Allowing Myself to Want More

“I’m allowing myself to want more.”

“I’m allowed to want all the things.”

“You want the benefits of me without holding the responsibility of me.”

Everybody wants to know what a woman brings to the table.

Baby, I am the table.

I’m a Southern Black woman, and I was raised like one. So when people start talking about how Black women don’t serve their men, or try to compare us to other women as if nurturing and serving a man is somehow foreign to us, I have to laugh a little.

That is not how I was raised.

I was raised to put the men in my life first. A partner. A father. A brother. A cousin. If it was a man I loved, there was an understanding that you took care of him. You fed him. You considered him. You nurtured him. You made sure he was good.

And maybe there are things about that upbringing that deserve to be questioned. But what I find interesting is that men still seem to want every benefit of it.

You want the loyalty.

You want the nurturing.

You want the emotional support.

You want the sexual and physical intimacy.

You want the softness.

You want the meals.

You want the woman who makes the house feel like a home.

Hell, some of you even want her to produce and raise your children.

You want the benefits of me without holding the responsibility of me.

And when I say the responsibility of me, I mean that literally and figuratively.

If I am expected to pour into your life in all of these traditional ways, then yes, I expect you to pour into mine. You are responsible for maintaining the life that you are asking me to help create. You cannot expect me to serve you, nurture you, satisfy you, support you mentally and emotionally, possibly carry your children, help raise a family, make your life easier—and then turn around and tell me I need to struggle beside you just to prove that I’m worthy of being there.

Absolutely not.

I shouldn’t even know what the rent is!

And before somebody intentionally misunderstands me: no, I am not a fool.

I am not telling women not to have their own money. I believe the exact opposite. Have your own money. Know how to take care of yourself. Maintain your ability to take care of yourself.

And baby, always keep some money that is YOURS.

Because you never know how life will turn out, even with the best of the best.

But there is a difference between being capable of taking care of myself and being expected to carry the responsibilities of a completely independent woman while simultaneously performing all the duties expected of a traditional one.

You don’t get to pick both when it benefits you.

That is where I think the disconnect is.

Men no longer want to hold the responsibility of a woman, but many still want the constant benefits of having one.

And then women are called demanding when we start asking, “Okay, so what exactly am I receiving in return?”

That is why I am allowing myself to want more.

Actually, fuck that.

I want all the things.

And I am allowed to want all the things.

Because if I’m providing you with all of these things that supposedly make a woman so valuable to your life, why am I supposed to feel guilty about expecting something substantial in return?

That’s the part that gets weird to me.

One minute, what a woman provides isn’t enough. We’re told cooking isn’t special. Cleaning isn’t special. Sex isn’t special. Being nurturing isn’t special. Emotional support isn’t special. Loyalty isn’t special. Having your children isn’t special.

Okay.

But then the next minute, you tell me you need a woman.

You need her softness.

You need her companionship.

You need her body.

You need her nurturing.

You need her support.

You need her to make your life better.

You tell me I am everything you need in life…

but you don’t want the responsibility of me.

So yes, my hand is out.

I want all the things.

And considering everything you’re asking me to bring into your life, somebody could argue that even then I’m getting the short end of the stick.

And Since We’re Talking About Tables…

There’s another part of this whole “what do you bring to the table?” conversation that people conveniently leave out.

The table you receive from a woman is directly connected to the level of responsibility you take for her and the way you treat her.

Everybody wants the big, beautiful table.

You want the expensive table with the gorgeous place settings. The candles are lit. The drinks are poured. There’s a five-star meal sitting in front of you. Everything smells good. The atmosphere is warm. There’s love in the room. There’s peace in the room. You sit down and everything you could possibly need is already there waiting for you.

But you’re mad because you got a folding table.

There’s a bag of chips sitting on it.

Maybe a ham sandwich.

And now you’re looking around confused because you were promised that women are supposed to bring all these wonderful things to the table.

Well…

How did you treat the woman?

Because you cannot treat a woman like a ham sandwich and expect her to serve you a five-star meal.

You cannot give folding-table effort and expect fine-dining treatment.

The version of a woman that you experience is not completely disconnected from the environment you create for her.

Care for something and watch what it becomes.

Neglect it and watch what happens then.

So maybe the question isn’t always:

“What does she bring to the table?”

Maybe sometimes the question needs to be:

“What kind of table have I given her a reason to set?”

It’s like death itself comes back to visit every year, making its presence known. It settles over me like a heavy blanket—an uncomfortable, powerful, terrifying weight. No matter what I do, I can’t shake that feeling… and the truth is, I don’t want to. It’s a devastating feeling, but it’s a real one.

I think grief is often pain with nowhere to go.

For those who are struggling with grief, I’m not going to lie to you—this shit is tough as nails.

People say it gets easier. For me, it hasn’t. The pain doesn’t disappear; you just learn how to carry it. It becomes part of your normal, even when it still hurts.

I feel like a part of me will always be in mourning.

And losing E, my older brother, didn’t make it any easier. It just added another layer to a grief I was already learning to live with.

I miss my mama. Five years later, and somehow it still feels just as fresh. 💔

Why do you want to compete with my peace instead of just joining my peace? Better yet, being my peace?

Somehow I’m required to be your peace, but my peace disturbs you.

You would think it would relax you more.

If My Calm Bothers You, Ask Yourself Why.

That’s the part I’ll never understand.

Why do you need me in an uproar, distressed, acting a fool, looking a mess!

Just for you to feel comfortable?

Trust me, my love, I’ve already been there.

I’ve done the pop-ups.

I’ve done the fighting in the club.

I’ve done the drama. And I’m done with the drama.

I’m just curious why I need to be in disarray for you to feel secure.

Why can’t you find comfort in my peace?

Why can’t you find comfort in knowing that if I’m at peace, then we’re at peace?

You Loved My Light Until It Exposed Your Chaos.

Mind you, I wasn’t even disturbing you.

I didn’t stop you.

I didn’t harass you.

I didn’t chase you.

Yet somehow you came looking for me.

Something about me made you want to know more.

Maybe it was my dark brown eyes.

Maybe it was my smile.

Maybe it was how slick I was talking when you sat down for a little while.

Whatever it was, you found comfort in me.

But somehow you also wanted to disturb me.

That’s what throws me off about some of you men.

You preach that you want peace, but you don’t want the woman you’re with to have peace.

It’s definitely one-sided.

And you don’t find that sick?

Why Are You Fighting What You Claim You Want?

Why would you want me upset?

Do you think it’s going to make me care more?

Do you think my love is measured in yelling, crying, fighting, and losing sleep?

Do you think confusion is proof of passion?

Or is it that you want to manipulate shit?

My nigga, that’s weird.

Because manipulation thrives in confusion.

So I don’t live there anymore.

Now this isn’t to say I’m always cool, calm, and collected.

I’m human.

But why wouldn’t you want peace for someone you claim to care about?

Why wouldn’t you want rest for the person lying next to you?

Why wouldn’t you want softness?

Instead, you want to compete with my peace.

But damn, why wouldn’t you want that?

You want to compete with my peace…

Sad to say you’ll lose every time,

even if I lose you…..

Beginning of June, nothing dramatic. Just a little off the ends. Clean it up. Let it breathe.

My hair has been on a slow comeback for a few years now—damage from bleach, damage from color, damage from years of trying to make it into something other than what it naturally was. It’s only recently started feeling like mine again. Healthy. Growing. Doing what it wants to do.

I wanted a particular style and couldn’t get it done. So I made a decision:

No weave all June.

Minimal styles. Slick-back buns. My natural curl pattern loose or flat-ironed into the bob it’s become.

Just my hair. Just me.

And what I didn’t expect was how much I’d have to fight—not with my hair, but with everything I’d been taught to think about it.

Not just styling. Not just maintenance.

The story I’ve been carrying about what it means when my hair is “done.”

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I have fine, low-density 4A/4B hair. People often assume that means easier. Sometimes it is. But fine hair breaks. Low-density hair is fragile. Add hormonal shifts, PCOS, iron deficiencies, medical procedures, and the reality that hair reflects what’s happening inside the body, and “easy” starts to feel like a lie people tell when they don’t have your hair.

But even that isn’t really the point.

Because the real tension isn’t my hair.

It’s the voice that looks at it and still asks what I’m going to do to fix it.

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We don’t say this to anyone else. Not like this. Not like that.

We don’t say this shit to anyone else.

We don’t walk up to women of other ethnicities and tell them their hair isn’t done.

We don’t tell them to braid it, slick it back, lay it down, straighten it, curl it, pin it up, or tuck it away before they’re allowed to be taken seriously.

We don’t make their natural texture a problem to solve.

We only do that to Black women.

And often, we do it to each other.

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I remember a girl I went to school with in Jacksonville.

She was lighter-skinned. Pretty. Nothing complicated about that.

She claimed mixed because her mother was mixed, but her father was Black and her hair was thick, kinky—the kind of hair that didn’t fit the story she was trying to tell about herself.

She kept it in braids. Weaves. Relaxers when she could. Anything to create distance between herself and what grew naturally out of her head.

At the time, I had locs.

But what people noticed wasn’t just the locs.

It was the parts that weren’t fully locked yet—the roots, the edges, the new growth. The hair closest to my scalp. The hair that still showed itself clearly before it was fully incorporated.

Soft curls. Loose texture. The part that didn’t hide what it was.

And strangers would walk up to me and ask what I was mixed with.

It was the first time I’d ever been asked that.

Because where I grew up, people didn’t assume dark-skinned girls were mixed. But my hair confused them. It didn’t match what they’d decided dark skin was supposed to look like.

I could see what it did to her.

Not in a loud way.

In a quiet way.

Like something was being confirmed for her in real time—that some textures were closer to acceptable than others. Closer to desirable. Closer to being read as “enough.”

We visited her family once. Lighter-skinned relatives. Mixed-race cousins with silkier hair.

The difference in how people were received didn’t need to be said out loud.

It was already understood.

I remember the way they looked at us.

I remember the way we looked back.

And I remember realizing that nobody ever asked her what she was mixed with.

That question only went one direction.

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And that’s what I keep coming back to.

We don’t say this shit to anyone else.

We don’t make “your hair isn’t done” a requirement for belonging anywhere else.

We don’t treat natural texture as something unfinished until proven otherwise.

But we do it here.

We inherited it. We repeat it. We enforce it on each other until it starts to sound like care instead of control.

And eventually it stops sounding external.

It becomes internal.

A voice that doesn’t even feel like it came from anywhere.

Just a thought that appears when you look in the mirror:

You should do something with that.

Something to make it look like “good hair.”

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I saw a video recently about Black Brazilian women and how they wear their natural hair.

They wash it. Hydrate it. Manipulate it less. They wear it.

Not as a statement. Not as resistance. Just as hair.

And I kept thinking about how different the conversation around Black hair can look depending on where you are.

Because in America, it became so regulated that it had to be fought over, named, defended, legislated.

The roots of that are not accidental. They’re historical. Structural. Built into how Blackness was policed and defined long before people had language for it.

There are laws now that exist just so someone can’t be told their natural hair makes them unprofessional.

That says everything.

Not about hair.

About permission.

About who gets to exist without constantly being edited.

⸻

My hair is already done.

I have to remind myself of that.

Not because I don’t believe it—I do, most days.

But because the voice that questions it is old.

And familiar.

And sounds, too often, like me.

That’s the part I’m learning to notice.

Not just what I do to my hair.

But what I believe it needs to be before I let it be seen.

The work isn’t styling.

The work is interruption.

Interrupting the instinct to fix what isn’t broken.

Interrupting the idea that natural means unfinished.

Interrupting the reflex that says I need to become something else before I’m allowed to be fully myself.

My hair is already done.

Not because it’s controlled.

Not because it’s perfected.

Not because it fits.

But because it grows exactly as it is meant to.

Black hair defies gravity. It always has.

It grows up and out and toward the sky like it knows something the ground doesn’t.

That isn’t a problem to solve.

That’s the whole point.

Not just because his team won. Not just because he played well. But because of who was standing next to him — his wife. Shannon Hart. A dark skin woman he has loved since high school. A woman he chooses loudly, visibly, without apology.

Josh Hart is lighter skinned. Shannon Hart is dark. And the internet — particularly Black women — collectively lost it.

They became fans overnight. Not of his game. Of his love. Of the fact that he didn’t hide her, didn’t trade up when the money came, didn’t suddenly discover a preference for something lighter once the world started watching.

Women who had never watched a Knicks game in their lives were suddenly invested.

And I watched all of it and felt two things at once — warmth, because it’s genuinely beautiful. And a deep, quiet sadness. Because this should be normal. The fact that it isn’t — the fact that we are so starved for this specific image that we treat it like a miracle when we see it — tells you everything you need to know about colorism in the Black community.

We don’t celebrate what’s common. We celebrate what’s rare.

And that’s the whole problem.

Part One: The Preference That Isn’t Really a Preference

Let me be clear about something before we go any further.

This is not an angry Black woman upset about who men choose to date. I know some men prefer me specifically because of my dark skin.

Preference exists. I’m not arguing against that.

What I am arguing against is what happens when preference stops being about attraction and starts being about hierarchy.

When it stops being about who you want and starts being about who you think is worthy. When it crosses the line from I like this into I don’t see you — that’s not preference anymore.

That’s colorism. And we need to call it what it is.

Here’s a scenario that isn’t uncommon.

A dark skin man prefers light skin women. Not because he fell in love with one, not because attraction simply moved in that direction — but because light skin represents something to him. Status. Proximity to a standard he was taught to chase. And underneath all of that, a hope: that if he chooses her, if he reproduces with her, his children will come out lighter. More acceptable. More of what he was told was beautiful.

And then he has a child.

And that child looks just like him.

Dark. Exactly like him.

He spent years running from his own reflection and ended up creating it anyway. Because that’s how genetics works. Because you cannot outrun yourself no matter who you choose to lie down with. And now he’s raising a child in the image of everything he was taught to hate — while never having done the work to stop hating it.

That’s not a preference. That’s self-hatred with a type.

And it reproduces — not just biologically, but culturally. It teaches the next generation that their skin is something to escape. That beauty lives somewhere lighter than where they are. That they are the thing to be fixed.

Part Two: Who Gets Grace

This is where preference becomes something bigger than attraction.Because attraction doesn’t just determine who gets chosen.

It often determines who gets forgiven.

Watch what happens when two women make the same mistake.

One is considered beautiful by the standards of her community. The right skin tone. The right hair texture. The right features. The kind of woman people have already decided is desirable before she says a word.

The other woman is not.

Now let them do the exact same thing.

The first woman gets an explanation.

The second woman gets a judgment.

One is “complicated.”

The other is “a problem.”

One gets understanding.

The other becomes a cautionary tale.

The behavior may be identical, but the consequences rarely are.

Because hierarchy has never been about what people do. It’s about who people believe deserves grace while doing it.

That’s why conversations about preference are often incomplete. We talk about who people are attracted to as though attraction exists in isolation. It doesn’t.

The same standards that shape desire also shape empathy. They influence who gets the benefit of the doubt, who gets another chance, who gets viewed as human and who gets reduced to their mistakes.

And those decisions are often made long before anyone has earned them.

Preference didn’t create those hierarchies.

But it helps keep them alive.

Part Three: The Closed Door You Call a Standard

Sometimes your preference isn’t really about what you want. It’s about what you think having that thing says about you.

You prefer someone tall, dark, handsome, successful — and you do not fit the standard of the person you’re describing. So now you’re not just attracted to something. You’re envious of it. You’re chasing it to feel closer to a version of desirability you were told you don’t naturally possess.

And when you can’t have it — when the six foot successful man doesn’t want you back — the preference turns into bitterness.

You built a standard you couldn’t meet and then blamed the standard for not bending.

And then there’s the education conversation. Preferring someone educated — nothing wrong with that. Attraction to ambition, to intellectual curiosity, to someone who moves through the world with intention — that’s real. But are you willing to sit across from someone still becoming? Still learning? Still on their way?

Or does your preference function more like a velvet rope — not a genuine desire but a way to thin the crowd of people you’ll allow yourself to see?

Because that’s what the brown paper bag test always was. A velvet rope. A way of deciding in advance who was worth looking at and who wasn’t. Who deserved desire and who should be grateful for whatever scraps they received.

We act like that test is history.

It isn’t.

It just got a rebrand. Now it’s body type. Education. Income. Skin tone dressed up in the language of preference so it sounds like personal taste instead of inherited bias.

Which brings me back to Josh and Shannon Hart.

The reason the internet reacted the way it did isn’t just because their love is beautiful — it is. It’s because their love is visible proof that the standard isn’t fixed. That a man can be desired by the world and still choose the woman he chose before the world was watching.

That dark skin doesn’t have to be a consolation prize or a secret or something a man grows out of when he levels up.

But here’s what I need us to sit with:

We were moved to tears over something that should be ordinary.

We became fans of a man for loving his wife — his wife of years, his high school sweetheart — because we have been so conditioned to expect less that basic, visible, unashamed love feels revolutionary.

That’s not a celebration. That’s a symptom.

And until we’re honest about what’s underneath our preferences — whose voice is actually speaking when we say I have a type — we’re going to keep treating ordinary love like a miracle and calling our inherited biases personal taste.

You’re allowed to want what you want.

Just make sure it’s actually you doing the wanting.

I have been called a bitch since I can remember.

Not because I was mean. Not because I was cruel. But because I was uncompromising. Because I knew what I wanted and I didn’t perform uncertainty to make other people comfortable. That was enough. That was always enough for the label to land.

And I grew up around women just like that. Strong, certain, unbothered women. I never feared them. Never looked at them sideways. I understood them the way you understand your own native language — instinctively, without having to translate.

So I couldn’t tell you exactly when the switch happened.

Somewhere along the way — and I genuinely cannot pinpoint the moment — I started reading confident women differently. Maybe it was witnessing specific women I knew who was using their confidence as a weapon. Who was strategic in the way that has nothing to do with self-possession and everything to do with control. Maybe witnessing that a few times quietly rewrote something in me. Maybe it was the world’s reaction to strong women that I’d been watching my whole life finally getting under my skin. Probably both. Probably more than both.

What I know is that at some point, the math wasn’t mathing. And I didn’t even notice it happening.

What I did notice was losing myself.

I moved to a new city in 2021 fully prepared to step into my Sex and the City era. New place. Fresh energy. The life I’d been building toward, finally arriving.

Oh Honey!

That is not what happened. The city was unfamiliar. The ground was unsteady. And loss — quiet, heavy, the kind that doesn’t announce a departure date — was doing serious work on the inside. The version of myself I thought I was showing up as didn’t come together in time. And the confidence I had carried my entire life, the thing that had gotten me labeled since girlhood, just went quiet.

Not gone. But quiet.

I spent about two years — somewhere between 33 and 34 — just trying to find the floor again. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no single breakdown, no clear turning point. It was more like slowly remembering that I was allowed to have opinions. That I didn’t need to make myself easier to digest. That knowing what I wanted wasn’t something to second-guess.

The woman I had always been was still there. She just needed some time.

Coming back to yourself after you’ve been away for a while does something interesting — it sharpens your vision. Because now I can see the distinction I always felt but couldn’t always articulate:

A strong sense of self expresses. Manipulation controls.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

A woman who genuinely knows herself is transparent. What she wants is out in the open. She can hear no without it unraveling her, because her confidence was never built on controlling your response — it was built on knowing her own. She doesn’t need you to agree. She doesn’t need you to comply. She just needs to be honest.

Manipulation is different. Manipulation needs the yes. It depends on bending someone else’s will to feel satisfied. The goal isn’t honesty — it’s outcome. And if the outcome doesn’t land, there’s a punishment. Subtle or not.

The surface can look identical. Same calm voice. Same clear boundary. Same woman who doesn’t flinch. But the energy underneath is completely different — and your body usually knows before your brain catches up.

I don’t thrive in confusion. Never have. Confusion breeds manipulation — and that’s exactly why I don’t live in the grey area. I need to know where I stand. I need what’s real to be said plainly. So when I started developing a checklist for myself — a way to cut through the noise and actually name what I was seeing — it wasn’t about being rigid. It was about being honest.

A few things I ask myself now when I can’t tell the difference — whether I’m reading someone else or checking myself:

What happens if I disagree? A grounded person can hold a no. A manipulative one finds another angle, applies more pressure, makes you pay for the pushback.

How do I feel when it’s over? Strength leaves you feeling clear — even if you didn’t get what you wanted. Manipulation leaves you foggy. Drained. Like something was done to you without your full awareness.

Is the intent out in the open? Healthy self-expression doesn’t need to hide. There’s no back pocket, no strings you can almost feel being pulled.

Two or more boxes checked in the manipulation column and something is worth paying attention to. Not as a verdict — but as information. A reason to slow down, pay closer attention, and trust what your body is already telling you.

But here’s the other side of that checklist. Most of the time, when someone gets labeled manipulative — especially a woman — she’s not hiding an agenda. She’s just not shrinking. She’s direct. She’s clear. She doesn’t perform confusion to make other people comfortable. And that, for a lot of people, is deeply unsettling. So they reach for a label that makes her the problem instead of sitting with their own discomfort.

The thing that I keep coming back to is this:

The fact that you are even asking the question — am I being too much, does this make me manipulative, is this okay — is usually proof enough that you’re not. People who manipulate don’t pause to interrogate their own intentions. They justify. They move on. They find the next angle.

You’re analyzing because you value honesty. That’s not manipulation. That’s integrity doing its job.

I’m still building the life I moved here for. It looks different than I imagined — slower, more deliberate, more mine. The confidence is back. Not the loud kind that needs an audience. The quiet kind that just knows.

And I understand now, more than I ever did growing up surrounded by strong women, why the world tries so hard to reduce that kind of certainty. Especially in us.

Because a woman who knows herself, who expresses without hiding, who can hear no and not collapse —

She doesn’t need you to validate her.

And that, for a lot of people, is the most threatening thing in the world.

Being clear isn’t being controlling. It’s being honest. And it has always been safe for you to know what you want.

I know what I bring to the “table”. I’m relatable. I’ll watch the game, talk about it, but don’t ask me to name a team because I don’t care that much. I respect boundaries. I’m not some dainty, girly girl type either — I move, I stay active. And I can talk. Goofy, slick, real — I can keep a man’s mind busy.

If I like you, I’m kind. Sweet. Thoughtful. I’ll meet you where you are. Finance? I can speak that. Dreamer? I can hold that space too. Communication is easy for me. Authenticity is natural. I don’t put on a mask. However it’s never quite enough.

But here’s the bullshit. I don’t forgive easy. That’s me. Maybe it’s growing up with no safety net, or being a single parent and having no room for errors, maybe it’s me not tolerating nonsense. But once I feel crossed, it’s a wrap.

And yeah, I can be petty asf. You wore a red shirt that didn’t look right? I’m turned off. You brought roses when I told you I like sunflowers? You don’t listen. That little stuff tells me everything I need to know.

I don’t go back. Spinning the block? Hard no. If it didn’t work the first time, why would I run it back to the same mess? Especially if we wasn’t even deep like that.

Mutuality matters to me. If I’m giving, I expect you to give too. I’ve carried too much weight in relationships to settle for one-sided.

And let me say it plain: if the sex ain’t good, I’m outside babe. I’ll cheat. Not forever, not proudly. Just long enough until I get irritated with you and start nitpicking everything else. Then it’s over.

I move on timelines too. Three days. That’s it. After three days of talking, I expect a date. If you can’t make that happen, I’m already pulling back and putting you on the shelf. I’m not looking for a pen pal. If you want my attention, show up.

And when you can’t — I’ll tell you plainly: “Consistency is important to me and multiple reschedules don’t really align with what I’m looking for. If things become more consistent in the future, feel free to reach out.” Clean. Respectful. Done.

So why hasn’t it turned into something?

It’s not for lack of trying. It’s not for lack of being pursued. Men approach consistently. The problem isn’t availability — it’s quality. “They know how to date easy women. But they don’t know how to date me because I have standards.”

But here’s the bigger question — is it her, or is it them? Because maybe men don’t know how to date her specifically. Or maybe men just don’t know how to date anymore, period.

There was a time when parents taught their sons how to pursue a woman they liked. How to show up. How to court. Daughters still get that conversation — what to do, what not to do, how to carry yourself. But somewhere along the way that conversation stopped happening for boys. No father, no mentor, no older man pulling them aside saying — this is how you treat a woman you actually want.

So they’re winging it. Skipping courtship entirely and going straight to vetting. Before a first date. Before they’ve even earned the right to ask anything.

A successful man — his own business, educated — and his opening question to a complete stranger was how many men are you talking to? Not what do you like to do. Not can I take you out. How many men are you talking to. Like he wanted relationship accountability before he’d even offered a seat at dinner.

And then there’s the ex question. “How did your last boyfriend treat you?” Asked not out of genuine curiosity but to calibrate. To find the floor, not the ceiling. Men use other men as a benchmark — they hear what your ex did or didn’t do and they see it as permission. As an opportunity to do less. As if your past is a loophole for their own lack of effort.

They’re not asking to understand you. They’re asking to figure out what they can get away with.

The women who don’t make it easy get labeled difficult. Too much. And the men run.

They never had to learn because they never had to try that hard. Until they meet her.

“Dating me is consistency. Did you pack your lunch today? Do you need anything? Around 2 o’clock you get a little sleepy — do you want me to Uber you some coffee?” That’s it. That’s the whole ask. Small things. Intentional things. Showing up before it’s convenient.

But the men who know how to do that? Hard to find.

So what’s she afraid of?

Not being alone. She’s been the man in her own life long enough to know she can handle that. What she’s afraid of is getting it wrong again. “I’ve gotten it wrong so many times. I’m afraid to get it wrong again.”

And underneath that fear is something heavier. Something she said quietly, almost to herself:

“I want my daughter to witness how a man is supposed to love a woman. I want her to see her mother loved properly. But here I am keeping generational curses alive — showing her how to be too strong, too independent, so there’s no room for a man when you are the damn man.”

That’s the real answer. Not the red shirt. Not the three day rule. Not the rescheduled dates.

It’s the fear of passing down the wrong blueprint. When you’ve had to be everything for yourself for so long, softness starts to feel like something you can’t afford to lose.

That’s her. 38. Black woman. Single mother. Dating. Doing it right and still getting it wrong. Brave enough to walk away and terrified of what staying costs too.

She’s not broken. She’s just tired of men who don’t know how to meet her. And she’s not settling.

We’re taught that a long friendship means a good friendship. That twenty years means something unbreakable. Length isn’t the same as loyalty and I learned that the hard way.

I met her when we were nineteen. Almost two decades, we went through everything. She did good things for me. I did good things for her. But a few years ago her life spiraled into something that brought chaos directly into my space. When I tried to set a boundary the friendship cracked. We didn’t speak for over two years.

When we reconciled I moved slow and intentional. I wasn’t naive — I just wanted to give it a real chance. But history has a way of making you drop your guard. A year and a half in the same patterns came back. This time the disrespect was undeniably evident-She helped light the match and then blamed the fire for the burn!

That taught me something hard and confusing: someone can do good things for you and still not be safe for you. Both things can be true at the same time.

We tried to talk it out. I took a week of silence to cool down. And while I was out of town at a concert living my life — she was watching my Instagram stories. Then without a single word, no call, no text, no explanation — just a silent digital exit. After almost twenty years that’s how it ended.

Losing a long friendship stings differently when your people aren’t close by. My closest friends aren’t in the same city. My family lives states away. The people who really know me exist mostly through text threads, voice memos, and phone calls across time zones. That’s real love — don’t get me wrong. But a text can’t sit across from you at dinner. A phone call can’t just show up.

Modern loneliness is real. Especially at 37, single, building a life in a city that can feel wide and unpredictable when the wrong people exit.

But here’s what I’ve learned — there is a dramatic shift between lonely and at peace. And I know which one I’m choosing.

It’s been about a month since that digital exit. I’m not chasing closure. I’m not in a downward spiral. I can appreciate what she gave me in the past without letting her chaos touch my present.

My alarm still goes off at 4:30. I still stretch, work out, show up, read, treat myself. I still text my people across the country and check in with the ones who actually check in with me.

I’m clearing out what required drama, smoke and mirrors to maintain. And I’m making room for what’s built on something real — whether that’s across the country or right down the street.

Until then I’m walking through this on my own terms. Boundaries up. Heart open.Unmoved.

Everything I planned on saying at my mama service almost 5 years ago but I was so broken I couldn’t finish it….. grief and pain can take over and sometimes you just have to let it flow through you don’t fight it and then losing E (older brother) last December just makes everything feel heavier- but this is exactly what I planned on saying that day Saturday morning in August 2021-

I can’t even form the words to describe this type of pain.

We never ever discussed you leaving me. I just knew you would outlive us all. In a way I forgot you were human because of your love, strength, pride and beauty — even in your darkest hour you always shined through and became the light for us all.

So I’m holding strong to all of the memories and moments with you. And to be honest, none of us ever really deserved you.

I know you would understand how extremely selfish I’m being right now — you probably don’t like it lol. I can hear you saying “Tiara stop it now, you know” lol. Because I don’t want to share you with anyone, not even in spirit. And eventually I’ll start to loosen my reigns, but just not right now.

So I’m going to keep your voice in my head and in my ears, your scent under my nose, your face, your eyes, all the smiles, laughter, and even your not-so-happy faces and voices with me. Never thought I would cherish a whooping lol — but it was a lot of love in that too.

You were always with me when I was wrong or right — but you were really with me when I was right. If you know, you know. She was 10 toes down with all of us and never folded.

No matter what I did, you supported it. Army. MUA. Esthetician. Massage therapy. Supply. My own skincare company. Corporate work. As long as it was legit and you ain’t have to bond me out — baby, you were riding 10 toes down. I love you for that.

If I knew the last time I would hear you speak, or sigh a breath, smile, laugh, walk, run, or just sit — I would have hugged you tighter and loved on you harder. So I’m going to continue to be selfish.

God has placed eternity in our hearts. And Mama — you are my Holy Spirit now. Praying for me, interceding on my behalf, even when no one on earth is. You never stopped advocating for me here, and I know you haven’t stopped there either.

I’ll mourn you til I join you. 💙

“My crew, let’s roll — KeyaShawnEverettTiaraGavin, come on.”

How so many couples don’t even like each other. They might love each other, but like? That’s conditional. Somebody said, “Nobody has to unconditionally like you,” and I swear it broke my brain a little. Because when you really think about it, it’s true.

And that’s what I want. I want love and like. Duality and mutuality. I don’t just want somebody who loves me because we’re tied together—I want somebody who likes me enough to stay curious about me. Somebody who likes the way I think. Somebody who likes the way I just am.

I want a love that scares me in the best way. Something that shakes me to my core, rare and alive. But if I’m honest? At 36, almost 37, I don’t see that kind of love often. At best, I imagine a slow burn—a steady, growing thing—and I’ve never been that girl. I’ve always jumped in head first.

This is the longest I’ve been single. I’ve learned myself, built myself, faced myself. But now I don’t know what to do with that. After you finally learn who you are, do you just… stay with yourself?

And even now almost a year later, 37 soon to be 38 in October,- this still remains the same

lol ho I’m tired

There’s a difference between truth and delivery. Sensitivity isn’t the problem; cruelty disguised as “just being honest” is.

Nah, sis, sensitivity ain’t the problem. Rudeness wrapped in honesty is. Delivery is free — try it sometime.”

“I get that you pride you…

Read more

How dare you be fine—with no ass?

How dare you want a relationship and still expect respect?

How dare you demand anything when you’re dark-skinned?

How dare you know that you’re worth more than this?

⸻

2019 – The Year I Became Fine

2019 was the first time I looked at myself and said, “Oh, I’m fine.”

I was 31. From then on, I leaned into sexy because that’s what people responded to.

By 2023, I finally started to feel sexy for myself—not just see it in the way people reacted to me.

But that same year life came swinging.

By the end of it, I had to pull back. Things got heavy.

Even in retreat, I held onto that version of me: the hair, the nails, the gold teeth, the clothes.

Being desired is a strange thing.

I love how I look, and I love dressing like it, but I’ve learned most people stop at the surface.

They don’t care to know me beyond the image, and that’s the part that hurts.

⸻

Now at 36, I feel like I’ve grown into one of my sexiest seasons yet.

And I still love that woman I see in the mirror.

But I also see how much of it is a game.

I’m not a modest woman—not in style, at least.

I can be when I choose, but finding the balance between sexy and modest is tricky.

Honestly? It does feel easier to pull back when you already have someone who sees you.

Out here, if you’re modest, you disappear.

If you’re sexy, you’re visible—but rarely fully seen.

That’s the trade-off I’m trying to navigate:

wanting to be seen, but on my own terms.

⸻

A friend told me recently that 2019 was the first year she really saw me.

She said, “You’ve always been pretty to me, but that was the year you became sexy. Grown sexy.”

And she’s right.

That’s exactly how it felt for me, too.

I’ve always known I was pretty—and for a long time that was enough.

But sexy?

That was a whole different experience.

⸻

I think that’s why I lean into it so much now.

Part of it is my body type.

When you don’t have a curvy body, you feel like you need a little extra—clothes, nails, hair—something that says, “See me.”

Because otherwise, you get overlooked.

Being a pretty dark-skinned girl with no ass?

You learn fast that pretty will get you ignored.

Pretty needs spice.

But I’m fine with no ass and I’m fine with no ass (read it 2x lol)