It was amusing to hear. And later, affirming. That someone planning for a retirement that was still several years away was going to bat for herself, her needs, and, most importantly, her desires, with no room for anything other than. And that she was doing it now. Because she had decided.

I was grateful to own the ear that was pressed against the phone as a recipient and witness to her next testimony. I was also the owner of the eyes that were rolling, the lips that were pursing, and the logical mind that was working overtime.

She recalled, from someone she had recently spoken to:

“You’ll have to get a fixer-upper in that price range.”

“The devil is a lie!”

And then to me:

“I’ve already told God what I want, and God is going to find it.”

Through all of this, what I couldn’t understand was the logistics of it all. She’s got money, a great credit score, brilliant ideas for renovation (should it come to that in old age), and her pick of the best realtors at the ready—everything the world says she needs to be successful in this pursuit. Why, then, is she denying all of it and relying solely on God? Why isn’t she using her resources?

Spoiler: She got what she asked for.

I sat with that question longer than I meant to. I wanted to hand her the practical version—work the credit score, call the realtor, stop being so woo-woo about it. But underneath the eye-rolling was something I hadn’t sat with yet: I do the same thing. Just not with houses.

I’ve relied on Him to carry me where my feet would not move. I’ve relied on Him to restore my heart for those who have wounded me deeply. Equally and inversely, I’ve relied on Him to soften the hearts of those I’ve hurt.

I’ve relied on Him in the darkest of nights and in the joyous of mornings.

Hers was a defiant kind of trust—stubborn, a little funny, dressed up in specifications and square footage. Mine has looked more like exhaustion that finally had nowhere else to look but up. Different shapes, same surrender.

And in that moment, I understood that she wasn’t foregoing any of the moving parts that would be necessary to get her into said home; she was just placing her faith higher on that list. I understood that what we actually had in common wasn’t the faith itself; it was the letting go. The moment we each decided, separately and about different things, that we couldn’t do “this” alone and stopped pretending we could.

It only takes a moment. One. And you get to decide when.

The moment when you’re annoyed with this, frustrated with that, or swearing you’d be better off if only…

The moment when you lost your cool and did or said something you’ve spent so much time regretting.

The moment your attention is on something else, even for a split second, and everything you had slips between your fingers.

The moment you decide you want to live bigger.

So, I had to ask myself:

How many moments have I missed due to impatience? How many moments have I missed due to disobedience? Lust? Anger? Fear?

Underneath every one of those is the same quiet failure: I stopped asking. I stopped believing I could ask for exactly what I wanted—the dream job, perfect house, big life—and have it. And when you stop asking, you don’t just wait quietly. Impatience moves in. Disobedience moves in. Whatever’s closest and loudest and easiest moves in, because you’ve left the door open for anything to walk through.

How many moments have I missed simply because I did not ask for what it is I wanted? And, most importantly, believed I could have?

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“Tell me a story of the sun,” she said.

He asked if I wanted to walk to the beach and watch the sun rise. I didn’t. Not really. I’m not a morning person. And also because I didn’t need to. I’d seen the sun rise and set countless times before in his eyes every time he spoke. The way his whole face would catch light when he got to the good part of a story. The way he’d go quiet and dim with contemplation right before an idea broke through him, as the sky does in that grey minute before anything happens.

It was 2 a.m., and my voice was thick with sleep. Plus, it’d take him another several hours to get to the shore. So yeah, I didn’t want to.

Still, we decided on the sun.

Instead of walking, we ran to the beach, him practically pulling me along. He was so excited, and I was excited by his excitement.

We sat bare on the cold sand, bundled together inside his hoodie, and waited. The sky did its slow thing—black then blue. Neither of us said much. I remember the cold coming up through the sand into the backs of my legs, and his heartbeat on my back beating for the both of us.

Then it broke. Not all at once—more like a leak. Orange first, then gold, until it was just there, sitting on the water like it had never not been.

I experienced the sun with my sun. And for a second, I forgot I hadn’t even wanted to come.

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The first one, a man. Undoubtedly a father, and by his face, probably a grandfather. Annoyed with people not listening to directions—and I laughed. Told him not to be too annoyed because we all just woke up, even him. Then we laughed together. He carried my bags and made sure to keep checking on me throughout my trip.

The next, a woman. The conductor. Told me that I could sit in the seats reserved for the handicapped because she believed I was. When I assured her I wasn’t and how I shouldn’t take up a seat, she said, “Girl, those long legs won’t make it on your trip in any other seat.” Then she shot me a web, and I caught it. We are Spider-Man together. I’d never felt more seen.

Then, the lady in the cafe car. I came for a coffee, but I also needed wine. She didn’t ask for my ID because she’s a “good judge of character,” but I had already pulled it out. Habit. She looked at it, looked at me, and before she could even say anything, I said, “Yes ma’am, I know.” I spent way too much time in that cafe car, talking about marriage, and kids, and if I’m officially “auntie” age—which was declared by everyone in the cafe car, yes, strangers that weren’t officially part of the conversation—I’m not (despite being an actual aunt).

I’m so full. I’ll be full for weeks.

And I don’t really know what else to say, other than:

I hope my parents know that even when I’m not with them, in their sight, or on the other end of the phone, there are people looking out for me. The good kind.

And everyone that I shared a moment with today, I hope their kids know that when they aren’t with their parents, there are other people’s children filling that role—even if for just a train ride.

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Anyway, there I was, wondering why this mousey sales-bro had chosen to sit directly next to me when the bar was basically empty.

So we’re sitting there, his luggage spilling over mine, both idly sipping our respective drinks when he asks:

“Where ya headed?”

“Florida for a few days, then bahamas. Annual girls’ cruise.”

“Me too! Bachelor trip!”

And that was all it took for him to completely open up.

He’d left his wife and children so he could take this trip, but let me know he wasn’t staying the entire weekend like the rest of the guys because he had to get back to his newborn. They rented the Big Brother house. He was so excited to show me all of the photos from the Airbnb listing. I was excited to see them. And for him.

Then he mentioned that he actually didn’t want to take this trip. He was disappointed in his friend for causing his first marriage to fail, and told me (and him) that this would be the last bachelor trip and wedding that he’d be a part of, so he had better make it work. I understood.

We talked about our favorite spirits and how our choices had changed so much from college to adulthood. We talked about marriage and how hard he believed it to be, and how he felt his wife was completely out of his league (she was beautiful).

And throughout this randomly placed airport meet, I thought about how refreshing it was to have met someone new. Someone I’m sure I wouldn’t have spoken to in any other setting. And vice versa.

We exchanged Instagrams, texting throughout the weekend to share updates on our drunken adventures. It was fun and interesting seeing life through his lens. I felt like I had made an unlikely friend—knowing it was just for the weekend and that I’d probably never see or speak to him again (I didn’t). And that was okay.

But seeing his LinkedIn profile and reminiscing on our parallel weekend got me to thinking about the gift of the present, and how much good is in the right now that we often mistake for the mundane, or otherwise, miss out on completely for various reasons.

Then, that got me to thinking about permanence and attachment. We’re always looking to assign meaning to something, knowingly or unknowingly. We’re always looking ahead into the future to determine what this right now thing could turn into down the line—be it two months or two years. And if that thing doesn’t prove to have meaning, isn’t stimulating or beneficial in some way, it’s automatically discarded from the life experience. I’ve been guilty of that.

But like… What if we all just slowed the pace a bit? Realized that permanence isn’t our birthright, nor should it be attributed to everything we’ve been blessed to come across and experience? What if we all adopted the yutori principle? Taking a moment to look around and actually breathe in our surroundings, or actually meet the eyes of passersby for an opportunity to share a smile? Or to wave at or shake the hand of someone new? Or just to have a moment to ourselves to gather thoughts?

G, wherever you are, I hope you’re well.

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I turned 30. I got divorced. I sold my first home. I moved back to my hometown. I fell out with my best friend of 17 years. My grandmother died. My dog died. All of these things happened back-to-back, pain collapsing into disappointment like dominoes. And during all of these things, I was still working, still coaching, still showing up for weddings and baby showers and birthdays and funerals, still answering the phone to play the role of resident therapist.

I didn’t want to do any of these things. I didn’t feel ready to celebrate people’s happy moments, and I didn’t feel ready to share in others’ grief, but I told myself that showing up was the right thing to do. Showing up was a testament to the importance and sacredness of friendship and community. Showing up was proving to myself that I could do hard things, and learning that my grief and my healing weren’t anyone else’s priority. It wasn’t even a priority of mine, not really. I had so many other things to do. But it absolutely should have been.

In every single one of these life-changing events, I can count on one hand how many people showed up for me in ways that were intentional in how I like to be loved. I can count on both hands and both feet how many people I’ve gone above and beyond for, whilst having to run to the bathroom or the car to fight back tears to conceal what I already knew was true: I shouldn’t be here.

I sent flowers to a friend who had a death in her family. She didn’t even text me during mine.

I spent my birthday sobbing, but I partied like a rockstar for everyone else.

I listened to every version of “you should be over this by now” or “just forget about that” from the same people I walked through the fire with, making sure they were never alone.

I met someone new and experienced such a dynamic connection, but I could not hold it because I was too heavy with carrying everything else.

What I didn’t understand about taking self-inventory and not just hearing what your body is saying but actually listening is that if you choose to explain it away, if you choose to just-one-more-chance it away, the consequences seep into every area of your life. You can’t thrive because you’re tired. You’re tired because you didn’t eat. You didn’t eat because you’re mentally somewhere else. You’re mentally somewhere else because you’re being pulled in so many different directions without proper boundaries in place. And if you choose not to let go, eventually you’re going to get dragged. These body alarms are not mere suggestions; they are marching orders. I know that now.

Naturally, I see situations as challenges to overcome. My brain categorizes this as a puzzle to be solved. How does this action move this puzzle piece into alignment for a better outcome? Okay, if that won’t work, how about this one? I am relentless in this pursuit. I am a master of the pivot. What I haven’t mastered yet is learning when to let go of things that don’t have my name on them. Let me be clear: every challenge isn’t a revelation of misfit, but when you know, you know. And I knew.

Each time I said “yes” to something I didn’t want to do; each time I guilt-tripped myself into doing it anyway; each time I put someone else’s needs before my own; each time I tried to work the puzzle when it was clear some of the pieces were missing all along. I knew.

I have been stripped down to my bare bones because that is what I needed. Some things I did manually, other things God took care of for me. But all of this was the consequence of a lack of discipline, a whole bunch of stubbornness, and overstayed welcomes.

What they don’t tell you about clarity is that it’s as painful as it is beautiful. And boundaries are as disappointing as they are peaceful. And starting over from scratch is deeply scary, a vulnerability ritual if you will. But it is all necessary.

Because I am becoming less tethered to being needed, I get to sit with myself and listen to my thoughts alone instead of being clouded by the weight of the world. Do you know how good it feels to let your mind wander without interruption?

Because I am becoming more self-centered, I no longer have to measure exactly how much time and energy I can give to one thing for fear of not knowing if I’ll have enough for the next.

Because I am learning the art of letting go, I am spending a lot less time dwelling in the past, jumping from anger to disappointment to sadness to regret and back again. I can just… live. It feels good to be present.

My phone barely rings now. When it does, I know whoever is on the other side is someone who deserves to be in orbit with me because, finally, my balance sheet is correct.

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I thought for sure 2025 would be my winning season, my “get back,” my Jordan-4th-quarter-in-‘92. Instead, I have been met with even more turmoil than the year prior. I have been cracked open to my core, everything dark and ugly spilling out because the host just could not carry the weight anymore. Transparently, I have never wanted to cancel my life subscription more than I have this year.

For years, I have been running on fumes trying to meet everyone’s needs, be in three places at once, and keep this and that commitment. I have bent so far backward for others that I have disappeared completely, becoming a hollow shell of who I once was. I have fought against myself, telling her, “After this last thing, we can chill. Once we’re over this hump, we can pour back into us.” But I never made it to that one last thing or over that hump, because there was always something or someone waiting on the other side that needed tending to. And I felt it was my personal responsibility to see to it.

This year, I’ve been the most fragile version of myself. In the same breath, I’ve been the most ferocious, pushing myself to unhealthy lengths to maintain my image and responsibilities. Until I reached my breaking point and realized: People-pleasing is killing me.

I’m changing so fast. Everything is changing so. damn. fast. Faster than I can put pen to. Every day there’s something new, but I’m still here. Vastly different, but here. Still becoming. Still shedding.

I used to want things. I wanted all the designer bags—in season. I wanted to be a young bride with a Pinterest-worthy wedding and a doting husband. I wanted the big hosting house, all white, beige, and aesthetic. I wanted to be wanted. No, I wanted to be needed. And I got all of it. Every single thing I put my mind to. And I still felt empty.

That kind of disappointment is a quiet one. It doesn’t scream, it sinks. It waits for all of your guests to go home. It waits for you to clean the kitchen and pick up the living room. It waits for you to turn out the lights and turn on the alarm. It waits for you to crawl into bed, and once you get good and settled, it reminds you just how lonely you are.

It’s been years of this. But what did I do? You guessed it: Run. Another dinner party. Another girls’ night. Another volunteer opportunity. Another vacation. Another shiny thing that stole my attention for a moment. (I should have taken Cranes In The Sky way more seriously.)

So, in the time that I’ve been away, I’ve been sitting in silence. Quite literally, because there’s nothing in this huge house of mine. And in this silence, I heard:

Do you even like you?

And I didn’t. Not really. Not the person I was becoming, anyway.

So I’m starting over—laying to rest the versions of myself that run, rush, and repel rest, and putting the pieces back together to become someone I like. Someone who doesn’t explain, beg, or boast. Someone honest, someone grateful, someone worthy of all the good things life has to offer.

Loneliness is still here, and ain’t nobody scared of her. In fact, I let her know that loneliness isn’t the absence of people, but the presence of the wrong ones.

I’m learning that there’s power in rebuilding your life slowly. Quietly. There’s power in not performing your healing. There’s power in knowing what you don’t want anymore.

I don’t give a fuck about status. I don’t give a fuck about things. I only care about my peace. My nervous system, my softness. I care about liking myself when no one’s there to watch me like me.

I’m still here. Still cracking open. Still learning how to live.

Through all of this, I had the most amazing birthday. Dare I say, the best birthday I’ve had thus far. And it wasn’t loud. It was exactly what I wanted it to be—soft, chill, and intentional. Thank you, T, for giving me the most invaluable gift of being seen, understood, and loved. You are my lifeline.

It’s my first time hitting the reset button on my life. It’s my first time being 30 in 30 years. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared shitless. But something I’ve been repeating religiously is that when you focus on the good, even just a little, the good gets better. And I’m depending on God to show me just how good it can get.

To those who have bought me a cup of coffee, sat in silence with me, or sent an encouraging message, I love you.

To those who waited patiently in the ether without explanation, thank you for your grace.

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I can’t remember the last time I got dolled up for overpriced food and drinks on the oceanfront. And though anxiety-ridden the entire time I was getting ready, I persisted.

She picked me up. She opened my doors. She complimented me from head to toe, chauffeured me around, and in so many ways, reminded me that I am exactly who I know myself to be—regardless of my current circumstances. Women, I tell ya.

Lunch was cute. For the first time in a long time, I felt human. I felt part of the portion of humanity who are living, no longer among the walking dead—even if just for those few hours.

Following lunch, we went to a mystic shop, the first and oldest in Virginia. My friend, a mystic herself, made sure to give me all of the history on the ride in.

Now, I’m into all the -ologies, spiritualism, ancestral memory, and all that jazz. After all, I’m born from it. I even practice bits and pieces of it. But before this moment, I had never had my palms or cards read. We were there for incense and other trinkets she needed for her altar, but I left with something more.

We waltzed into the shop tipsy from lunch and riding a sugar rush from dessert. My friend sped off in the direction of the items she needed, and I wandered around, seeing all I could see. I found myself over by the candles and crystals, thinking about the ones I own—how they needed to be cleansed and charged and actually put to use. But before I could fully finish the thought, the tarot lady ran up to me.

“The energy in the shop shifted the moment you walked in. Can I see your birth chart?”

“Uh… sure.”

I pulled up my birth chart and handed her my phone. She scrolled through it for a minute and then looked up at me like she had seen a ghost.

“…Are you human?”

I laughed. She stared blankly, and I realized she was serious.

“Oh… I think so?”

“No. I think you’re an angel.”

At this point, I’m thinking “bitch, please.” Unhand my cellular device so I can find my friend and carry on with my day. And I guess my face had those thoughts written all over it because she said,

“No, no. Really. Your birth chart is very breezy. Do you feel like you’re floating from here to there, in and out of time and space, never really grounded in any one place?”

And before I could answer, my friend screamed from across the shop, “Yup! That’s her!”

I turned back to the tarot lady.

“Do you feel like there’s an aura around you that invites all sorts of things into your life? Not just good things, but very bad ones as well?”

“Yes, I do.”

Then she asked me if she could hold my hand. I nodded my head yes. She took my hand and jumped back like she had been shocked or burned.

“How long have you been transitioning?”

“Transitioning?”

“Your birth chart indicates a lot of karmic movement on one side only, suggesting that you’re going to experience a lot of trauma in either the front or back half of your life. Is it happening now?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I don’t know how long it will last, but when it finally does subside, the floating you do will feel a lot different—easier, weightless. Come back any time. Your readings are on me.”

None of this made sense to me, then and still, and I wasn’t sure if I should feel like a test subject in that moment. I don’t know if I would consider myself angel or human, but a secret third thing.

For now, though, let’s go with angel.

Talk to me nice.

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Most of the time, I can’t remember which stories I’ve already told (sorry to my friends) or plans I’ve made in advance. But somehow, these people, these places, these memories are the ones that stick and stay.

I don’t actively seek out people’s dirty laundry, but there’s this “thing” surrounding me, this inviting aura, that compels people to share. This thing convinces people that whatever they dare not speak aloud somehow is safe, here, within the catacombs of my chest. And it’s met with my innate ability to be a listening ear, a broad shoulder.

I believe strongly that people just want to be heard. We all want to be seen, understood, and accepted, but mostly, we just want to be heard. The thought that someone’s frustration, overwhelm, or even elation might be met with wandering, unfocused eyes or fallen on deaf ears makes me incredibly sad.

Every [decent person] should have a safe place to land, and it seems like that place is mobile within me. It goes wherever I go—to the restaurant on the corner of Mallory and Mellen, to the library, to my unencrypted social inboxes.

This didn’t begin in adulthood. I’ve been this way since I was a child—listening, caring, offering; rightfully earning the ‘Old Soul’ moniker. It’s been decades of being this walking vault for everyone I’ve been blessed to share a moment in time with—even if the relationship is no more.

It almost feels… sacrificial. Like my mindshare account is often deposited into and the reward is neither wealth nor liberation, but something much heavier. And I hate it.

My college track coach called me a “human trash can” once. In summary, he said that I’m everyone’s everything. This was after a series of visits to the hospital and a Sports Psychologist.

Then, I was annoyed he’d said that. At 19, my permanent disposition was annoyance (and sometimes outright defiance) at the face of anyone or anything suggesting I could not do and have it all. At 29, I understand better—or do I?

I’ve mentioned a time or two here that my mental cup gets so full that it manifests physically. What’s more, I’m so good at compartmentalizing that I often don’t realize the blaring DANGER alarms from my body until I’ve reached the point of SYSTEM FAILURE.

As good as I am at compartmentalization, I’m even better at escapism. I will run and run and run some more to outlast a problem or emotion—because surely those will subside sooner than I. But as I’ve said before, I'm tired of running.

Over the years, my many attempts to pull back, appear more reserved, be less available, and try not to radiate welcoming energy (how does one even do that?) have been to little or no avail. I don’t know why, but I’m wired this way.

And here recently, I’ve been meditating on the question: What if my power is people? What does that mean? What do I do with it?

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I’m hungover, but I’m safe. I didn’t drive, I put my bonnet on, and I’m at home. And it’s because of women.

When you’re an attendee at a birthday brunch of a woman who had a particularly rough year, you go ‘balls to the wall.’ Women rally.

“Happy birthday!”

“Where are we going next?”

“This round’s on me.”

My camera roll has over 50 photos and videos, each telling the story of yesterday that I don’t remember well. And while my memory is foggy, I do know that we came, saw, conquered (maybe one too many mimosas and espresso martinis), and celebrated.

I do know that before we got bad and boozy, we talked about our frustrations and our fears in a language that only women understand.

Complimenting a woman on her outfit and her telling you exactly where she got it, sharing a knowing look when a man has done or said something crude or unbecoming, consoling a stranger in the bathroom of a dive bar then swapping stories of people we should’ve left sooner, holding the door to remind her that chivalry does still exist even if only between us—it’s a connection that most women know well.

And so, while it will probably take a full day for me to recover from yesterday’s festivities (because I keep failing to realize that pushing-30-me cannot party and bullshit like college-me), I recognize that I am still here because of women.

I have only ever been held up and kept afloat because of women.

Thank God I’m a woman.

Because women rally. We always have, and we always will.

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What percentage of things revealed to us in our dreams are actually real?

I’ve always been a dreamer—both while awake and asleep. But here lately, I’d say, within the last few years, I’ve begun to have vivid dreams almost nightly. It’s getting to the point where I’m often afraid to fall asleep. These dreams, they aren’t all nightmares by definition, but they do take prophetic forms once I’m lucid and in a contemplative state.

Once I sit down, record the happenings of my dream, and then take a look at what’s going on in my life and the world around me, I’m shocked, confused, skeptical, and incredibly weirded out—all at once. Walking around with all of this… knowledge (because that’s what it feels like. Like I know something you don’t.) is such a harrowing feeling. “No one man should have all that power,” teas.

When I talk to the people closest to me about the frequency and intensity of my dreams, the first thing they ask is: Have you tried smoking weed? Yes, smoking it and eating it. THC hates me. It completely disagrees with my body composition. Even if it didn’t, I don’t want to completely suppress REM activity.

Then: Well, have you tried shrooms? Yes, I microdose on occasion, and I’d prefer not to spend my evenings in a transit state. Clearly, my hippocampus is active enough as it is.

And inevitably: Well, maybe this is about control? Maybe, probably. And I have a therapist for that.

Generally, I don’t watch scary movies or shows before bed. I try not to eat right before I turn in (it is not a proven fact that eating before bed causes nightmares, but I grew up adhering to old wives’ tales). And I’ve been doing a lot better with a nighttime routine that prioritizes natural relaxation vs. hurried sleep.

Really, I just want to be able to fall asleep and not dream so frequently and vividly. I want to be able to wind down after a day of thinking and making decisions and truly rest. I want to be able to sleep through the night without having to wake up at odd hours and check dark corners to make sure I’m alone, or to record dreams that rattle my teeth and distort my reality—and then fling my laptop open to share it with you.

What’s true? What isn’t? What are my dreams trying to tell me? Because right now, the only thought that comes to mind is: If I’m going to be disturbed by my own mental pictures, at least I can get paid to disturb-you-so-good at your local theater.

With that said… Does anyone out there in the SubStack ether have contacts at A24?

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In one of my most recent sessions, we talked about anger. I was forcing back a smile the entire time because, truthfully, I delight in justified outrage. Something about righting wrongs and rewriting history brings me joy. I could write an entire post about that session, but for now, I’ll tell you that my therapy homework for the next two weeks was to re-watch Inside Out and Inside Out 2—specifically to take notes on Anger.

My therapist told me that anger “drives the car” a lot in my life. He isn’t wrong. But again, I love anger. It pairs very well with cursing someone out. He told me that I needed to learn to regulate this emotion, level with it, and “put it in the passenger seat.” He isn’t wrong there, either.

How do you sleep at night after laying someone out, you ask? With the thermostat on 70º and the ceiling fan on Level 1—very well.

So anyway, there I was, doing my homework, starting with Inside Out.

As the movie opens, Joy begins introducing all of the emotions. When Anger bursts onto the screen, his intro is: “This is Anger. He cares very deeply about things being fair.”

I wrote that down immediately. Truer words have never been spoken. My anger is almost always rooted in fairness.

We’ve spent the last few sessions working through the root causes of my anger. We discovered that emotional neglect is one, being misunderstood is another, but that discrimination is a big one—as a recipient and as a witness of it.

98% of all the altercations I’ve been in have been due to some form of discrimination or unfairness. And about that, I don’t play and I never will. I will burn everything down.

Why can’t everyone have access to what they need? Why can’t everyone enjoy a day or night out without worrying about not making it home? Why can’t people mind their own business?

While I was fully expecting to relate heavily to Anger in Inside Out (and I did), I also had a few ah-ha moments (read: cringe moments where I had to pause the TV and hold the mirror to my shadow self).

I notated:

• Anger seems quick to opt out of situations.

• Anger does not like confusion, misinformation, misconduct, or stupidity.

• At times, Anger seems to come off as jealous.

In my own life, I am quick to dismiss things, people, places, and situations. Once anyone or anything stops serving its purpose, I’m out of there and fast. While I definitely am working on this, I realized that I very seldom give third chances. As the great philosopher J. Cole once said, “Fool me one time, shame on you. Fool me twice, can’t put the blame on you. Fool me three times, fuck the peace sign, load the choppa, and let it rain on you.”

Anyway, back to the homework.

As I reflected on my notes, I concluded that, for me, anger is fear plus anxiety multiplied by lived experiences.

This looks like:

Something happened to me, or to someone I love, causing extreme anxiety. And if I don’t do what I can to mitigate this moment, I am fearful that something infinitely worse will happen—to me, to someone I love, or to some other innocent or underserving person.

Here’s The Thing, I’ve always been a firecracker. Though I am very much a “let’s talk this out before I start striking matches” kind of person, the fieriness is always behind the mask ready to make its presence known and felt.

I can pinpoint instances from my formative years that I’ve witnessed and some that I’ve experienced firsthand that might’ve added fuel to my flash powder chamber, but who can say where this actually came from? Am I predisposed to anger because I’m a Black woman? Have I been conditioned to be this way? This is truly one of those nature vs. nurture debates.

Either way, I want to iterate that I am not inherently mean or abrasive. Neither am I inherently sweet or nice. I am, however, inherently soft and sensitive, and maybe this is where my anger originates. Maybe it’s because I care about everything.

We haven’t yet solved the anger issue. I don’t even know if it’s an issue to be solved. However, I do know that anger has been driving for a while, and though it is almost always valid, it is not always an adequate response.

Will report back once a remedy for regulation has been discovered.

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If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days. —Syliva Plath, The Bell Jar

Today is my birthday. My golden birthday to be exact. 29 on the 29th.

There’s a new mini-moon beginning its orbit around Earth today just as I am closing an orbit of my own. How fitting.

This year was hard. Everything that could go wrong did. 2024 came out swinging and I haven’t found myself off the ropes just yet. I’m still protecting my head, waiting for the perfect time to spin out and plant my feet. But while I’ve been in this defensive and incredibly vulnerable fighting stance, I’ve had a lot of time to think.

A year ago, my friends and I were in our group chat discussing perception; who others think we are, but, mainly, who we think we are. I didn’t know it then, but that conversation was the precursor to many of the lessons I would learn this year.

By most of my own doing, I’ve tried to remain as inconceivable as possible to protect myself. My goal wasn’t to be this impossible 3,000-piece puzzle. In fact, it was the exact opposite. I wanted to be easier to understand. And so, I performed “the good parts” just enough to allow people to “know” me, while casting away the other parts; promising them they could come out to play once we got home; once it was safe. But who was that really protecting?

While I’ve done a pretty good job at this whole thing, “enigma” has been asked to leave. “Dichotomy” is here now.

I am not just one thing; I am all things.

I am both introvert and extrovert; both sane and insane; both kind and incredibly cruel.

I am both feminine and masculine; both soft and swelling; both the calm waters and the raging tides.

I am both the life raft and the threat; both incredibly simple and impossibly complex.

Both this and that, and all of it at once.

“A damn box of assorted chocolates” as my best friend put it.

“Quantum superPaisley” if you ask me. (Shout out to all my physics nerds.)

•••

Perhaps the most jarring thing I learned this year is that I have a debilitating fear of permanence. Anything that threatens to get too close and stay forever stresses me out so much that it manifests physically. And so, I spent a lot of time physically ill this year.

Two years ago, when my husband and I bought our house, I kept saying (and thinking), “This is so good for now, but it isn’t our forever home.” And it isn’t our forever home because we definitely need more yard space or because we may want to move states, but because I don’t want a forever home. I don’t want the same forever neighbors, and the same forever streets, and the same forever local activities.

This “permanence aversion” applies to the whole kid thing, too. For the entirety of my adult life, I’ve been child-free by choice. Mostly because I’ve “mothered” my little sister for as long as I can remember. I’ve also played “mother” to my friends.

Whenever someone asks when I’ll start having kids, I say I don’t want them. And that’s mostly true. I love kids; I love being around kids. I especially love when people close to me have them and let me babysit for a while.

But then I get to go home, take off my titi hat, and be someone else. I get to go home and not worry about who manufactures the safest car seat and which school I should send them to—public, private, Montessori? Definitely Montessori.

I get to go home and not feel the immense weight of shaping them into kind, caring, contributing members of society. I’m not even totally kind, caring, and contributing myself, so how can I model that for someone else? And that stresses me out to no end because there’s no expiration date on parenting. You can’t just wake up one day and change your mind about it all because you can’t just stop being a mother. You mother forever.

I find the concept of “forever” very challenging. When I hear about people who worked the same job for their entire lives, I think: How? Did it never get monotonous? Did you never think about doing something else, something different? Did you never change your mind?

I don’t want just one thing; I want all the things. I want to wear all the hats. I want to experience all of life’s pleasures and pains plenty and often. And I want the luxury and freedom of flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and the next.

•••

Despite all of the very dark and lonely places I found myself in this year, I’m so proud that January-, March-, May-, and July-Paisley decided to stay and fight one more minute until those minutes turned into hours, days, weeks, and months.

Sometimes I was kicking and screaming, sometimes I was silently sobbing, and sometimes I needed to be carried because I couldn’t fight on my own. But I’m still here, celebrating another year of life.

The singular thing that remained a constant through it all was love. Great, big, overwhelming love.

Here’s The Thing, sometimes love ain’t enough, and sometimes it’s the only thing that gets you through. Love from family, love from friends, and love from you—my SubStack community—is what got me through this year.

I have been continuously uplifted and supported. I have been the recipient of such kind and caring gestures, and it’s so surreal to witness firsthand. Even when my vision was so clouded I couldn’t make out whether I was coming or going, love has been a guide and a crutch.

I can’t wait to turn 30. I hear that’s when the magic really begins. But for now, I’ll be where my feet are, soaking up the last year of my 20s. And I’m hopeful it’ll be the best one yet.

Thank you for being here.

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It started very light with liking the “odd” characters. Angelica (The Rugrats), Mr. Crocker (The Fairly Oddparents), Randall fucking Weems (Recess—God, he was horrible).

And then things got a little dimmer. Lord Voldemort (Harry Potter), Alonzo Harris (Training Day), Harley Quinn (DC comics, Suicide Squad, etc.).

Until things got downright dark and dirty. My girl Annie Wilkes (Misery), Jack Torrance (The Shining), Norman Bates (Psycho).

Here’s The Thing, I can barely tolerate horror movies. I prefer psychological thrillers and the villains who make me think over the ones who very obviously and overtly stalk, torture, and kill. Less gore, more mindfuck. I’m sapiosexual. Give me a storyline, give me drama, give me substance!

I’ve sat with this villain-loving (borderline obsession) concept for a while. Why do I love the bad guys and gals so much? Is it an underdog thing? Aren’t they just simple men and women who were at one point misunderstood? Aren’t they justified in their vendetta? Shouldn’t we be cheering for them?

There’s this sort of freedom that villains have that superheroes never will. They get to be good, they get to be bad—they get to be both and no one bats an eye. They get to kill, steal, and destroy and it’s expected. They get to be loud and proud about their disgust and their desires and it isn’t considered rude or lewd. It’s simply an attribute of villainy. There are no consequences when you are the consequence.

So, I guess this is the part where I tell you who a few of my favorite villains are.

Coming in at #1: Dr. Hannibal Lecter
There is no one remotely close—not in my heart and mind, and not on any best-villains-of-all-time lists. Not that it matters to me, but I checked out of curiosity.

#2: The Joker
But only Heath Ledger and Joaquin Phoenix. And maybe a little bit of Jared Leto.

#3: Joe Goldberg
Something about a “by any means necessary” kind of vibe mixed with a pseudo-sense of altruism really moves me.

Is it love? Is it envy? Is this simple admiration? Do I want to be with them, or do I want to be them? To be determined.

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I won’t bore you with the choice words I spewed or the grand gestures I made to console the bartender because that isn’t important. Just know, justice was served—even if in that moment alone.

That situation got me thinking about a piece I wrote four years ago in 2020. I read it and, surprisingly, it’s still poignant, so I’m sharing it here.

My second job ever was as a waitress. I started when I turned 19 and waited every summer for quick cash. I didn’t know that once graduating college without a full-time job, waiting tables would become my full-time gig.

Waiting tables was light and fun at first. It offered me autonomy, kept money in my pocket, and allowed me to meet new people. I often had conversations with customers about what brought me to the area (school) and what I planned on doing once I graduated (“officially” becoming a writer).

Once I graduated, waiting tables didn’t become any less fun, but it did become less light. And eventually, very heavy. It was humbling to look those same customers (now, regulars) in the eyes and tell them that commencement had come and gone, but I was still in the same spot—a now college graduate making $2.13 an hour plus tips.

On top of that, my coworkers kept getting younger and younger. More pep in their step and spring in their curls. Full of ambition and declarations that, “This is only for the meantime! I won’t be here long.” That’s what I said when I first started, too.

As heavy as the load became, it would be remiss not to mention all of the beautiful things the life of a full-time server taught me.

1. Money comes and money goes, but keep your dignity
   If you’ve never worked in the service industry, it’s a grimy place, not in regards to the cleanliness (or maybe), but in regards to the people who inhabit and employ them. Coworkers of mine were doing extremely unethical things to get ahead. Stealing, lying, cheating, playing dirty. But you never really get ahead when you skip steps.

2. Whatever you do, be the best at it
   Someone wise once told me, “Whatever you do, do it proud enough to put your name on it”. It doesn’t matter what your profession is—a waitress, a writer, an art teacher. Whatever it is, be damn good at it.

3. It doesn’t cost a thing to smile
   Working in customer-facing jobs means you catch people at many different times in their lives—happy, sad, drunk, in a hurry, celebrating.
   
   I had a man sit at my table once. He was ordering me around, throwing things. Whenever he wanted another drink, he would just point to his glass. After his third or fourth, he spilled his heart, and in tears said, “You’ve been nothing but nice to me and made sure that I was taken care of. You smile at me even when I frown back at you.”
   
   He wasn’t just a grumpy man, he was a hurt man. That same man left me one of the biggest tips I’d ever gotten. I’m not saying smiling is the way into hearts (and wallets), but it does get you far.

4. Make connections
   Everyone goes out to eat and frequents bars at some point in their life. The chances of you meeting someone really successful or interesting are high. Talk to people. Exchange information. You might just say the right thing to the right person and get your best friend’s brand-new car fixed for free after a drunken collision… allegedly.

5. Always judge a book by its cover
   I worked at a restaurant near one of the only major airports for at least 60 miles. We had all types of people coming through there—business people, retired vacationers, celebrities, you name it. One of the most common misconceptions in the service industry is that Black people don’t tip at all and that “suits” tip best. Neither is true.
   
   The nicest people with the best conversation and biggest tips are easy to spot. And they are very seldom the ones who parade around telling everyone they have on a custom suit. They’re the ones who before even ordering a glass of water ask how you’re doing and if your shift has been okay. They’re the ones who treat service workers like human beings.

They say never judge a book by its cover, but trust me, judge the book. His cover is his character.

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For now, my work is not paywalled. I’m leaning fully into storytelling and less into growth and metrics. However, if you feel so led, you can fuel my already hyperactive episodes with caffeine.

Buy me a coffee

I’m a PK. And yes, the stereotypes are true.

I enjoy church, I always have and I still do. I don’t enjoy waking up early for anyone or anything—not even Jesus (can I be honest here?), but that’s where my qualms start and end with church.

I don’t have any religious horror stories of my own because I was raised in a church that embodies the “come as you are” manifesto through and through. Three-piece suits weren’t required, showers either; as we often were a refuge to the unhoused. Queer folk and their children were a part of our congregation, too. Everyone was welcome.

I’m saying all this to say that until I moved away for college, my dwelling place reflected a world made for everyone—a reality I thought everyone was living. And then I grew up.

Life has happened to me, and to those around me, and knocked a few of us out of our faith—me specifically. I’ve listened to and read about the traumatic religious experiences of those who were brave enough to share. I’ve matured, come into my own understanding, and brought my lived experiences back to “The Book”. I’ve sat down with my community, asked the hard questions, and insisted on critical thinking over indoctrination.

I’ve questioned God, too. “If I am your child, why is this happening to me?”, “If you’re supposed to be the embodiment of love, why are your people spewing hatred and then using your name as a reference?”

Me and God, we’re still in communication, but the relationship has been fickle over the last few years. And during this time, I’ve found my own, new version of God in interesting and unsuspected people and places. But no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I find myself coming back to the same cornerstone: Worship.

I’m definitely not a Kim Burrell saint, but more of a Kirk Franklin sinner. IYKYK.

We’re dual people. We worship and we sin, sometimes at the same time. We drink and then find our place of deference. We cuss and then call on the name of Jesus. And then we find our way forward—whatever that looks like. And that’s okay. All of who we are is okay.

I feel led to share a few songs in regular rotation for me. Maybe they’ll spark something inside of you, too.

When I want to feel something:

• Open My Heart - Yolanda Adams

• I Told The Storm - Greg O. Quin ‘n Joyful Noyse

• My Testimony/Let Go - Kelontae Gavin

When I want to do my little dance:

• Show Up! - John P. Kee & NLCC

• They That Wait - Fred Hammond

• Kingdom - Maverick City Music & Kirk Franklin

If you lean more spiritual than religious, Sounds of Blackness is an ancestral balm that will get you right every time.

I’ll leave you with this: The race isn’t given to the swift or the strong, but to those who endure to the end.

And if no one has told you today, I love you.

Originally published as part of BlackStack’s Week 9: Sunday Service Announcements

BlackStack

Week 9: Sunday Service Announcements

It’s something special that Black grandmothers add to their prayers that makes God answer them faster than normal…

Read more

2 years ago · 27 likes · 15 comments · BlackStack, Karen Wesley, Dr. April, Paisley, and Jacquie Verbal

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There are no walls, no thresholds
No barriers or gates to be kept
Save for ones of genetic make

I die a thousand little deaths
And each time death finds me, I live
Another opportunity to exalt the Most High

Skin of burnished bronze, hair of wiry wool
His spiritual release mercilessly unceasing
Our place of worship—the doss

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When I was younger, I taught myself how to tumble, contort my body in unnatural ways, dance, play instruments, the whole nine. And my mama, she was my biggest cheerleader. She’d have friends over and call me down to “show them that little thing you do”. After a series of polite protests and awkward smiles, I’d eventually give her—give them—a show.

As I got older and my athleticism became technically trained, my body turned into a machine. There was rarely ever a time I stepped onto a field of play (be it the dance floor, the band room, or the track) and didn’t dominate. But this isn’t a story about competition, this is a story about bashfulness.

Months ago, I came across this clip of Tyler, the Creator:

In this clip, Tyler talks about the importance of promoting your music. I’m not a musician (anymore?), but the similarities of being a writer and a musician do parallel in some areas.

“You went through something, you wrote words down, you figured it out in the structural format, found music to go along with it, you recorded it […]. You edit it, you mix it […], pay some kid to do an album cover—it’s a whole thing. And you mean to tell me, that you’re gonna be passive with your own shit and just put it on your story once? Are you fucking crazy, bro?”

Talking about my work (see also: accomplishments) has been something I’ve struggled with forever. And these emotions have resurfaced since I’ve started sharing my writing again here on Substack.

I’m not too cool and I’m not afraid of looking thirsty, as Tyler put it. What I am afraid of is coming off as self-righteous. For some reason, incessant promotion feels self-serving; like I’m taking up all of the Internet’s mindshare. And I’m egalitarian through and through.

I do think my work is important and I think it’s good. I’m incredibly proud of how my gifts make room for me. I’m just not the type to plaster my posts down your feed or in your comment section every time it feels relevant.

Does not promoting my work “cheapen” my creative process? Does it stunt my growth? Does it cast me away into the shadows never to be seen or heard from again? Who can say for sure?

Please don’t mistake my bashfulness for being humble. By definition, I’m not humble.

I’m an excellent ass bitch and I always have been. I’ve done incredible things. But I’m not loud about it; never have been, never will be. Confidence is quiet and I’m of the mind that my work will find who it’s meant to find when it’s meant to find them.

I’m okay with being a hidden gem. I think I prefer it that way.

In lieu of paid subscriptions:

For now, my work is not paywalled. I’m leaning fully into storytelling and less into growth and metrics. However, if you feel so led, you can fuel my already hyperactive episodes with caffeine.

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I haven’t posted on Instagram since January 15th. That’s around the time I noticed that something was off and gave it a name: sadness. Before then, I just felt blah; a prolonged sense of ennui.

Loads of people I’m connected with online are looking for me. I’m not a big-time influencer (I’m not an influencer at all) nor was I an avid poster, so at first this seemingly relentless pursuit weirded me out; the fact that I’m receiving messages from people I don’t know well or see often; that these people noticed my unannounced hiatus and wanted to do something about it.

I’ve got people looking for me in real life, too. The people I spoke to daily and hung out with weekly—this makes more sense. They keep inviting me to things (most I’ve declined; few I’ve attended). I just didn’t want to answer the “So, how’ve you been?” question.

Short answer: Not good, and you? Four words to kill time spent with friends fast. Not my jam. Unfortunately, I’m the Beyoncé of my friend group whether I want to be or not.

So, I had to step away. I had to distance myself from the highlight reels of other people’s lives and go full-on hermit. Like, yes, I truly am happy for your new ___ (insert: baby, engagement, graduation, job, trip to Europe), but my life isn’t picture-perfect right now. Life isn’t exactly giving me any lemons to make lemonade with at the moment. And only now am I coming around to the idea that that’s okay.

It’s just that my presence on social media was beginning to feel so fake, so performative. My engagement with others hasn’t all been genuine, but merely a reminder that I still exist. Hey, I’m still here! I see you out here living your best life! Don’t forget me! The “likes” I was handing out were me convincing myself that I wasn’t a hater and that I could (and should) be happy for people even if things weren’t happening for me.

One of my best friends called me recently. She was worried that she hadn’t been a good friend to me over the last several months; that she hadn’t shown up for me in the ways she felt she should. She said, “I know when you get like this isolation is your main girlie, but I can’t help but think that I haven’t done my part as your friend.”

Nonsense. Isolation is my main girlie. I prefer my darkness to be mine and mine alone. I wouldn’t dare rain on another’s parade. And that’s the beauty of friendship; for someone to know you so intimately that they abide by your rules of engagement in your time of need even if it means overriding their own.

*I wrote this two and a half weeks ago, but decided not to post in the moment. I’m feeling a bit better now, albeit still not active on Instagram.

I’m slowly but surely coming out of this year-long sadness. I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Things haven’t completely worked themselves out yet, but I’ve started taking phone calls again. I’m itching for a good girl’s night (and the debriefs that follow the next day). Little blessings are finding their way back to me again, and I’m grateful for each one regardless of the form they take.

I want to go and be and do and see.

I want to show up for myself and for the people I love without the burden of sadness.

I want to smile and laugh and be young and dumb, and it all be genuine.

I want to be here and be present.

I want to live.

This post, the one you’re reading now, isn’t either of those drafts, but something new (and lighter) altogether. As inspired by Nzinga Bandida’s post, here are today’s gripes.

1. Periods
   I understand the purpose of ovulation; the body’s way of preparing to house your greatest joy. I even understand the discarding of said housing materials (menstruation). We wouldn’t want all of those materials sitting in there rotting and going to waste—fair. But why do I have to die every month (and sometimes twice a month)? I’m not even preparing for pregnancy. Doesn’t my body know that by now? I say it out loud very often. This could’ve been an email. | 0/10

2. Scripted reality TV
   I don’t watch reality TV anymore because it’s fake. (Wait, that isn’t entirely true. I just restarted Mob Wives.) And also because I was getting attached to certain “reality stars”, internalizing their issues with other cast members, and hating them in real life. Only to find out later (on Instagram or at the show’s reunion) that a large part of everything was either written in or edited out. I miss when production companies sent in their camera crews, turned the cameras on, and let chaos ensue naturally. If it’s scripted, we can’t really call it a reality show, can we? | 3/10

3. Meetings about meetings
   Why did you put time on my calendar to “briefly connect” about a meeting we’re going to have in the future? Don’t piss me off. This, too, could’ve been an email. | 0/10

4. Death
   My paternal grandfather died when I was in middle school. He’d beaten cancer a few times and was in remission for almost all of my childhood. So when we found out that the cancer had come back, it was sad but it wasn’t alarming—not to me anyway. I knew he’d beat it again just like he had before. Except he didn’t. Before then, no one close to me had died. Before then, I had never seen my daddy cry. I was old enough to understand that my grandpa wasn’t going to be attending my track meets anymore or hosting cookouts that turned into very loud, very competitive spades and bid whist tournaments. I’ve had several loved ones die since then, but the concept of death still evades me. You were here yesterday, and now you’re gone, but like… Where did you go? | No rating; still lots of questions

5. Booth and bottle culture
   I started clubbing as a teen, but it wasn’t until I was in college that VIP booths and bottle service became a thing that needed to be obtained. Being in general population seemed like a social status death sentence. I will say that getting booths has done wonders for my feet. Not having to worry about getting my toes smashed up or the balls of my feet stinging in pain because I decided to wear the heels that looked the best vs. the ones that felt the best has been great. But the triple-marked-up bottle prices really get me. This same bottle is $50 at the ABC, but it’s $300 here (+ the booth + hookah + a 10-piece lemon pepper wings combo). I still participate in club culture, but I’m going to complain every time. | 5/10

6. Disdain for midday naps
   I’m a napper; always have been. My parents, as briefly mentioned in this post, didn’t impose many rules upon me and my sister. If I wanted to sleep midday, I wasn’t given shit for it. If I wanted to sprawl out on the couch or anywhere else outside of my lair, my lounging wasn’t reprimanded. But then I started visiting other people’s houses and learned very quickly that if you’re sleeping, you aren’t moving; if you aren’t moving, you aren’t working, and there is always something to be done. Rest isn’t only for nighttime, people. | 3/10

7. The 54321 method
   You know, the 5 things you can see; 4 things you can touch; 3 things you can hear; 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste thing when you feel an anxiety attack coming on? Yeah, I did it once or twice when I really needed it and it didn’t work. I still felt the same level of anxiety that I felt before the countdown. I’m so sorry to whoever created that method, but it’s just not good. Maybe it works for some, but it didn’t for me. One point for effort. | 1/10

8. Rollercoasters (especially collapsable ones)
   Though fun, I generally don’t think rollercoasters are safe. When I was younger, I’d take the biggest, baddest rollercoaster in the park with zero consideration for construction. That was until I got sick on Drop Zone at Carowinds and swore off rollercoasters altogether. Now that I’m older, I’m all: the logistics just don’t work. Think about it: we’re going loopty-loop in an old, rickety cart depending solely on a rusted seat belt or chest lever-clamp-thing that can fly up at any time during the ride (that happened to me once). We’re putting our trust in metal contraptions that were maybe bolted to the ground—oh, but not the ones at the state fair. Because those have to be folded up and transported to the next state fair next week. | 2/10

This was fun. Same time next week? (maybe)

I tried basketball (too girly). I tried gymnastics (too tall). And I did cheer for almost as long as I ran, but track was my thing—is my thing.

Running has taken me places and introduced me to things and people that not running may not have. When I ran, it was a euphoric experience. There’s no thinking, there’s only running. Run hard, turn left. One foot in front of the other. Pound the ground; what you give to it, it gives back.

It’s been seven years since I graduated college. I’ve retired my jersey and hung up my spikes, but I haven’t stopped running. In the literal sense, sure, but not the metaphorical. I’ve continued running into adulthood. Running from conflict, running into this one or that one’s arms, running from greatness, running from self and truth, running fast into decisions. Running so fast my feet don’t touch the ground.

I don’t want to run anymore. I’m tired, and it’s lonely.

And I want someone to say to me, “Why don’t we walk for a while?”