M left a note 💌 ~

All I Ever Wanted Was Love continues.

If you’ve been following this series, you already know I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about heartbreak, dating, attachment, and what it means to want to be loved intentionally. But this chapter is a little different. This time, I’m less interested in the person who broke my heart and more interested in what happened to me afterward.

This isn’t a story about getting revenge on someone who hurt me. It’s about realizing that the sweetest revenge was never needing to get even in the first place. It’s about self-affirmation, decentering, detachment, and becoming so deeply invested in my own life that someone else’s absence stopped feeling like a loss.

Maybe healing isn’t always graceful. Sometimes it’s messy, dramatic, funny, and a little unhinged. But sometimes you have to become obsessed with yourself again to remember that you were never meant to abandon yourself for love.

It was the other day when I decided to open my journal with a real intention of my feelings. That day, I woke up not on the greatest of feelings or the will power to do anything. I felt stuck and my chest was heavy…

So I journaled. I wrote about waking up feeling unwell. I wrote about not physically being able to do the things I planned. I wrote and kept writing.

And then, “Was I really nothing?”

When those words first came out, I realized I was at rock bottom. I kept asking myself that question over and over again. I would sob through the pain and then a small laugh would come through — a laugh of true disbelief. Because when someone means so much to you and then decides they don’t want you anymore? It’s easy to question your own significance.

So I kept pressing on for answers. I wanted to know why I wasn’t enough.

Why couldn’t I be chosen?

Why did everything feel so real to me, but was so easy for someone else to walk away from?

And somehow, through the writing and another wave of disbelief, I ended up describing my gratitude for that same year of being heart broken. The truest test of self healing and self love. There was no rest and relaxation. Just multiple tracks that led back to pain.

“Dear J, thank you for everything.”

That’s what I wrote. It was maybe my third time expressing such gratitude, but each time the words felt different.

Thank you for letting me go.

Thank you for teaching me about myself.

Thank you for fueling my resolve.

For a while, I thought my revenge would be making them regret it. Become prettier. More successful — someone they couldn’t possibly forget. Eventually I realized I had been thinking about revenge all wrong. The best revenge wasn’t becoming someone they would want back. I had to become someone worthy of my own love — someone I never wanted to lose again.

My journey of self-love became a trip of rewriting my thoughts and centering myself.

Oh, love. I learned so much about you to get to myself. I fell for myself, the big, little and simple moments. I would truly get warm and fuzzy as I’m wrapped up warmly, by myself, in bed with something sweet and something funny in front of me. I could just go for a drive. I bought myself something because I wanted it. Getting dressed up because it made me feel good.

My will wasn’t broken, I just wanted time to stop. It got hard to do a lot of things but then I realized I can do so much better. I knew where I wanted to be and who I was growing into. I was obsessed over losing him because I lost another person who cared for me, when all I needed was myself. I would sit in front of the mirror every morning and relearn my facial features and see my curly puffy hair. I forgot who I was. I lost myself. So I became obsessed with finding her.

No, it isn’t narcissistic when its about finding that spark. I had to relearn to laugh. I started reading again. I felt so free in my creativity. I spent so much time wondering whether someone else loved me that I forgot to ask myself if I loved me. Today I thought about that question,

“Was I really nothing?”

I don’t waver when I think about that question. I wasn’t what he wanted and I couldn’t accept it before. I already said this, but I have to express this again. I couldn’t understand how someone could mean so much to me and still choose a life without me.

But now? It’s not something I need to understand anymore.

And as I continued to rush through my words, the heavy feeling felt light and warm. And god, did that feel good. I am truly bound for better. That’s all I had to say before I started smiling like an evil villain. If anything, this was a trial of survival and it taught me to turn my pain into motivation — pleasure even.

Because to fully bloom, you have to plant that seed. You have to nourish the roots. You have to give yourself enough time and patience to grow.

Now I think revenge is much sweeter. It’s waking up and realizing you don’t wonder if they miss you anymore. It’s looking in the mirror and recognizing myself. It’s having a full life where absence doesn’t bother me. I became obsessed with my life and myself, because I am worth that recognition and being showcased on a pedestal.

I don’t care about his regret or him understanding what he lost. I don’t care if he comes back. The only thing that illuminates in front of me is me — because I finally understand what I found.

And if that’s revenge, I’ll take it. In the best possible way.

M left a note 💌 ~

Sometimes a single line in a movie follows you home. This essay isn’t really about Obsession —it’s about the question Nikki leaves us with. I’ve spent years chasing romance, confusing butterflies for compatibility and chemistry for commitment. This piece is my attempt to untangle the two. I’d love to know where you stand: Do you think romance and love are the same thing, or does love begin after the romance fades?

This is another chapter in my All I Ever Wanted Was Love series—a place where I unpack the messy, beautiful realities of modern love.

I decided to watch Obsession the other day, and I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the screen. Spiritually and emotionally, I felt connected to Nikki. Then, within the first few scenes, she said something that hasn’t left my mind since:

“Love isn’t the same as romance.”

She’s right — at least I have definitely thought the same thing. Not because romance doesn’t matter, but because we’ve spent generations treating the two as if they’re interchangeable.

“Be ready by eight.”

“It doesn’t matter what you wear. You always look beautiful.”

Those moments are romantic. Your stomach flutters and you blush. They become the scenes we replay in our heads after the credits roll. But romance is a feeling — and love? That is a decision. Romance is the spark that catches while love is the fire you keep tending long after everyone else has stopped watching.

I think we’ve confused the beginning of a relationship with the relationship itself. Please read that again because I don’t think I can stress this enough. We grew up on fairy tales where the story ends with true love’s kiss. We watched rom-coms where the credits rolled the moment the couple finally got together. We read romance novels that promised happily ever after, but rarely lingered on what “ever after” actually looked like.

It was always implied that everything was fine when realistically, that’s where romance usually ends. And where love should quietly begin.

Look at your crush, your ideal type, or the person you’re already with and ask yourself —

What made me fall into love, or was it just potential?

Because for me, love isn’t just planning the perfect date. It’s remembering how someone likes their coffee on an ordinary Tuesday. It’s learning how they react when they’re overwhelmed. It’s choosing patience after an argument. It’s listening, showing up, and staying.

We don’t romanticize what happens after enough. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about Nikki’s words. Because they made me realize that I’ve spent years chasing romance, while what I’ve truly wanted all along was a love story.

And those aren’t always the same thing.

I talk about my situationship a lot — honestly not really sorry about that, but there have been others. Dating sucks because the only way to learn what you want is by meeting people—and, sometimes, by realizing what you refuse to settle for. Did I fall in love? No. Not many people ever made it past the possibility of becoming something more. Some people had potential. Maybe three or four over the years made me stop and think, “Maybe this could become something.” But every time I found myself imagining a future, I was met with the same answer: they weren’t looking for anything serious. I walked away. I already fell for potential once — I promised to keep myself from doing it again.

Potential does not promise reality.

Is it hard? Yes and the chemistry is intoxicating. It’s easy to mistake effortless conversation, shared interests, and late-night phone calls for compatibility. It’s easy to believe that if two people connect this naturally, love will eventually follow. Unfortunately chemistry isn’t commitment. Potential isn’t partnership — and romance? As beautiful as it is, it’ll never be love.

Sometimes I catch myself getting frustrated while reading a rom-com because the characters are standing in their own way. They love each other, but they’re afraid. Afraid of commitment. Afraid of vulnerability. Afraid of choosing someone completely.

Then I close the book and remember that fiction isn’t all that different from real life. The difference is that in novels, they usually turn the page and choose each other. In reality, not everyone does.

What Nikki said wasn’t just memorable, but it set my heart on fire. Love is not the same as romance.

Romance gives me butterflies, makes me dream, and convinces me that if someone looked at me a certain way or planned the perfect date, then everything else would naturally fall into place. When love will always ask for so much more. Love asks us to communicate when it’s uncomfortable, chooses each other after the excitement settles, and to learn someone over and over again as they grow into different versions of themselves.

To stay curious and intentional. To stay.

I don’t think I’ve fallen in love very many times. I’ve fallen for possibility and chemistry. I’ve fallen for the version of someone I imagined they could become. But love? Love requires two people making the same choice. Maybe that’s why I don’t chase romance the way I used to.

I still want flowers, handwritten notes, and someone to tell me I look beautiful before we walk out the door. I still want to be drunk in love. But now I know those things aren’t love by themselves. They’re invitations. Love is what happens after the date ends. After the butterflies settle. After the credits roll.

And maybe that’s the kind of story I’ve been searching for all along.

M left a note 💌 ~

I’ve wanted to write about love for a long time, but not in the way we usually talk about it. This isn’t a recap of Love Island or a ranking of couples—it’s a reflection on what the show revealed about the way many of us date today. Watching Aniya and Carl made me question why effort has become so surprising and why asking to be loved intentionally is so often mistaken for asking for too much. If this essay resonates with you, I’d love to know: when did you realize modern dating looked different from the version of love you grew up believing in?

Here’s to another installment to All I Ever Wanted Was Love.

I think I’ve already said this, but I’ve always idolized love. I love love. I want to be drunk in love, just like how they’d presented in the vast amount of media. Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty and their true love’s kiss. Watching She’s All That and being swept off my feet because someone can really be obsessed with every part of me. Listening to Beyonce sing “Drunk in Love” and “Love on Top,” convinced me that one day I’ll truly be loved intentionally the way I always wanted. The first book I read leisurely was called “The Fill-in Boyfriend.” I think that’ll explain enough.

Then I grew up. I started looking around, and it felt like my generation truly doesn’t believe in love the way I do. Everyone wants to be loosely associated. No labels. No expectations. Just “seeing where things go.” So imagine entering the dating scene, delusional as I am, and hoping to just find the one — or at least someone willing to try. Instead, I kept hearing the same lines.

“Don’t catch feelings.”

“We’re just vibing.”

“I’m not ready for a relationship.” Which, by the way, still hurts to hear. Maybe because I personally went through six months of a situationship just to hear that.

I got vulnerable. I cried in this person’s arms. I shared parts of myself that I don’t share easily. I met their family. Their friends. You know, once meeting the important people around them, I thought maybe things are okay. But then we talked — and I remember this like it was yesterday. I’m in tears trying to explain how I felt and what they meant to me. They scrunched their face and asked me,

“Why is a label so important?” Honestly, I was speechless. Not because I didn’t have an answer but more that I couldn’t understand why wanting clarity had suddenly become unreasonable. And it wasn’t just him.

I move on, meeting new people, and hearing the different versions of the same thing. No labels. No expectations. Just “seeing where things go.” It was something I really could not wrap my head around. Eventually I started to wonder if I was asking for too much. After I got my heart stomped on, I couldn’t help but blame myself instead of looking at the culture around me.

The internet is flooded with people saying how they want this or love it if their partner did that. But when we’re really faced with the idea of a person and doing what it takes to be connected, I think everyone is just terrified. We grew up consuming the same fairy tales, the same rom-coms, the same love songs. We all learned what intentional love looked like. Somewhere along the way, though, vulnerability started feeling riskier than emotional distance. We learned how to protect ourselves by pretending we don’t care as much as we actually do.

My point is — gen Z isn’t against love. People have learned to protect themselves by pretending they don’t. I believe that’s why this last season of Love Island caught my attention and it is probably the realist representation of the modern dating scene. It wasn’t just reality television, but a mirror. Nearly every couple reflected a different version of modern dating: falling for potential instead of reality, confusing exclusivity with commitment, fearing vulnerability, or settling because starting over feels harder than staying where you are.

And I could go into the deepest analysis of everyone, but that’s not the most important part. I could not stop thinking about Aniya and Carl.

Early in the season, Aniya was labeled as too much once she expressed her expectations and ideals. They said she was high maintenance. Her standards were unrealistic. Too demanding. As I listened to her describe the kind of relationship she wanted, I didn’t hear someone asking for perfection. I heard someone asking to be loved intentionally. And I felt seen. I’ve spent hours wondering whether my own expectations were unreasonable simply because no one had been willing to meet them.

Well, except Carl. He remembered what Aniya valued. He planned the date around her. He demonstrated effort instead of talking about it. Aniya wasn’t asking for too much and what Carl did wasn’t impossible. All he did was pay attention, listened, and followed through.

And was I obsessed with their final date? Absolutely. Watching their final date wasn’t magical because it was extravagant. It was magical because it was thoughtful. It proved that intentionality isn’t some impossible standard reserved for fairy tales. It’s a choice.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve started treating effort as extraordinary when it should be ordinary. The idea of a woman knowing exactly what she wants and wanting something intentional with her partner is subjugated as “too much.” Someone who communicates openly is considered intense. Someone who wants commitment is told they’re moving too fast. But why?

I’m not sure why people were surprised when Carl did exactly what she asked. It’s simple. Its simple to intentionally be expressive with someone. When did expressing your needs become more controversial than ignoring them? Watching Aniya and Carl reminded me that maybe the problem isn’t our standards. Maybe it’s how uncomfortable we’ve become with the work that healthy love asks of us.

Real love requires listening. It requires remembering. It requires vulnerability. It requires showing up, even when it’s easier to stay emotionally detached. That’s not asking for too much. That’s simply asking for someone who’s willing to try.

So to every woman who’s ever wondered whether she’s “too much” because she knows what she wants, let this be your reminder:

You’re not asking for perfection. You’re asking for intention. Love isn’t dead. We’re just living in a generation that’s forgotten that effort has always been one of love’s greatest expressions.

Please, keep being intentional and express what you want.

M left a note 💌 …

Juneteenth has always felt like a day of reflection for me. While writing this essay, I found myself thinking about the stories we inherit — not just from history books, but from movies, classrooms, family expectations, and the media we consume. Black trauma deserves remembrance, but I also believe Black joy deserves celebration. This piece is a reflection on both.

Happy Juneteenth. May we remember the past, honor the present, and continue imagining a future where Black stories are allowed to be as expansive as the people who live them.

Dear Juneteenth,

Thank you for another year. Thank you for the cookouts, the music, the red drinks, the family reunions, the history lessons and the annual reminder that freedom in America arrived late for people who look like me. Allowing another space, date, time and observance of recognition.

Every year we gather (as we should) to remember. We remember the lives stolen, the families separated, the labor extracted and the systems that continue to shape our lives today. A country built from the blood, sweat and tears of the slaves forced upon its land — and till this day, there are constant reminders of the trauma. Yes, we should remember obviously because we don’t want history to repeat itself.

We continue teaching Black trauma — and we should. But can we also be remembered for something else? Growing up during the early 2000s, it felt like every lesson about Blackness came attached to suffering and I didn’t get to see genuine Black joy. Slavery, segregation, lynchings police brutality — and the jokes were based on a lot of stereotypes. Our curves and big nose. Our kinky hair. The color of our skin…

The stories were important, but after a while I started to wonder if Black people were allowed to exist anywhere outside of survival. Films like Fruitvale Station, When They See Us, and 12 Years a Slave taught necessary lessons, but they also reinforced a pattern I couldn’t ignore. Why did so many Black stories begin and end with our suffering?

I wanted to laugh and feel good during the whole movie. I didn’t want to feel uncomfortable because the biggest problem that a black character had to go through was surrounding their identity as an African American. It’s like when I’m at work and a customer asks me about my day, my response is “same shit, different day” with a forced smile.

Stereotypes and expectations didn’t just show up on the screen or in lessons in school. It never hit me that I’d have to face them by myself, too.

I grew up really tom-boyish. I don’t blame the fact that my dad was around me more than my mom the first five years of my life and how I just ended up gravitating towards him more because I couldn’t get comfortable with my mom. I blame the strong black women troupe. My mom is a very strong black woman and in my eyes, I had to live up to that. I was scared to cry in front of her because I didn’t want her to judge or get mad at me. I didn’t know how to express myself to her. I internalized everything. The ideal strong Black woman taught me that I couldn’t rely on anyone and that family is always there…but that doesn’t make them that reliable either. Because my skin is a shade darker, I have to be strong all on my own.

I grew up trying to embody the Strong Black Woman when all I wanted was to watch Black girls fall in love, make mistakes, chase dreams, and live ordinary lives. The image of the black woman has been commodified and sold as tall, swole, resting bitch faced, selfish and resilient. What I see is a girl with generational trauma forced upon her. A girl who lost smile and does a small forced one for appearances. A girl with personal image issues and was just constantly exhausted.

I saw myself. I saw a little girl who was expected to radiate strength, but had to earn her softness.

Everyone responds to trauma differently. I think that’s what pushed me into an entertainment focused field for my college major. Junior year of highschool, I really sat with myself and thought about what I wanted to do when I grew up. I love movies and shows — and just being entertained. I decided that I will create stories that change perspectives. I can show the possibilities for Blackness. There can be crazy adventures, fantastic love stories, and whimsical comedies. I want Black Characters whose biggest challenge wasn’t proving their humanity. I want something as simple as the idea of existing. Worlds where people of color can be complicated, joyful, messy, creative, heartbroken, funny, ambitious and loved.

Because no one deserves to be remembered only for what happened to them. Thank you for another year of remembrance. A time to reflect on not just the pain, but the art, music, creativity, tenderness, joy, laughter, and possibilities. Freedom is being allowed to imagine yourself beyond survival and we can never forget our humanity.

With love,

Another African American

M left a note 💌 ~

Here’s a piece in part of my ongoing series A Girl in a Film Bro’s World, where I explore cinema through my perspective as a Black femme film lover navigating film culture, pretentious cinephiles, and the ever-growing obsession with what counts as “real cinema.”

I Love Boosters recently came out and reactions have been… intense. People are literally walking out of theaters, and the main response seems to be: what the actual fuck is happening?

It couldn’t have been that bad. It couldn’t possibly be that stomach-clutching, gag-worthy, “I need to leave immediately” type of bad. So naturally, before going to watch her, I decided I needed to sit down with her older brother first: Sorry to Bother You, also directed by Boots Riley.

Finishing the movie, my first thought was simple: What the fuck did I just watch?

And honestly? I loved every second of it.

At first glance, the film feels like a chaotic workplace comedy on steroids. But underneath all the humor, surrealism, and genuinely insane plot twists is something much darker. Yes, the movie touches on race and even lightly references the trauma of slavery through jokes and imagery, but that is not the film’s main focus. Riley is far more interested in class infrastructure, labor exploitation, and the ways capitalism mutates people into products.

Everyone in this movie is exhausted. Workers spend all day laboring only to barely afford rent, while corporations continue profiting from desperation. And Riley presents all of this through complete absurdity.

The reveal of the boss’s plans? Absurd.

Advanced scientific experimentation on workers? Absurd.

Horse people — yes, there’s more absurdity!

The escalation of everything happening onscreen becomes so ridiculous that you almost stop processing it as satire — until you realize that’s exactly the point.

Boots Riley uses absurdity to expose reality. The film is uncomfortable because it’s supposed to be uncomfortable. Discomfort becomes a signal that something is deeply wrong. Something is wrong with classism. Something is wrong with labor systems that consume workers until they barely recognize themselves anymore. And what makes the film hit even harder is how easy it is to see ourselves inside of it.

Even the now-iconic “white voice” isn’t just a stereotypical joke. It’s survival. It’s professionalism as performance. It’s the version of yourself capitalism rewards because it feels safe, digestible, non-threatening.

And that’s exactly why Boots Riley feels so important to modern film culture. His films completely reject the idea that political or “serious” cinema has to be quiet, polished, emotionally detached, or painfully realistic in order to be intelligent. In film spaces dominated by men who worship hyper-masculine realism and aesthetic suffering as the peak of artistry, Riley chooses chaos instead. Humor. Surrealism. Discomfort. Black absurdity.

What makes his work even more refreshing is that Riley allows Black storytelling to exist outside the limits film culture usually places on it. Black filmmakers are so often expected to create stories rooted in realism, trauma, or historical suffering in order to be taken seriously. But Riley refuses to shrink his ideas into something digestible. His films are weird, excessive, political, funny, unsettling, and deeply human all at once.

And maybe that’s why audiences walk out. Not because the films are “bad,” but because they refuse passive viewing. The discomfort is intentional. Riley keeps escalating the absurdity until the audience is forced to confront how absurd capitalism, labor exploitation, and performance already are in real life.

Film Bros love to act like the cinematic canon is complete, as if innovation stopped decades ago with the same recycled list of directors and films. But Riley’s work proves cinema can still evolve. It can still surprise people. It can still feel dangerous.

You don’t just watch a Boots Riley film. You survive it. Go watch I Love Boosters.

M left a note 💌…

Changing up my listed topics to write about thoughts that have been drowning me…not to bring politics back into your timeline, but I cannot stay silent right now.

I never thought there was anything wrong with my skin once upon a time. It was just skin.

I watched movies and television shows with white, tan, brown, yellow people, and it never changed the way I understood the story. Everyone still laughed, cried, fell in love, fought with their parents, survived heartbreak, and lived ordinary lives. Humanity always felt bigger than race to me.

So naturally, I assumed mine was too. I never thought we were that different—not until I got older. Not until the world made sure I understood otherwise. I was sixteen—turning seventeen—when I realized the history I learned in school wasn’t just history. It was still alive, still breathing and still happening in real time.

Trayvon Martin died right before I turned ten, and the founding of Black Lives Matter happened the following summer. But it wasn’t until I was in high school that I truly understood what it meant to move through the world in Black skin.

My mind jumps to 2020. Lockdown started that March. Everyone was scared. Hospitals became overcrowded. Daily death tolls continued climbing higher and higher while the world sat frozen inside their homes trying to make sense of it all. And while the world shut down physically, everyone online became louder. We were all rotting in bed, doom scrolling, absorbing tragedy through our phones like it had become part of the routine. That’s when I came across the video.

A Black man pinned to the ground beneath the knee of someone sworn to protect him. A grown man crying out for his mother while people stood around recording. Tell me you remember George Floyd’s name. Because I do.

I remember the outrage that followed too. The protests. The marches. The anger that poured out into the streets because people were tired of watching Black death become normal. And then I started realizing how many names already existed before his.

Breonna Taylor.
Sandra Bland.
Tamir Rice.
Ahmaud Arbery.
Elijah McClain.

Some were adults. Some were children. Some were sleeping in their homes. Some were walking down the street. Some were simply existing. And those were only the names the media cared enough to repeat. That realization sat with me the longest—because if these are only the stories we know, what happens to the ones we don’t?

The Black girls who go missing and never become national news. The families grieving quietly without cameras pointed at them. The people who looked like me whose pain was never considered important enough to trend.

That’s why I can never take the question “Why are you making this about race?” seriously.

And I remember thinking: How could I not?

Because suddenly I became aware of my skin in a way I never had before. Not biologically, but the heaviness from society, politics and history. I started realizing that the world saw my skin before it saw me. Before my personality and my intentions. My softness. My intelligence.
Before my humanity.

And once I realized that, I couldn’t unsee it. I noticed it in the way Black children were treated as older and less innocent. In the way Black victims had to become “perfect” before people believed they deserved empathy. In the way our culture could be consumed so easily while our lives were still debated.

I noticed how many people who looked like me had already been wronged long before I was old enough to understand what was happening.

The televised names.
The forgotten names.
The people reduced to hashtags.
The people who never even got that much attention.

And maybe that’s the strangest part of racial awareness. Nothing about my skin changed. The world simply forced me to realize what it had already decided my skin meant.

So they’ll ask “Why are you making this about race?” When I am literally just trying to be heard.

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M left a note 💌 ~

It’s been a minute. I didn’t plan to be gone this long, but life has a way of pulling you inward before it lets you speak again. These past few months weren’t quiet—they were heavy, confusing, but necessary. This piece isn’t just a return but a checkpoint and reflection. Maybe even a reintroduction. If you’re still here, thank you. And if you’re new—welcome :)

We’re starting again, but this time, I’m doing it differently. Here’s to another installment to All I Ever Wanted Was Love.

It has been about seven—going on eight months since I last expressed myself in a way I thought was nurturing my inner artist. I mean isn’t that why we have hobbies? Just stick with me for a moment.

Do you know who Mariyah is?

You’re wrong if you said yes. I know my username says Mariyah C. Harvey and it is technically my name, but that’s not what the question is asking. That’s who I am…or maybe who I’m trying to become. For a long time, I called myself an aspiring writer. Which sounds kind of cute in a “freshly graduated college and still have hope with job hunting” type of way, but if I’m being honest, it was just fear dressed up nicely. Because how do you ever become something if you keep placing it just out of reach? If I don’t believe I’m a writer now, when will I? No one else is going to believe in me before I do.

I think about artists like Doechii all the time. Not just the version of her people know now, but the music, the aesthetic, the “Swamp Princess.” I’m talking about Jaylah Ji’mya Hickmon, the chronically online quirky expressionist who posted random, slightly chaotic, deeply creative videos online. The one building something before anyone was watching closely. Have you actually watched her? Like, really watched her? Because I have. And what I see isn’t just talent, it’s commitment. It’s someone who decided who she was going to be and kept showing up as that version of herself until the world caught up.

And that makes me ask a harder question: Do you know Me? Or do you know Marvey?

Marvey is easier to explain. She was born somewhere in middle school and didn’t fully come into herself until my third year of college. She’s soft, creative, and a little chaotic. She loves green and maybe a little bit of purple. She throws herself into the things she loves with her whole heart. Even when she was struggling with depression, anxiety, and the quiet kind of heaviness, she still showed up. Marvey still created and she still shined.

People love Marvey. I’ve always loved Marvey. Sometimes I still do, but she’s not around as much anymore and it’s not because she disappeared. I think it’s because I’m outgrowing her.

Or maybe… I’m finally meeting myself.

Because the truth is, for the past 23 years, I’ve been trying on identities like outfits. Becoming what I thought was correct. What I thought would make me easier to understand…easier to love. “Mask” feels like a dramatic word, but it fits.

So now I’m left with this question: Who is Mariyah when she’s not performing? Who is she when no one is watching, when there’s nothing to prove, when she’s not hiding behind a version of herself that already makes sense?

I don’t fully have the answer yet, but before I could even begin to figure that out, I burned out.

And I don’t mean the cute, Instagram version of burnout where you light a candle, take a day off, and call it self-care. I mean the kind that creeps in quietly. The kind that disguises itself as productivity, as discipline, as “I’m just trying to get my life together.”

So I went on YouTube and watched how influencers were able to “reset” their lives. I tried to follow along. I went to the gym. I poured myself into my 9 to 5, even picking up overtime when I could—which, to be fair, wasn’t all bad when I got nationally certified in the field. I crocheted, but only for commissions. Then I shut everything down just to focus on Christmas gifts. I attempted 75 Hard. I journaled. I went to therapy. I did everything you’re supposed to do when you’re trying to “get your life together.”

And somehow, it all became too much.

Not because any of those things were bad, but because I was doing them like tasks on a checklist instead of choices. Like if I just stacked enough “good habits” on top of each other, I would wake up one day and feel like a completely different person.

But I didn’t. I just felt tired.

Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. Tired in a way that made even the things I loved feel like obligations. Tired in a way that made me question if I was actually healing…or just performing what healing is supposed to look like. I wasn’t becoming Mariyah. I was just building another version of Marvey that looked more put together.

And I think that’s when it finally clicked. The problem wasn’t that I wasn’t doing enough. It was that I was doing too much of everything except actually listening to myself. So I stopped. Not in a dramatic, life-altering way. I didn’t quit my job or disappear off the grid (sure wish I did). I just… slowed down. I stopped trying to optimize every part of my life. I stopped treating myself like a project that needed constant fixing. I let things be quieter.

The gym wasn’t a requirement anymore. It became something I could return to when I wanted to feel good in my body, not when I felt guilty or felt like an obligation. Writing wasn’t something I forced out of myself. It became something I had to release and allow it to spill out of me. Even rest started to feel like rest again, not something I had to earn.

And for the first time in a while, I felt balanced. I felt calm and okay and…free. I could finally breathe. I did not have to be perfect. I wasn’t “healed” and I did not suddenly transform into this new, fully realized version of myself.

I found balance…

I started paying attention to what actually made me feel like me. Not the version of me that looks good on paper or the version that shrinks so people understand her easily. Just the quiet, everyday version. The one who creates because she wants to, rests without explaining herself and doesn’t need to prove that she’s becoming something because she already is.

I think that’s the real reset. The decision to stop performing your life and to start living it.

I also forgot to mention the part where I started pouring back into myself. It was different than how it was before—structured, scheduled, performative but slowly. Intentionally. I started leaning into my femininity again. Not the version of it that looks good online, but the quiet kind. The kind that feels soft, intuitive, grounded. The kind that lets me rest without guilt and move without forcing. At the same time, I started paying attention to my spirituality. Not in a rigid way where I had to remember everything or things had to be done one way, but in a way that made me feel connected to myself, to something bigger, to the idea that maybe I’m not as lost as I think I am.

And then there was my mind. I had to sit with it. Relearn it. Rewire it. Because for so long, I was thinking in survival mode. Reacting instead of choosing and becoming instead of being.

I found myself inspired by Octavia Butler and the way she wrote about who she wanted to become as if she already was. There’s something powerful about that. About speaking your life into existence before it fully arrives. So I started asking myself different questions…

Not “what’s wrong with me?”

But “who am I becoming?”

And then eventually…Who am I?

Not the version shaped by expectations.

Not the version built out of survival.

Not even the version I performed when I thought I had it all together. Just me.

And maybe I don’t have a clean, finished answer yet. But I think that’s the point because for the first time, I’m not rushing to define myself into something digestible. I’m allowing myself to unfold and exist in real time. To become without forcing the outcome. I realized I wanted to do something much bigger than myself. Yes, again!

But this time, it felt different. It feels as if I don’t do it—if I don’t actually show up for the life I keep imagining, then what does any of this become? Just another version of me thinking about who I could be instead of actually being her?

I think this is what people mean when they say, “come back to yourself.”

Because I most certainly felt lost. I got my heart broken and lost my direction. I graduated college and stepped into a life I thought I was supposed to just be in. I started working full time and for a while, I hated it. Not just the job, but the feeling of waking up every day and not recognizing the life I was building.

This became an exhausting cycle. Work. Exhaustion. Disconnection. With a little bit of emotional experimentation in between—trying to figure out what I felt, what I wanted, who I was supposed to be now. But somehow, all of it brought me back here. Back to my passions, to creating and to the version of me that doesn’t need to force it. I never thought of being perfect, but more of a “better” version in the way from before. Just… a more honest one? A version of me that feels brighter not because she’s doing more, but because she’s finally aligned with herself.

So who am I? I’m someone in the process of choosing herself—on purpose, this time. All I ever wanted was love, but that does not mean I have to perform.

Editor’s Note 💌

This is part of my series All I Ever Wanted Was Love, where I write about the messy lessons, heartbreaks, and soft revelations that shaped me in my twenties. Today’s essay goes back to a flat tire, a mechanic shop, and the boy I thought was love. Looking back, it wasn’t just about him — it was about what I had to learn about myself.

During my school breaks, I became this crazy workaholic. I’d pick up shifts left and right because you know, I need money. I’m a full time scholarship student who lives on campus and also supports herself. Not saying that my parents didn’t, I was and still am just hyper independent.

I had to drive to the mail room on campus during my break at work. It was spring break so I didn’t think I’d get an email that my package was ready, but I did. It was a Friday and the mail room isn’t open on the weekend. I didn’t really need the package but I still wanted to get it out the way so I went and I got a flat tire.

A flat tire that led me to cry by myself at Mavis discount tire.

A day where everything felt it was going to be fine. I was supposed to have a good day at work. I was supposed to go eat out with my friends at a Korean BBQ restaurant. I didn’t get to. I just wanted to go home and cry my eyes out. I know I looked a mess at that damn mechanic. Imagine getting a flag tire and asking your ex to come help you.

These thoughts come to me sometimes and it makes me feel like I haven’t fully let go of him. The guy that I thought was my first genuine love who realistically didn’t want me. I couldn’t get that in my head and I kept hurting myself.

At the time, he was on campus and was the closest person to me that I could call. He had a tire pump and I thought that was my last resort before getting a tow truck and having to pay hundreds of dollars on a replacement tire. It’s a core memory because when I told my mom, she told me that I shouldn’t have done that. Or maybe it was more of her asking me why. Why let the man who hurt me, help me. Letting him be my “friend.”

I called the tow truck. He waited with me. I’m not sure why. At this point I wanted him to leave because now I’m growing this gnawing feeling to try to fix things. I never knew when to stop. I never understood what was happening and that was probably because I was just in denial.

I opened my mouth, mistake #2. It’s so stupid that I scoff at myself. I don’t even remember what I said. All I remember is his face getting all screwed up as he just became exasperated saying that he just doesn’t want a relationship right now. It recently started to bother me when he would make a face like that. Last time he did that I can clearly remember, I asked if he still liked me. Clearly I was just asking for reassurance and I didn’t know how to communicate that at the time. He screwed up his face and asked me “why would I say that?”

Silence. I went to the bathroom and cried.

So what do you think I did now? I got quiet. I sat on the ledge by my car and just shrunk into myself as the tears started to form again. He thought I was crying about my car, but I also get the feeling he knew why I was crying. He drove me to the tire shop and he started playing SZA. I asked him, “are you playing this because I’m here??”

I was upset. A ball full of emotion. He immediately changed it. Till this day I think it’s stupid, but it’s almost 4 am on a Tuesday morning, two days after the solar eclipse. This happened about a year and half ago. It makes me wonder if I’m different or any stronger now?

Today I have about 16 tattoos. One facial piercing and about three piercings on each ear. I get my lashes, hair and nails done. I work full time. I graduated with two degrees. I have a small business and I find ways to thrive as a creative. I am truly thriving, but nights like this when I get a wave of nostalgia, I wonder what he’s doing.

A year and a half ago, I was really struggling. I was mentally unwell and sad. I decided to distract myself and continued to top my plate off with responsibilities one after the other. I lived on campus at the time because I didn’t like living at home. I stopped doing my hair and always wore my bonnet. I always wore sweatpants. I struggled taking care of myself, yet this wasn’t the worst of it. I had my roommates who were there for me on the days and nights I couldn’t stop crying or couldn’t eat. I had my friends who listened, but I still tried to keep everything in.

How long does it take to fix yourself after getting dropped and being shattered to pieces? I didn’t know what to do or where to start. I just felt pain and all I could do was cry. That was the entirety of my summer. Crying in my car after my shifts. Crying at work during my shifts. Calling out to just rot in bed. Feeling uncomfortable driving in the area I worked because he lives in that town. Dreading that fact that I’ll have to go back to campus by myself this time and I might bump into him. I felt so….broken. It’s quite sad actually.

Welcome to the 2020s, where “situationships” are a thing and relationships aren’t. My solid introduction to my personal 20s. Learning that he was a lesson and he won’t be the only one. Learning that I have inner trauma that allows self sabotage and other loud red flags. Learning to get a therapist. Learning that I can confide in the people close to me and they won’t find me annoying. Learning that I’ll always be here for me.

All I ever wanted was love…but now I don’t know. I’m not wavering over the dumb fool I talked about a year and a half ago. I dated around. I tried. I enjoyed certain times and others I didn’t. Trial and error, but I started to pay attention to the love I have. That was my first step in healing.

Share Marvey’s Random Thoughts

Imagine walking into your first class of your college career, striving to get the BFA in film and media and becoming that girl boss in the field and seeing no one that looks like you. I am an African American woman. A woman. A person of color. Sometimes it would be just about a four to one ratio from men to women. Not bad right? Okay, but then it's about a six to one ratio for the run-of-the-mill white person to a person of color. It wasn’t just numbers — it was the reminder that my perspective, my stories, my very presence, weren’t the default in rooms like this. And that mattered.

Because the film industry has its own ecosystem filled with all types of cinephiles and film nerds in the world of film and media. Sometimes it feels like the real king of the jungle are the creatures I call Film Bros.

What is a film bro? I’m pretty sure everyone who gets it, gets it. So, hilariously, this is really for the people who don't understand that yes, you are a film bro. The person in question (if you’re questioning yourself, then yes you) has quite literally the most shallow knowledge, one-note taste in cinema. Film Bros use the word “cinephile” when talking about themselves, not just on paper but in conversation, as they continue to annoyingly bring up media that is crowded with toxic masculinity, limited diversity, characters, perspectives and mindsets. They sneer at chick flicks, dismiss animation as “kid stuff,” and look down on anything not made by Scorsese or Tarantino. So, just a fun little example, if I were to turn around and say that Scott Pilgrim vs. the World is one of the best films of its time (an actual masterpiece, fight me), they’ll roll their eyes before you finish your sentence.

If I have another conversation with some dude who thinks animation is beneath him, I think I might scream. Because Film Bros only believe that all the greats and classics were made by “the best directors of all time,” they won’t accept defeat. For them, the canon is closed, the debate is over, and culture isn’t allowed to evolve.

If I was crazy, then yes I’d agree, but I am a female with great quality and taste who knows and understands that everything is constantly growing and changing. We have new amazing directors like Bong Joon Ho, director of Mickey 17 and Parasite, Greta Gerwig, director of Barbie and Lady Bird, and Ryan Coogler, director of Sinners. On the other hand, some choices like Joker and The Wolf of Wall Street. These are all forms of classics and classics evolve, change and grow. Film Bros will not accept most new and modern movies. They’d slow you down and bring up A Clockwork Orange. I couldn’t sit through the few minutes of the movie to the point I didn't even know when I turned it off. It’s not worth the sanity.

What counts as a classic shift. Classics evolve, change and grow. These films prove that storytelling gets richer when more voices are in the room. Film Bros would rather grumble than admit it, but the truth is, they’re afraid of losing control over a conversation they’ve monopolized for decades.

And me? I’m tired of letting them control it.

This series, A Girl in a Film Bro’s World, is my way of pushing back — of talking about film from my perspective as a Black femme woman who’s not here to bow down to anyone’s “Top 10 Movies of All Time” Letterboxd list. I want to celebrate the directors, the stories, the shifts in culture that matter — not the ones that keep us stuck.

So, welcome. Pull up a chair. The projector’s rolling. Let’s talk film — and let’s make sure the Film Bros don’t get the last word.

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Welcome back to All I Ever Wanted Was Love, where we explore and reflect romance, relationships and the gaping hole in my chest. This is the kind of love I’ve been too slow to offer myself. This is about rest, patience and learning how to soften when everything in me wants to keep pushing.

It’s been weeks since I cried my eyes out over a guy. Days since I came back from vacation — which, to be honest, I spent mostly stressing about what to write. What would be authentic? What would actually feel like me?

I thought I had a solid piece… maybe. But after seeing what I thought to be the finished piece, it’s never went up. I wrote another short blurb about feeling unhinged thanks to my anxious attachment style, and then I thought, “Is this too vulnerable?” The real question was: do I want to air out my life on the internet? But isn’t that the point of having finstas and close friends? Isn’t the point of writing to get to the stuff that’s actually real?

I felt stuck. Unmotivated. Silent.

Now I’m home. Comfortable. Maybe after this vacation, I’ll finally be productive. Maybe I’ll write more. Maybe I’ll feel inspired again.

I was wrong. I was wrong because I spent my whole vacation stressing.
Wrong because I’ve spent my first two months post-grad stressing.
Wrong because — if we’re being honest — I’ve always been stressing.

I am a being full of anxiety. I’m always trying to be prepared. I overthink everything. I can’t shut off my brain — or at least, that’s what I believed. I believed I couldn’t just sit with my lack of motivation. I believed if I didn’t “fix it,” I was lazy.

There’s always something on my to-do list: A crochet project. Prepping for a market. Setting up my monthly budget. Writing. Reading. Dancing. Partying. Shopping. Conventions. Repeat. It doesn’t stop. But I realized: I can stop it. I can choose one thing, and one thing only.

Self-care.

The thing is — I’ve been treating self-care like a checklist. Like a chore. Not like something I actually want to indulge in. I thought hanging with my friends was self-care. But it’s not. At least, not right now. Not after months of trying to rebuild myself after getting my heart broken over a year ago.

I’ve always rejected the idea of being “slow.”
My therapist says I need to lean into it.
My forever friend from college taught me to speak more softly to myself.
My tarot readings keep pulling cards about patience.
And still, I thought getting my nails done, tattoos, piercings, new clothes, and a night out with my girls was self-care.

I thought spending money on myself was the fix. But I was wrong again.

I never thought taking a nap after work and just lying in bed was productive.
I never thought laying down to just exist was a way to get rejuvenated.
I never thought that playing slow, haunting songs with heavy vocals would make me feel like everything was actually going to be okay.

Romanticizing the slowdown never seemed like a path worth walking — until now.

Today, after standing on my feet for ten hours in a pharmacy that functions more like a drive-thru, I drove home. I didn’t turn off my music. I didn’t skip any songs. I sang along. I didn’t feel dread about my night routine. I didn’t force myself to read 30 minutes or do a writing sprint. I wasn’t worried about content, about posts, about job searches.

And when I saw a text from my forever friend roll through, I smiled.

And when I smiled, I felt warm — a feeling I haven’t felt often lately.

We’re midway through the week. A week I gave myself permission to do nothing.
To stop trying.
To not force myself into movement just to avoid the silence.
To feel okay in the stillness.

This is a week of mindful rest — not laziness, not failure — because I’m trying my best to become someone who loves herself softly. Slowly.

This is a week of not feeling lonely.

I’m scared for the month of August.

July was hard — like emotionally cracked open and spiraling hard — and I don’t want that again. I didn’t read. I couldn’t write. Sometimes, it was just hard to breath. Do you get what I mean? It was more than being overwhelmed, like there was always something more…something else. A never ending fight that I kept losing to myself. I don’t want to lose myself again. I don’t want to feel out of control or like I’m slipping through the cracks in my own life.

And now, here we are. The last stretch of summer. And honestly? It feels like Sunday. August is the Sunday of summer. It’s not the start of the storm — it’s the air that shifts before it hits. The quiet. The anticipatory dread. The too-sweet light.

Right now, I’m still at my pharmacy job. I still get rejected. I’m still financially struggling. Nothing major has changed except the weather and the calendar — but it feels like everything is on the verge of change. And it’s that almost that makes me anxious. Like Sunday.

Sunday is not my reset day.

I usually work until 6 p.m., then spend the rest of the night spiraling into “how do I make this week better?” mode. I try to plan — even though I know 95% of those plans won’t go through. I always have backup ideas. I follow the wind. I’m impulsive. I adapt. But it catches up with me midweek, when I look around and realize I’ve made barely any progress.

Do I hate Sundays? No. I actually think I’d love them — if I didn’t feel so deeply unhappy with everything else right now.

Before I went on vacation, I told myself I was going to come back refreshed, ready to fight my depression and anxiety. That I’d feel new. But here I am, eating breakfast with my family in Hawaiʻi… and still, I feel it. The Sunday dread. That creeping anxiety. The soft panic that sets in before the week begins.

Maybe I need to reframe this. Maybe August — this strange, sticky, glowing, heartbreaking month — is also a mirror. Maybe it’s not just dread. Maybe it’s reflection. Maybe it’s the moment before the shift. So: cheers.

Cheers to the end of a hot, overwhelming summer.
Cheers to surviving post-grad imposter syndrome, even when you feel like you’re faking it every day.
Cheers to feeling it all — even when it hurts.

August is the Sunday of summer. Take a deep breath with me.

Hold my hand.
Don’t run from the feelings.
Lay with them.
Eat them.
Let them transform you.

TRIGGER WARNING! This post discusses themes of childhood sexual abuse, trauma, dissociation, and mental illness. Please take care while reading, and pause if you need to. You know yourself best.

I’m not a clinician — just a person watching, researching, and reflecting with care. This piece is grounded in personal response, emotional reaction, and the desire to hold space for stories that are often mishandled or ignored.

If you're looking for support, you are not alone. You can reach out to RAINN (1-800-656-4673), NAMI, or local mental health resources in your area.

🎭 The Show: A Gag and a Gut Punch

The Crowded Room sat me down and left me staring. I didn’t expect DID to be presented the way it was, and honestly? I thought it was done in a really smart, unsettling, and emotionally grounded way — especially how everything traces back to the place that shaped Danny’s entire fractured identity: the moment he was assaulted.

That trauma was the core from which everything else spiraled.

Danny (played by Tom Holland) is assaulted by his stepfather — a complete monster of a man — but it didn’t start there. He was previously assaulted by his biological father too. And yes, his mother knew. And no, she didn’t protect him.

They even brought her to the stand. And she testified — under oath — that Danny was not assaulted.
I had to pause the episode.

Danny saw her as his anchor in all the madness, his safe place. And then she destroyed him. That betrayal hit so hard it made my stomach flip. Like watching someone take a candle and blow it out mid-prayer.

🧠 The Alters: A Crowded Room, Literally

Danny has alters — six of them that we see. But we don’t know that at first. The brilliance of the show is that we meet them as people — characters who show up right when he needs them.

• Ariana, the girl who convinces him to stop her abuser.

• Yitzhak, the protective figure who offers a home.

• Jonny and Mike, his hype men and confidantes.

• Jack, the man he runs to in London when things fall apart.

• And Adam, the twin brother who died but still somehow lives in him.

Each of them fills a role Danny can’t carry on his own. And that’s the point. DID isn’t dramatized here as a horror device — it’s survival. Every alter represents protection, grief, rage, or resilience he couldn’t express outwardly.

By episode four, things start to unravel — and you realize what’s been hiding in plain sight the whole time.

⚖️ The Real Story: Billy Milligan and a Precedent in U.S. Law

What most people don’t know is that The Crowded Room is loosely based on Billy Milligan, a man arrested in 1977 for a series of robberies and rapes on the campus of Ohio State University. When arrested, Milligan claimed he had no memory of committing the crimes — and psychiatric evaluations revealed something startling: he had multiple personalities (what we now call alters).

He was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, and his case became the first in U.S. history where a defendant was found not guilty by reason of insanity due to DID. His lawyers argued that his crimes were committed by alternate identities, not Milligan himself.

Billy’s story was controversial. Many viewed him as a con artist. Others saw him as a tragic result of unthinkable abuse — he had been repeatedly raped by his stepfather as a child, a fact confirmed by his sister.

His case changed the landscape of mental health and the legal system. It forced courts to confront how trauma can fragment identity and called into question whether our system could (or should) punish someone for something they weren’t fully present for. It also started decades of media debate — ethical, psychological, and cultural — about how we perceive mental illness, especially DID.

🎬 Tom Holland’s Performance: Heartbreaking and Haunted

Let’s talk about Tom Holland, because if you came expecting Spider-Man, you’ll leave spiritually wrecked.

This is the best performance I’ve ever seen from him — and also the most uncomfortable. He carries Danny with a kind of childlike ache, a quiet fury, and a vulnerability that made me want to look away. Which is exactly the point. He’s not charming here. He’s raw. Unwell. Fractured. Tired.

The way he slips between confusion, grief, and near-catatonic stares made me forget who I was watching. I believed him. I wanted to wrap him in a blanket. And I also wanted the world to stop hurting him. Holland fully steps into the haunted reality of surviving trauma — not as spectacle, but as slow unraveling.

🌀 Final Thoughts: This Show Stays With You

What The Crowded Room does so well is refuse to make Danny’s disorder the enemy. It shows how trauma shapes the mind, how survival takes different forms, and how betrayal doesn’t always come with a knife — sometimes, it comes from the people you love most, standing silently in the courtroom.

It left me mad. Sad. Fascinated. Spiraling.

And honestly? I think it’s worth watching for that reason alone.

All post will always be free. But a paid subscription is truly appreciated. Here’s to more words on awareness. Subscribe to see more.

Welcome to the first post in my little spiral series about love, loneliness, and being the kind of person who still wants something real in a world that’s gone allergic to connection. This isn’t about fear — it’s about risk, vulnerability, and sitting in the ache of wanting more when everyone else seems fine with less.

I think it was about a week ago when I saw a headline calling my generation — no, not millennials, the one after that — the “loneliest generation.” Was I surprised? Not at all. We were raised on hookup culture and "situationships," on never texting first, on being chill to the point of emotional vacancy. The idea of love — of real commitment — has gone blurry behind pride and panic. And then there’s the trauma.

I am a being built on love. I always have been. I’ve always wanted someone special — someone to pour into and be poured into. And in many ways, I have that. I am loved deeply. I have an incredible, expansive group of friends who show up for me. I have family who holds me close. I know love. I am surrounded by it.

So I should be fine, right?

But still — I have nights where the loneliness swallows me whole. Nights where I spiral in silence, not because I’m unloved, but because I’m un-partnered. Romantic love — the kind I’ve craved since I was little — doesn’t feel embarrassing to want. It just feels harder to find. Like I’m constantly putting myself out there, hoping for connection, only to be met with fear, deflection, or “I’m not ready.” Wanting love isn’t the issue. It’s the way loneliness creeps in after one too many almosts. The way it makes you wonder if everyone else just decided to stop trying — and maybe you should too.

What bothers me most is how much love was sold to me — packaged and glorified — in the media I was raised on. The Disney princesses are the obvious ones. They fall under a curse, and then some man they met once shows up to rescue them. It’s all so simple. So destined. So easy. It’s fate, apparently. Also, they’re like... sixteen.

And yet, I bought into it. I watched those stories and thought, That’ll be me. I’ll get swept off my feet, someone will find me and know I’m special, even when I’m not trying.

But the movies that felt more real to me — even as a kid — were The Princess and the Frog, Tangled, and sometimes Mulan (honorable mention). Those women weren’t looking for love. They were chasing dreams, fighting wars, surviving spells, grinding hard for something they believed in. And yet — in the process — they found someone who saw them. Not for their looks. Not for their potential. But for who they already were.

That felt real.

I think a lot about Princess Jasmine, too. Not just because she was hot (though she was — I wanted to be her so bad), but because she refused to settle. She was smart, outspoken, political. She wanted to help her people. And somehow, she found someone who not only noticed her beauty, but respected her ambition. Aladdin met her in a back alley and still saw more than a fantasy. He stayed. He grew. He chose her for who she was.

That’s the kind of love I want. The kind that meets me in the middle of my mission, not after I’ve toned myself down to be more “approachable.”

The women in those stories weren’t thinking about love — they were thinking about freedom, success, purpose. And that’s what I was raised on. That’s what I became. And yet, here I am — realizing that being self-aware, emotionally intelligent, and ambitious might actually be working against me in the dating world.

This all started because of my own experience. Nobody wants a relationship anymore. Nobody wants to commit, to show up, to hold space — unless it’s easy or sexy or temporary. And here I am, someone who grew up wishing, obsessing, hoping to be loved and chosen, now being told that’s too much.

And maybe it is.

But I don’t want to believe that. Not yet.

Subscribe to keep up with the series….or not. I have other essays you can read too.

Or, well... four.

I set a goal of at least two books a month, but June decided to throw that out the window. Apparently all I wanted to do this month was read and dissociate — and I can proudly say I devoured four whole books. Here’s what they were and how they made me feel.

📚 Daydream by Hannah Grace

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The moment I opened this book, I didn’t put it down. Not once. Our female protagonist? She’s PHAT. Pretty, hot, and definitely tempting. The male protagonist? I love him. Like… someone set me up, please. The chemistry? Off the charts. And that build-up to the first kiss?? Worth it.

We get so much emotional tension before we even get to the steamy scenes, which makes them feel earned. There were moments where I legit felt like I was in the room with them — and good God, was I gagged. It could’ve just been a fluffy romance, but it’s also a story about self-acceptance and realizing that being “different” doesn’t mean unworthy. It’s sweet, sexy, and secretly affirming. Loved it.

🧊 Rival Darling by Alexander Moody

⭐️⭐️⭐️

This one started off strong. We've got a bunch of brothers with bad reputations, but the “bad boy” image is more of a marketing scheme than real mess. The fake-dating trope is center stage here — and he’s not just faking it for image. He’s trying to win her for real.

She’s got a strict “no dating hockey players” rule thanks to a trash ex and some family trauma. So obviously, we know how that’s going to go.

I gave it 3 stars because while the chemistry was there, I wanted more. Then I remembered: oh. This is a teen read. Not a young adult one. Middle school Mariyah would’ve screamed at this ending. Grown-up Mariyah wanted just a little more bite.

💍 Bridesmaid by Chance by Meghan Quinn

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

This book was long. Like, unnecessarily long. But I’ll give it credit — it had a lot going on and was never boring. Definitely spicy, but it somehow still felt like a slow burn. Our leads (who I nicknamed Thing 1 and Thing 2 because of how unserious they were acting) spent a lot of time dancing around their feelings.

The male lead honestly would’ve driven me up the wall, but every time I wanted to write him off, the next chapter would give me his POV — and I’d soften a little. Just a little.

There were moments I looked up at my invisible sitcom camera like: “Sir. Just communicate.” That’s literally all he needed to do.

Also reminded me why I have beef with men.

🩰 Spiral by Bal Khabra

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

We ended the month strong. I picked this book up on impulse because it had a ballerina on the cover. As someone who trained in ballet and competed through high school? Immediate yes. Also: she’s a Black ballerina. And if you didn’t know by now, so am I.

The story hooked me. I could barely put it down without thinking about what would happen next.

The male protagonist is a gem. Like, emotionally intelligent, respectful, good boundaries — celibate, even. Do you know how rare that is in these books? He did freak out once and walk away (ugh, men), but then came marching back after he got his shit together. A redemption arc with accountability? I’ll take it.

The ballerina lead was stubborn and soft and everything I needed. And the whole story felt like a love letter to softness and strength — which makes it my top rec from this month.

I thought reading again would be a cute little hobby. Instead, it sent me into four emotional rollercoasters, reignited my love of storytelling, and reminded me how much I hate male leads who can’t communicate.

No regrets. But July better come with a little more gay and a little less hockey.

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I think this is where I finally expose myself and announce that I indulge in K-pop. I thought a piece about K-pop would come much much MUCH later in my Substack career, but here we are and realistically, I was quite obsessed back in 2019 through COVID. I was going to concerts left and right. Y’all — I had just started making big girl adult money, so of course my hyper-fixation really did its thing before responsibilities like food, bills, and other necessities reminded me how budgeting works.

Before I even get into what K-Pop Demon Hunters is, I just want to say: it was definitely not what I was expecting. This is coming from someone who started a K-pop dance team (shout out to Blackheartz) and got invited to see K-POP: The Musical on stage.

And I feel like I shouldn’t have to give a warning — because this is a review — but just in case: spoilers ahead. If you somehow couldn’t pick up on that and still want to be surprised, maybe go watch it first. But if you’re an avid animated movie watcher (like me), yes — keep reading.

K-Pop Demon Hunters is an animated movie that follows Huntrix, a K-pop girl group tasked with protecting Korea from a hell-adjacent demon realm. From the jump, we’re introduced to the legacy of a trio of femme fatale hunters — a legacy that Huntrix is meant to carry on by keeping the barrier between worlds intact.

They’re getting close to turning this barrier into a strong golden seal. But we find out that Rumi — who feels like the glue between the three girls — has demon patterns on her body. Yup. Rumi is half-human, half-demon. Shocker, I know. She hides this from her friends, as her caretaker warned her that emotions and secrets must be concealed. Basically, act like everything’s fine — even when it’s very much not.

Well, don’t be surprised when I say that everything was, in fact, not fine. Keeping secrets is already a huge red flag in my book, and Rumi’s starts to unravel fast. Her demon patterns begin affecting her voice. Meanwhile, a new boy group emerges — and yep, they’re demons too. Let me just say: these boys are the perfect Frankenstein blend of BTS, EXO, and ATEEZ — which is probably the main reason I decided to watch this in the first place.

There’s one scene toward the end that felt extremely close to ATEEZ’s HALA HALA era. And if you know that era? You know that dark concept lives rent-free in my brain. I actually screamed. I’m obsessed.

I included Exo solely because of one member who wears a button up that is almost a crop top and his abs just keep beaming at everyone. Pause, I didn’t even get to mention that none of the boys have real names except Jinu, who is in charge. “Abs” (yes, that’s his name) is surely cocky with every smidge of a clip we get of him. That’s Kai energy, 100%. Shirt open, cropped, half naked, stage presence on fire, radiating chaos, and sexy. It was kinda unhinged how close they got Kai’s stage presence.

Now back to Jinu — because wow. I don’t blame Rumi for falling for this awkward boy. He’s basically Jungkook from BTS but without the tattoos (though the demon patterns sort of count) and 400 years old. Then there’s Baby Saja, who reminded me of SUGA. He’s got the babyface charm, but the moment he starts rapping? That baby image disappears fast. It gave very much Boy With Luv era — sweet on the surface, savage in the verse.

Honestly, I’m kind of at a loss for words. There’s a lot to say beyond the K-pop comparisons I already made — but at its core, there’s something good here.

As we learn more about where the girls come from, you see how much they’ve grown together. They accept each other — and that’s why Rumi’s secret hurts. I wish she had told them earlier, instead of them finding out the way they did: from someone else. That kind of betrayal hits hard. If I were in their shoes, I’d wonder why Rumi didn’t trust me enough to understand her. Especially since they’ve trained and struggled together for so long, and her being “different” isn’t really that different. It’s just what’s on her skin. You get where I’m going with this, right?

There’s also a strong theme of second chances. Jinu messed up, but he owned it. He reflected, he acted, he protected. Rumi might’ve been clouded by love or delusion (or both), but she saw something good in him — and honestly, I did too. After what he did for her, then disappearing like a dramatic K-drama love interest? I believe him.

In case it wasn’t obvious: I really liked this movie. I’m a big fan of animation, but anything labeled “K-pop-themed” usually makes me cautious — it can feel forced, mainstreamed, or just straight-up cringey. But to my surprise? No cringe. Not even a wince. I even had to stop crocheting mid-row because I was so locked in. That’s rare.

K-Pop Demon Hunters is extremely niche, so it’s not something I’d recommend to a random stranger on the street. But if you’re into K-pop, animation, slightly chaotic demon lore, or just want to see BTS-coded demon boys slay a little? Yeah. You’ll probably love it.

There’s something kind of perfect about rewatching The Birdcage during Pride Month. It’s loud. It’s tender. It’s full of drag, drama, and daddy issues. But it’s also full of tension—between performance and reality, safety and spectacle, queerness and respectability.

It made me think about how much (and how little) has changed since 1996. Because behind the boas and martinis, The Birdcage isn’t just a comedy. It’s a survival manual dressed up as farce.

This isn’t just a cult classic — it’s an accidental time capsule. A glittering commentary on gender, performance, politics, and passing. And, for a movie built around dinner-party chaos, it says an awful lot about what it means to be queer in a world that keeps asking us to be palatable.

“You Look Tired”: Queer Aging, Camp, and Performance

“You look tired,” meaning “you look old.”
“You look rested,” meaning “you’ve had collagen.”

That line lives in my brain rent-free.

It’s the perfect microcosm of the film’s obsession with appearance — the way we’re always performing, especially when queer identity is tied up in beauty, survival, and control. Albert’s panic over his age, his hair, his voice, his everything isn’t just vanity — it’s vulnerability in drag.

I didn’t take queer theory, but I did take drag theory in college. There’s a lot to unpack about Albert’s performance of gender, age, and grace. What’s wild is how much of that performance still rings true now — especially in 2025, in an era where appearance is the platform.

Social media may have disrupted the idea of “perfection,” but it didn’t erase performance. If anything, it heightened it. Today, queer identity online is often expected to be authentic, visible, well-lit, and marketable. The pressure isn’t always to “pass” — it’s to prove. Prove your softness, your hotness, your realness, your worth.

So yes, Albert’s crisis still hits. Because in some ways, we’re all still just trying to curate a version of ourselves people can understand — or at least accept.

Queer Setting, Straight Problem

The world of The Birdcage is loud, flamboyant, and unapologetically queer — until Barbara’s family enters like a Fox News fever dream. Watching three cishet white men shout about abortion, porn, and same-sex marriage over breakfast is almost too on-the-nose… and somehow still relevant.

South Beach is colorful, dramatic, and alive. The Armand-Goldman household isn’t perfect, but it’s built on love and theatricality. Meanwhile, Barbara’s family is literal beige. Their “values” are repression and performance — just of a different kind.

Everyone is performing. Barbara is pretending the man she’s marrying comes from a “normal” home. Albert is—well, Albert. For me, he’s actually the least performative character in the whole film. He’s doing what he does on stage... but he’s also just being himself. Agador, poor sweet thing, is tripping over dress shoes when all he wants is to be in his crop top and short-shorts.

And then there’s the conservatives. The irony of them having to rely on drag performers to help them disguise themselves and escape from the media? Another drag act entirely.

So who’s really performing in The Birdcage — the queers, or the conservatives?

Camp, Queer Lingo, and Cultural Intelligence

“Take one ‘pirin’ and go lie down.”

These moments of queer code — the in-jokes, the offhand references, the campy one-liners — are so casually layered into The Birdcage. They’re not explained. They’re not made digestible for straight audiences. They’re for us.

Albert quoting The Red Shoes. Melting down over dinnerware. Channeling every gay uncle, mother, and Broadway diva in one breath. He’s dramatic, high-maintenance, and completely himself. And somehow, still has to “pass” to make others comfortable.

What makes The Birdcage brilliant is that it lets him be all of those things without shame. There’s no attempt to make Albert smaller. Just the constant pressure — from the outside world — to make him invisible.

Closing Thoughts: Pride, Then and Now

The Birdcage still works because it doesn’t pretend queerness is easy. It doesn’t sanitize it. It doesn’t flatter straight people.

What it does is let queer people be chaotic, messy, loving, angry, hilarious, and real. It’s a farce that knows how far we’ve had to go just to be allowed at the table — and what it costs to stay there.

It reminds me that Pride isn’t just about being seen. It’s about refusing to shrink.

And if that means quoting The Red Shoes while crying over soup spoons — so be it.

You think that’s it? Babe, there is sooooooo much more where that came from. You know what to do…

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