, grab a book, or grab a blanket and just…

take a minute.

I promise you’ll be satisfied ;)

Exhale.

XX,

L

With Q1 officially behind us, let’s talk about all the things….

It wasn’t soft at all. I’m not a stranger to a new year slump, but this was DIFFERENT.

Let’s start with the feelings.

Mostly because the sadness wasn’t something I could point at. No one died, but I was still grieving.

I declared 2026 the Year of Delight.

But you can’t pour anything good into a life that’s already overcrowded.

I needed to clear space.

So, this meant back-to-back crying therapy sessions, slightly uncomfortable race conversations at work, and a lot of Substacks.

It also meant being a headass and acknowledging that the reason I used to thrive in the solitude of winter wasn’t because it gave my diva time to recharge. It was because I didn’t have community. No one to go to a random workout class with or eat takeout and watch the Hannah Montana anniversary special.

I realized I’ve been trying to experience delight while still carrying everything that makes it impossible.

And still expecting a positive.

Q2 still requires a lot of hard, emotional work, but now it’s no longer a boulder. It’s just a small pebble.

I also started taking my Vitamin D supplements again, which has also done wonders.

⸻

Now, the men folk.

Don’t worry, it’ll be brief.

This quarter, I wasn’t aiming to build a roster. I was mostly trying to build a type.

If you’ve been able to read between the lines or even just read the lines, I don’t have as much experience as I’d like with dating. I know the type of guys I usually go for and I know they were not serving me.

So, Q1, I really just wanted to see with who I am now, who do I wanna receive?

This involved a lot of following men from apps on Instagram, a lot of overthinking crushes, a lot of trying to build proximity and all of that resulted in absolutely nothing.

Not even a damn DM. Ahhhhhh.

Because things weren’t going my way, I fell into my normal pattern of intellectualizing things and that kinda made it worse.

Q2, we’re not doing any of that. No, I’m not gonna be a goofy. But I can make this less of a IQ game. I still don’t have a clear type, but I do know what Laura at the end of March wants, and that matters for right now.

⸻

On to the physical.

In Q1, for the first time since my massive weight loss, I experienced body dysmorphia.

Around December I had officially clocked losing over 100 pounds when I went home the first thing my aunt said was “you need to stop losing weight.”

That’s such a brain fuck.

Like you work so hard to be healthy to look and feel good and then the people that are supposed to validate you make you feel like all of it was for nothing. No matter how much I gave myself a pep talk on the Amtrak back to New York that stayed in my brain.

I dedicated Q1 to trying to gain a little bit of weight back not because I thought I needed it but because I wanted to stop hearing my mom and aunt’s voices in my head.

I’ve had to take a lot of moments to make sure that my wellness is driven by me and not them. Asking myself questions like, “am I taking this fourth class because I feel big?” and “do I look smaller than I feel?”

And the truth is, I didn’t always catch it in real time.

In hindsight, I wish I would’ve been able to stop myself in those spirals and say, “bitch, you lost 100 pounds. Who gives a fuck what they think?”

I enjoy the evolution I’ve had in that aspect of my life. But this will forever be an evolution.

Q2 is about understanding that and making sure for this journey, the voice in my head that gets priority is mine.

⸻

I came into 2026 wanting to feel good.

The good part isn’t here yet.

I’m leaving Q1 knowing what that actually requires.

Spring can come in now.

Exhale.

XX,

L

My therapist told me that one of my blockers in session is perfectionism.

When you grow up a little (just a tad) dysfunctional, you develop modes of protection.

Mine was perfectionism. Fixing problems. Mediating.
If I could present as the resolution, then the people I was protecting could remain intact.

And if they stayed intact, then maybe everything else could too.

When this kind of behavior forms in childhood, it doesn’t go away.
It just grows up with you.

I’ve been trying to find a way to explain what this feels like.

The closest I can get is this.

For me, it’s hard to focus if the glass breaks at the party.

Imagine we’re gathered. People are dancing, the vibes are high. Then a glass shatters.

Instead of trusting that someone else will handle it, my mind starts running:
What if someone gets hurt?
What if people leave?
How do I stop more glasses from breaking?

And suddenly I’ve left the moment. I’m trying to control what happens next.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a harder question.

What if I just leave the glass on the ground?

Even typing that feels wrong. A little irresponsible. A little unlike me.

But I’m starting to realize I’ve spent most of my life protecting everything but myself.

And that’s the shift.

Not becoming careless.
Not becoming cold.
Not becoming someone who doesn’t care.

But becoming someone who understands:

I am also worth protecting.

My therapist asked me, “How do you protect yourself now?”

And I didn’t have an answer.

Because protecting myself has always felt a little too close to abandoning everyone else.

But maybe it isn’t.

There’s this discourse online that says, “no one is coming to save you.”

And I get why that doesn’t sit right with a lot of us.

Because many of us have been saved.
By our mothers. Our friends. Our partners. Our communities.

We are not alone.

But I think the real question isn’t who is coming to save me.

It’s this.

When no one is around, when the party quiets down, when the glass is already broken, do I know how to choose myself?

Do I know how to protect her?

Because at the end of the day, I am the one who has to live with me.

And I’m starting to believe I should be the first thing I protect.

Exhale.

XX,

L

p.s i’ve said it before but thanks for hanging in there with me, seasonal depression kinda whooped my ass, but i’m back to radical self reflection, popping outfits, and reading books. more to come. love y’all deep

My first vivid memory of understanding what “sexy” was came from Bringing Down the House with Steve Martin and Queen Latifah.

She walked into the country club, glided her tongue across her top lip, and Eugene Levy lost his mind.

(For reference)

I practiced it.

Perfected it.

Then I got caught by my aunt and was promptly reprimanded for being too grown. But the feeling stayed.

Because even outside of that moment, I wasn’t really allowed to be sexy.

I couldn’t sit with my legs crossed over, only at the ankles until I got my drivers license.

No red nail polish.

Nothing that felt too grown, too knowing.

Sexy was… adult.

And adult was off-limits.

But the desire didn’t go anywhere.

Even through puberty, 300 pounds, and failed fashion attempts, I knew one thing for sure:

I wanted to be sexy.

Not pretty. Not cute.

Sexy.

Because every version of sexy I had seen felt very intentional. Feminine. Like it did something.

What I didn’t understand then is that the version of sexy I was actually drawn to was quieter.

More subtle.

But that kind of sexy felt like it belonged to women who had grown into themselves. Women who knew what they were doing.

So I did what made sense.

I performed the version of sexiness that felt closest to me at the time.

Low-cut tops, going braless, showing more skin, darker makeup.

That was what I thought it was supposed to look like.

And sometimes it worked.

But if I’m being honest, it also felt like I was trying something on.

Like I was copying a language I didn’t actually speak.

Because what I was drawn to couldn’t be recreated with just clothes.

And I think part of that is because I never really got to grow into it slowly.

It went from “not allowed” to “figure it out.”

So now, I’m figuring it out.

And what I’m realizing is that sexy, for me, is much quieter than I thought.

Sometimes it’s a shoulder.

A smirk.

Holding eye contact a second too long.

Most of the time, it’s not even about anyone else.

It’s just me.

And I think that’s why this has been on my mind so much lately.

Because sexy is starting to feel like a kind of power I’m learning how to access.

Not loud. Not performative.

But something that lets me feel in control of my own presence.

My awareness.

How grounded I feel in my body.

And yes, I know that kind of presence attracts people.

But that’s not really the point.

What feels new is that I can feel it in myself now.

In the way I move.

In the way my body exists without me trying to force it into something.

I think that’s been the shift.

The version of sexy I actually want feels controlled.

Grounded.

Like I’m fully in myself.

But it’s not rigid.

The fun part about being sexy is that it’s unpredictable.

It changes.

It shows up differently depending on the moment, the mood, the version of me that day.

And I don’t think I used to give myself permission for that.

I thought it had to look one way.

But now it feels more fluid than that.

It’s power.

It’s… strength.

To me, strength was holding everything together.

Being composed.

Protecting myself.

But this feels different.

Softer.

A little less controlled in the way I thought I needed to be.

And still… something.

I’m not the hyper-independent, super career woman.

But I’m also not the woman dreaming of a bald-headed husband, a brownstone, and cocoa butter babies.

At least not right now.

I’m somewhere in the middle.

And figuring out what sexy means to me feels a lot like figuring out how I want to exist in that middle.

How I want to show up.

What kind of power actually feels good to hold.

Because I don’t think sexy is something I have to perform anymore.

It’s already mine.

Exhale.

XX,

L

I have an unnatural allegiance to medium ugly men.

Ever since I can remember, the men who latch themselves into my mental orbit are always the ones who make you squint first.

I’m self-aware enough to know this is probably because they feel the most obtainable. It’s the way I’ve humbled myself and, in theory, protected myself from rejection.

But rejection and humiliation are not the same thing. As I mature, I’m realizing that many of the mechanisms I used for protection don’t match the realities I’m facing as a 28-year-old.

Let me tell you a story.

About a year ago I was on Hinge when this light-skinned, medium ugly man appeared. Large forehead, dimples, tall, witty prompts.

Ah. My type.

His Instagram was in one of his answers.

Red flag.

I followed him. (Ick. I know.)

He followed back.

Promising.

What followed over the next few months were a couple story likes, a comment or two, but other than that, crickets.

But that proximity mattered. Not really because of him, but because of what he represented for me. He was the first man I had taken “initiative” with, even though I never actually expressed the most basic version of interest. Hey, I want to get to know you.

It was completely one-sided, and when he didn’t pick up on my subtle clues, I felt humiliated. So I entered humiliation protocol.

Archived my pics. Deleted the dating apps. Foggy brain. Existential dread. You know the vibes.

But in hindsight, his lack of enthusiasm for my subtle movements didn’t actually damage my being or my dignity. It just softly bruised my ego.

It was rejection, not humiliation.

And the truth is, I know almost nothing about this man besides the highlights I see in passing on Instagram.

I had a severe lack of data.

Yet an abundance of feelings.

And that’s what I want to talk about.

The strange thing about digital proximity is that it gives your imagination entirely too much room to work.

When someone exists just close enough to your life to be visible but not close enough to be known, your brain starts filling in the blanks. A personality emerges. A dynamic forms. Suddenly there’s a small emotional storyline running quietly in the background of your day.

The problem is that the information never really changes. The data points stay limited. So the story you’re telling yourself is mostly being written by you.

And the internet is the perfect environment for this kind of projection.

Because growing up online taught many of us how to be ideal, not how to be real.

The internet was where I practiced being cooler. Funnier. Prettier. More interesting. It was where I went to experiment with the version of myself I thought people might like the most.

But now the same space that trained us to curate and perform is also where we’re supposed to date.

Which means I’m sitting here trying to present my authentic self in the exact environment where I spent years perfecting my ideal self.

No wonder everything feels a little off.

Because when someone like this man enters your orbit digitally, it’s incredibly easy to interact with the version of them that exists in your head instead of the person who actually exists in real life.

And if I’m being honest, the crush was never really about him.

It was about curiosity. About possibility. About the small thrill of noticing someone and wondering what it might be like if they noticed you back.

But imagination is a powerful thing, especially when it’s fed by the internet. Give your brain a few glimpses, a couple story likes, and suddenly you’ve built a fully furnished emotional experience out of almost nothing.

And if I’m serious about figuring out who I actually am now, I think I have to retire a few imaginary storylines along the way.

Including this medium ugly one.

Maybe I should write his name on a piece of paper and burn it. We’ll see.

Exhale.

XX,

L

February humbled me.

Not in a poetic “winter reflection” kind of way, but in a two-feet-of-snow, blizzard-warning, staring-out-the-window-like-a-housecat kind of way.

If you’ve been reading the newsletters this month, you probably noticed the vibe.

The whole month of February newsletters, with the exception of Crushed, were very much giving… a lot.

I’ll be honest. This winter has been my biggest opp.

I’ve always prided myself on being a homebody, but that’s by choice.

Between two feet of snow and a damn blizzard, I didn’t really have a choice. And there’s only so much a one-pot meal can heal.

It’s no excuse, but when you create all this momentum around “enjoy life while it’s happening,” and then it’s literally 3° outside, you spend way more time studying yourself than actually practicing that life.

Winter gave me a lot of time to reflect. Probably too much time.

Somewhere between journaling, processing, and trying to understand every new behavior I’ve developed this year, I realized something. I’ve been observing my life more than living it.

The great thing about posting this weekly is that I’ve been able to build a really great community. The not-so-great thing? Y’all get the emotions as I process them.

So before I start my random musings, thank you for sticking it out.

Alright, let’s get into it.

We’re a little over 60 days into 2026.

I’ve cried. Retreated. Crashed out.

But now something else is happening.

The group chats are lighting up again.
The calendar is filling with dinners, birthday parties, and the solo rituals I plan to keep because I want to be the kind of woman who does that.

And for the first time this year, I’m actually participating in my Year of Delight.

If I’m serious about participating, I have to be honest about what understandings this version of my life actually requires.

Here are a few things I’m been musing as I anticipate the season change.

Community is essential.

We’re not going to talk about it today lol, but I have an existential fear of loneliness.

Blame it on my weird sibling relationship, a sucky dating life, my temperament, whatever.

For most of my life, I’ve moved through the world like one day I’d have to do it alone.

But lately I’ve noticed I’m in a season where I feel watered by my friends.

Don’t get it twisted. My joy isn’t coming from other people.

But I understand why people have friends now.

I hate when I’m called mixy, but like… I might be.

And the more time I spend fighting the label, the more discombobulated my nervous system becomes.

You will be rejected.

As I “enjoy life while it’s happening,” I have to accept that everything is not going to be a win.

But rejection and humiliation are not the same thing.

And I shouldn’t try to heal my ego from rejection with coping mechanisms meant for humiliation.

Rejection is a scab.

Put a band-aid on it and keep it moving.

Life is not meant to be managed.

In January, I wrote about wanting to smile more, laugh more, and take Instagram less seriously. I wanted to be lighter. Looser. A little less in my head.

But I made the mistake a lot of self-aware people make.

I turned it into work.

You want to know why seasonal depression hit so hard this year?

Because I was trying to OKR my life when the whole point was freedom and being present.

When you spend enough time reflecting, processing, and trying to get better, it’s easy to carry that same level of analysis into your joy.

Instead of just living, you start monitoring the living.

As I start to defrost, I’m trying to stop creating so much structure.

Ironically, I say this as I tell you my plan, but I digress.

Delight comes from ease.

And this spring, I’m less interested in analyzing my life and more interested in actually living it.

Exhale.

Again thanks y’all for always being willing to grab a glass, I appreciate it more than you know.

XX,

L

I sat in my bed, a little buzzed from my Nowadays “mocktail,” and decided to watch Being Mary Jane.

The blizzard canceled my hot barre class, so why not be entertained by one of my problematic faves.

The opening scene.

Mary Jane takes two cakes out of the oven while Mary J. Blige serenades her. A man knocks on her door, pleading. She is resistant, but the thrill wins over her mind. She races back into her room to get everything together.

Blah blah. Then cut to one of the hottest, BET-appropriate sex scenes ever.

End scene.

Cross out the sex. Substitute an unserious man in my inbox promising me the world.

And damn it, I am Mary Jane.

My worst nightmare.

Now do not get me wrong. MJ is really one of if them ones. She gets the men. She wears the clothes. Her sew-ins remain pristine.

But she also has a savior complex.

She compares her failures to her friends’ successes.

She holds her emotions so close to her chest not even she can feel them.

Yeah.

I got all that in the first episode and just sat there, unable to turn off autoplay, because this play was definitely about us, right down to the Post-its on the mirror.

I am about to admit something embarrassing.

This past weekend, I went on Instagram to unabashedly see who from the Grey’s Anatomy cast had posted about Eric Dane. But before I could type in Ellen Pompeo, my attention was taken.

The most perfectly crafted photo dump. Toasted with 70+ comments.

In the grand scheme of life, especially my life, this means absolutely nothing. But I still went to my page to compare.

If you care, I had eight comments.

How did she know what song to pick?

How does she always get the right angle?

How does she always have “it”?

Why don’t I?

This mini spiral inspired three decisions:

I deleted my Hinge.

Archived every picture on Instagram.

Wrote a piece about never being a cool girl.(bits of it live here, but y’all will never read the whole thing)

Actually, four. I drank a THC drink and told a man I have an obnoxious, painfully one-sided crush on happy birthday.

If I remember correctly, Mary Jane’s spiral involved freezing sperm. So honestly, pretty tame.

A few weeks ago at work, I told a co-worker that a lot of my life past the age of 22 has been spent trying to reclaim the embarrassing moments of my childhood.

That is such a waste.

I can change my style a million times.

I can try every hairstyle I could not afford growing up.

I can act unphased until I am blue in the face.

But I will always be the girl who once wished she was one of them.

Me in my mess, trying to be a cool girl.

Mary Jane, in her mess, still trying to find her fairytale.

So why is realizing I am Mary Jane Paul scary?

Because Mary Jane keeps winning and still does not feel like enough.

And I am tired of chasing rooms, men, or freaking Instagram comments that make me feel almost.

I deserve more than almost.

Exhale.

xx,

L

p.s started reading/listening to “with love from harlem” by reshonda tate. i’ve been obsessed with the “our ancestors were messy” podcast, so this is the perfect fiction book to get my fix.

I remember sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen in Suffolk (757) after a particularly rough travel day. I was 9, maybe 10. I had an attitude. Or maybe I was just tired. Acting funky, as we’d say.

My grandmother and I had a ritual when I visited. After everyone went to bed, I would sit with her at the kitchen table. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we sat in silence. Sometimes she would “pay out my A’s,” five dollars for every A I made.

It was one of the only spaces that felt still. Secular music was not allowed. Nor cable. Just the cicadas.

That night, she reprimanded me.

She told me she never wanted to see me act that way again.

This may seem like a normal correction. But we did not have a close enough relationship for her to know that “that way” was normal. That irritation. That fatigue. That sharp edge. That was just me without editing.

It felt like I did not fit her vision of me.

A place I thought I could turn off the mask became a place I made sure it stayed meticulously in place.

My life has been comprised of adults praising my mask.

In high school, a teacher once said I was always calm, even when it was storming. They never knew what was happening in my head.

That was the point.

I learned to take whatever I was feeling and translate it into something usable.

Anger became insight.

Frustration became articulation.

Urgency became a polished recommendation.

My emotions were drafts. Only the edited version was allowed in the room.

Calm became proof of intellect.

Intellect became mobility.

Mobility became safety.

Being smart made things happen for me. Doors opened. Teachers leaned in. Adults were proud. Pride became a mirror. If they were proud, I was good.

So I optimized.

In that safety, I became:

The calm one.

The wise one.

The one who can see five moves ahead.

The one who breaks the tension with the right joke.

The one who translates chaos into clarity.

The one who makes things land.

By the time I entered professional spaces, I had years of rehearsal.

In white spaces especially, the role fit seamlessly. I could stabilize shaken coworkers. I could smooth tension before it escalated. I could offer clarity before confusion embarrassed anyone in power.

I like to say I can do this because of my years as a fifth and eighth grade teacher. But in reality, there is a name for that role.

The magical negro.

The wise underling.

The culturally fluent stabilizer who advances the plot without ever being the plot.

It does not feel like an insult when you are inside it. It feels like competence. It feels like being valued. It feels like being indispensable.

And indispensable feels like safety.

But what they do not know is this:

The magical negro is praised for wisdom born of hypervigilance.

From suppression.

From steadiness rehearsed since adolescence.

The calm they admire is not absence of storm.

It is management of it.

Last summer, when my product area was in turmoil, I felt the reflex rise in me. Guide the ship softly. Translate the misalignment. Protect the room from itself. I tried to steer without ever being named captain.

It burned me out.

And when I finally slipped, when the storm showed, I scared the white folks.

You can never do that. Because they do not know what to do when they do not know what you are going to do.

The key to being a successful magical negro lives in invisible work.

Invisible work is emotional regulation. It is smoothing and anticipating and preventing. It is making everyone else look composed. It is also work that rarely converts into power.

That is the bargain.

And yet I still feel the pull to be impactful.

That is the part I am interrogating now.

Why do I still need to steady the room?

Because being necessary has always felt like love. Like pride. Like safety.

Because being steady is impressive.

I am starting to realize that being impressive and being powerful are not the same thing.

And I learned very early which one would be rewarded as a black woman.

Being impressive has kept me safe, but never the protagonist.

The moment I understood that my storms were less acceptable than my composure, I began playing the role.

I have survived on being needed.

I am curious who I am when I am simply present.

Being magical is beautiful.

But I do not want to be magic anymore.

Exhale.

xx,

L