Welcome back to another “Short(ish) Stories to Pass the Time” — an original fiction series written by me.

One thing I’ve grown to realize as I’ve been challenging myself with writing (including this three part story) is that—writing is really fucking hard. It’s hard when you have the words in your head, but you’re too busy to get the down. It’s hard when the dreams turn into puzzled memories that you have to piece together, but you promised yourself to be dedicated and try something new. It’s hard when you have to be vulnerable and submit work for grants, projects, etc. that doesn’t always get picked up. I could go on and on. But at the end of the day, doing anything you love is really hard, but we do it anyway.

So, three weeks later and a dollar short, here’s part two to Jenny’s Apartment. If you’re new, welcome and checkout the first part here.

Everything is worth the wait, I promise.

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One week later…

With the arrival of a big green couch—that consumed most of her living room, a designer dresser who’s name she couldn’t pronounce, and a queen sized bed that she finally didn’t have to share, Jenny’s apartment was starting to look alot more like a home. But she often wondered when was it going to start feeling like it? Maybe it was because Jenny was so used to home sounding louder than her thoughts. There was always someone yelling and calling it talking. There was always someone banging pans together and calling it cooking.

There was always someone there.

For the first time in her adult life, Jenny was alone and responsible for creating what home looked and sounded like. As grateful as she was for it, it scared her.

She didn’t dare share that with her followers though. She didn’t want to burden them with the idea of her real feelings because what if they didn’t like the real her? Instead, she filled her apartment walls with her voice and no listener—that she knew of— other than Mousey.

Apartment 3B was all hers and she wouldn’t let anyone ruin it for her— not even herself.

Day after day, Jenny spent hours working from home. Most of her days were filled with responding to emails, negotiating larger rates, and recording videos in all corners of the apartment. If this was going to be her job after graduation, she was going to treat it like one. When Jenny saw a comment asking “Damn, does she ever leave the crib?” reach 101 likes, she decided maybe it was time to go outside.

In an oversized mirror she received as a gift from Urban Outfitters, she took her time rubbing vanilla-scented lotion all over her body while making eye contact with herself. The glitter in the cream made her skin pop in a way she only saw when she used filters online. The affirmations, she spoke while getting ready, were some kind of “self love spell” one of her mutuals had posted. When it came to self love, she needed all the help she could get. Straying away from her usual bike shorts and a crewneck, she opted for something a bit more put together— a fresh white crop top, low rise jeans, and a kitten heel that showed off her DIY pedicure. Tonight, she was meeting some internet friends in hopes of connecting offline, establishing a real connection, and talking to someone other than herself.

Jenny, Kim and Liv had been following each other since the pandemic and became as close as you can be behind a screen. When the girls finally made a groupchat to link up, Jenny thought this was the perfect opportunity to go to Marco’s— the sport’s bar her crush worked at.

In between creating content, Jenny filled her time obsessing over her follower count. One day, she noticed a familiar face in her views named Travis. Growing up, he was her brother’s friend and never laughed when her family made her the butt of the joke. Travis had grown far beyond the skinny teen with two cuts in his eyebrow that Jenny knew. He was taller, darker, more filled out than she remembered and had grown his fade out into a short afro. Whether it was on the block or at school, Travis had always been nice to Jenny and she never forgot that or his smile. Jenny spent longer than she’d like to admit scrolling through his page. Carefully balancing her thumb above the screen, she looked through every single photo. When she made it to his tagged pictures, she zoomed in just enough to notice he was behind the bar at Marco’s.

She didn’t usually drink, but tonight she would.

Finding herself getting nervous, she fluffed her twist out one more time and sprayed vanilla perfume on the back of her neck and ankles— you know, just in case.

Mousey peaked into the bathroom as Jenny got ready. She noticed how quiet he had become since the flood. He had also grown a white patch of hair right behind his ear. Assuming it was anxiety or the stress from the move, she did what she could to coax him into bathroom. Mousey floated his paw over the bathroom threshold, but for some reason couldn’t make it through. Instead, he jumped back and ran to his dedicated spot in the living room. “That’s weird,” Jenny thought out loud as she slid her newly found name earrings on. When she looked in the mirror, she was pleased with what she saw — a younger version of her mother. For the first time in a while, she thought of herself as beautiful. Taking a step back, she gave herself a glance and got lost in the twinkle of her new belly button ring. She could’ve stayed in the mirror for longer, but the buzzing notification of a text brought her back to reality. “Hey girls, I’m omw. The train is taking forever…” Kim wrote.

Putting her phone down, she sighed. She didn’t want to seem too eager and arrive to the bar too early. That wasn’t a part of the plan. Giving herself another once over in the mirror, a breeze snuck into the bathroom from the window. The chilled air sent a shiver through her body. Grabbing her phone to check if the weather had changed, she was met with a pitch black screen. “What the fuck,” she mumbled. Still fidgeting with the phone, she almost missed the frost that began to cover her bathroom mirror. The cold took over her body and finally made her pay attention to what was happening around her.

The words “LEAVE NOW” were scribbled across the frosted mirror.

Thinking she was hallucinating, Jenny shifted closer to meet her reflection— it looked like her, but didn’t move like her. When she tilted her head, so did the person in front of her. But when she looked deep into her eyes, the other person winked. Jumping back from the mirror, Jenny yelped while Mirror Jenny pointed and laughed. Jenny lifted her ring finger to touch what she could only assume Mirror Jenny had written. The handwriting looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Hesitating, her finger finally met the glass. When it did, a shock ran through her body almost as if she was being electrocuted. Jenny tried pulling her finger away. She could hear her reflection laughing at her. She placed her other hand on the mirror for balance and that got stuck too. Soon, the bathroom was filled with the sounds of laughter from the children that bullied Jenny when was younger. As the tips of her fingers began to turn purple, the laughing got louder. She could see Mirror Jenny and the children laughing at her on the other side. Beginning to panic, she called out for Mousey. She felt silly doing so, but he was all she had.

When Mousey arrived at the bathroom door, the breeze had left. The bathroom had returned to its regular temperature, her phone was back on, and the mirror was clear as day. Confused, Mousey cocked his head to the side and stared as Jenny steadied her breath. She was finally able to move her hands and when she did her fingers revealed a slight frost bite. They were the only pieces of evidence of what had just transpired.

She didn’t bother looking in the mirror again. Instead, Jenny rushed out of the bathroom, nuzzled Mousey and quickly left Apartment 3B.

“What the fuck just happened,” a confused Jenny said as she pumped through her neighborhood. She was so in her head that she didn’t notice her glow was quickly turning into sweat. On this early summer night, she couldn’t hear the voices of children as they ran through the fire hydrant. All she could hear were the kids laughing at her. She couldn’t even feel the stares of the uncles sizing her up as she walked by. She walked and talked to herself out loud in public until a tap on the shoulder interrupted her. “Yo mama, you okay?” grinned a hesitant Ms. Linda.

“Fucking great,” Jenny thought.

Ms. Linda was her self proclaimed auntie, who knew her parents growing up. But in reality, she was just the nosey old lady of the block who knew everybody’s business. Fuming and now embarrassed, Jenny held back an eye-roll, wiped her sweaty forehead and forced a smile. “Hiii, how are you Titi?” she exclaimed in a voice that was too fake even for her to digest. “I’m good little one,” she said as she looked Jenny up and down. Placing a hand on her shoulder, Ms. Linda’s fake smile and faker curiosity turned into a look of concern. “You good? I was calling your name for blocks. You out here talking to yourself. I almost thought you were your mother,” she stated as she opened her mouth wide enough to display her missing side tooth. The problem with Ms. Linda was not only her big mouth, but the way she got off reminding everyone how much she knew about them. She didn’t need to remind Jenny that her mother has been missing since she was 7. She didn’t need to remind her that the last time her mother was seen, she was talking to herself and pacing barefoot in a dirty bata in front of the building. She didn’t need a reminder when she lived with these memories of her mother. She especially did not need it tonight.

Nothing was going to plan and it was really starting to piss Jenny off.

Pulling her in for another hug, Jenny placed her mouth close to Ms. Linda’s good ear and whispered, “Don’t you ever compare me to her again. And when you run that mouth of yours to my family, you make sure you tell them how good I am,” she spat. Kissing her cheek, Jenny pulled back and looked Ms. Linda deep in the eyes. “It was good seeing you, Titi. But, I’ve gotta go,” and continued on her way.

Standing on the corner, Ms. Linda watched Jenny as she walked away. Her “perfect twist out” was sweating out and mascara was running down her face. Upon first glance, a stranger would assume Jenny having a very bad trip on some very hard substances. She could hear Jenny muttering to herself “I’m nothing like that bitch,” repeatedly until she was down the street. Ms. Linda took a long drag of her Newport, sighed and wondered who she had just met.

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Last week, I wrote from Lucille’s — a small coffee shop in my neighborhood I’ve visited on and off since 2019. Over the years, I’ve had events there, watched many a jazz night there, written there, and have had plenty of good times there. I’ve also watched it get progressively more and more white over time. With the increase of whiteness came rules— naturally. Now, I needed to make reservations. Now, I couldn’t write for as long as I needed to. My singleness meant most times I was only able to sit at the bar and not the table I’d grown attached to. All a result of another one of “my spots” turning into “the spot.” It’s the regular at this point.

While drinking my $8 latte, I overheard a woman — way too loud on Facetime— refer to Harlem as “just like Charlotte.” “You just have to know where you’re going, not talk to people or look them in the eye,” she squealed happily to whoever was on the other end of the phone. Almost instinctively, I made a face and found myself making eye contact with her partner, who immediately shushed her and mouthed a weak apology.

Today, I’m writing from a place that I like to visit often in Inwood. I don’t come here because the food or coffee is any good —in fact it’s really shitty. But, this is one of very few places where I’m okay with being invisible. Every time I walk into this cafe, it’s as if I’ve stepped foot onto the set of a Shonda Rhymes show. I see nothing but mixed couples, dogs, old people and babies. The “invisibility” allows me to be a viewer and truly people watch. Though it’s tucked in a neighborhood in which I am familiar, in this space, I blend in a way that makes people comfortable— it’s a double edge sword. I can write here for hours without anyone bothering me because no one sees me here. I can focus and get things done pretty smoothly. But, in moments when they have become overly comfortable, the quiet part gets loud. And I find myself having to remind these people that they are in my community and not just in my personal space.

From work to the pursuit of dating, being invisible has become something that’s slipped into multiple parts of my life. I’m only seen in a few ways— when they need directions, when they need answers to questions they already know the answer to, or when I seem just big and strong enough to do something they have deemed themselves unable to do. They see me when their children run into me or stare longer than they should and flash embarrassed grins. Sometimes, they even see me when they find themselves attracted to me and don’t know how to sit with those feelings. At my part time, I often notice how Black men—partnered with non Black women— try to avoid eye contact and conversation with me or find themselves overly apologizing when only we catch their partner’s microaggressions. To most transplants, I encounter on the daily, I only exist in ways of serving, the fantasies of sex and the “aggressiveness” I’m told I have— nothing else.

Lately, I’ve been forcing myself to do 10,000 steps a day – a TikTok trend rooted in health and building stamina. But for me, my walks have become records of history. This week alone, I counted four new housing buildings go up, the diner I used to get Sunday pancakes turn into a Dunkin, and multiple restaurants, that kept me fed on my brokest day of a Net 30, just gone. Lately, this form of nostalgia has been tearing me up. Most days, it feels like multiple hands are dragging me deeper and deeper into a pit where I am only stuck with memories of what was.

It’s August now and the summer veil of sports, fun, and community has begun to fall off and reveal what’s really going on in my hood. Sometimes, it feels like within a week the entire neighborhood could change in front of me. On these walks, I often find myself standing in front of a place, where I know I had so many memories, but can’t recall what the store used to be. It scares me.

Growing up, I used to look at the block boys, who grew into corner men then grew into old heads, with judgement. They never left the neighborhood, let alone went down the hill. But now I realize, they are chroniclers— archivists even. They spend the days speaking of what was and making sure anybody within ear shot never forgets the Harlem we knew and loved. Every day, they say good morning and honor every one and every thing from loved ones to old buildings. They venerate the ancestors and spill tears into their cans of beer when the feelings are too much. I am no different from any of them at any given time. We are the same people just holding onto different pieces of what remains as time passes us by.

The issues and distance between New York natives and transplants grows deeper and deeper every day. For me, it’s less about them moving here. It’s less about every park surrendering to pickle ball. It’s less about making me a side character in this “coming of age” era of their life so they can claim this “badge of New Yorker” that I never knew existed. It’s not about the fact, that I’ve been in the housing lottery since I was 18 and never have been chosen. But your friend from Arkansas can win an apartment within a month while not actively living here. It’s not even about the fact that I can’t get a seat on the train after 59th street, 125th street or even 181st street anymore. It’s not even about the fact, that every single bar in my neighborhood has become dog and baby friendly. It’s not about the fact that natives have begun to be referred to as “townies,” by people who left their small town to spend their savings here.

It’s not about that, I promise.

But, it’s about the erasure of me, mine, and all things that I knew and loved. It’s going into these new spaces and not being greeted. It’s watching all my local 99 cent stores being turned into $9 coffee shops. It’s the lack of understanding. It’s the lack of care. It’s the Christoper Columbus inspired idea that there is no community in the area that they moved into, so they must create it instead of simply talking to their neighbors. It’s their need for quiet in historically lively neighborhoods. It’s the blindness towards my community’s elders and youth to only see theirs. It’s the reckless displacement.

It’s this unsettling feeling, that if I don’t make something valuable of myself quickly, I’ll be erased too. I’ll be replaced with something new, shiny, and overpriced that will only last for 2 to 3 years then remain empty, just like my favorite places.

I am no different than anything that has ever existed in my community.

It’s upsetting. It’s disheartening. It seems like the inevitable…

Whether you’re new or you’re familiar, welcome back to another “Short(ish) Stories to Pass the Time,” an original fiction series inspired by lived experiences written by me.

A while ago, when I was finding my footing on TikTok and apartment hunting, I started a little series called “Will Jourdan Find an Apartment?” (I love a little series don’t I?) I would record my apartment viewings, which sometimes would involve a realtor. But most times, the super would just pass me a key and let me tour on my own. I saw some really beautiful apartments —that I applied to and never got. I saw some tiny boxes rebranded as studios in Mott Haven and East Harlem. I saw apartments with roaches and terrible neighbors. I saw alot. There was even a time, where I found myself alone with a realtor in a railroad apartment, and quickly realized that I probably shouldn’t be.

But, we’re not here to talk about that right now.

One apartment, that I’ll always remember, was in a seemingly normal building in Washington Heights. I spoke to the super, who guided me to the apartment, opened the door for me, then sped walked off. It was weird, but the apartment itself was even weirder. It was a sunny day, but the apartment wasn’t just dark inside but felt dark too. As a self proclaimed woo-woo girl, I’m good at knowing when the vibes are off. But, I’ve never felt like that alone in a space before. The air was thick and heavy. It was probably the first time in all the tours where I felt like I needed to leave immediately, so I did.

I was (and still am) in a very privileged space where I do not need to move immediately. But, I think about it often in my apartment journey. What if I was desperate and did need that apartment?

So, I wrote about it.

1738 Bruckner Blvd was the place Jenny would make her first home.

In her City College crewneck and biker shorts, she stood in front of the chipped steel gates of her new building. Jenny was a born and bred Bronx girl who could tell you any random fact about the borough if you asked. But, she stood in awe as if she was a visitor watching people enter and leave the gates. She wondered if they were on their way to work, if they’d speak to her on the elevator, and if they were the type to throw loud parties until the wee hours of the morning. Would they invite her in exchange for being the cool neighbor? Jenny would’ve stayed in her thoughts longer if she wasn’t interrupted by a tap on her shoulder.

“Hey Miss, I don’t know if they told you. But if we don’t get this done in 90 minutes, we gotta charge you,” the mover said. Jenny nodded, smiled, swiped on a fresh coat of lipgloss, and pulled out her phone. Staring in the front camera, she twisted two of her face framing curls around her finger and began to record. “Okay guys, let’s do it! It’s the big day,” she squealed. She quickly turned her camera to the mover, who unenthusiastically mimicked her squeal. Quickly putting her phone down, a wave of shame crept up on her neck. Jenny was the middle child of five siblings. She was used to making herself smaller and found herself doing it again. She quickly closed her eyes and reminded herself that it was her squeal that landed her at 100K followers. Her “little videos,” as her family called it, got her this partnership with the moving company. It was her positive attitude and supporters that got her to a place where she made money being the version of herself she always pretended to be. Walking into her first solo apartment, she wouldn’t be ashamed of that.

Nothing would ruin this moment.

Night 1:

After managing to get her things moved in within 90 minutes, Jenny sat in the middle of her living room floor and breathed a sigh relief between bites of pizza. She was ecstatic to be out of her family’s two bedroom home that she shared with seven family members. Though she had no friends, that existed beyond the comments of a TikTok video, she was excited at the idea of having guests over. She closed her eyes and almost cried at finally having a kitchen all to herself where she could cook in peace. The thought of all the content she’d be able to make freely, made her smile—her first honest one of the day. For right now, the junior one bedroom apt was filled with nothing but boxes, ideas, and the cat she no longer had to hide—Mousey.

And for Jenny, that was all she needed.

Mousey was a black cat that she received as a gift from her neighborhood bodega man after graduating college. She assumed the man was being nice and recorded the exchange. But, what she didn’t realize was the man had watched for years as she became the butt of her family’s joke. He assumed she could use a cat to confide in. The video blew up on socials and earned Jenny her first of many big checks and partnerships.

That video kicked off her career and confidence.

The cat stretched his body and sized up the apartment. Too caught up in another moment, Jenny didn’t notice the way Mousey jumped back from the bathroom door. She didn’t notice how the bathroom light secretly leaked into the dark hallway. She couldn’t hear the shower running over the sounds of music playing from her tiny speaker. When Mousey anxiously ran back to her with panicked mews, she assumed he was afraid of being somewhere new. Muting the music, she picked him up with one arm and tried to calm him down. “It’s okay, baby. This is our home now,” she said as she twirled him around making sure she was in the camera frame of course. When she got the clip she wanted, she placed him gently on the wooden paneled floors. “This is new, but I promise it’ll be good for us,” she whispered while playing with his ears. Opening the first box, she took out some toys for Mousey to stay busy with as she began to blow up her air mattress.

That night, Jenny tossed and turned as her mattress began to deflate. She mused over what video she should make first. “Should it be an apartment tour or should I wait until my new couch and bed come,” she said out loud. It was the first time in a while where she could talk to herself freely and not in her head. She spent the evening having an entire dialogue with herself about her social media career.

It was all she ever thought about.

As Jenny finally rested her mind, the sounds of water continued to fill the house. It started with the slow pitter patter of a dripping faucet in the kitchen and was followed by the sounds of the shower. The noise awakened only Mousey, who left the only comfy bed in the apartment, to investigate. The sounds of Mousey’s paws were in rhythm with the kitchen faucet. The dripping stopped as soon as he hopped on top of the counter—something he could’ve never done if Jenny was awake. Jumping from the counter, Mousey landed lightly on his feet and allowed his curiosity to lead him throughout the house. Before being “rescued by Jenny” as she called it, Mousey served his time as the local bodega cat chasing rats and the occasional drunks out of the store. Mousey was a protector by nature, but he was far out of his league for what he was about to find.

The steam danced from beneath the crack of door and slowly filled the hallway. Pushing the door open with his body, Mousey entered the bathroom to find… nothing. On the mirror, there seemed to be scribbles that he couldn’t understand even if he wanted to. Hot water began to fill the tub. Noticing the overflow, Mousey ran to where Jenny laid lost in the depths another dream and licked her face until she woke up.

No one noticed the bathroom door slam behind him.

With the stray hairs of her twists sticking to the back of her neck, Jenny grew uncomfortable as she noticed how humid it became in the apartment. Feeling Mousey on her chest, she pushed him away a few times before she wobbled her way off the air mattress to see what he so desperately needed. She was caught up in another dream, that had nothing to do with social media and everything to do with her longterm crush, Rich. She was the closest she’d ever been to kissing him when she realized it was Mousey and not Rich licking her face. Half awake, she stumbled to the hallway where she began to hear the trickle of water on the bathroom floor. Sprinting into action, she touched the knob of the bathroom door that was scorching hot. Ignoring the pain in her palm, she tried the door again. It opened to reveal a bathroom filled with water deep enough to cover her toes as she ran to the tub to turn off the faucet.

Sitting on the closed toilet seat, she tucked her knees under her chin and began to hug herself. She tried to remember when she left the water running. She wondered when she had gotten so forgetful. “On the first fucking night, I’m so stupid,” she said as she rocked back and forth and choked back tears. As if she were stuck by lightning she suddenly jumped from the toilet and through the make shift puddles in her bathroom and grabbed her phone. With tears still dancing in the wells of her eyes, she started to record. “First night in the new crib and guess who forgot to turn off the water,” she forced a laugh as she strategically placed her new branded towels on the floor of the pink bathroom. Turning the camera toward the mirror she noticed words written in the disappearing fog. Cocking her head to the side, she inched closer to the mirror for a better view. To Jenny, it looked like the fragments of “H-e-l-p...” written on the mirror. But, who could do that when she lived alone?

In that moment, Jenny decided her mind was playing tricks on her and she had grown anxiety about living on her own for the first time. She wiped the mirror clean with another towel and recorded another video until she got the take she wanted. Before she finished cleaning up the bathroom, she edited and scheduled the video titled: “New Apartment Blues…” Jenny made sure to tag the sponsors, before she turned her phone off for the night.

The battle between Jenny and the air mattress was finally lost. She spent the night on her living room floor cuddled up with Mousey, who seemed more antsy than usual.

In the morning, Jenny awoke to the sounds of pigeons cooing, a couple’s argument that made it to her third floor window, and her favorite alarm of all— the sounds of notifications. Her phone was blowing up. “Another viral video,” she said as she eagerly typed in the passcode. She was right, the video was blowing up. Her usual supporters commented about the towels and the new apartment. But, one comment stood out in particular. “Not to be weird, but I think I may live in your building. You in 3B,” the stranger questioned. A panic moved through Jenny as she rushed to delete the comment. One of the only things her grandmother told her before she left was “Make sure the internet people never know where you live.” It was the most useful advice she’d ever given her.

How could someone tell where she lived by just the bathroom floor?

In that moment, Jenny decided she would be more discreet with what she would share about the apartment. But for some reason, didn’t block the stranger. She finally rose from the makeshift bed and called out for Mousey, who typically started the day at her side. When she noticed she didn’t hear his footsteps moving toward her, she walked toward the kitchen— the cupboards had always been one of his favorite hiding places. But, Mousey wasn’t there. She walked through the hallway and peeked into her bedroom, but didn’t find him there either. Jenny’s last stop was the bathroom. “What the hell would he be doing in here?” she said as she turned on the light.

The lights illuminated the old school pink tiles that she loved so much. Grabbing shower curtain, Jenny expected to see Mousey sitting in the bathtub like a child playing hide and seek. “And I found you,” she said playfully as she pulled back the curtain. But, the tub revealed nothing but a ring where the water had been last night. Jenny was in the midst of making a mental note to clean the tub when she heard knocking from cabinet under the sink. As soon as she opened the door, Mousey yelped and ran out of the bathroom leaving a gold earring hoop behind him. Confused, Jenny picked up the earring. She paused as she ran her thumb across the name that “Jennifer.” The earring was similar to a pair of name earrings she lost when she was 12. It was the first and last time her father ever gifted her something expensive.

But what was the earring doing in her brand new apartment ten years later?

She didn’t have the answer yet, but soon would…

I wish I could say, I’ve been busy with fun or exciting things on the horizon. But, that would be a lie. I’ve been working like a maniac—hustling, again. After months of late checks and interviews that go nowhere, I went from from three jobs (one of which I realized I would be spending more than I’d make just to be there) to two jobs (one of which I was an entire team that should’ve been about 8 roles) to now one. In a perfect world, I should only need one job. But as we all have grown to know and understand time and time again, the world is far from perfect.

When I was young, I wanted to be a professional ballerina. I spent my Saturdays at Harlem School of the Arts pointing, flexing, and pirouetting with dreams of doing ballet on the big stage. Was I good? Maybe. I didn’t really concern myself with being a good ballerina at the time, but knew I was willing to dedicate the years and energy to become a great one. But with me sitting at 5’7, being bigger than the other ballerinas in my class which developed into an unhealthy obsession with weight and eating, and with only one black ballerina to look up to at the time (one day we’ll discuss how much Misty Copeland has meant to me), that dream was short lived.

By the time I reached my junior year of high school, I had dreams of being on the radio like my Hot 97 favorites — Miss Info and Angie Martinez. My voice spreading through the radio waves in the city and sharing my musical taste just made sense to me. So much sense that I took up broadcast journalism my freshman year of college until it was conflated back into one very broad bubble of journalism. “By the time you’re out of here, they’ll be no radio or magazines,” said one older professor on my first day of classes. He was half right. I spent majority of my college years being told the same thing in so many ways over and over again.

I always needed to be something more. There was always another tool needed for my skill set.

As I drove deeper into my journalism major, I did a little of everything. I interviewed rappers when they came to Baltimore, I did a short stint at my school’s radio station and newspaper, I joined NABJ and multiple writing collectives, etc. I did it all and all of it led up to the moment I had been waiting for— an interview with Vibe Magazine for a summer internship. The interview was in person only, but I was so committed that I bought a $10 roundtrip Megabus ticket from Baltimore to NY immediately. When I arrived at the office, I saw vintage covers decorating the walls. I couldn’t help but look around the space as if it was a museum and I was just privileged to be there— because I was.

Then it happened.

“How good are you at aggregating from MediaTakeOut,” the interviewer said. “Aggregating… It’s similar to copying and pasting but switching it up in your own voice,” she repeated with a tilted head after the initial shock of my burst bubble had worn off. I knew the definition, but what I didn’t know or understand was why a legacy publication was getting its articles and news sources from a gossip site. We never talked about this in any of my classes. To this day, I think none of my classes prepared me for what journalism would actually look like in the 2010s. Though I ended up with an internship with Complex Magazine’s fashion team for the summer, I left that interview, defeated, disappointed and confused.

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the first or last time I’d be disappointed by my career path.

By the time I graduated college in 2014, I knew that I needed to “hustle” to get where I wanted to go. Competing was never really my thing, but in an era where bloggers were conflated with journalists and somehow everyone was a blogger, I had to do what I had to do. I had a very clear goal and knew a part of that meant showing up and putting myself out there where ever I could. But, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, I wasn’t aimless. I worked for HBO’s retail shop (the only job that paid me), Respect Magazine, and interned for Vashtie and Married to the Mob all at the same time. HBO kept me paid enough to afford my phone bill and one drink every Thursday night at SOBs where I covered shows and by being a make shift concert photographer. Respect Magazine gave me the bylines I needed to prove to other publications that I actually do this for real. The internships I had? Well, maybe we’ll discuss details another time. But between you and I, I wish I would’ve heeded the “Never meet your heroes warning.”

While working all these jobs, I kept waiting for my career to “take off.” I was on the brink of my first “big girl job” while working at a publication called WatchLoud. I had the desk, I had the cool office with free breakfast and happy hours. I was a part of a team. I felt like I almost made it. It felt like I was just about to be able to laugh in my professors face and say “See look, there are jobs in journalism.” But again, there was always something else. “Ah, writing is dying. We’re pivoting to video now.” The silent part of the video pivot was the lay off that came shortly after. I never got my salary or my health insurance, but I did get the rug pulled from underneath me.

The layoff kick started another cycle of hustling called freelancing.

College never discussed freelancing. None of my professors ever spoke about what a Net 30 was, industry standard rates, or even how to follow up when an invoice was late. These were my blindspots and where I could’ve used a class on. Instead, myself and many of my peers shape-shifted and became whoever we needed to be for a publication and most importantly a check. By this time, my podcast Dating in NYC, had grown and I’d learned how to script, edit, produce, create content and merch, as well as run socials. But that wasn’t enough, the people wanted video.

They always wanted some damn video.

When I thought about my after college plan, I felt as if I had spent far longer than I intended on this “chase.” Did I need a full time job? Of course. But more importantly, I wanted it in the industry I had my degree in. I wanted to be Khadijah James at Flavor Magazine. I wanted to be a Black Carrie Bradshaw with an amazing apartment. I wanted to be Sidney Shaw and I wouldn’t be satisfied until I had it.

By 2018, I was four years out of college at the tail end of the “Girl Boss Era,” an editorial fellow at Pitchfork, a front desk associate at The Wing, an associate at Glossier, while still juggling a growing podcast and my blog. I decided Pitchfork would be my last stab at the journalism industry and well, it absolutely was. After six months of passive aggressiveness and noticing my pitches were getting assigned by my higher ups to other writers, I was done with it all. I quit Glossier and The Wing and ended up working as a very bad (but somehow very well paid) barista at a coffee shop on the Upper Eastside.

The grind continued at the coffee shop as I entered what is now known as my super part time modeling career. Modeling money was bigger than what I had ever touched in journalism and it gave me the opportunity to feed into Dating in NYC and give it the growth people were looking for. The podcast had made it into Vanity Fair, Vogue and more. People, I rarely spoke to from college, began hitting me up about the show and I was beginning to think maybe podcasting was where I was meant to be all along.

When Covid hit, all of that stopped.

The hustle stopped and for the first time in almost a decade, I had enough time to stop and think about who I wanted to be and how I wanted to show up. Though I tried with a short stint of a visual sex column, I really didn’t want to do video— ever. A part me showing up for myself became True to Us, an online platform dedicated to Black and Brown women in streetwear and sneakers, that grew from an edit test with High Snobiety. True to Us became the most fun I had with work in a very long time.

It was (and still is) authentically me and what I want. No one was asking me to be or do more.

I was trying my hand at different things and using all the freelancing experience I’d earned for myself and it was fulfilling. I spent years applying and interviewing at huge streetwear brands— I even went up for a role with your favorite brand based in Seoul. But, it was True to Us that got me in rooms that I had been applying to for years. It fed my creativity and community both financially and physically— and that meant alot to me. True to Us got me on brand trips with peers and sometimes people who were confused about how I got there. It even got me my own shoe and studio.

I thought this was it and what I worked for. And it was. I spent years working for other people and begging for a tiny desk in their offices when in reality I needed to give it to myself.

What I didn’t realize was the funding and branded support for True to Us and many other Black woman owned sneaker and streetwear spaces were on borrowed time. By 2023, the gigs slowed down. The partnerships were offering significantly less dollars than they were in 2020. The trips and invitations stopped coming. The modeling gig checks, that used to feed the podcast, were shorter and shorter and were being used to pour into TTU instead. I had to get rid of my studio and put all TTU ideas back into the small room they grew in in 2020.

I didn’t expect 2026 to be another year of hustling. In fact, during an interview for a job, that I was overqualified for, the interviewer commended me for my “hustle mentality.” “I actually admire the different areas you’ve worked in. You’re a hustler just like me,” she finished. I forced a smile on my face hopping she couldn’t sense the existential dread I began to feel from across our Zoom call.

I never intended on being a hustler or a freelancer. I never wanted multiple jobs. I never wanted to take one role that was actually the role of an entire team. I never wanted to spend days making coffee runs for the same sets I used to be talent for. Never in my whole fucking life did I want to apply for jobs described as “scrappy start up, looking for a rockstar candidate.” And yet, with multiple late Net 30s from brands and publications that “love me” enough to continuously use me on the moodboard or bring me on for gigs, but never enough to respond to emails about an actual role, I’m back on the grind again.

This time around, I’m more exhausted than I ever have been in my life. As much as I love consistent money flow, I love my creativity, time to write and touch grass, and not having work induced anxiety so much more. While I don’t have any office or even journalistic ambitions anymore, I still have goals that I see for myself— as an adult and as an artist (which is a new title I’m accepting.) I’ve made hard decisions to turn down gigs I’d usually jump for. They just don’t fill me or my pockets like they used to. The chase doesn’t turn me on anymore and my desire to create for myself while also creating for other companies has been less and less.

So, how do I fix the burnout? I wish I could say I’m taking another trip across the world to get my mind right because that would actually heal me. Instead, I’m giving myself two weeks between jobs to get my mind and goals together before returning to the seemingly never-ending grind. Because while the bills do have to be paid, hustling has become less and less sustainable especially as a 30-something.

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Now, to know me (and my lore as the kids say) is to know that I had a dating podcast for 10 years breaking down all my curiosities, conundrums and thoughts surrounding love, sex, and dating called Dating in NYC. I’ve never had a problem (over)sharing about my love or sex life…until now. So when it took me days to answer the question, I couldn’t stop thinking about when I became so deeply uninterested in dating and especially being casual.

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In the past, I’ve written about I’ve never being big on casual hookups as you may have read in my series, The Playlist. But in reality, I wasn’t big on hookups until after lockdown and the world opened up again.

Before quarantine hit, I was fresh into my Saturn return that took my late twenties through a series of unfortunate events— including but not limited to: quitting two dream jobs, a friendship breakup, a love bomb to ghosting combo, my father passing away, and a new disease taking over the world leaving me alone with all of my thoughts about everything.

We spent months inside, not knowing when or if we would be able to return to “normal.” And at the end of it? I realized I needed to be touched more than I thought.

There was an old college friend, who I bonded with over nightly Facetimes during quarantine. When he came to visit that summer, he suddenly looked a little shiner, brighter and finer in person than I had remembered. After a couple of sangrias from Bed Vyne, a few pulls of a blunt I didn’t need, and an Uber ride to his hotel, we found ourselves pretending that we weren’t friends for a few moments. There was an older crush from Brooklyn, whose words were unfortunately always smoother and better than his, erm, actions. And so on and so forth. But at the end of it all, my hookups always seemed to go left.

The want for consistent hookups were always misinterpreted as wanting something more than sex. Apparently, consistency and honesty were reserved for relationships, not causal sex. When in reality, I just wanted to casually sleep with one person who does it well. Hookups always came with sudden announcements of open relationships (that somehow the other partner never knew about), lies and hurt feelings that were never supposed to happen.

In my mind, being casual was supposed to be easy, low stakes, mature and most importantly fun. So why wasn’t it? Somehow having autonomy over my sex often ended in the same men trying to belittle me or shame me for it or accuse me of wanting to be their girlfriend. In my twenties, I never really understood the shame that came with fully consenting to explore someone. I assumed it was based off of immature ideas and would change as we got older. But as I’ve grown into my thirties, it’s only gotten worse. To be blunt, casual sex has felt less like “a grown woman reclaiming agency over my body” and more like I’m being conned out of my pussy.

I’ve come to realize that there is a huge disconnect when it comes to men, women and being causal. It almost seems like there’s a loss of respect or interest when a game isn’t being played or when someone isn’t being manipulated out of their body —which is something I don’t think people want to address.

I’ve explored abstinence a few times in my life after some shakeups. My formula has always been the same: date, heartbreak, and put myself on time out for a year then repeat. But after my last occasion, I’ve decided to take abstaining more seriously. Days before I left for Mexico, I found myself in a hotel room with mirrors on the ceiling. There had been plenty of times where I wished I was in this type of hotel room with a lover. Yet this time, I found myself looking into my own eyes as I was being mounted and thought “Girl, you not even supposed to be here.”

I was right.

I’m not sure if it was the person or the place (it was both), but in that moment I realized hooking up didn’t hit the same. It didn’t feel as good. The “dates” we had prior to our moments weren’t fun galavanting in the city anymore. It wasn’t riding through the city with the windows down and the wind in my hair. There was no more thrill to hiding in public at my favorite restaurant and hoping no one saw us. Kissing wasn’t as fun and exciting, but just robotic movements for what came after. It felt more like I was being hidden from whoever or whatever. The sweet nothings whispered in my ear were just lies that I knew didn’t taste good anymore. While I knew I had (and still have) needs, everything about our interaction felt transactional and cheap.

And that was something I never wanted my love or sex to be associated with.

As we are a couple of weeks away from officially entering summer, I’ve found myself a month away from one year of intentional abstinence. I’ve thrown myself into work, hobbies, art exhibits, and any class I can find while joking about this being the most asexual year of my life. But honestly, nothing and no one has impressed me romantically lately. In fact, this is the second year I’ve considered visiting the nunnery— for real. But a tiny part of me (maybe, it’s my Pisces) has secretly kept one last burning match lit for a change of heart and a potential summer romance.

We’ll see what summer in the city holds.

My entire life someone has always told me to fix my face.

“Fix you face before I fix it for you,” was the lite threat that always pulled me together quickly. My “face” — which is really just an inherited side eye accompanied with a look of slight judgement— would be replaced with a quick smile. You know the one you give your coworker that you can’t stand? Or the one where press your lips together so tightly that they disappear?

Yeah that one.

The last time someone told me to fix my face was at my father’s funeral seven years ago. My big cousin pulled me from the pew and whispered for me to fix my face. What was my face this time? A blank stare overlooking a casket that the man, who raised me, laid in. He didn’t look the same. My whole life I heard “Who did the body?” and I was sitting there trying to figure out who that was inside. His face was different, his beard was fuller. He looked like he was just taking a well deserved nap on a vacation. So, why wouldn’t he get up? I was hurt and confused. Even though I was 27, it felt like I was a child and someone was playing a trick on me. Tears were frozen in my eyes like the rivers in winter while I tried to hold onto the last memories I had with my father. “Fix your face,” snapped me out of my mind and between tears I showed everyone the smile they were searching for…

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“The time passes regardless,” my good friend Jeary told me over lunch as I battled with deciding to get my masters. It was an unseasonably cold day at the MET almost 3 months ago now. But, those words have stuck with me. It’s become a mantra for me, really.

“The time passes regardless.”

And it has.

Today marks seven years since my father has passed away. If you think it gets easier, I’m here to tell you it does not. I still hold my breath when my mom answers the phone wondering if the other line carries bad news. I still hesitate to call 911 in emergencies in fear that I’ll end up speaking to the same operator, who told me seven years ago: “It doesn’t matter how much you call. It won’t make the ambulance get there faster.” Seven years later and I am just beginning to remember pieces of that week— especially that day. Seven years of thinking: What if I had just got up and checked on him? Seven years of dialing his number and hoping it’ll lead to his voicemail. But, it never does and I know that every time. Seven years of swallowing grief that hides in my throat and is thinly veiled behind the look of an attitude. Maybe my grief is not as discreet as I hope.

So I fix my face and hope my practiced smile is just enough to not have someone ask how I’m really doing.

It works. Every time.

Seven years later, I’ve begun to get asked the question “How did you move on?” When asked, I used to get offended. How the fuck am I supposed to “move on” from the death of a parent? But, I know most times people don’t mean any harm by it. If I’m being honest, the answer is simple— I didn’t.

I tried to out run grief a few times.

I spent most of 2020 and 2021 trying to out-drink grief only to find myself drunk and crying everywhere from the train to the skate park. I tried to “hobby” the grief away by picking up skateboarding only to take a nasty fall, land in the hospital with a concussion and think to myself “Damn girl, your dad is dead and you got a fucked up arm.” I tried to over-therapize it with weekly sessions and find logical reasoning knowing damn well that I’m not a logical person. I tried to out-smoke it. But, every time I got high it felt like all my feelings were sitting right on my heart and if I opened my mouth, everything would just spill out. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to hear that. I tried to replace memories. It almost worked until they all came flooding back whenever I tried to sleep. I tried to hide underneath a few men, who offered me condolences with their legs open, but I could never feel it. It was nothing more than a performance and once the show was done, the unnerving feeling was on my neck right next to the hickies. I tried to build bonds with older men in my community, but it wasn’t enough. Grief was on the other end of every single move I made waiting for me with its hand out.

So one day, when the cranes in the sky got a little too loud, I took it.

Once I came to understand that grief is a normal wavering emotion and can look multiple ways, things became easier for me. Sometimes, my grief looks like picking up a candy bar I know I won’t eat because it’s his favorite. Sometimes my grief looks like wearing his jacket so we can be fly together… again. Some days it looks like making a pot of black beans (poorly) and laughing about it. On occasion, it looks like anger especially when I sit and wonder: Who the fuck is going to walk me down the aisle? Other times, it looks like laying in bed all day, watching ‘New Jack City’ for the millionth time, or buying a bunch of things I don’t need to pass the time.

Because the time, without my father, has moved regardless. Pretending that it hasn’t would only trap me in the memory of me and his casket. I’m in a constant state of grief and I always will be. There is no “getting over” his death for me. There is only “living with it” and that’s the brighter side of it. I will never be the person I was before my father passed away. I used to hate thinking like that, but just like my grief — it’s honest.

And seven years later, I think that’s okay.

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My days have been filled with interview after interview. “How can you do everything and work for us?” “Well, we aren’t familiar with TTU, so any experience that you’ve gained isn’t valid.” Lastly, my new favorite “In order to work for us, you’ll have to stop TTU,” from probably 100 different companies whose only intention is to string me along.

So, what does the writer do when she does not write? She hides. Would focusing on writing be easier if I stayed in Mexico? Yes and it’s something I’ve been thinking about nonstop. I came back to NY to work and there is none.

Instead of hyper-fixating on the state of labor, I did what I like to do best, bring people together. So, this past Sunday I hosted my first writing salon. Now, I’ve noticed recently there’s an uptick of writer’s bars, even some in my area that I’ve been to. But they’re never filled with people I actually feel comfortable around and I’m quick to realize I’m usually the only Black person in these spaces. So naturally, I took to my local coffee shop and gathered in community to just get some words on paper again.

If you missed it, don’t live in New York, or just need a little inspiration of your own, here are some prompts to help you write again.

Note: Some may read as journal prompts, but I want to implore you to use your imagination. Write a short story, use the quotes as a piece of something much bigger. The your world, your words, and your imagination is your oyster, utilize it!

If you didn’t live in New York, where would you live?

What would your life look like if you didn’t have to rush?

If you were invisible for a day, what’s the first thing you would do?

You have 24 hours with your favorite celebrity… what do you do?

After a long day, you stare in the mirror. Your reflection winks at you. What do you do next?

“Dreaming as an act of survival”

There’s a beautiful summer ahead of you. Write about one summer goal you have and what you need to do to achieve that.

What would life be like if you lead with curiosity and not fear?

“So, I boarded a train. Kissed all goodbye….”

Are you brave enough to be exactly who you are?

“I was scared to turn the page until I realized I’m the author…”

What are you doing the first hot day of the summer?

I have to.

One of my goals for this year was to start submitting my work to anthologies and grants while looking into grad school for creative writing. Many of those submissions require original work that has not been shared on Substack. Which means most of my creative energy has been focused on that. I received my first (and last) denial of the year for a horror anthology. While it does sting a little, I’ve learned alot about how I write currently and how I’d like to write moving forward.

There’s a lesson in everything especially when it doesn’t go your way.

The submission’s theme was teeth and that can be very broad when it comes to horror. As someone, who fully believes in the old wives tale of dreams of losing teeth meaning death, I decided to take a stab at it in my own way.

Without further adieu, I bring to you “Growing Perfect.”

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Everyone always leaves me.

I don’t say these things for pity, I say it because it’s the truth. The constant reminder is an alarm that wakes me up daily before my iPhone.

At 4:45am, I’m awake and staring at the ceiling. With my eyes struggling to pierce through the darkness, I think back to the day before.

Rhonda, my manager, said my lips looked like they were covered in grease. “A little word of advice?” she offered as she leaned in close enough for me to smell the Jameson on her breath. Without waiting for me to answer, she murmured “If you wanna draw less attention to your mouth, try not overdoing it with the cheap lipgloss.” I froze and the kitchen was quiet for the first and last time of the day. Rhonda’s laughter pierced throughout the entire diner. When no one joined her in laughter, she walked back to the front as if nothing happened. Just when I think about crying in the walk-in, Shawn touches my shoulder. His hands were clammy from hours of murky dishwater, but they felt good enough. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he whispered in my ear.

I smiled the same one I had practiced for several years. My lips press together tight enough to display the makeshift dimple that formed from biting the inside of my cheek. Rhonda doesn’t know I’m wearing the cherry lipgloss Shawn stole for me after I showed him videos of my favorite influencers wearing it. She doesn’t know that after our shifts, he and I stay behind in his car where he calls me beautiful. To Shawn, I’m perfect. And when I save up enough for my surgery, I’ll be perfect to everyone.

Then, no one will ever leave me again.

My iPhone’s alarm goes off and reminds me I’m almost late for my routine. I have three hours to get ready for work. Tip toeing into my bathroom, I turn on the lights and avoid the mirror. I let the steam from the shower fill up the room. Only when the mirror is almost covered with fog, do I bother looking at what’s left of myself. My hands trace over my hips up towards my flat stomach and briefly scan over my chest. My body is where I receive the most compliments, so I do anything needed to keep it that way. I hop in the shower where the process begins: soap, scrub, shave, rinse. Scented soap, lather, rinse, repeat. This process repeats until I feel presentable.

When the steam has finally exited my pink bathroom, I’m forced to look at my face. I spend a few minutes analyzing my features— good, but could be better.

I release my hair from my bonnet and sigh deeply watching it fall on my shoulders. It’s never long enough, curly enough, or straight enough when I need it to be. When I remember how Shawn complimented my hair the other day, I decide another middle part will do. Using the sharp point of a rattail comb, I drag it against my scalp until it turns red. My part must be perfect. When my hair is tight enough to form the makings of a headache, I know it’s just right.

Another alarm blasts through my phone, 6:15AM.

In the hallway, I can hear my father groan as he grows annoyed with how loud my process is becoming. One would assume my father’s bedroom is the den with how often his nights of “a few beers” leave him paralyzed in front of the tv until the next morning.

I silence my alarm again and make myself small for the first—but not last—time today.

There are two hours left of my process. With a sharp pair of tweezers, I pluck all imperfections out of my skin. Sometimes, I poke and prod at myself so much that tiny gashes replace the pimples. “It’s nothing that makeup can’t cover,” that’s what my mom always said. With my phone on silent, I follow a video of my favorite makeup routine. I mimic every stroke and mannerism down to the makeup artist’s smiles. But, I never end up looking like the girls in the video. Before applying the final step of my process, I open my mouth to reveal the worst thing about myself.

In my reflection there’s a girl staring at me with her hair matted down, skin red and inflamed, eyebrows under groomed, and missing teeth. But, I don’t know her. I blink a few times before tears can ruin my makeup. As my eyes clear up, I’m back and can see the woman I’ve been training to be. The finger spaced gaps in my mouth reveal pink gums that will soon hold new implants. With teeth laced with metal bands for the past two years, I hoped that braces would be the final touch in my process. But working at the diner with no insurance hasn’t afforded me enough to get them tightened on a consistent basis. I’m only $500 away from being able to afford my new life. This week, I’ll be able to earn enough to set my appointment.

Shawn is the only person who doesn’t make fun of my teeth. When I hide my real smile, he grabs my hand. “Some people just got dealt bad cards. Nobody’s perfect,” he says through his chipped teeth. Sometimes, I wish I could be as happy as he is with settling. I smile at the thought of us being alone when I’m interrupted by my alarm again. It’s been going off for less than ten seconds when my father bangs on the walls screaming “Enough!” It’s 7:45AM. Time for him to get up anyways, but I never bother to tell him.

I finally begin brushing my teeth.

By 8AM, I’m in the car with my father driving to work. We usually ride in silence, but as we get closer to the diner, today is different. “You spend too much time in that mirror,” he announces as if his words mean anything to me. “You’re fine the way you are.” We look at each other and for a moment, I try to see if there’s some truth in his eyes. But in his red glassy eyes, all I can see are the reasons why my mother left him. Closing my compact, I ignore him and continue the rest of our trip looking out of the window.

As we arrive in the parking lot and I’m making my way out of the car, he stops me. “Diamond?” he questions as if he’s never said my name out loud before. “Everything doesn’t always work out the way you plan it,” he says with a rare sense of sorrow. Confused, I speak to him for the first time today. “Why would you say that to me?” I say low enough to not draw attention to the whistling sounds the words make exiting my mouth. Even in an empty parking lot, I was ashamed. Slamming the car door behind me, I make my way into work.

“Can I have three eggs, a short stack, sausage and bacon, please?” a 12 year old mumbles. She covers her mouth with her yellow oily hair after her sentence and I notice a glimmer of her braces. “Sure thing, sweetie,” I say as I reveal my true smile to her showing my braces. She doesn’t return the smile and instead grabs her father’s hand tightly. I swallow the lump growing in my throat and turn to her father for his order. He looks me up and down in a way that makes the kid uncomfortable, but lets me know my routine is paying off. When he finds his words, he says “Just black coffee for me, doll.” I nod and smile. When I walk away, I make sure I’m switching just enough to earn my tip. I can feel Rhonda’s stare piercing through me as I drop my order to the kitchen.

I’m working six tables when a shooting pain in my gums causes me to double over and almost drop an order during the lunch rush. Remembering my goal, I swallow the pain and take a deep breath to recover. When the pain strikes again, I run to the bathroom. Opening my mouth as wide as I can, I find the culprit — an inflamed gum hugging the makings of a sharp new tooth. Who grows a new tooth at 21 years old? In my apron, I find three packets of salt and pour them into my palm. Creating a well in my hand, I shovel in the cold sink water and swish the salty solution in my mouth until I can’t feel the pain anymore. Spitting faint hints of blood into the sink, I decide my appointment needs to be sooner than later.

I’ve spent my entire shift wincing through the pain when I find myself in the backseat of Shawn’s hoopty again. He’s feeling me up and nustled in the crook of my neck when he takes his free hand to grab my face for a kiss. Our usual afterwork routine typically feels good. But this time, a pain shoots through my entire body and causes me to strike him upside the head. “What?!,” he says in pain as he rubs the back of his head. “Sorry,” I say without remorse as I rub my tongue over my pulsating gums. “I think I need to go home now,” as I look at the glowing clock. It’s 10:15 PM and we got off two hours ago. I climb into the passenger side and wait for him to meet me in the driver’s seat. I take a look in the mirror and find the tooth that has seemed to fully grow within 8 hours when Shawn interrupts me. “So, no sex tonight?” The lighting-like pain in my mouth strikes me again.

This time, I don’t feel compelled to hit him.

Instead, I pull him in for a kiss and let my hand wander to his throat. When I gently wrap my press- on ladled fingers across his neck, he moans. “That’s it,” he whispers. The pain in my mouth fades as I apply more pressure to his throat. Squeezing tighter, I can feel him begin to squirm. His finger tips are digging into my arms as he tries to pull away. My pain is completely gone and I’m overwhelmed with an emotion I haven’t felt in my entire life. He takes one last gasp before I remove my hand. The euphoria is gone and my tooth hurts again. I can feel blood filling my mouth. While Shawn coughs and catches his breath, I return to the passenger side mirror. My makeup is running and revealing this morning’s hidden scars. My hair is all over my face. I shut the mirror quickly. “I’m ready to go,” I say coldly as I look forward.

We ride home in silence.

When we finally arrive at my house, I burst out of the car. Shawn doesn’t wait for me to get inside like usual. Instead, he speeds off leaving nothing but the sounds of his beat up car behind him.

It doesn’t matter.

The sounds of the TV echo throughout my small home. My father doesn’t bother to greet me or even turn his head when I arrive through the door.

It doesn’t matter.

I drop all of my things and run to the bathroom. In the mirror, I stare at myself not really recognizing who I see. This isn’t the girl who spent hours putting herself together this morning. But, this isn’t the girl I’ve been working to be either. This girl is new. Putting my fingers in my mouth, I feel around as if it’ll answer any questions. My new tooth feels sharp and pointy compared to the others.

I start the shower and hope the steam will help with my pain. When the water is as hot as it gets, I step in and let it fall over me until I can’t take it anymore. This time, I don’t do my night routine. Instead, I sit on my bed in just my towel. I sit there for what feels like forever until a voice reminds me to check my savings. Reaching my hand between the mattress and its frame, I feel it up the same way Shawn felt me earlier. The thought sends a different kind of pain throughout my body— guilt. The feeling is quickly replaced with panic when I can’t find any money. With newfound strength, I swiftly lift the mattress to reveal nothing but three hundred dollar bills, two fives, and eight sporadic singles thrown across the frame. $8575 dollars gone.

“Where is my money,” I growl in a voice unfamiliar to my own.

Storming into the living room, I find my father dozing in the arm chair. When the now familiar pain strikes my gums again, I slap him across his face. The blow surprises him as he wakes from his drunken stupor. “Where’s my money?” I spit as if my mouth is on fire. My gums pulsate as more teeth begin prodding their way through my mouth. Before he can speak, I raise my hand and strike him again. As I do, another sharp tooth grows in fully.

We both scream in pain.

“Don’t make me ask you again. Please,” I beg through tears. This time, my voice is more familiar. While I’m scared of my father’s answer, I’m more afraid of what I’m becoming. “Diamond, I thought I could replace it before you noticed just like last time,” he said as he shielded himself with his hands. Heartbroken, I ask “How many times, Dad?” “The first time, I was a little short on rent. You know how important the house is to us. So, I just borrowed a little to hold us over,” he said, stumbling through his confession. On my knees, I sit in front of him like the little girl, who used to respect him, and watch as he explains how many times he used my money for miscellaneous things. $500 for the mortgage. $20 for a pack of brew here or there. $150 for the imaginary groceries knowing damn well our meals are diner leftovers. As he went on and on pleading for my forgiveness, I felt nothing for the second time that day. No pain in my mouth, no feelings, nothing… Until an empty beer bottle rolled across the floor and grazed my knee.

The touch of the beer bottle, that my money paid for, filled me with rage . Grabbing the bottle, I stood up and struck him across the head. I found another bottle and did it again. By the time I finished the eight pack, my adrenaline was accompanied by an uncomfortable silence. I looked around to see broken bottles and blood everywhere. When I touched my father’s bloodied face, I lifted it to reveal the same glassy eyes that I knew of the morning.

I didn’t feel a pulse, but it didn’t matter.

I examined every slit, every wrinkle and freckle— a face filled with imperfections.

I didn’t know him at all.

Leaving him in his chair, I used my dad’s shower to clean myself. Before I fell asleep, I put my room back in place. I gave myself another look over in the mirror and smiled for the first time tonight to reveal several new molars.

They were beautiful and so was I.

I spent the rest of my night rolling my tongue across my new teeth, hoping they’d still be there in the morning.

It’s 8AM when I notice my alarm has been blaring through my sleep. I jump up in a panic and get ready for work. No routine, no ride, just me and whatever’s growing inside of me. I bike to work and don’t pass a mirror until I arrive at the diner.

Bumrushing past Rhonda, I make my way to the kitchen. It’s my first time being late, ever. I try to avoid eye contact with Shawn as he preps for his dish shift, but I can’t help to feel his eyes burning into me. When I finally decided to make eye contact, my eyes lower to his neck where my hands have left visible marks. He looks back at me with an emotion I can only describe as fear. We’re looking at each other for less than 30 seconds and my first mind thinks to form an apology before Rhonda interrupts us. “If you’re going to walk in here late, be ready to work!” she yells into the kitchen.

Her voice breaks the pity that I started to feel for Shawn. Imperfect as he may be, he wanted me when I wasn’t. Rhonda yells again and I rush out of the kitchen. “You must think you’re cute today,” she continues through the coffee stained chicklets she calls teeth. My mouth gets tight and I bite my lip. “I’m keeping your first hour tips,” she says close enough to send a chill down my neck. My gums begin to ache and a voice inside of me says “She’s next.” I turn to her, look deep in her eyes, and say one word— “Okay.” I use my new smile and Rhonda retracts as if the view repulses her. “When’d you get your braces off?” she yells as I make my way to the bathroom.

In the mirror, I have no idea who’s looking back at me. This girl has my hands, my body, and my face, but her teeth... Her teeth are almost perfect. There are no braces holding them together. Her teeth are white, sharp and uniformed. Her hair is perfect for someone, who didn’t have time to shower in the morning. Her lips are hydrated without her usual gloss. This Diamond is almost perfect.

Almost.

The woman in the mirror runs her tongue across her teeth to land on one gap on the side of her mouth. Putting her finger to her gums, she tries to feel for an incoming tooth when there’s a banging at the door. “Let’s go! I’m not telling you again,” Rhonda shouts. The woman blinks and suddenly I’m back staring at us both. We both know what’s to come just not when. I swallow her down and attempt to make it through the rest of my shift.

The rest of the day is filled with my usuals. The father and daughter are back. She orders her usual short stack with sausage and bacon while he orders a black coffee. This time, they both stare at me with different types of desire. I can feel the father looking at me as if something is different while his daughter stares at me in awe. She wants to look like me. She wants to be me. The feeling fills me more than any food at this establishment could.

When Rhonda notices the cloud I’m walking on, she attempts to burst it. But, I don’t hear her. All I can think of is myself.

It’s 8PM and we’re closing up for the day. “You think you’re going to need a ride today?” Shawn mumbles as I pick up the cleaning products near him. It’s the first time we’ve spoken all day. “I think we should talk about yesterday,” he says lowly as if I should feel embarrassed. Leaning uncomfortably close to him I whisper “You don’t get paid to think, honey.” Clearing my throat, I announce loud enough for Rhonda to hear that I’ll be staying later to make up for my time this morning. Over the sound of the running dish water, I can hear Rhonda say “Thank God.”

Yes, thank Him.

I’m spraying down the same table I’ve cleaned four times now when everyone makes their way out. “Bye, have a good night” I wave and use my new smile with my coworkers. Shawn looks at me one last time seemingly hopeful I’ll leave with him tonight. I break eye contact and watch Rhonda count out the register. I lock the door behind everyone.

Rhonda and I are the only ones left in the diner.

I can tell Rhonda is growing suspicious of me as she watches me sweep the same section over and over. “You know Di, you’re not that bad,” she says as she takes a swig from her liquor filled coffee cup. She pulls out another mug, puts it on the counter, and fills it with the remnants of her cup. It’s her way of making amends. “You remind me of a younger me,” she says as she lifts her drink for a toast. I choke through the announcement and let her think it’s my first taste of alcohol. She laughs.

I’m nothing like her and would never be.

As she rambles about how pretty she used to be in her youth, there is fire brewing inside of me. “Why don’t you use another bottle?” Perfect Diamond says in my mind. “No, too messy,” I warn. It’s almost as if Rhonda can hear my internal battle when she interrupts us with a small photo on the counter. When I get a good view of the photo, I swallow Perfect down. It’s an old Sears photo of Rhonda, my dad, and a baby.

The snaggletoothed child is me.

Confused, I look at Rhonda for hopes of an explanation.

“I’m not your mama, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she says proudly. “Your father and I had an understanding when your mom left,” she reminisces. My stomach turns. “I always thought it was important for you to have a woman around you. But, your dad and I had our own vices,” she continues. “We separated but when you graduated high school and started working here, I thought I’d take you under my wing again.” “I always thought you could be pretty, like me, like your mama,” Rhonda said. “You just got dealt bad cards in the mouth department.” It’s the second time in my life I heard about the cards I was dealt.

It will be the last.

I found myself lost in the dark cup of Jameson when she said “When your Dad started taking your money, I told him he was wrong. He tried taking me to dinner…” The reminder of my missing money made my ears perk up. Rhonda and I made eye contact for the first time that night. Scanning her entire body, I notice a small diamond ring on her fat sausage-like fingers, a new pair of thick gold hoops hanging from her ears, and a trio of necklaces dangling from her round neck.

How didn’t I notice she’d been wearing my money all this time?

There is a change in the air. The room is electric yet too quiet. We are no longer two women bonding over a shitty man. When Rhonda notices my heart beating out of my chest, she takes a step back from the counter. “Look, he’s been stealing from you your whole life,” she pleads. “Your life, your beauty, your smile…” she fades off. “It’s what men do.”

I can almost hear the makings of an apology in Rhonda’s voice. But, it never comes.

My gums begin to pulsate again, but for the first time in days I’m starving. The lights in the diner flicker when I roll my tongue over my teeth for the last time. All of my molars are sharp white utensils— perfect for eating. When I allow Perfect Diamond to consume me, Rhonda is frozen in fear.

She’s quiet for the first time ever and we love it.

Jumping on the counter, we hover over Rhonda. It’s almost as if she’s accepted her fate when we finally make our move. We sniff her hair for remnants of something salvageable— something worth having. Snatching off all the gold and diamonds that we are owed, we make our first bite. The sounds of her screams are an appetizer. Only a few minutes have passed when Rhonda stops squirming. When we’ve had our fill, we lick our teeth clean hoping to return to who I once was. But, there is no more separation, there is only one.

Me.

Running to the bathroom to clean myself up, I look at myself in the diner mirror for the last time. There are no blemishes, not a hair out of place, and not a missing tooth in sight. For once, I don’t look like what I’ve been through.

I’m finally Perfect.

In a dark bar on the outskirts of Condesa, I’m on my third carajillo. Just when I think of calling it a night, a jazz rendition of MF DOOM’s “All Caps” plays across the sound system. I smile, take in the trumpets, close my eyes for a moment and remember how hearing the right song at the right time feels like a forehead kiss.

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I’ve spoken many times before about how I spent so much of 2025 wanting to get back into writing. But once I finally put my pen to the paper, I found myself searching for a rhythm and writing routine. Reading Black Women Writers At Work and using it as a guide to see what my favorite authors did for inspiration helped quite a bit. But, I often realized I was just copying what my favorites did and not what worked for me.

In my time away, the only thing that stuck was jazz.

I’ve always been a lover of loud things and lively music. I like to think I was born to be loud and heard. Maybe I love instrumentation because the sound of horns remind me of my great grandfather’s billowing laugh that seemed to fill a room. Maybe, it’s because drums remind me of the sounds of my cousins slapping their cards on the table in a game of spades at the family reunion. There’s a sense of comfort I’ve found in the loudness of music.

I spent a lot of my younger years writing off jazz as something boring. As a child, I couldn’t quite understand how it brought a room together. To me, just like lipstick, red nails, and straightened hair without a bump at the ends, jazz was reserved for grown folks.

But now? I think I’m finally grown enough to find my appreciation for jazz.

There’s a running joke on the internet that says once you hit 30, it’s time for jazz. And you know what? They’re not wrong.

As massive layoffs tear through most of my intersecting communities, I’ve noticed an uptick and return to live jazz. It almost feels as if that 2020 promise of a creative renaissance a la the one of Harlem— is actually on the way this time. In one week alone, I’ve found myself seeing Samara Joy in Harlem and spent Thursday nights at Lucille’s for a live band. There is a sense of silence in the loudness of the instruments when it comes to the genre. There’s no competition between the horns and the sounds of a passing ambulance. I’m at the point where if I’m overstimulated on the train, I’ll pick a jazz instrumental and suddenly my chaotic world is a bit more tolerable.

@davishmarReplying to @phrogg_ this is part one, fingers crossed this is the one he steals #nyc #nycsubway #davishmar #saxophone #arosebloomsinchaos #soothingmusic

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Though Destin Conrad’s Whimsy and Venna’s Malik became the soundtrack to my summer, I’ve allowed myself to explore the world with the sounds of jazz. From NTS Radio to Youtube, Ethiopian and Iranian jazz, respectively, have infiltrated my playlists. Canada’s BadBadNotGood and a Brazilian Jazz playlist fill my Spotify. Sometimes, I think traveling the world through sound is what it’s really all about. On the other side music where jazz meets influence, Liv.E (the GENA album is a top contender for album of the year for me) and keiyaA hold my hand through shared struggles of womanhood.

Dramatic? Yes. But, that’s where jazz has just found me— understood me even.

If my 30s means opening my world to a new sound that becomes the score to this level of “growness,” then I welcome it and its trumpets.

That is the quote that gets me out of bed every day. It’s what gets me through a breathless run. It’s what builds the courage for me to continue to cold email people.

It’s the quote that keeps me, me.

Is it dramatic? Yes and no. I do believe that the moment you stop trying every day, things become easy. Easy to stay in bed all day. Easy to not take care of yourself. Easy to not put yourself out there. Easy to not feed yourself or your dreams. Easy to give up on yourself.

And what’s left once you’ve given up on you? Nothing.

So every day, I get up and choose to keep trying a little bit more than the day before — even when I don’t feel like it, even when I don’t get responses. Every damn day, I try.

Since 2020, it’s felt as if there is something crazier happening and brewing than before. I should be used to this as I haven’t had a “normal” day without war, poverty threats, the “manosphere”, recessions + lay offs, and literally anything else since maybe the day I was born.

It’s hard for me to be optimistic when so many things are out of my control. But at my core, my optimism keeps me alive. This year, I’ve noticed I have to do more to self regulate instead of “things” just being normal.

So, here are five things I’ve been doing to get my mind right.

Watching Soap Operas:

I am my Grandmother’s child, proudly. Therefore, I grew up on Passions, General Hospital, and the Bold and the Beautiful. The older I get, the more I realize not only do I need my grandparents more (another conversation for another time), but I find myself looking for shows to lose myself in. I’m not a Bridgerton girl, but I am a Like Water for Chocolate girl.

I binged watched the love story of Tita and Pedro in about three days on HBO Max. Not only did it help with my Spanish (I’ve been slacking on my classes), but each episode pulled me in enough to keep me off my phone while watching.

Sometimes, you do need to see some drama and multi-layered unrequited love stories to remember who you are again.

Planning Travel anyways:

I usually never suffer from FOMO, but lately, I’ve been feeling trapped. The idea of spending more time in America in its current state is not for me. Coming back to America has felt like I’ve taken a million steps back and I don’t see it getting any better with our current administration.

So what’s the plan? Leaving— this time for longer than three months.

Now, that’s not the easiest plan when I’m a part of the 300,000+ Black women having trouble finding work. (If I have to take another AI interview that leads to nothing, I’m going to lose it.) But, I can still plan as if it is happening.

I’m currently stuck between spending the summer in Brazil or having an European summer, that also allows me to shop at all the brands with a tariff between us.

I’ll keep you posted, maybe.

Whimsical optimism:

There are so many buzzwords in 2026— protein, fiber, cinnamon rolls, GLP-1s, and of course, whimsy. I’m going to be very honest, I’ve had to tap into the depths of whimsy in ways that would probably make people think I’m going crazy. I’m not talking about performative whimsy.

I’m far removed from just touching grass, I need to be one with it. I’m talking about conversations with trees, rolling in the grass, screaming in empty train cars, eft tapping, meditating with different frequencies.

If this were the 70s, you’d call me a hippy. But since this is 2026, I’d call it: Saving the little piece of mind I have left.

Do something weird this week, thank me later.

Music:

Music has always held me and I’ve always been grateful for that.

When Spotify’s algorithm isn’t doing it for me, I go back to the basics. I’ve found myself spending more time on YouTube listening to DJ sets and blends from other countries. My current favorites are Iranian Jazz, Cafe Da Manhã, and Summer School Radio with Lovie.

I’ve also really gotten into Jungle as of lately. Anything, that is a soundtrack to movement, has been a must listen to me.

Keeping art alive:

Every single Friday for the past couple of months, I’ve made sure to put some art into my life. Whether I’m at First Fridays at the Bronx Museum of Arts or I’m gallery hopping in Chelsea, I make sure that I’m doing something art related. Art Fridays, as I’ve been calling them, are not only usually free, but they keep me looking forward to the end of the week.

These nights also help inspire my writing.

@lifewithjrdnThis week in Friday night in the arts the theme is supernatural inspiration. Opening night at the Claire Oliver Gallery in Harlem. #harlem #artnight #harlemartgallery

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I’m currently a week away from my first short story submission and I’ve grown to realize that seeing other people’s work is a part of my writing process too. Get inspired!

Setting boundaries to break the patterns:

This one is harder for me, but I am a work in progress.

I’ve been hearing “This year feels like 2006/2016,” more often than I’d like. Yes, this year feels familiar, but also repetitive. My deja vu has been active in a way that has reminded me that I actually don’t want to live like that again.

To break the patterns, I’ve had to become very strict.

I’m blocking numbers and deleting the threads. I’m asking all the questions instead of passively agreeing. I’m even currently reconsidering my stance with freelance work as well. There’s a life I want to live and a part of that comes with consistency in everything— especially work. I’m also reconsidering the pursuit of a career in streetwear and sneakers as a whole (which is another conversation for another day.)

Regardless, I’ve been working on making decisions that work the best for who I am today and who I want to be— not a decision that makes me look cool or easier to work with. Because to be frank, my anxiety, my dreams and bills do not care about cool.

What decisions are you making to get your mind right this year?

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Everyone is balding, now.

At first, I thought it was a new unspoken lesson that comes with being 30+. Then, I figured it had to do with all of the stress of adulthood in 2026. But lately, I’ve seen women younger and younger become more vocal about navigating hair loss.

@eloisedufkasecrets out 🤫😅

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No matter if it’s long, short, or somewhere in between, straight, curly or coily, hair has always meant so much to everyone. Whether we like it or not, for many of us (over)manipulating our hair is a huge part of looking “presentable.” So we do it. The slick backs, tight braids, weaves, ponytails, perms, dyes, etc. to not only express ourselves, but to look good.

Hair loss used to be something whispered about. It used to be something to be ashamed of— giggle about even. Not having edges or a man with his ceiling missing (balding) was the butt of every joke.

Everything is funny until it’s happening to you.

Early 2020. My hair prior to damage.

There’s been so much talk surrounding hair— or a lack there of — that everybody (and their momma ) has a “magic product” or solution. But, not all of them work.

In 2020, I lost alot of my hair. Now, my hair and I have had our moments. I’ve had my hair break off before. I’ve had to cut it off to start over. I’ve had my hair overprocessed by a professional. I’ve had every single hair color imaginable. I’ve gone from relaxed to natural and currently back on the creamy crack again. My hair and I have had a time. So, I assumed we had been down this road before. But, this time was different.

It started in the shower during what I thought would be a normal wash day. There was more hair than usual in my comb and in the tub. When I went to exam my hair more, I noticed the texture was different— thinner. I kept looking until my eyes landed on my edges — my left side had an entire gap missing. Now, in the entire journey with my hair so far, I always had edges and thick hair that I had a love/hate relationship with.

I reached out the hairstylist I had been seeing prior to lockdown. She suggested what she could — twists as protective styles, brands that were more expensive than what I was used to, and most importantly, going to the doctor. It took a long time to get to the doctor as most appointments were reserved for Covid-related illnesses. I spent most of the summer, that we were allowed outside, in bandanas and homemade hairstyles that I resented. The hair, that I had always struggled with and wished was different, easier, or more manageable, I missed.

June 2020, Hiding my edges with my fro.

When I finally made it to the dermatologist, his diagnosis was traction alopecia. While he assured me that I wasn’t the worst case he had seen, he suggested continuing the rest of my life wearing my hair low cut without any tension. Yes, he was. We started corticosteroid injections, that hurt like hell and didn’t make much of a difference. After a consultation and testing with a different doctor, I learned my hair loss was due to iron deficiency.

It’s taken damn near six long years to get my hair back into it’s healthy, thick, and full state. Here’s what’s worked for me.

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The Serums:

Cecred’s Restoring Hair & Edge Drops ($56):
I know everyone is a bit skeptical when it comes to celebrity based hair lines. But, Cecred is the first serum to infiltrate every conversation of my life from multiple group chats to conversations with older women. The consensus? It works and quickly too, if I’m being honest. But in my opinion, there’s not enough product for the price. I’ve noticed many customers have resorted to putting it in a spray bottle to avoid wasting product — I’d actually recommend this too.

When using this, I noticed a huge change in the comfort (or tightness) of my scalp and length of my hair. But, not much for hair density and fullness.

I’d give this a 3.5 out of 5.

Act + Acre’s Stem Cell Scalp Serum ($86):

I’m going to be really honest. I’ve seen Act + Acre in Sephora for years, but the price point has always deterred me from trying it — $86 is alot for a hair product to me. Before I left for Mexico, I got an email from their marketing team asking to try their products. Because I knew CDMX wouldn’t have alot of hair products for my hair type, I agreed. But friends, it worked really well in a way that shocked me. For a little bit, I used Cecred and the Act + Acre serums together and saw alot of growth and fullness, to the point where I was cutting my hair about once a week to maintain it’s style and shape. One of my favorite things about Act + Acre is the different types of serums available for the hair concern— Stem Cell Scalp Serum for thickness, Scalp Cooling Relief Serum for dry scalp, Daily Hydro (its cheapest serum) for hydration, and 4% Niacinamide Oily Scalp Serum (for oily scalps.)

Despite its price, this has grown to be my personal favorite scalp serum amongst the rest. I’d give this a 4.7 out of 5. If you’d like to try Act + Acre with a discount, use the code: LifewithJrdn for 20% off.

The Ordinary’s Multi- Peptide Hair Serum for Hair Density ($24):

While I usually love The Ordinary for its affordable and accessible skin care, the brand’s hair serum was the cheapest and least effective on my hair. I’ve been using it since I got my pixie and while I noticed a bit of growth between hair cuts, I haven’t noticed much in terms of density which is the product’s claim.

I’d give this a 2.5 out of 5 and more than likely wouldn’t repurchase.

The Vitamins:

MaryRuth’s Organic Liquid Vitamins:
Personally, I can’t stand the taste of any Mary Ruth’s vitamins. But guess what? They work and work well— so, I chase the suggested amount with some water immediately after. I’ve noticed the vitamin is really good for hair growth all over the body. (So, that’s something to be mindful of.) Going through MaryRuth’s entire line can be a bit overwhelming. Personally, I’ve tried the multivitamin + hair growth for the morning and the standalone multivitamin. There is a new product on the market — Daily Liquid Hair Formula: Hair Support— that I haven’t tried just yet but have heard good things about.

Liquid Iron:
Once I learned my iron was low, I got to work and research. My stomach can’t handle iron pills. So, I’ve come to learn that liquid iron works the best for me. My preference is Floradix at night with a glass of orange juice for further assumption and to avoid a stomachache. Geritol is an age old classic that also works, but helps women become more fertile. So if that’s not what you’re looking for, I’d stay away.

Pro Tip: Catch your vitamins on sale at Whole Foods.

Last point: Actually Fucking Eating Right.

If there’s one lesson I’ve been trying to learn my entire life, it’s that it truly is in what you eat. There hasn’t been a pill, liquid vitamin or a serum that has worked better for me than actually eating — consistently and properly.

I’m a girl of crash diets, coffee (or matcha) before food or hitting the town, first meals after 6PM, and many other problematic + questionable attributes that I won’t get into right now. After 30, my body simply could not handle being treated like that anymore. Prior to my 2020 hair loss, I embarked on a crash diet that included no red meat. I was significantly smaller than I am now, but I couldn’t see that while working in a space of even tinier women. According to this diet coach and member at my “Girl Boss” job, red meat was the source of my bad cramps and other health ailments. Giving it up would make me look and feel better and to be honest, that’s all I wanted. For a while, it worked and I felt better until I noticed I was cold all the time. It took for my hair dropping out to become concerned which honestly, could’ve been too late.

This summer, I saw significant hair growth (even once I ran out of serums) simply because I was eating well and eating meat with every single meal. My periods were significantly shorter. I was having coffee because I wanted it, not needed it. I felt and looked better eating meat and my body was showing that.

I know we’re currently in the “protein olympics,” but sometimes hair growth really is as simple as making sure you’re eating right. Before you go buying another product, I implore you to go to the doctor and get your levels checked. And then, take as much care of yourself as you do everything else.

A good friend of mine said that when I’m gearing up for a trip, I start listening to the music of that country— a beautiful observation. Here’s one of my favorite Brazilian songs while I figure out my month long (maybe) Brazil move. Maybe, it’ll inspire you too.

This year, I’m learning that people know me— or experience me, rather— in a myriad of ways. It’s been interesting— maybe even a bit fascinating to be honest— to see how I exist to people. Some people solely know me from the garden I’ve been volunteering at for the past few years. Some know me from my dating woes or a hyper-local viral TikTok. Some may even find me familiar from a couple of commercials you caught on YouTube back in the day. It’s fun to see people remember me from my different lives. But as of late, I’ve been getting known— or maybe questioned is a better word— for my travels.

Which is…interesting.

Somehow, the pieces that I did share of my time away seem to have people more curious than I thought it would. When I left at the beginning of summer, I didn’t assume anyone would care. The world would still spin, laughs would still be had, the block would still be lively, and life would go on. And it did. For three months, I had good times, weird times, times that left me uncomfortable, and times that left me wondering if I should stay for longer.

But, I’m not an influencer by any means—especially not a travel one.

I won’t sell you a PDF, call it an e-book, and claim it’ll teach you how to travel solo. I won’t force you to watch multiple IG reels or vlogs until I finally get to the point. You really do not anything from anyone to take a trip, I promise. There is nothing that I can tell you that you don’t already know.

The advice I have for anyone looking to travel on their own is very simple. As I sit here a day away from my 34th birthday looking at grey slush cosplaying as snow for the second time this month. As I tie a scarf around my neck and slip into my microplastic lined heat tech in weather that feels like 17 degrees. As I blow my nose for the 80th time today and wish that I had actually followed through with this year’s birthday trip plans, the only thing I can tell you is this:

Book the fucking trip.

Do not wait until you’re skinnier or have your idea of the “perfect bikini body.” Do not wait until you have a certain amount of money saved up. (We’ll talk about that. It’s not as crazy as it sounds, I promise.) Do not wait until you see what your family has planned fo you. Do not wait for someone to go with you. Do not wait until you have a boyfriend. Do not wait.

You will never be as young and eager to explore as you are right now. If you have the inkling to travel, the funds and can make the time, then go.

This time last year, I was in Mexico City for six days. Somewhere between a fresh tattoo, a septum piercing, and a new outlook on life, I decided I was coming back. When? I didn’t know, but I knew I had to.

My first time in Ciudad de Mexico, Feb 2025

Which leads to my most asked question: “How did you do it?”

There are two answers. The first? The power of the tongue.

By the time I got back to New York, I kept saying I was leaving for the summer. I didn’t even have a ticket, yet. But, every time someone tried to include me in future summer plans, I would always reply “I won’t be here.” Just saying that I was leaving was a constant reminder that I had to go— call it manifestation, if you will. It was refreshing not being looped into other people’s plans, schedules and sometimes drama because Jourdan will be gone. I didn’t want to spend another summer in New York doing the same things of past seasons, so I had to make sure that I didn’t.

The second answer to “How did you do it,” comes with recognizing that the question the person is actually trying to ask is: “How did you get the money?”

Another simple answer: I worked.

I was privileged enough to have savings and money from the little work I did get last year. Since 2025 was filled with many pump fakes work wise and I wasn’t leaving for a few months, the smartest decision to me was to spread out my purchases — also known as budgeting. I passed on buying new sneakers and instead splurged where I wanted to and where I could — one of them being a first class roundtrip ticket. In my time of budgeting, I made a huge effort to pay off my credit cards and not use them until I arrived in Mexico. Every time I spent money, it came back to me— which is really the ebbs and flows of money as a whole. It almost felt as if things were conspiring to make sure that I ended up exactly where I was supposed to be. I decided to live with a roommate in a non touristy area to save coin. The decision put me in a position in which two things could happen — 1. I would be forced to explore out of my comfort zone and get to know new people which was the point. 2. Living outside of a tourist zone put me in a position where public transportation was easily accessible. While Uber is significantly cheaper out of the country, when you are living and not vacationing, you have to be smarter about how you spend your money. While I left the states with two work contracts, they fell apart by my second week in the city. Did I freak out? Yes, of course. I’m used to working. But, if I’m being honest my objective to leaving was to live and write again. Not working allowed me to do that uninterrupted while my savings allowed me to live within my means and take a quick trip to Puerto Escondido.

The last question I’ll answer is my favorite— “Were you scared?”

Yes.

It is scary trying something new especially when it comes to living abroad. But, the idea of staying around and waiting for this “American Dream” of how I pictured my life to be as a grown ass woman in New York was scarier. It wasn’t happening at the time, but what if it doesn’t happen at all and I simply didn’t leave New York? Not experiencing new things and people while I’m still able to was scarier. I felt a bit trapped in a cycle that I desperately wanted to be out of and I needed to do something to break out of it— leaving just happened to be the lesser of the two evils.

Now, that’s not to say I don’t have rules that keep me safe and comfortable while solo tripping— maybe, I’ll get into those another time. But again, my most important piece of advice that I cannot express enough is: Just go.

Go live life somewhere else for a bit. Drink glasses of $7 good wine near the water at sunset. Go write in the morning. Go get to know new people and see new things. Go find a new passion. Go find that inspiration you’ve been missing. Fall in love or don’t! But, go figure out if wherever you are right now is where you have to be.

This week’s song I’ve had on repeat— please listen as you read:

My personal new year is on the way — Lunar New Year, spring, and my birthday. Honestly, spring is when I feel my best— I feel hotter, stronger, and more dedicated to any and everything. According to my favorite star girls, this is supposed to be a great year for Pisces and mutable signs as a whole— which happens to be most of my astrological makeup. While quite a few things haven’t gone as planned (yet), I find myself trying to keep the little bit of faith I have left alive. This week alone, I’ve had to do many things (literally only one thing) that required me to ask people for things.

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Joy Bryant in the film, Honey.

Which I despise.

In the midst of asking my love ones to do a simple task for me, I realized how much my body reacted to it. Shoulders high and tight, stomach in knots, feet pacing the floors and head aching. I wrote and rewrote my texts over and over. My nervous system was shot and for what? I spend alot of my time shooting my shot and sending cold emails for significantly more on a daily basis. I’ve been in rooms with people whose photos I used to hang in my locker. And now, sending a text to loved ones feels like my body was preparing for war. In reality, I was preparing to be shot down.

My texts read as follows:

“Hey y’all, sorry can you do me a favor and vote for me for this Uptown Women’s Month award?”

My friend checked me quickly.

“I got you. Stop saying sorry. You have no reason to apologize.”

And she was right, I didn’t. So why did it feel that way?

I’ve grown to be comfortable with expecting the worst (or least) from people, places, businesses, and things. Something about an automated denial or “Hey, I’m really swamped right now, I can’t,” felt so much more normal than an “Of course.” “Yes”. “Absolutely,” or “Done.” Receiving a no has become far easier to digest than a yes. A yes means that they believe in me as much as I believe in myself. Sometimes, it means I need to work twice as hard to prove it to them and myself. I’ve found a comfort in a “No” because it means I’ll have to continue to rely on myself. While that’s typically easy, I do have alot of people, who love me. The cost of community is not only showing up, but leaning on them when I need them too.

I spent most of the weekend shooting a text to my friends about an award I really want. As much as I want to receive my flowers in real time and not when I’ve deemed myself too old or far past the moment, asking for what I actually want from people I know is hard. Though it felt a bit like campaigning for prom queen, I know I need to get comfortable with asking for what I want from loved ones too. Why should I feel more comfortable in thinking my friends don’t want the best for me too?

In December, I deemed 2026 the year of getting what I want again. That means, I need to expect the best from people and life in general, not just the worst. It means doing it and leaning on folks no matter how much I’m scared. Finding positivity in a time and space where every day has come with worse news than the day before, is tougher than I thought it would be. But, finding a slice of optimism is what keeps me going, writing, and creating. And thats important too. If I need to rely on others for the betterment of that, I also have to believe that they believe in me too.

So much of doing things afraid is all about believing. While I keep the faith in optimism, I need to believe that my community and the people closest to me want me to win too.

It makes my mind race and think of a million answers at once — “What do I do, today? What do I do that I’m passionate about? What do I do that makes money? What do I do that I enjoy? Does that even matter? Should I read off my resume? What can I say in this moment that’ll convey every thing?” Sometimes, I throw out the word “creative” and it works. The response is a quick “Wow, that’s amazing” from those, who maybe don’t see themselves as creative, and we move on. But on days where I find myself being slow to answer, I say “Nothing, I’m just a girl.” We laugh and carry on with whatever non important conversation we were having.

As much as I hate the question, I know my responses, or lack there of, does me a disservice.

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In school, I used to be a young girl of many titles — Jourdan, the straight A student. Jourdan the “Student of the Month.” Jourdan, the strong reader. Jourdan, the strong writer. At home, I was Jourdan, my mother’s daughter. Jourdan, my grandmother’s first grandchild, and so on and so forth. I always belonged to someone or some subgroup and that mattered the most to me.

After college, titles still held alot of weight in my world. Jourdan, the HBCU grad. Jourdan, the music blogger. Jourdan, someone’s girlfriend. Jourdan, the journalist? (Hey, I have my journalism degree and that counts for something.) I used to think titles were something you were assigned or earned. And to me, I have worked hard for every title. But, being in the creative industry—for damn near 13 years now— has shown me time and time again that people knight themselves as whoever they want to be. On first thought, it’s admirable and freeing in the “I am whoever I say am” sense. I could even look at it as a form of manifestation. But in my second mind, I’ve accepted the fact that so much of a title now is convincing other people to believe that’s who you are.

When I’m at these events, I think of all the creative directors I’ve met, who don’t create or direct. Business owners, who don’t own. Artists that don’t make or consume any form of art. They all stand proudly with their title. With ease (and maybe a few Instagram worthy posts), people are convinced that’s who they are. So they get the work, the opportunities, the follower counts that matter, and eventually the official title from a company and well— there’s no checking that.

That’s the point.

At my big age, I’ve sat with alot of thoughts surrounding titles in every space I’ve touched. As I think more about my career and what it actually is, I’m left with more questions than answers. Am I an artist simply because I’ve had an art exhibit? Or am I an artist because I bring my ideas into reality no matter the platform, discipline, or budget? Am I a sneaker designer because I have my own shoe? Am I a model if I’m unsigned and only book three shoots a year? If I am knighted with being a brand’s “tastemaker,” “community curator,” or whatever the buzz word of the year is, does that make the work I do more valuable? If I don’t have 10,000 followers but still find myself in the same spaces with the same opportunities as some of your favorite influencers, does that make me one too?

Having a title means alot of things, but one thing I’ve always known and hated to admit is: Having a title is about status. It’s all about the value you hold to others. People tend to respect you more when they know where they can place you. As much as I would like to pretend that doesn’t mean anything to me, it does. I think about the space I hold in my communities— both online and in person. I wonder about how I’m showing up as a friend, lover, and family member and wonder if I’m doing enough while still trying to do for myself.

With the way these last couple of weird years have been, I can only wonder what titles I’ll have next and if it’ll even matter? If I don’t have a label, do I still have a purpose?

This story came to me in a dream over a span of a week. There were days where I tried my hardest to fall asleep early to get back to me to my dreams so I can finish writing. But, I know damn well that’s not how it works.

Inspired by my travels to Puerto Rico ( and the deep desire to get back sometime this year) and my infatuation with the water, I hope you enjoy this piece of my mind.

“If this trip wasn’t already paid for I would be in bed,” I said to myself as I looked through the window of a JetBlue plane. All I can think about is my now ex-boyfriend when my thoughts are interrupted by a loud booming voice. “Genny girl! We’re here,” she sings. My older cousin Vanessa’s voice is followed by a chorus of her friends, that have somehow harmonized my name perfectly. Vanessa has always been the stunner of our family. Sashaying through the tiny aisle in a matching two piece set and a perfect doobie, Nessa looks like an off-duty model that has finally made her way to a vacation.

I really can’t do this right now, but I have to.

Knowing that I was already invited on this girl’s trip out of pity, I blink through the tears starting to swell in my eyes, plaster on my best smile, and use my sing-songy voice. My voice cracks as I squeal “Hey girls!” My eyes are still glassy and Vanessa’s excitement is replaced with a quick glance of concern. From childhood, Nessa has always looked out for me and I’ve always felt guilty for it.

I cannot ruin her birthday trip. I refuse.

The next four hours of our flight are filled with the girls befriending the flight attendants as we throw back as many shots as we’re allowed. I drink enough to remember that I’m here for fun and because my cousin thinks I don’t have any friends. She’s right. I drink enough to remember what Nessa told me on the phone before inviting me on her trip, “There’s no crying in Puerto Rico.” I remember those words every time the memory of catching my boyfriend cheating at our local bar replays in my mind instead of the film I chose on the airplane TV. When I close my eyes, I can’t seem to forget the look on everyone’s face when I finally saw what they had been seeing over the last two years. The same tear, that has been threatening me, finally makes its debut down my cheek.

When I’ve finally found myself drunk enough to relax, an announcement blasts through the plane speakers. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please prepare for landing. Welcome to San Juan.” As we land, the girls cheer and the entire plane claps. Instead of joining, I begin to whisper a silent prayer hoping I can make it through this weekend.

As we make our way down Calle Loiza in our black car, I try to keep up with all the conversations going on around me. “I’ve gotta text my man to let him know I got here safe,” says Diamond. Monica follows up with “Let me Facetime the kids real quick.” Once again, I find myself disassociating out of the window when Nessa taps my knee to bring me back to Earth. “You good, girl?” she whispers low enough to not draw attention. “Yeah, I’m straight.” I whisper back. Knowing I’m not good at lying or convincing, I can only hope Nessa knows how bad I’m trying. When we make eye contact, it’s as if I can see my mother, my aunt, and our grandmother in her face. All of the women in our bloodline are worried about me. Damn. Grabbing her hand, I let her know I’m still here. “I’m good, for real.” Disbelief runs through her eyes, before she lets the rest of her girls know the itinerary for the night. “Alright ladies,” she says as she grabs control of the car. “Tonight, our only agenda is to look good, get drunk, have fun, and make sure my lil cuz Gen gets some dick tonight!” As the entire car fills up with laughter and screams, even the driver chuckles, while I slouch in my seat.

When it’s finally time for us to make our way to La Placita, I watch as the girls get ready. As the lights flicker, I notice three coats of lipgloss touches their lips right before adjusting their braids and curls, respectively. I watch as Nessa lights candles around the Air BNB to deal with the power outage. Growing up in our shared home, we had many a nights where a candle was our only source of light. This wasn’t new to us. As I begin to help, Nessa asks “You ready for tonight?” Her eyes scan my lackluster outfit and makeup less face. Soon, the rest of the girls join us before Monica opens her mouth to say “You not getting anything in that outfit.” If looks could kill, Nessa’s would have cut her deep enough to send her to the hospital. Diamond nudges Monica as they both take in my outfit— sandals, a mini skirt, and a black tube top from Rainbow that could pass as Tankair if you don’t look too hard.

Grabbing my arm, Nessa pulls me into the candlelit bathroom and locks the door. Applying some highlighter to my cheeks with the tips of her fingers, she musters up what I can only imagine she’s been holding in since the plane. “Look girl, I know you’re sad and all. But, I need you to lock in and at least look like we’re related.” Even in the candlelight, I can see how Nessa’s makeup and outfit compliment her. Her blue bodycon dress hangs off her shoulders and compliments her deep skintone. While I’ve always loved falling into the background, I knew tonight was not the time for it.

Nessa carefully swipes three layers of mascara onto my lashes and coats my lips with her Fenty lipgloss. When she finishes, the power comes back on. Taking advantage of the lights, Nessa does my edges and puts my hair into an effortlessly messy bun before forcing me to look in the mirror. She replaces my empty earlobes with a pair of classic silver hoops from the beauty supply. “Exactly,” she sighs in satisfaction and we both stare at her project.

“The Uber is 2 minutes away,” shouts Monica. “Just enough time for a shot,” Nessa says as she hugs my shoulders. “You ready? It’s my birthday, but tonight we finding something for you,” she smiles. “Been ready,” I respond hoping it’s enough for her to believe me. As the four of us down two shots of Don Q, the Uber arrives. We make him wait as we take pictures in the mirror. As we make our way down the stairs, my phone buzzes with the notifications of tagged photos. I secretly hope the photos are good enough to make my ex jealous. Before the thought can form tears in my eyes, we make it to the car and we’re driving past the beach. I smile out of the window as I watch the people admiring the pink and orange sunset. The air is filled with the sounds of laughter and the smells of the ocean.

It’s 9PM and La Placita is bubbling with life.

The energy on the street fills the girls and I with anticipation. The different music from each bar carries us through the street as we let the birthday girl decide on the first stop of the night. The sounds of our shoes against the pavement make their own rhythm until we stop in front of a bright yellow club. “This is it, y’all,” Nessa says proudly. With her hands on her hips and her baby blue dress falling in all the right places, Nessa walks into the spot as if she owns it. Diamond and Monica follow right behind her while I take in the building. It’s one of the smaller clubs in the area, the outside has two figurines of tridents. The inside is moody and dark with dollar bills hanging from the ceiling and a mural of black mermaids. Breaking me from my daydream, Nessa grabs my hand and drags me inside. When we walk in, time stops and everyone stares at us. I get shy and put my head down while Nessa makes eye contact with everyone in the room. Her presence says “We belong here too.” Our mothers would be proud. She winks at the bartender and orders four sangrias and four shots in Spanish. “Cheers to the the girls weekend,” Monica shouts before we down our shots.

I can’t tell if it was the alcohol or the weather, but my entire body grows hot. I’m sweating and sticky. The girls are hot too, but to me and everyone else watching, they glisten under the lights. As they dance as if they’re early 2000s video vixens, I watch in awe. After a few songs and a couple of shy sways of my hips, I find myself back at the bar. Before I can open my mouth, a voice speaks over me: “She’ll have another shot.” Confused and slightly offended, I turn around to find the my most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on.

It was hard not to stare. He glowed in a way that was similar to my girls, but somehow he radiated. His arms were chiseled and his face was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. His skin was rich and his eyes were the warmest shade of blue that I had ever seen. Realizing that I’ve been staring for far too long, I let my inner New York out. “Who told you I wanted a shot?” The man shot back a quick side eye, “If you don’t want it, don’t drink it.” When the shot lands in front of us, he slides the bartender a $20. She winks and he smiles. I can overhear her saying “The owner always overpays for his drinks.” Suddenly, I’m hot all over again.

It’s as if I’ve never heard my name before when he says:

“Will you take this shot with me, Gen?”
“How do you know my name?” I ask with more attitude than before.
“Your friends told me,” he says nonchalantly as he points over to my group.

Looking ethereal under the blue lights, the girls are in the middle of the dance floor while I’m being standoffish next to the beautiful owner of the bar. “You’re ruining it,” I say to myself as I muster up an apology. “Sorry,” I say as I hold the shots between us. “Forgive me?”I ask while cocking my head to the side and smiling as if I just remembered how to flirt. He smiles and twists his arm around mine bringing me closer to him as we take the shot. Before I can react to the taste of the liquor, he puts his salt lined fist to my lips. Avoiding eye contact, I lick his hand and take in the salt. It doesn’t taste like table salt, but reminds me of the saltiness of the ocean.

We lock eyes and when I feel myself getting lost in them, I pull myself out.

“So, you have a name or what?” I say in a way that’s more aggressive than I intended. Leaning in way too close, it’s almost as if he’s found the perfect moment where the music has stopped to whisper “Rick.” The name echos in my mind. His breath feels cool against my sticky neck almost like a breeze. It’s a refreshing feeling, that makes me close my eyes and think of things I haven’t thought of in months…

I’m in my own world again when Rick asks me to dance. Before I can say no, he grabs my hand and pulls me to the middle of the floor. Typically, I would die of embarrassment but in this moment, I can only see him. Reading my energy, he whispers “Relax.” It feels safe with him. My favorite song begins to play when suddenly a band, that I didn’t notice before, takes the stage. Trumpets echo throughout the bar as the lead and background singers give their all. “My father used to sing this to me,” I yell over the music. Rick smiles and spins me as I try to remember the footwork of my father’s salsa. “You miss him?” he asks. How did he know? I ignore the question and without missing a beat, I’ve found my footing as if my pa is guiding me. But, this time it’s different. The way we dance is much more grown. Our hips meet as if magnets are attached to them. Rick holds the back of my neck and the small of my back bringing me closer to him. His hands feel like ice cooling my body on this hot night. Closing my eyes, I find myself in the crook of his neck. He smells like jasmine and white musk— a scent so familiar to me.

When I finally open my eyes, the song is over and we’re surrounded by people again. Confused, I search for the girls. “I think I saw them go outside,” Rick mentions. He grabs my hand and leads the way.

I’ve always been one to have my head in the clouds. But somehow with this stranger, I feel comfortable staying up there.

My hand is tiny compared to his and I slide my fingers against his until I notice his fingers are slightly webbed. Remembering how rude I started our night, I don’t ask about it.

When we finally make it through the crowd and to the street, I take a deep breath and remember the loosely rolled joint in my skirt pocket. “You got a light?” I quickly ask. Before it can touch my lips, Rick snatches the joint, tosses it to the ground, and uses his shoe to grind it into the pavement. “You know that shit is bad for your lungs right?” he taunts. “And liquor is better?” I ask not bothering to hide my annoyance as my arms fold across my chest. Reaching into my pocket once again, I pull out my phone hoping Nessa didn’t leave me behind.

3AM reads my phone. How could that much time pass so quickly?

I text the group chat labelled “Girl’s Trip PR”: “Yo, where y’all at?” My heart sinks as I watch my text turn green. Naturally, I assumed the worst. Maybe, they got tired of me. Maybe, I was cramping their style. Noticing my panic, Rick puts his hands on my shoulders. “Maybe, they went to another club and have no service.” He looks so deep into my eyes that it takes everything in me to remain focused. “I’ll look for them with you. I drove.” The New York in me could hear how stupid it sounded to hop in a car with a stranger. But, part of me was hoping this was something that would work in my favor. With my mind racing, all I could manage to do was nod my head.

Rick took my hand and we interlocked fingers again.

The streets grew quieter as we walked to Rick’s car. Club employees were sweeping what was left of the night into garbage bags. I checked my phone one more time: 3:30AM, Battery Life: 20%.

“Well mama, do you know where you’re staying?” Feeling myself panic for what I can only hope was the last time tonight, the tears make their third appearance. Someone had always looked after me, I always needed some thing from someone. Nessa had always been there to save me when I was young. When I got older, I relied on my ex boyfriend. Needing someone was the only thing I knew how to do correctly. It’s all I’ve ever known about myself. And now, I’m in the middle of San Juan alone needing a stranger because I don’t know how to take care of myself. Hyperventilating, I can taste the night’s liquor in the back of my throat before a cool sensation touches my cheeks. “You’re good with me. Let me take you somewhere,” Rick says as he palms my face. Instantly, I calm down and enter Rick’s pickup truck.

Rick’s truck is red like the color of my mother’s favorite lipstick. His engine is loud and startles me. Rick chuckles then focuses on the road. 4:AM reads the clock on the car. When I attempt to turn on the radio, he immediately turns it off. I don’t fight him on it — his car, his rules. I roll down the window and watch the quiet of the city as we drive by. The roosters are asleep and I can hear are the sounds of coquis and the water. I notice we’re getting closer to the beach when the car stops. Rick puts his hand on my bare thigh and my attention is back on him. My mind is telling me to be calm, but my spirit feels off. For some reason, I’m battling with my inner “flight or fight” when he finally breaks the silence. “I know it’s been a long night for you. But, I just want to show you something,” he begins.

“When I was young, I grew up in a small house in the mountains of Aibonito. In the summer, I would come down here and stay with my cousins. We loved the beach and used to surf everyday. I was the smallest of our crew and they always had to look out for me. As we got older, so did the water. With time, she got rougher and rougher. My mom always used to say she would take us whole.” In that moment, his blue eyes seemed dark. Retelling this story seemed to make him drift away. “One day, I got into a fight with my cousins and decided to go to the beach without them. I swam so deep into the water that when I looked back, the land seemed far away. I waved my arms, I screamed, I tried to swim back but couldn’t. I was stuck in that water, Gen. She was taking me just like my mother said she would.” My spirit was speaking louder now, my heart was beating so hard I’m sure Rick could feel it. But, I patiently waited for him finish.

“I was out there for hours before someone found me. Another boy, stuck in the water just like me. He smiled and waved me over to swim to him. When I did, I noticed how blue his eyes were. I never seen anybody who looks like us with eyes like them,” he said. “When I got to him, he smiled and showed me his teeth— small and sharp as if he were a shark. I got scared and tried to swim away. ‘You’ll just get stuck again,’ the boy said. ‘I can show you how to take care of yourself. You can swim and surf as much as you want. But, you have to say yes.’ he said. I nodded my head and when I did, Gen, he dragged me down. My lungs burned as they filled with water. With his sharp nails, he cut two slits on my back and chest. By the time we made to his home, those slits were the only thing that kept me breathing,” Rick finished as he stared off into what I now know to be his home— the ocean.

“When I came back to land, I thought I was only gone for two weeks. After my mother’s screams and my father’s panic subsided, they let me know I had been gone for five years,” he said. “I’m not the same little boy I was before I left. And when I saw you at the bar tonight, I saw someone young and scared just like I used to be. I know you don’t want to be like that anymore. I can show you a better you, you just have to say yes.” As he finished his last word, my hand jerked the handle of his car and I burst out. I hadn’t ran like that since I was a child. Assuming he was following me, I refused to turn around. “Come to the water, please” he said normally though he was 20 feet away. I could now hear him in my head. “I don’t mean to scare you I just want to show you,” he said telepathically.

Though I didn’t want to, I stopped running. I reluctantly turned my face to the water to find him and four others floating there.

“I know you don’t want to be a burden anymore. Your father left, your boyfriend left, and soon your cousin will too. I can show you how to take care of yourself. Most importantly, I can show you how to love yourself. Just say yes to me” Rick said. His voice was different and vibrated in my head. I couldn’t hear my own thoughts and soon could feel my body move towards the water. “That’s right, Gen” he said. “Just come to me, it’s better with me.” My feet dragged through the stand leaving lines behind me. Soon, I was knee deep in the water and face to face with Rick. He was glowing just like he was at the bar, but this time the allure was gone. The people behind him illuminated in the water like bioluminescent algae. One of them was the bartender from earlier. She winked at me and I felt sick. Their eyes were also blue, but not warm. They didn’t speak, they just stared waiting for my answer.

Growing impatient, Rick placed a hand on the small of my back. This time, the webs of his fingers were more pronounced and felt uncomfortable on my skin. I tried to move, but I was stuck. The water was holding me just like he said. “What do you say, baby?” he asked one more time while holding his other hand out for me to take. He smiled showing off his now sharp and white teeth. With my fear in my heart and a lump in my throat, I tried to get him out of my head. I avoided eye contact and caught a glimpse of the sun beginning to rise behind him. The orange and pink skies were bursting through the hell of this night. Licking my lips before I open my mouth to speak, I can taste that saltiness again. This time, I hated it. “I may not be good at choosing myself,” I said shakily. “But, I will start today.”

Rick nodded and suddenly the grip of the water loosened. We stared at each other for a second as I knew this would be the last time we would see each other. I thought about speaking one last time, but I could hear Rick in my head again. “Leave now.” It wasn’t a command, but a warning. I swam back to shore until I found my footing and began to run across the beach.

With no shoes, no bag, a dead phone and no idea how to get to the Air BNB, I ran as if my life depended on it. I never looked back. Letting the same intuition that I had ignored my whole life guide me, I ran until the streets looked familiar. Soon I found myself back on Calle Loiza and stopped to catch my breath. When I did, I laughed as I watched the sun rise behind me. The roosters began to crow as the city began to wake. I walked until my feet stopped and I found myself in front of our building. I hopped over the gate and walked to our apartment. Banging on the apartment door, I waited for any of the girls to open the door.

“Yo, what the fu…,” Nessa answered before she saw my face. With wide eyes filled with tears, she grabbed me tightly and hugged me the same way she did when we were kids. “Where the hell have you been, Genesis?” I knew using my full name meant I was in trouble, but I couldn’t even get the words out. All I could do is laugh. “We’ve been looking for you for three fucking days,” Nessa stated with her hands on her hips. “Our flight leaves in three hours.” My laughter immediately stopped. How could one night turn into three days? Monica and Diamond stood behind her wondering what was wrong with me. “And what’s up with your eyes, girl? Are you okay,” Monica asked.

I got up to find a mirror.

I scanned my body slowly afraid of what I was going to see. The night’s messy bun was gone. My body was covered in sand. My feet were dirty. My tube top was ripped. And my eyes. My eyes were the warmest shade of blue I had ever seen.

I looked in the mirror for the last time and knew I’d never be the girl I’d used to be again.

Here are a myriad of thoughts from my last Sunday writing session that may or may not make alot of sense.

I try hard to make Sundays my most romanticized days. On Saturday nights before I close my eyes, I lay out my workout clothes for the next day as if it’s the first day of school. I check the weather and think about which coffee shop I will go to depending on my mood. I scroll through my meditation app and give myself time to set the tone. “It’s going to be a good Sunday, it always is,” is my favorite affirmation.

But, it’s mostly because Sunday has to be a good day for me. It’s my routine.

In New York, I’ve grown to realize that I have to make a larger effort for my “Perfect Sundays.” Spontaneity doesn’t work out like it used to and I need to plan. The city has always been packed and loud, but the weekends are the worst. The streets of Soho are filled with people bottle necking. No one knows where they’re going or how to walk. The LES is filled with overpriced vintage stores that somehow all carry the same exact thing. I feel like I can’t escape a random camera in my face for “content” or without watching someone perform.

So most Sundays, I keep my talents and my mind above 125th street. But, it’s not much better.

On lucky days, I find myself waking up around 5am to witness the quiet that is only held at that hour. Stumbling, or “running” as I call it, around the neighborhood I find there’s no need for headphones. There’s no noise and everything is peaceful in a way that feels really fucking good. 5ams have become my little slice of sanity.

While it has always been a city of dreamers, playwrights and any + everything in between, nothing about New York feels regular, simple, or authentic anymore. More often than not, I feel like I’m either watching people hustle to survive or put on an act. I can’t tell if it’s because of social media, but every thing is a thing, now. There is always a line, a long wait, a dj session, a this or that. It seems like everything is a show now. The other, more realistic, side of it is: working 40 hours a week gives people nothing but Saturday and Sunday to run errands, show love, respond to texts, or try the coffee shop that’s been on their wishlist for so long that the perfect day happens to fall on the day I’m there.

And for those reasons, I can stifle my annoyance when there are lines or no tables at my favorite places. I suck back a sigh when there’s no room at the spots I’ve grown to be a regular at. I bite my tongue a bit when I hear people complain about the “kind, but not nice” service at my go tos.

Because with rising costs of literally everything, in order for my spaces to stay open, it’s this or… what?

I do miss when New York was only a spectacle on holidays and constantly find myself searching for my own little oasis. One of my favorite coffee shops has been overrun with college students from Columbia. When visiting, I often find myself being one of two black people in a black owned coffee shop in the middle of what’s supposed to be black ass Harlem.

It’s growing to be my experience in alot of places in Harlem.

I hate that.

Even in these spaces, that were mine before they were theirs, I find myself being written off or dismissed as a “local” in a tone that feels more slanderous than welcoming despite the truth.

Today as I write, I find myself in a corner table at a cafe in Inwood— another enclave that feels like a different world. This piece of uptown is different. Once again, taken over by Columbia, I feel like I accidentally walked onto the set of a Shonda Rhymes special. Everyone stares and double takes and I don’t feel like I belong here.

Since coming back to New York, I rarely call it home anymore. I feel like I’ve taken a step back. I feel like I’m constantly waiting for something to click or make me feel like I still belong here. Something that says “Sorry for the wait. Here are all the pieces put together for you. Everything is fine, please stay.”

I’ve found myself getting rid of more things than usual. I’ve moved far beyond a spring closet sale and started getting rid of things for the apartment I thought I would’ve had by now. I don’t really see a future in New York anymore. And, I don’t feel like fighting to be here like I used to. I don’t feel like starting a home or laying down any roots here — I don’t think there’s enough space.

When I think about where I want to live next, I’m often conflicted. I think about the displacement I would be doing to someone else. Their quiet place would be mine. Their favorite spaces, areas, apartments, galleries, etc., would become mine.

And then what?

The transplant cycle continues and so on and so forth. Is it better because it’s me? Am I more ethical? Would I be welcomed with open arms? Would it be better for me because my blackness makes me more understanding to constantly having people in my space? Or would it be worse? Would there be more pushback? What it if I don’t feel at home where ever I land next either?

I made the decision late last year that I would give New York one more year and so far, it’s still losing me. I’m not sure if it’ll get me back.

2025 was also my first time being fully honest.

Now, I’m not a liar. In fact, I am a very bad one. But, I’ve just come to notice how much I don’t often share my feelings for a multitude of reasons. Every “How are you feeling?” or “How’s everything?” is often met with a quick “Good,” while keeping details to myself. While I’m not someone, who believes in an evil eye per se or thinks everyone is nosey, my thought process is always: “What would you do if I wasn’t good?”

When my father passed away, I was met with alot of “If there’s anything you need or if you need a shoulder to cry on, please let me know,” from people, who when I needed them, were nowhere to be found. It made me a bit recluse with sharing my actual feelings, but also put alot into prospective. It made me place people in “tiers” in my life, so I wouldn’t be as disappointed in them when they didn’t actually show up in the ways I needed. More often than not, I realize we say things out convenience or because we were taught to, but not to actually do the work. So a “How are you, really?” can feel invasive and disarming when you’re not used to people genuinely asking.

Over the summer, I was at a gathering when someone asked how my time in Mexico City had been so far. I hesitated for a bit and thought about saying my usual “fine,” but when I opened my mouth the truth came out. My time in Mexico was different in ways I didn’t expect prior to leaving. I had to constantly remind myself: living and vacationing are two very different experiences. I was dealing with racism and fetishism — which I’ve now summed up as two sides of the same coin— that I wasn’t used to. I had a constant internal battle of wondering if I should respond when I heard people speak about me in Spanish. That week alone, I had experienced intentionally not being served in a restaurant, harassed by an Uber driver, and getting kicked on public transportation. I was tired and maybe (definitely) overshared. Naturally, I got different reactions. From the black women I was growing friendships with, I was met with concern, care, and understanding. With other people, I was called “strong, resilient and capable.” In fact, one person said “You see that’s why I love black women. You just defy everything thrown at you.”

And then it hit me, I actually never want to be described as strong again.

No one ever looks at the strong person and offers to help. No one offers a hand or to take something off your plate, so you can “stay strong.” Instead, they add one more. There’s always one more thing or my personal favorite “a tiny ask if you don’t mind.” Though I always mind, I never say no because the moment you do, it’s as if you have suddenly never said yes before in your life.

Being labeled as the strong one is exhausting. The more I’m needed, the more impatient I become. It frustrates me when people are not solution based and cannot fix things on their own. If I do it all the time, it must be easy right? Making our strength a little club, I tend to be closest with other eldest daughters, who get shit done. But when their mask slips a little and they need me too, it disappoints me a little. I tend place them in the category with everyone else who needs me too. I know it’s not fair to anybody in my life. It doesn’t give much room for growth, learning or error. But compartmentalizing people this way has been my reality for such a long time, I almost didn’t realize that it’s not normal.

For Black women, we’re not given many opportunities to be shy, anxious or nervous, or even soft without judgement. The constant view of us being looked at as strong (or aggressive) is not only detrimental, but dismissive. You never have to check in on the strong one, because they will always figure it out — and for the most part, I do. But, it is a lonely process. I don’t want to continue living a life where I can’t rely on people the way they rely on me. I don’t want to live a life where my mistakes feel huge instead of the small moments that they actually are.

Since that interaction, I’ve been looking for what I can only describe as “soft landings” — chances to show up as my fullest self, both good and bad. I want more moments where I’m taken care of and looked after. Moments where I don’t have to plan. Moments where I put the phone down for hours without thinking “what if someone needs me?” Moments where I don’t have to constantly defend myself or feel like I need to be a bitch to get my boundaries respected. I’ve been holding more space for periods, where I’m allowed to be silly, ridiculous, and playful, that are filled with the same giggles I haven’t had since I was a child.

And honestly, this year I needed that more than anything.

Holidays are usually my most difficult times. I find myself wanting more spaces, where no one knows me and I can decide how or if I want to show up. Sometimes, I wake up to an empty apartment that’s quiet, but is loud with the memories of times I’ll never have again. And I need a minute to sit with that. When you have a dead parent, people tend to either tip toe around it or become stuck in this cycle of trying to recreate moments that just aren’t the same anymore. This year, I’ve chosen to celebrate in solitude and it’s the best decision I’ve made for myself all year. I give myself the space to just feel and I realize I want to feel like that all the time— not just on holidays.

As the New Year arrives this week, I have one last “first” to give to 2025— no resolutions. I have no resolutions, no rebrands, no vision boards, no bingo cards and most importantly, no feeling guilty about it. In 2026, I only want more softer spaces for myself. My soft landings will look like saying no to more things, sticking to my work boundaries, and continuing to try new things for the first time. It will look like allowing new people to experience me and vice versa. It will look like me starting and restarting any journey and hobby I choose to because sometimes, softness just looks like me actually trying.

I’m wishing soft landings and more understanding for all of us next year.

This week in Short(ish) Stories, we’re reading about the monsters we become when we get ravenous…

It’s 5AM.

As soon as I wake up, all I think about is eating. My mornings start the same way everyday as if I’m in a sitcom— I sit on the edge of my bed and stretch, drink a black tea then sneak a little honey under my tongue. I drink my water shortly after and stuff down some heavily buttered toast. Getting ready for work is nothing special to me, its the same robotic song and dance. When I’m feeling like myself, I make an effort with my outfit and put on something that reminds people I’m still young and most importantly, still here. But most days, I hide myself in a sweater. Without missing a beat and avoiding every mirror possible, I grab my keys and leave my apartment.

Moments later, I’m out of the door and in the overly crowded women’s only section of the train. On days like this, I don’t bother holding myself up. I let my body sway left and right with the jarring movements of the train and allow the women next to me to hold me up. Towering over most of the women here, my nose meets the tops of their heads. I smell an overwhelming mixture of fruity shampoo and vanilla perfume. The scent fills me with just enough energy to make it to work. But, it’s nothing more than a tease to me. It’s not until 3PM where my body warns me that I’m running on fumes. I grab another latte to tame the beast growing inside of me until I get back home. As 5PM makes its way, my attitude and headache have grown tremendously. When I leave the second packed train of the day and make it to my building, I walk up two stairs at a time —eager to get upstairs. I finally make it to the fifth floor right before I nearly collapse at my door.

I need to eat tonight.

Laying on my bed to catch my breath, I stare at my popcorn ceiling. I close my eyes to keep the room from spinning and the voices low. I think about all the places I can eat tonight and my mouth waters when I think of the options. When the room stops moving, I gather up enough strength to pull myself together. Piling my curls on top of my head, I make my way to the shower. Letting the water run over me, I say a little prayer and ask whoever is listening to forgive me for the night I’m about to have. The water runs over my face and body for a while before it finally starts to burn. It’s been a while since I’ve felt anything. I take it as a sign and hop out of the shower.

Through the fogged mirror, I can see the outline of my body. My fingers run across my wet skin, but they feel unfamiliar like the hand of a stranger. My ribs protrude from my center and I run my hands up and down them as if they will play a song. I sigh at the sight of me, I don’t know her. Grabbing the “Come to Me” oil from my counter, I rub it between my hands until it warms up. I start at the hilt of my thighs, that are still thick enough to still hold me up, and make my way to my sharp knees. Humming my way through all the parts of my body, I begin to sing D’Angelo’s “Shit, Damn, Motherfucker”— the song my grandmother taught me a long time ago. When I make it to my neck, the steam has left the bathroom and I can finally see what I look like— unfamiliar. I release my hair from its top knot and the curls that were once bouncy are now lifeless. The curls plop around my big brown eyes that are surrounded with dark circles. I touch my sharp collarbone and sigh. “We’ll be better tonight,” I say to all of the people who live in me. My stomach rumbles in agreement and I feel relieved for the first time in weeks.

I don’t have the energy to give a full look tonight, so I scrape my hair into a slick back tight enough to give my sagging face a decent lift. My concealer hides just enough of my sad eyes while my blush makes me look like a young cherub though I’m wearing all black tonight. In the mirror, I practice the smile I’ll be using all night. When my reflection reveals bloody gums and dehydrated cracked lips, I quickly close my mouth.

It’s decided, we’ll go someplace dark and moody tonight. My stomach grumbles again and I finally leave my apartment.

When the cold night air hits my chest, I feel revitalized. The excitement of how the night will go runs through my body as I pump through the quiet streets. The sound of my boots hitting the pavement with each step echos throughout the neighborhood as if it’s warning everyone that I’m on the way. It fills me the way an appetizer would and I laugh.

By the time I reach the bar, I’ve calmed down and settled into my role tonight.

I wait at the door until I’m greeted by the owner, Marco. He’s someone I’d consider a friend, if that type of relationship with men actually mattered to me. He kisses me on both cheeks and holds me close enough for me to smell him. He smells like what my Grandmother could only explain as “outside”— a mixture of tobacco, a long day and sweat— my favorite. When Marco finally lets go of me, he reads my eyes asks the question I’ve been dying to hear all day, “You hungry, baby?”

He knows me too well.

When Marco sits me at the bar, he quickly serves me my usual— two shots of mezcal and a Carta Blanca with three slices of lime. He places a fork and knife in front of me, we lock eyes for a second and break out in laughter.

We both know I eat with my hands.

In the midst of our outburst, I see another regular out the corner of my eyes. Whenever I find myself stumbling into this moody place, I see him sulking in the corner by himself. As the rotating red lights hit his face, I can see the outline of his strong jaw, high cheekbones and sad eyes. He’s handsome and I’m curious. He nods his head to acknowledge my now too long stare and motions his drink towards mine. We exchange a toast from across the room.

Before I can make my move, Marco sits someone new next to me. I try to hide my annoyance, but Marco is making a choice for me that I haven’t decided is good or bad yet. My stomach hums to remind me to hurry up. The man next to me, who has made himself overly comfortable in my space, has decided to order wings. As I’m forced to listen to the sounds of him eat over the music, I immediately become overstimulated. I listen as he cracks the wing open between his stubby fingers and watch as they become covered in grease and sauce. As he takes it into his mouth, he slurps the meat until he gets to cartilage of the bone and smacks his lips.

Slurp, smack, suck. Slurp, smack, suck, moan.

His sounds turn into a disgustingly rhythmic song, that would make me nauseous, if I wasn’t so deprived. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears and my head begins to pound right before Marco breaks my trance and slams another mezcal shot in front of me. Locking eyes for the third time tonight, he nods his head.

The decision is made and my show starts now.

I slide out of my leather jacket to reveal my toned arms and let him smell my perfume. I sigh loud enough to draw his attention. As a partially devoured wing hangs from his greasy mouth, I lick the salt from the rim of my shot glass. Without breaking eye contact, I make a circular motion with my tongue around the rim before taking the drink in and leaving a drop behind. Bringing the glass to his lips, I coax him into drinking what’s left and quickly force a lime into his mouth. As his face contorts, Marco and I cheer and slam our hands onto the counter. The entire bar joins in and the man, whose name I don’t bother asking, smiles as if he’s the star of this show. I allow him his moment before I angle my body towards him, lay a hand on his knee, and pretend to care about his night. Tilting my head to the side, I blink slowly as I try to listen and flirt.

But, my head is pounding and stomach is screaming. I can’t hear anything.

When two more shots arrive in front of us, I’m biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. Taking quick advantage of the moment, I push the shot towards his lips. As the mezcal leaks down the side of his mustache, I lick it up. He tastes salty and sweet. I look deep in his eyes before I whisper, “I’m going to the bathroom. Wait 30 seconds and join me.” I stand and glide to the bathroom leaving only my jacket behind. Only 15 seconds have passed before he is twisting and fumbling with the doorknob. When he enters the small bathroom, we giggle as I slam him onto the toilet seat and mount him. “We don’t have long,” I say as his hand reaches for my chest and the glare of his gold wedding band catches my attention. “It’s okay, she understands,” he pleads as he pulls my face to his. It wouldn’t matter to me either way. I let him kiss me and I can taste a mixture of liquor and sauce from his wings on his mouth. Refusing to ruin my appetite, I focus on his neck. As I allow him to touch me for the last time, I lick before I bite. At first, it startles him and he jumps. “Gentle,” he lightly warns and chuckles. I look at him and laugh before I do it again— harder. This time a wave of concern consumes him.

He knows we aren’t playing anymore and I don’t have much time.

Several minutes pass before I find my way to the mirror. My lips are plump and blushed. I release my hair from its now messy bun and my once lifeless curls are full and voluminous. I pinch my cheeks then place my hands across my chest one last time. I can no longer see my ribcage. In the reflection, my smile is a dangerous one, but I can see myself returning to me again. I wink at the woman in the mirror one last time before washing the last bits of blood from my mouth.

I return to my seat a brand new woman and smile at Marco. “You look refreshed,” he whispers low enough for only us to hear. I smile as he nods and sends his junior to clean up the mess I left in the bathroom. I never ask why he allows me to eat here. In fact we never talk about it. The first time it happened two years ago, he found me scared in the bar basement at 4AM. The only thing he could manage to say was “If you’re ever hungry again, come see me.” I appreciate his hospitality, it keeps my mind from wondering what he tastes like.

Another shot lands in front of me and frees me from nostalgia. This time, it’s not from Marco but from the regular at the end. Something about him makes me feel nervous — an unusual feeling for me. Maybe, he’s meant to be a “friend” or something more. I haven’t decided just yet. Marco’s stare is burning a hole into me as I walk over to the other side of the bar. “Thank you,” I whisper getting dangerously close to his ear. A whiff of cinnamon and sandalwood fills my nose and enters my chest. He smells different — different in a way that reminds me I want something sweet.

After taking the shot, he tells me his name his Christophe. “It’s important to remember. You’ll be saying later,” he says boldly over the music. Internally, I’m disgusted and once again, I find myself using my fake smile. It’s disappointing that he didn’t take this opportunity to be interesting or even make this exchange last longer. He’s just another man. My stomach rumbles again and I peek at Marco, who quickly diverts his eyes for the first time tonight.

This time, I make my decisions on my own.

When Christophe and I grab a drunk cigarette outside, he rubs his finger across my bottom lip. He’s too bold for my liking and it feels like he’s been playing this sad boy trope for attention. I take his thumb into my mouth and bite it gently enough for him to still be intrigued, but hard enough for him to recoil. I laugh as his eyes light with curiosity and confusion— it’s my favorite taste. Terror mixed with a little excitement is a reminder of who’s really in charge. “Come home with me,” I say in a way that’s a little more demanding than intended. It’s better when I let them think it’s their idea. Tucking his hair behind his ear, we’re nose to nose when he whispers “Why?” Looking deep into his glassy eyes, my irritation grows and I decide honesty is the best policy. “Because I’m still hungry,” I say right before I pull his lips into mine.

We go back inside to grab our things and Christophe offers to cover both tabs, but mine is always free. As I slip on my jacket, Marco’s eyes seems sadder than I’ve ever seen them. “Will I see you two again?” he says as he takes the bill from Christophe. Christophe smiles and says “You know I’m always here.” Marco turns to me and eyes search for mine, but there’s nothing to read this time.

“And you know I’ll be back for dinner,” I say as I kiss his face.

Christophe and I pump through the neighborhood. We stifle hushed giggles as we stumble through the street. His hands are all over me and I almost forget that he’s just dessert to me. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he kisses behind my ear. He says I taste like the chicken wings from the bar. It’s so embarrassing when I don’t clean up well enough between meals. My stomach growls louder than I like, she’s growing as impatient as I am. In between sloppy kisses, I take a quick glance at my surroundings— the lowly lit alley will have to do. I return Christophe’s kisses with more intensity as I pull him into the alley. “Please,” I pant as if I can’t wait anymore. I’m laying it on thick and he loves it.

They always do.

We find ourselves under the yellow fluorescent light that match my eyes. I can’t wait any longer. Slamming him into the wall, I repeat the name he begged me to not forget all night. “Christophe, oh Christophe,” I say tauntingly as I take his fingers into my mouth again. This time, I’m not playful. Taking his middle and index finger into me, I bite hard and remember the song from dinner earlier.

Slurp, smack, suck. Slurp, smack, suck, moan.

I do just that as I make sure not to leave any piece of Christophe behind. Muffling his screams, he looks at me one last time and suddenly he’s back to being the sad little man at the corner of the bar. The look in his eyes tells me he regrets meeting me and that just makes him taste even better.

Leaving his clothes in the dumpster, I take the necessities — his wallet, jewelry and whatever’s left of his cash. For the first time in months, I’m full and feel good.

As I walk to my apartment, my stride is quiet and I feel as if I’m floating on top of the sidewalk. I make my way up to my fifth floor apartment with ease. This time when I find myself in my bathroom mirror, I know exactly who the person is staring back at me. Starting the shower, I take a look at myself again before the steam consumes the mirror. My body is thick just as I like it, the color has returned to my skin, and my fingers are not those of a witch, but plump just like the ones from dinner. A genuine smile comes across my face and it reminds me of who I was before I became this. It’ll be a while before I feel ravenous again. I step into the shower and let the water hit my body for the last time before bed. A piece of what I can only assume to be Christophe falls from my hair. I quickly pop him into my mouth before asking the scalding water to forgive me yet again.

It feels weird because I’ve never been this woman before.

When I arrived to college almost fifteen years ago, I met plenty of girls, who said they were going to college to find a husband — and most of them did. But, I never thought about marriage in college. In fact, I vividly remember my mom telling me they weren’t paying all this money for me to be “studying someone’s little boy.” And she was right. I didn’t expect to graduate with a ring, just a job— neither happened. After graduation I noticed how many older people, who never bothered talking before, started asking me about my personal life. From that day forward, it seems like the questioning never stopped. “When are you going to start having kids?” “When are you going to start looking for a husband?" Or my favorite “You know you’re getting up there, you need to put yourself out there more.”

At first, I was offended. Having children and a husband seemed more like a threat to who I was becoming than a chapter of femininity. Everyone spoke to me as if being married with kids was a badge of honor and I felt like I was missing something.

The older I get, the more I’ve come to the realization that I’ve learned so much about womanhood on the fly. No one speaks about the multiple phases you hit. Not the phase in your mid 20s where your “grown woman weight” arrives and your jeans stop fitting. Not the one when your frontal lobe develops after a bad relationship and leaves you feeling invincible instead of sad. No one told me about the chapter when you hit 30, suddenly become feral, and the taste for sex makes you feel hungrier than you ever have before. Lastly, no one spoke about the phase I’m in now. The one in your early 30-somethings, where you sit and wonder if a husband and kids is really in your future.

Why is no one talking about that?

Maybe, I’m getting hit with the repercussions of the 2025 wave of conservatism. It seems like everybody and their momma is talking about finding a partner or keeping one. Between Raye’s latest hit or Olivia Dean’s “Man I Need,” I’ve found myself asking “Damn, where is my husband?”

Lately, I’ve become overwhelmed with this traditional idea of motherhood and partnership that I’ve never envisioned for myself before. I’ve spoken before about kids I’ve never met. But now, I can physically feel how sad I am without them… A wallowing kind of emptiness that I can’t really explain. I still don’t know if I actually want children or if the ones I see in my dreams just represent parts of me I have yet to discover. I don’t know if I actually want these kinds of commitments or if I feel like I should have them because of my age. Would I feel more feminine if I was a wife and a mother? Would I be happy? Would I be softer? What do I want?

I don’t really know and to be honest, it scares me.

Now before we get too deep, I’d like to say a few things I already know, but have heard way too many times as “the single friend” or “the girl with the dating podcast.” I am not looking for advice or to be set up. I know that being single and admitting that I desire an authentic and long lasting romantic connection can seem corny, desperate, or needy. But, it does not mean I don’t love myself. It means I’m being honest, vulnerable even. If self love, communal love, and other forms of platonic love were enough to fill a romantic void, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But, I have this deep craving for intimacy and understanding from a romantic partner that has left an emptiness that I can’t fix myself. And as a woman, who pretty much do anything she sets her mind to, it’s hard for me to admit that I can no longer put a bandaid on that scar.

I want to share understood looks from across the room when we’re both ready to go. I want the relief and softness, that comes with being together after a long day. I want to experience so many things I haven’t before. I want trust and commitment. I want effort and honesty. I want fun. I want a conscious effort that’s enjoyable. It seems simple enough.

But, it isn’t happening for alot of women including myself.

Since the day I turned 30, I’ve had multiple conversations with different women about the current state of dating. It seems like we are all convincing ourselves to be okay without romantic love. It’s grown far beyond a quick write off of “men ain’t shit” and feels very much more serious this time. Women, who have felt kids were always a part of the life they wanted, are now figuring out what a childless life will look like for them. In conversations over too many bottles of wine, we sigh and discuss the ideas of “community babies”— where we all just take care of each other and our children. Between glassy eyes, empty cups, and half smiles, we nod our heads in agreement. But, the idea never leaves the room. It’s not enough and deep down, we all know that. It’s been sad to watch the light leave someone’s eyes when they talk about a loveless future.

But sometimes, I feel like I’m one failed talking stage away from being there too.

Over the summer, I had a conversation with a gynecologist that made me realize I do have more time to consider children. For some reason, that talk opened up a new world to me. As an eldest daughter with anxiety, who already had enough responsibilities, I’ve written off having children of my own since I was 16. But, something about learning that I had time has made me go from a hard no to a maybe that leans more to 75% no and 25% yes.

But, the question remains— with who?

After writing “The Playlist,” I felt significantly better about dating and my previous experiences to the point where I’ve considered actually trying again. Intentionally dating— for real this time— meaning no more casual hookups, no more apps, no more DMs, no more friend of a friend set ups. But, actually making an effort and trying to get to know someone romantically, IRL (in real life.) Writing it out made me deeply aware of the roles I’ve played in my relationships, my patterns, and bad habits.

While I have spent years dancing between swearing off dating and waiting for someone to sweep me off my feet one random day, I’ve learned a few things. I’ve learned how much being disappointed— in any capacity— really impacts me and adds another bricked layer to my walls. With my hyper independence, I’ve learned I have a low tolerance for most inconveniences. The moment I hit “I would have never let myself down like this,” I’m done— no conversation, no text, just gone. Most importantly, I’ve learned that as much as I actually do want to be in a relationship, I definitely don’t want one like I’ve had before.

When the British Vogue article “Is Having a Boyfriend Embarrassing Now?” hit the internet streets in October, my initial reaction was not a shock or a surprise — but a simple yes. From personal experiences and ones shared over coffee between my homegirls, I knew that answer before reading. But as I read the article, something stood out to me — “Being partnered doesn’t affirm your womanhood anymore; it is no longer considered an achievement, and, if anything, it’s become more of a flex to pronounce yourself single.”

Being single as a statement or even a symbol of status, I’ve lived long enough to hear it all.

But, what if that is my calling?

I like looking good for me and sometimes, it’s really that simple.

What I don’t like is the price of beauty products and services going up as the quality goes down and the products get smaller. What I don’t like is marketing 30-something as old and suddenly needing an entire system of products for one wrinkle— but, that’s another conversation for another day.

I’d like to think in a past life, I was supposed to be a beauty editor instead of taking the music journalism route. To honor that feeling (and in the spirit of sharing + saving some coin), here are some of my favorite beauty finds that have become a staple in my routine!

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Lashes!

As a glasses wearer, I never gave too much attention to my lashes. But, this summer something kind of clicked. In terms of makeup, Mexico City didn’t have much for my skin tone. But, they did have an amazing mascara that I wish I bought more of.

@lifewithjrdnIf nothing else, I’ve been writing and looking good all summer. And for that, we say thank you.

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Prosa’s mascara in Pink ($6.99) + Microfiber ($5) have found its way into being my lash routine. I like to do two coats of each then pair it with one coat of my Kulfi Badi Lash Mascara (my favorite for a year and currently on sale $20.80) or classic my Milk Kush Mascara (currently on sale for $14) for an extra long voluminous look. The best part? It washes off easily without that raccoon eye look.

Deep down, I want to be a lash extension girl. I love the cat eye and wispy looks. But, I just don’t have it in my heart to add another $200+ beauty bill to my budget. My compromise? Kiss’ Impression Lash Press ons from Ulta. ($16.99). So far, I’ve only played around with the natural set, but I have my eyes on a more dramatic pair for a more flirty effect.

Pop of color:

As someone, who thinks she looks better in color and is awful at eyeshadow, I let my lashes carry the color. I used to be obsessed with YSL Lash Clash Extreme Volume Mascara in Blue ($34). It was expensive, thick, and vibrant (kinda like me), but a pain to take off. I recently also found out Tarte offers their Tartelette Tubing mascara in Blue, Navy, Magenta, and Green ($28) that is just as vibrant, separates the lashes, easier to take off and cheaper.

Perfume:

My favorite compliment this year has been: “You smell really good.” While I’m still a huge stickler for perfume oils from the oil spot, I’ve started diving in to perfumes again.

My favorites in terms of gourmand, Brown Girl Jane is my go-to. Chalet (currently 30% off via Brown Girl Jane’s site) is my new fave to wear when going out at night paired with EOS’ Cocoa Cashmere lotion. Casino is the “espresso, rum cake, and orchid” scent that gets me the most compliments as well. A discovery pack of all of their scents will only cost you $30.

If you’re on an overall chocolate kick, try my current routine— Lush’s Posh Chocolate body wash ($10), Champurrado shower gel ($14.50), EOS Cocoa Cashmere ($10.99), and finish with Brown Girl Jane’s Chalet ($30 for travel size). Thank me later.

When I’m feeling more neutral, Dedcool has been my go to. While they are a bit pricey, I’ve been running their Milk, Extra Milk, and Mochi Milk travel pack ($60/$42 during the sale) into the ground. Eventually, I’ll have to invest in the full sized bottles ($100). While they do often run a 20% off sale, the entire store is 30% off for Black Friday.

Liners + Lip gloss:

I don’t know when (or why) lipgloss and liner started costing $26 a piece. But, as someone whose little treat has involved getting a lipgloss as of late, I’ve become more picky on what I choose.

Ami Cole Lip Enhancing Oil was my all time favorite. I found two tubes at home that I’m using sparingly. Since its closure, I’ve found solstice in Refy’s lip gloss ($20). I currently own four that are the perfect sheer color for different lip combos— Sepia, Blush, Taupe, and Rosewood. With their 25% off sale, I’m tempted to get a few more.

Anastasia’s Universal Luminous Tinted lipgloss ($23) is new to me and has played an intricate part in my perfect nude lip combo. I recently got “Cotton Candy” during Sephora’s in store sale (30%) which is a cool baby pink that somehow works with my skin tone.

@lifewithjrdnNeed my nails done STAT #nail #recession

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Liners

My intro to lip liners was Makeup Forever but to be honest, I don’t need to pay $25 for a good liner. You might say, “Jourdan the beauty supply has perfectly good liners.” To which you would be correct. My problem is: no matter the brand, I always pick out the same exact shade of dark brown.

So, when I’m looking for a step above the beauty supply but on a budget, Morphe’s Signature Lip Liner ($7)has been my go to. For the past month, Trendsetter and Brûlée have been my go tos. Many of Morphe’s lip liner shades can even be a dupe for Makeup Forever.

What are some of your favorite beauty items you must have? Share in the comments!