Growing up as the oldest, I was always in charge of taking care of everyone; I spent days in the walls of lives that weren’t mine. Held emotions too strong that weren’t mine or held space for someone who kicked me out the second their new tenant arrived.

Being the oldest came with no instructions; I came flying out of the womb with expectations I still have yet to meet. Standing so high on pedistools that don’t belong to me, reaching for what seems impossible. So what do I naturally do? I turn to my headspace, the one place even when full of demands from others. I can still escape the echoes of “I need you to do this.”

Within the walls of my mind beyond expectations is a laughter that has yet to come, a future where I laughed because someone actually sat with me to talk and not just tried buttering their way up to a favor. Where I cried, and I was met with caring hands instead of a hit to the face, a place where I could call home and feel confident in saying that.

Marriage. The one thing I find myself thinking of when I am lonely. The thought of coming home to someone who waited for me to arrive. I always hear how horrible marriages are, and everyone advises the young generation to be single. But what happens when you want to be taken care of and not the caregiver? So much is given that my cup runs empty, that I am running on E. I want to know what it’s like to be told, ‘It’s okay to not be okay,’ and be able to let all the tension go from my shoulders and fall apart knowing someone is there to catch me.

To know what being held by hands that know my secrets and insecurities but don’t use them against me and become angry hands when conflict arrives.

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We always talk about how we are all hopeless romantics, but the truth is not many of you are. Being a hopeless romantic means patience will be the deathbed you lay on before love finds you. Many people rush into anything that gives you attention because you are scared of going through life and not being chosen.

The truth behind being a hopeless romantic is that I desire violently and I wait. Yes, even though my skin begs to be etched into the innocence of love. The part that’ll violently meet me, but upon interaction it slowly intertwines itself into me, I still wait.

Some days I want to drag heaven on earth and lay my body with the angels to feel the kind of love that’s heaven-sent. But still I wait.

People who truly want that fairy-tale love will wait. Nothing comes done overnight. Love takes time and patience. Many people do not desire to hold onto patience, and loving someone requires that. To be patient is to tell Father Time to be slow and gentle. There is a sense of slowness that arrives when you start falling for someone; you start to take more pauses in between words to admire their features you never saw the first time.

That slowness does not die out unless both parties no longer violently desire each other and wait; the pause between a hug to absorb it all and the sex that comes naturally and undoes you neatly. The pause that many couples often rush past. Love was never born into being rushed.

The birth of things was meant to be slow; that way, you can’t miss anything. So choose to desire violently and wait. Because passion is too soft for the heart that truly echoes love.

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Recently 10-year-old Shani “Kaidra” Coke of Trelawny, Jamaica, was partially nude when found with her throat slashed on Tuesday after she was brutally raped and then murdered. Many community members say the alleged man had a reputation and rap sheet for doing this. The community knew his criminal record, but they never took action until after the killing of Shani Coke. After finding out, the community set a fire to the residence of her killer, and now many officers handling the case are speaking out against the community for taking matters into their hands.

As a young woman who spent 85 percent of her life growing up in Jamaica, I can say firsthand that Shani is unfortunately among the thousands of young babies whose lives were cut short because the system of Jamaica continues to fail them constantly. The Jamaica Constabulary Force has a reputation of covering up for the pedophiles in many communities. The streets became dangerous during the day, and matters turned worse when babies started losing their lives to the family they live with. Because Jamaica has a stubborn mentality of ‘a suh wi stay’ (that’s how we are) regarding being called out on their old, stuck-up ways.

The older generation refuses to change their harmful behavior because, in their eyes, a gay man is a greater concern than a pedophile. Growing up in Jamaica I have watched many people cover the asses of all the weird uncles, grandfathers and older sons who have raped and molested women. While they kill the young men who are caught sleeping with men, as if their lives were weighted more in sin than their pedophilic relatives’ lives. The country as a whole is extremely religious, following Christianity but refusing to practice the parts that hold their actions accountable because that would mean they are flawed. The older generation refuses to ever be wrong and constantly forces their outdated toxic Christian teachings on Gen Z.

Respect your elder, mother, and father, but ignore the part of the verse that states, “Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger by the way you treat them.” (Ephesians 6:4)

In the Jamaican culture, elders’ age automatically gives them more power over you; they are deemed the highest people on the respect list. As a result, many grandparents have abused or molested their grandchildren. Another problem within is that Jamaicans do not speak up or report cases of rape or molestation, mostly because the community will exile you and label it as a false accusation. The surprising part is that those in the community who accuse you of lying were also victims of the same elders, yet they chose to join the crowd that wants you out rather than speak up.

Reporting it without hardcore evidence makes no sense, and your back is on the wall if the police know the person. Many officers are also known to rape, molest, and kill women, even their wives, because in the minds of many, a married man cannot rape his wife; it’s labeled as consensual sex. The corrupt government supports the police; they all play a part in the lives of many young girls. The grooming culture in Jamaica is at the highest of all time; many men are dating schoolgirls, and keep in mind high school in Jamaica starts at 7th grade. Straight 12-14 year old young ladies are being groomed into relationships with taxi drivers who are 35+. Most of these relationships end with the young women missing and their bodies found brutally raped and killed. The Jamaican government refuses to take serious action against these pedos before it’s too late; they refuse to release a sex registry for the public.

Transportation here is very different from America. In America, government-issued buses ensure your child will make it home after school because there are government-issued buses for every route. In Jamaica children as young as 6 travel on their own to school, whether by walking or taking a bus or taxi. Many kids leave home but never return; their bodies are still missing to this day. It’s sad that the culture sees a gay man more as a threat than the pedophiles they hang around.

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Recently my sister and I went on a binge-watching rampage looking for this nostalgia we so desperately miss, and Walt had just that waiting on us. Tarzan came on, and for a second I felt at ease not only because of nostalgia but also because of Tarzan’s curiosity for Jane. He wanted to know her, and nothing could stop him from figuring it out.

On the surface level you could easily say he was curious because it had been a while since he had seen another human, which is true, but after his small encounter with Jane, Tarzan wanted more. He craved to see her again; everything about her kept him stargazing, and it hit me right there. I have never had anyone approach me with genuine curiosity, the kind that leaves you speechless. The kind that keeps you awake when you go home, wondering, ‘When am I going to see her again?’ The high that feels like it will never end.

So as I am watching, I realize further on that the curiosity became mutual; Jane became so intrigued with him. Questions flooded her mind, and though at first Tarzan could not answer, he made the effort to. That does not come easy in this generation’s dating pool; you have to chase, beg, and hope they return the same energy. Nobody is curious anymore; no questions are asked. Nobody cares to actually get to know you; they just want to skip to the relationship part without the work.

Though there was a language barrier between the two and a lifestyle difference, that didn’t stop them from exploring each other all without sex. The innocence of exploring feelings with a lover without sex is not spoken about enough. Sex becomes a transaction instead of an intimate moment between two souls. Tarzan also found her beautiful even in her natural state, with no fancy gowns and makeup. Swinging through the jungle, he made sure to ease everything slowly to Jane; he didn’t rush to throw everything down her throat.

He handed himself into her arms, flaws and all, with gentle hands; he cared about how she felt also. Jane became more intrigued by Tarzan because of how clearly he showed he was interested in her; there was no room for confusion to take place. These days you have to tango with mixed signals, always wondering how the other person feels about you.

He took interest in what she loved. Tarzan paid close attention to everything Jane did; he watched her draw and sat to watch. He saw her books and sat to hear her read. A step was taken towards each other, and Jane then saw the jungle and met Tarzan’s friends and his family. You don’t find that often, someone who pays attention to you, everything you say, and remembers it. Everyone tends to forget what the other says because they are only focusing on one goal: sex.

Most people’s idea of love focuses only on the materialistic things but not the parts that cannot be bought with money. The late-night talks filled with laughter and ‘I miss you,’ the moment leading up to that first kiss, and so many more precious memories. People walk away from good relationships because their partner is not funding this materialistic lifestyle that makes no room for real love to take place. Social media has played a huge role in how people view relationships; everyone watches what the other relationship is doing and lets it spill into their own and ruin it.

The innocence and curiosity between Jane and Tarzan are something I deeply admire; it was refreshing and outside the box. People don’t go outside anymore; they don’t do fun dates. Everything revolves around what can make the best picture for social media. People rarely live in the moment anymore; everything in relationships these days is videoed and put onto the internet to be monetized. They create money off pain and tears, conversations that should be held behind closed doors and not in front of a ring light.

People want genuineness, but when they receive it, they hold it with a lustful hand. Relationships aren’t long-term anymore; nobody really wants to stay together and get married; they just like the idea of it. Because to be together for that long, it means work has to be put in; a lot of forgiving and patience have to be done.

It’s beautiful how Tarzan and Jane spoke without using words; everything was pure, honest, and mutual. I want a Tarzan.

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Sitting in my room unemployed and still haven’t started college, I have been feeling this heavy guilt, as if I am wrong for not being productive. I sit in my room playing roblox, sleeping all day and binge-watching movies.

Many conversations I have had start and end the same: ‘Have you started college? And do you have a job?’ and these questions are the reason I avoid conversations, because as soon as I tell people no, they get this sense of entitlement to know why I am so young and haven’t started life. Like how dare I sit on my butt doing nothing all day while they have to work, even without knowing my situation.

I realize a common denominator in these conversations is the grown folks. They never seem to care about why the boys are not in school, as if I am the only twenty-year old not in college yet. It made me realize that people are still carrying that bitter torch of traditional wife culture.

For as long as the earth has existed, women have always had the hand that got dealt the worst, receiving all the labor and abuse with no room for laughter and a break. Given so many rules yet such a short deadline and if not met, you were punished and given another chance, as if redemption was lives in the hands of men posing as gods.

Though women have a lot more freedom than 50 years ago, they still face a stage that forces them to play out the man written script. No mistakes can be made while the audience watches, because if a man can point out a mistake, your womanhood meant nothing and without their approval you held no value. Your husband leaves home for 8 hours, and you are left with the responsibility of feeding the babies, grocery shopping, dropping the kids off /picking them up from school, cleaning the house, doing his laundry, dry cleaning and making sure his food is hot and ready when he comes home because, if not, you get smacked across the face for embarrassing him in front of his kids.

Striking a man’s ego only leads to death, so he has to strike first to keep you in check, to remind you that without him, you are nothing. I am never shutting down my dreams to ‘hold down the fort ’ I refuse to be submissive to that life. I aspire to be so much more than a mother.

Being an independent woman does not give you any protection from their wrath but instead makes them more conniving than ever. It all starts with the slut shaming. I believe it is a kink men enjoy. Spreading a rumor that she slept her way to the top and watch her over work herself to prove everyone wrong. Many men enjoy watching the burnout of a successful woman because, in their minds, there is no place for women at the table in meetings but at the door waiting to serve them like an assistant. Everyone loves an independent woman till it strikes their ego.

Menstruation Marketing has always been horrible, and it has created a space for men to criticize women. In the ads, we see women frolicking and having the best time of their life when, in reality, it is not even a centimeter close. This does not count PCOS amongst many other things many women struggle with daily on their cycle. When a woman needs to call off because of cramps, many male bosses will always have a misogynistic remark.

To say whether it’s about how men went to war in worse conditions, how they triumphed through pain or the classic old ‘period cramps does not compare to being kicked in the balls’, as if equating to bleeding heavily for seven days is nothing to their precious cargo being hit. We are told to suck it up and still clock in, showing once again that all that matters is our performance.

Not only within the workforce, but it all goes back to the traditional wife culture. No days off in your own house because of cramps, because men are incapable of performing house tasks without their hand being held all the way. Incompetent of taking care of their kids. Men have shown time and time again that they do not care about how we feel but what we can do for them.

To be a woman is to perform for a man.

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Do you guys remember the natural hair movement back around 2014-2016 when you could see afros at every turn you took throughout the day? It feels like eons ago this movement happened because we rarely see afros out anymore.

Wigs were considered something only your grandma would throw on when she went to church, and when you went to get it, it stood for its purpose. To protect your hair. Currently wigs do more damage to your hair than protect it because many hairstylists are focused on fast money and not prioritizing their clients’ natural hair; they avoid consults because they are scared of telling you that your hair is breaking and you need to take a break from wigs. (or worse they are not educated on natural hair.)

Charging insane prices for an install and additional fees for styling. So many rules that make no sense, like ‘I do not work with Amazon hair, only hair bought from me’ when their hair costs a whole 1k. Once upon a time, a sew-in was sixty dollars, and it lasted long. Not only are there numerous rules, but many Black hairstylists are colorists; you visit their page to see their work and only see light-skinned women showcasing their work. Very rarely will you see a dark-skinned woman on their pages, and it’s always telling. It all comes back to texturism; they refuse to work on women with 4c hair, which tends to be women of a darker shade.

Light-skin women have become the trophy face of what it means to be pretty. Their big curly hair is praised while the thicker, coarse-haired girls are put down. I have a mix of 4b and 4c hair. I have been told many times that my hair is difficult to work with, and I believed it for years, scared to wear my hair in its natural state. I thought I needed a wig on to feel pretty; braids got labeled as pretty and childish.

Wigs became the face of what it meant to be grown-up and sexy. Natural hair is viewed through a negative lens if it’s not slick. Everything started becoming labeled as child hairstyles, creating an illusion that a wig is the highest form of luxury for hair. I realized a lot of the highest-paid people are hairstylists, and I am not referring to celebrity hairstylists; they are paid highly because they work with high-profile clients and work with many expensive pieces of hair.

Many hairstylists’ works I have seen are terrible, and they only maintain a large clientele because they are popular, which is what they use to justify their high prices.

‘Come blow-dried’ has become a way to disguise their texturism. I have seen them charge a lot more to blow dry hair (especially when it’s thick) when that used to come with the service. They have broken down things as a way to charge more money. Back then your hair could be braided without being blow-dried, and if you needed a wash, it came with the service. All you had to do was show up and carry your own products if your hair needed specific things.

These new hairstylists won’t use products unless they’re their brand, which 99% of the time is not approved by the FDA. The high prices don’t showcase high-end results. Your hair is left breaking off, with bald spots, and in need of a trim.

Bring back untouched afros and hairstylists that care for our natural hair.

Other hairstyle Related articles: When wigs become status.

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There’s this new trending topic on TikTok. Recently emerged a lady called ‘Woolady’ who has been flooding the feed about how she brought someone to Miami and brought her to a section in a club where they were ready to spend money, and the girl wanted to sleep.

Now, I have not gone down the entire rabbit hole, but I realized she was selling ebooks called ‘Tricking University.’ Yes, you heard that correctly, an eBook on how to spot tricks.

To my surprise many of her buyers were young women in my age group. Falling for the trafficking propaganda that’s dressed up as chanels and yacht parties. I will be honest that a lot of the girls in this generation, Gen Z, do not have goals, nor do they aspire to become anything that involves work. They instead turn to social media, watching these types of influencers and celebrities’ girlfriends, and think that’s the life they should be handed, as if any regular twenty-year-old guy had his own yacht and high-rise apartment in Miami.

Miami is portrayed as this fast-life city located in Florida; it’s where many rappers, high-end clients, and CEOs reside or spend a lot of their time vacationing. In reality, under all the glitz and glamor are the dark streets these young girls don’t see. The places where you are forced into prostitution to pay off your debt. Every post of a new bag or a high-rise apartment is a debt you cannot outrun.

Some time ago I spoke about living fast, the truth about fast luxury, and how many girls envy the lives of others, not knowing the struggles they face behind every new purchase made. Take Boston Richey and Tatiana Chanel, for example. He is a rapper and a girl he has been abusing since she was fifteen. Keep in mind he is 29 and she turned twenty recently. Behind it all, he was beating on her; he even did so in public and got only a small amount of backlash because people were blinded by his big-money persona as an artist. He always rapped about tricking and having no problem with doing so. When in reality he was spending money on Tatiana and taking things back as a means to financially have her dependent on him.

Young girls now think the ticket out is a man who has big money when in reality you’ll just end up coked out of your mind on the streets of Miami selling yourself to pay a debt you’ll never be able to afford to pay off. Your life now becomes his, and you have to do what you are told or you will end up missing with no one knowing.

Now any girl with common sense will know not to fall for any trap like this, but unfortunately many young women are easily influenced with no one to correct them. The fast-life music is fed to their undeveloped brains and completely rewires how they view life and affects their life decisions dramatically. These young women enter into relationships expecting these young men to fund a life they themselves cannot afford, having unrealistic expectations.

Tricking is just trafficking disguised as easy fast life.

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I turned 20 in February, and I realized I have to become selfish and fast. Not in the way that I am so self-centered that I don’t care for everyone around me, but I needed to start putting myself first, doing what’s best for me. That included the practice of asking people for advice for things I had to solely decide on, whether or not they would be a good move for me long-term.

The unspoken rule of your twenties is to have fun, but what they don’t tell you is how much people will dogwalk you if you don’t grow a backbone for yourself. People often dismiss you because you are young and ‘inexperienced,’ but the truth is elders envy you for being young and wise enough to avoid continuing generational curses.

They tell us we have to submit early so we can make good wives, that our young years are for kids because no man wants any old women giving him kids. As if our youth were born to be given to men.

“Be intimidating in your 20s” is my motto; be conceited and be loud in who you are. Don’t let anything hold you back; don’t let any man tie you to somewhere you are trying to leave, or you will become miserable. Take your wings as a woman and go see the earth; God didn’t make beauty twice for one to not meet the other. Give your 20s all of you and nothing less; leave no room for other voices than your own to have opinions.

Take Tracie Ellis as an example; she is still single and loving life, taking her time to travel the world, admiring everything it still has to offer her. She has no kids and no regrets; she chased her dreams, and they came true. She became a pillar within the Black community for us young Black women to know that there is more to life than what others say. There is no shame in being single.

Love comes and goes always, but the only one that matters is the love dedicated to you. Don’t go spending your money on others who wouldn’t help you if you were homeless.

Let caution be the bed you lay in when it comes to letting people in your circle. During these next 10 years, the people you allow into your life can either build you up or bring you down. You should not waste time on people who are indifferent. Walk like you own it all already but still be humble.

Decide what you want these 10 years to look like, and make it beautiful; most importantly, make it you.

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I got cheated on a couple of times, and it made me on edge every time I gave my heart away. I was itching for him to mess up like the rest; everyone called me crazy and told me he would never do me like that because everyone knew we were together. But what they don’t see on the inside is how sitting in the dark was my heart suited up in an FBI suit, prepared to brace for impact when I do find the evidence of him cheating.

I learned to trust my instincts each time, and they have never failed me once. He had me as his lock screen; he would be seen in public with me, and for a second I slipped and let my guard down, thinking I was in the safe zone. Sitting in the end zone, thinking I hit the touchdown and finally found my soulmate, not knowing in the bleachers behind me sat his mistresses. Not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, and not six either, but over 10 women that I knew of. We never went out on dates because my mother was too strict, and I explained all that from the jump so he knew what he would be getting into.

Reassuring me everything was fine till one day I took his phone as a joke, and he laid hands on me. He fought me endlessly for the phone, so I went through it, and low and behold, there it was. A bunch of women, including his ex he told me he was over. Videos of them fresh out the shower together going on dates. He denied it and took off running with the phone to clear it.

I stayed. Like a dumbass, I stayed.

Going forward, he became suspicious and constantly lied till a friend of mine showed me a video of him caked up with his ‘best friend’ and some of her friends. I left. I did. But that wasn’t the first or second time I was ever cheated on.

Everyone told me I was crazy for being on edge, but I still turned out to be right.

Another time I stopped this guy I was with because he kept ignoring me all day, and he swerved away just for me to follow slowly behind with my homegirl to see his friends laughing at me the same ones that called me a bitch like they knew a secret I didn’t. It turned out everyone knew I was being cheated on but me. It was the same girl he told me not to worry about. “She just sells me my vapes. “ I knew it was bullshit, and I called him out on it, and he denied it. I had no proof but my gut; his phone screen was so broken, so I couldn’t go through it. Later on he slowly ghosted me, and I was so pissed because I did nothing wrong; he told me he wasn’t ready for anything. Just two weeks later I see him walking hand in hand with the girl he told me not to worry about.

I went home trying to keep my cool, trying so hard to not let my chest cave in. I thought I had pushed it down to deal with at a later date, but my mother came into my room and saw my body shaking, trying to focus and do my homework, and it all came back up when she asked if I was okay. I couldn’t hide that I was hurt, angry, and pissed. I burst out crying, shaking so much out of breath that I had a panic attack.

A more recent one from 2 years ago was when an old fling of mine from when I was younger and I got back on good terms, and he told me he was ready to finally give us a chance, and at the time, we were long-distance. I believed him because we never had no bad moments between us, so I gave in. While doing so, a month in, he started to move weird, not answering when I called and ignoring messages. One day while at a sleepover with my best friend and my sister, I called him a couple times, and he ignored it. I called again one last time a couple hours later because I knew he was off work that day, and he answered whispering, saying, “Wsp? You okay?” And in the background I heard a girl go, ‘Who the fuck is that on the phone?’ and then he hung up. In 2 minutes my phone rang; he was calling me back. The girl asked me who I was, and I told her who I was. It turned out he was lying to both of us and had just had sex with her even though he told me she was “some crazy bitch” that was attached to him.

Not only was he fucking her, but he was eating her out, doing all the things he said he would do to me. ( he was a virgin when we met and we planned to save it for each other) Then I realized this girl was the same one who texted me a month prior, saying she saw me in his phone, asking how I knew her man. The call went on and on, and I hung up and blocked his number. She ended up calling from no caller ID, saying he’d been driving her around in his car. the same car he just bought and was coming to see me in. That night ended with me blocking him and not speaking to him anymore.

Ever since then I have been single. I told myself I need a break from men; it’s been 2 years going on 3 soon, and I still second-guess the thought of ever giving someone else a chance. My heart stays on guard 24/7, and I am not sure when I’ll be able to let it down and be loved by someone faithful, but I know one thing. My gut is always right, and I deserve so much better.

Cheating doesn’t just hurt you but damages your trust with love. You leave no room for mistakes, no room for excuses. You become restless staying up making sure you don’t mistake any red flags for green. You are no longer blind to their flirts and corny pickup lines. You view it all with the eye of a cop, policing every word being said to you, taking it with a grain.

Purity culture took over social media, and it has crept its way into women’s safe spaces. Make-up routines turned into clean girl aesthetic to look more approachable to men because men don’t like women with a full face of makeup. Modesty went from focusing on emphasizing the importance of inner values and personal expression to being a discourse on how much skin you show.

Everything we did for fun turned into a competition of who could be more presentable and submissive for a man, because without being submissive and presentable, you are less than a woman. It felt as though men had become gods judging the very definition of what it means to be a woman.

Boiled down to just reproductive organs, a mouth never meant to open. Feet designed to just walk where a man dictates, knowing no freedom of their own.

Purity culture is just another way for men to show their pedophilic tendencies, wanting a woman that has not let a man ‘defile’ her. In reality, they don’t want just a ‘pure woman’; it’s much deeper than that. They want a child. A woman who lacks a sense of self makes it easier to imprint her narcissistic and misogynistic ways. They mold women to be submissive slaves, to answer to nobody but him.

They don’t believe in saving themselves either; it’s all one-sided. He can engage with multiple women, but a woman has to come fully prepared and ready to serve. Women should be the ones to pursue men; they see themselves as the prize, leaders that should be wined, dined, and served.

Purity is just another means of confining us within the patriarchy, submitting to the roles they design for us to remind them that we are inferior to them.

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Crazy title, isn’t it? Now that I have everyone’s attention, let’s discuss the endless dick sucking Black people do for white people’s approval, putting down their community every chance they get. I hate that many people of color will forever try to debate slavery, as if the generational pain isn’t still felt in today’s modern society even with discrimination laws in place.

“Get over it” is what they’ll argue, that it’s old and in the past, as if their skin color doesn’t scream “threat” to the same white people they love to seek approval from. “Coons” is what we call them, the ones that dance for the white man, lacking personal integrity. They create a space for casual racism, some may call it, but it’s really microaggression, the kind that slips off white people’s tongues like Sunday brunch. The casual nature of this racism is so widespread that it is so evident to an outsider looking in, while in the circle, white people are never challenged or corrected.

A person of color that willingly swims in the pool filled with their ancestors’ blood shed by the very same people they associate with is a danger to the Black community. They give them the okay to enter into our spaces and target us, hurting our younger, vulnerable generation, leaving the idea that to get anywhere in life you have to bow down to the people who would kill you in an instant the second you become useless to them.

Slavery was never just about the buying and selling of our people but also the great ways they took extreme measures to torment us for pleasure. The pleasure for white men has always come at the expense of Black lives. This part always seems to fly over the head of a coon; they tore us in pieces to make furniture and shoes. They made an example out of the ‘disobedient’ slaves in front of adults and children; none of us was spared. With all just this surface-level information provided, their rebuttal will always be ‘Some white people are not racist,’ when in reality many of them wear black faces that are invisible to them.

“How can blackface be invisible?” When you are not ‘woke’ to microaggression, you become blind to the black charcoal sitting on their faces. Microaggression from white people who have been around Black people—that excuse comes off much stronger and in a demanding tone. As if it’s the year before 1865, they walk around with an authority so big that they think we belong nowhere but below their feet at its service.

But we are below no man’s feet; we belong at every table whether they hand us a chair or not. Black is beauty, not a caution sign.

“The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them.” — Ida B. Wells

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A quote from my devotional this morning stopped me in my tracks; I had to sit up out of my bed and realize what was being said to my spirit. At first glance I proudly thought I could always multitask, and that’s how things get done quicker. And this is why reading with comprehension is so important because after sitting up and reading with intention, I realized multitasking actually does more damage than good to your mind, body, and spirit in the long run.

Nervous overload is a condition that gradually develops over time; at first it feels like all you need is some sleep until you realize people who juggle everything are addicts. Addicted to the high that comes from doing everything at once to prove you can, one thing I learned about addicts is that proving the word “can” is a slippery slope, one that they never know when to walk away from. Being accountable for everything comes naturally as you never want to be called out for neglect.

“Neglect” is the one word that triggers addicts; one negative comment is all it takes for a nervous overload to start ticking. When neglect is mentioned, it hurts your pride, and then everything turns into a competition to prove the ‘can.’ Everything becomes possible even when it costs you everything and the parts you don’t even have. Emptying out resources that you have not yet learned to handle, you become controlling, having to be in charge of people’s narratives to manage how people perceive you. Because you cannot afford to be seen as anything less than what you are.

Control and responsibility become the shot of vodka you take daily. The ego boost you need to constantly show up even when you are hungover. You rely on evidence to convince yourself that you can manage, even when you can’t.

Hi, my name is girlwhowriteshersoul. I am an addict of the substance of control and responsibility, the stimulant responsible for my nervous system overload. This is my first time at an AA meeting.

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Part 1: Bare Skin

Something so sacred happens when friction lives within our skins.

The heavenly gates open, and the choir can be heard singing their praises.

Rolling over in the sheet to see the sun grace your face, enlightening the man you are.

A night to remember the way your hands made it through the maze of a body I live within.

Like a missing piece to the board, the king is to my queen in a game of chess.

No first move on the board without my consent, my opinion, or my approval.

Cherished as hard as the saints guard their bible, cherished as hard as the Catholics guard the mother Mary statue.

So folded into each other’s existence, our footprints leave this earth in sync.

Etched into God’s palm was every raw edge of your existence, the flaws that don’t cut through me.

A safety net is not needed for our edges as they rub each other with a soft tone of grace.

A soft tone of innocence in the way we love, in the way we float with ease throughout life.

Our love is imprinted in the same dust Adam and Eve were conceived in.

Conceived with your breath and my missing rib.

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Diary entry, (6:30 am)

Sitting in my room, hanging up a phone call from my best friend telling me a date she went on with the guy she has been seeing went beautifully, had me thinking back on my love life. I never had a successful love story; many times I licked love off knives that stabbed me in the back in the end. Why you may ask? Because when you are a teenager up past 10 pm, this dread of loneliness finds its way to suffocate you.

I put myself in harm’s way many times for an awful breakup to swallow me whole, and somehow I always seem to be the one who’s in the most pain in the end. Situationships that overran their course and spilled into thoughts of what your future wedding would look like and meeting their families, all for it to mean nothing to them. Growing up in an environment that had no example of healthy love had me sleeping in the bed, caked up on the phone, laughing, and throwing compliments at each other as if the night was running away with the devil without realizing it.

The funny thing about knives is that you never feel them till after the adrenaline wears off, when all the good moments flash past quickly and all that is left is the bitter silence of your heart shattering to a million pieces. Knowing your worth but wondering when your time is to get that happy ending follows you around at night while lurking at everyone posting their engagements, dates, and baby shoots. Sometimes loneliness has you stooping to levels of hell just to feel the adrenaline rush of being seen, prioritized, and touched even if it lasts only a mere second.

I hate when people make me feel exposed and filthy for wanting love, with the constant ‘you need to love yourself first’ when I already do and ‘you need to focus on you’ when I have always done that. As if one couldn’t put oneself first and still want to be undone by the intimate languages the body talks. They treat love like something that has to be multitasked, as if you wake up and decide if you want to carry it for the day. Most of the guys I have spoken with treated it like a difficult task, as if as long as I was the one to deliver love with serenity, the only work they would have to do was open the door to receive it, not caring if I had any in return.

Though I have licked many wounds, for once I would love if I were spoon-fed, held, touched with innocence, and seen for more than my pretty face.

Signed, girlwhowriteshersoul💌.

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Scrolling on TikTok, I came across another couples trend, and to my surprise, it’s ‘a woman’s hand being sized with her boyfriend with the caption ‘I am so smol.’ To most people, it seems cute and harmless. But beneath the surface sits something far more troubling. The growing infantilization of women disguised as femininity. More and more women have adopted this baby-like persona, always needing a man for basic tasks, creating the illusion that women are not only incapable of doing simple tasks but also do not have the mental capacity to be independent.

Though this may seem like an exaggeration, it does happen more than we think. Men take on a savior role, seeking relationships where they hold all financial and emotional power but struggle to do so when confronted with an independent woman. A woman who has no desire to be rescued hurts the ego of a man playing God.

Infantilism is not simply the cute baby names and feeding each other but rather about power imbalance and emotional stagnation. When woman-hood become tied to childishness. As women grow older they become more secure within themselves. They gain experience, boundaries, but importantly discernment. But sadly for men who chase this fantasy of power mixed with innocence, they often lean towards seeking out younger girls. This is not done out of love but because youth is easier to shape, impress and manipulate. This is all done before a strong sense of self has fully had the chance to grow.

The ‘baby’ persona does not exist outside of the misogyny women already face but feeds into it. Society has spent all it’s time boxing women into stereotypes of being weak, emotional and incapable of life. Infantilization only slaps a bow on those same beliefs just in softer tones, romantic language. Making being incapable look desirable instead of dangerous. Laying between the bow and misogyny is the darker truth. It is where the line between women attraction and youth blurs. Women should not have to shrink themselves into daughters to feel desirable.

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Some of the most damaging ideas about relationships no longer come whispered; they come polished as advice on social media. Relationships have become performative pieces online, and in the middle of that performance, toxicity is often mistaken for devotion.

Men publicly spew sexist ideas about a woman’s role in relationships, but there is another side to this conversation that’s rarely addressed: the voices encouraging women to romanticize control, possession, and emotional dependency. Surprisingly, many of these messages come from women themselves, women who disguise bitterness, insecurity, or unresolved hurt as wisdom for younger girls to follow.

Every day, the same phrases circulate online:
“He should be mean to everyone except you.”
“If he really loves you, you should be his whole world.”
“He should always choose you over everyone else.”

At first glance, these sound flattering, even romantic. But underneath them is something far more dangerous: the belief that love requires ownership.

Some women no longer want partnership; they want complete emotional possession. They interpret basic human decency toward others as betrayal. A man being kind, respectful, or emotionally available to friends, coworkers, or even family suddenly becomes a threat instead of what it actually is: normal human behavior. We are taught from childhood to say please and thank you, to hold doors open, to care for others, and to treat people with respect. Entering a relationship should not erase someone’s humanity.

Ownership cannot coexist with healthy love. The moment a relationship becomes about control, isolation, and constant emotional monitoring, it stops being devotion and starts becoming violence.

And violence is not always physical.

Sometimes it appears mentally. Verbally. Emotionally. Quietly.

It appears in unrealistic expectations disguised as affection:
“He should buy me flowers every day.”
“He should come whenever I call.”
“He should spend all his money on me.”
“He should not have female friends.”
“He should text or call me all day.”

None of these demands sound violent on the surface, which is why they spread so easily. They are presented softly, wrapped in the language of love, and femininity. But over time, they become emotionally suffocating. The relationship turns into a constant performance where one person gives endlessly while the other only consumes.

Many people today want the visible rewards of love the gifts, the dates, the social media pictures, the proposal, the aesthetic of being adored without understanding the mutual effort, patience, sacrifice, and emotional maturity required to build a healthy relationship. Everything becomes transactional. “What can you provide for me?” replaces “How can we grow together?”

And slowly, devotion turns into slavery.

We speak often about the lack of good men, but rarely about the ways some women weaponize love into control. Some do not want a partner; they want someone emotionally enslaved to them, someone whose world shrinks until it revolves entirely around their needs.

But love was never meant to suffocate.
Devotion was never meant to demand self-erasure.
And violence, no matter how softly spoken, will never be proof of love.

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Life isn’t always fair, but the one thing I have learned that doesn’t play the unbalanced game of life is grace. We always find ourselves pushing through everything while in our heads we are beating ourselves up over the decisions we made when we were vulnerable. Questioning why we let our guard down again even though we saw the red flags.

Truth be told, we can’t rewind time, and to move forward, we can’t keep sweeping everything under the rug and slapping the ‘I will do better next time’ bumper sticker on everything. Emotions don’t make us any less human, and we tend to forget that when we feel betrayed. You don’t become less than you for trusting people; never let the love you gave that wasn’t received with grace keep you up at night.

Let Grace find you in the quiet nights. Let Grace find you after a heartbreak. Let Grace intertwine with your being.

Give yourself the space to forgive yourself. To be graceful is to open the door for self-forgiveness to take place. You can never grow when you’re in a domestic violence relationship with yourself, where after every wrong turn you beat yourself. Self-forgiveness is not just for the version of you now but every version that felt betrayed.

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Christianity has been weaponized against Black women since slavery days. Using God’s name as an excuse for not meeting the standards of a ‘godly woman’ while a white woman can do the same without being penalized. White women have been made out to be the standard of God so much more; they consider themselves gods.

Red Lipstick

The color red has been demonized within the Black community for decades, labeled as “fast” and “grown.” We took it that the color was meant only for grown women, but white kids get to wear it without any lectures and nasty name-calling. A color that’s used in cheer makeup is the perfect example of how the feedback is different when worn by both children. The white child receives heartwarming compliments, while the other one is lectured in the comments about using the color and what kind of message they are trying to send.

It always seems to end in the same line of conversation, ‘You will cause a brother to fall in lust,’ referring to the verse Romans 14:21. How do we tell a child that their choice of lipstick can lead a grown man to stumble into lust? Christians often use the Bible to cover up pedophilic behaviors and slap ‘It’s just a spirit; he needs to be delivered’ onto every male that shows any slight behavior of being a creep.

Modesty

Modesty has been a huge ongoing debate within the Christian community; the part they can never seem to agree on is how modesty should be displayed. They are divided between two groups; one focuses on outside appearance and the other on both appearance and mindset. The ones that focus on only appearance are hateful and hide behind Christianity to disguise their behavior as ‘looking out for you’ when they mean all harm and no help. Black women are put under a microscope with everything they wear, slapped with impossible rules every time they step outside the image society has printed out.

No shorts, no shoulders, no crop tops, no dresses that can potentially show your figure. The church has transformed from being a place you come as you are to be saved to a fashion show and gossiping center. Pastors stand to preach words of gossip and shade instead of the word of God. Disgracing the pulpit for a couple giggles and approval from a bunch of ‘aunties’ in the church.

Financial Stability

White women are pushed to want luxury by whatever means, while Black women in church are seen as idolizing money and lacking humility for wanting financial stability, especially within the church. For years white pastors have been laundering money from their churches, not helping their congregation in need, living in huge mansions, and landing in church parking lots in helicopters, while Black pastors are scrutinized for owning a nice vehicle; everyone suddenly wants to play FBI with their books. Because in their eyes, all their money should never reach their hands but be put right back into the community, creating a double standard as if they aren’t allowed to live comfortably.

Women are told in their situations not to bother God about money. “God is teaching them to be humble,” as if it’s ever wrong to want more in life than struggles and trials. Luxury suddenly becomes something exclusively for one party.

Sex

The most controversial topic always comes down to sex, especially when children are born out of wedlock. The Black Christians have always gone toe-to-toe about having kids out of wedlock, even going as far as calling the unborn baby a bastard child. It has always been evident that within the Black community a lot of the elders that preach the ‘bastard baby’ speech had their babies out of wedlock and were either forced to marry or willingly did it to hide the embarrassment and backlash they got from their people.

There has been an increase in the number of teen moms recently, more than ever, and when it’s a white woman, she gets help from everyone, though she may receive a little backlash, it’s nothing compared to what a Black woman gets. She is told to figure it out, and her community turns their back on her, pushing the poverty narrative on her rather than coming together to assist. Community becomes a luxury that a Black woman can no longer afford.

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Puchase a coffee☕

“Spare the rod and spoil the child”—a famous motto echoed in many houses within the Black community. But what happens when the ‘rod’ becomes objects or the hands of someone your parents trusted to watch you rise up your inner thigh as a child? Abuse in the Black community is no stranger, as it’s welcomed from the doorsteps dressed in a coat called ‘discipline’ and given to you the second you step out of line. Every syllable uttered, a punch is thrown to show you they are in charge in between another one of their lengthy rants about how ungrateful you have been all week.

Across the world, Black children are birthed into environments that come with empty hands and bitter words, a system that was set up to fail them. Predominantly in African and Caribbean households, children are shaped to be seen and not heard, to do what’s asked without any questions. Because asking questions means you’re challenging their authority. Clinging to the Bible, these parents slap half-read verses such as Ephesians 6:1-3 for every reason as to why their parenting is justified.

“Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.

2. Honor thy father and mother, which is the first commandment with promise.

3 That it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth.”

They weaponize the Bible for their comfort yet ignore the verse that comes after, warning parents to not provoke their children to wrath. In their eyes, they could never provoke us, and boundaries do not exist with the reasoning that they sacrifice everything, listing the basic necessities of life they provide. Instead of being treated with discipline that’s structured, we receive welts and pain that echoes off the skin for years.

They treat us as wild animals, hitting with all their strength and then still finding more to tear us down after hearing us cry. ‘You want me to really give you something to cry for?’ they ask in an evil way to bait us into challenging their authority. Resentment between both parties grows; the parent sees the child as a burden and a mistake, while the child sees them as the prey that comes hunting for blood when angry.

Burden echoes within the hollow hearts of so many young Black children. Growing up with a defense system so tightly built that you can’t shut it down, to the point socializing becomes crippling because you view everyone as potential prey. I grew up experiencing this throughout my whole childhood, feeling like I was walking on glass with a mother that kept the people that abused her during her childhood around us. Passing down this internal family trauma of abuse that I am now responsible for passing down. I feel like a much heavier burden is placed once again on my shoulders, the feeling of a thousand eyes watching to see if I will become just like them.

I am here to say I am not a burden but a woman who carries her weight. I will not become a product of my abuse.

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Sitting in my room, scrolling through all my streaming services trying to find something to watch, I decided to look at the Black catalog. Deciding what to watch, I realized a very unsettling pattern: many of the Black female leads are angry. Now I understand a character goes through a lot, but what happens when it happens to every Black woman? A movie sells better when a Black woman is angry.

They give us vague responses during interviews, ‘It’s just the character.’ This becomes problematic; when her character is constantly written to have a flaw. It always seems as if our hardships becomes profitable, making her a puppet of anger; our struggles are exploited for profit. Many people will say that the portrayal isn’t that deep, but take a look at the catalogs of many famous Black actors. During other movies where the woman lead is white, everyone brushes off her anger as ‘going through just a hard time’; she gets comfort and is even recommended therapy. She is given tissues and receives help from her village.

What do our Black women receive? They are told to stop being bitter and angry, to get over it because everyone else is going through their difficult times. Take Taraji as an example: in many of her roles, she consistently portrays a character who is angry and acts on overwhelming feelings that she has been told she has to bottle up and move on from. We rarely see movies without struggle, a deep family secret, or a messed-up family dynamic. Even in movies where she is on top she is portrayed as bitter and selfish despite her success. They then put her in a family situation with the same script: her family struggles, and she needs to come back to her hometown to fix everything, and they use her as a money pawn and slap the same old ‘family helps family’ in an ignorant tone as if she owes them anything when they all doubted her.

Never allowed to live the life she worked for. While many of these movies depict real-life situations that Black women experience daily, it becomes exhausting to come home to see these portrayals on your television being exploited. We rarely get the happily ever after, as if it’s unmarketable for us.

The Princess and the Frog is another perfect example of us having to struggle in order to get that happy ending. The only Disney movie we got with a lead woman of color so happens to have her transformed into a frog for 95% of the movie, primarily due to the prince. When in reality, Tiana did not need him to make her dreams come true; she was overly independent and ambitious in herself. She believed she could do it, and on the way to making her dreams come true, a man came and threw off her whole plan.

They consistently put us in difficult situations with men where our dreams are discarded or we have to make ultimatums.

In the Black community we have mistaken survival for the finish line, taught to worship the weight of hardship, and been told happily ever after is only a dream never meant for us to live. Our generation deserves more than inherited battles.

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