Song: Know That You Are Loved by Cleo Sol

There is a strange kind of grief that comes with looking at old pictures of yourself.

Sometimes, I scroll too far back in my camera roll and find a picture of a younger me. Before I can remember where I was or what I was doing, I notice my body.

I was so tiny.

I look at my waist, my arms, my face. I think about the clothes I used to fit into and how different they would look on me now. For a moment, I envy her. Sometimes, I even get angry with her.

You really thought you were big?

It’s funny how kind we can become to our old bodies once we no longer have them.

Back then, I could stand in front of the mirror and find something wrong with myself just as easily as I can now. The body I currently romanticize wasn’t good enough for me when I actually lived in it. Yet somehow, with enough time between us, she became the standard I started holding myself to.

I have spent so much time wanting her body back that I forgot she didn’t like it either.

I also forgot what she was going through.

That smaller body existed before my mom died. I wasn’t grieving her yet in that way. I was still growing up, still learning from the women who were showing me what becoming a woman looked like.

Then she was gone.

And somehow, I was still supposed to keep becoming a woman without one of the women I thought would be there to teach me.

There were still birthdays. School. Responsibilities. Decisions. Life continued asking me to become someone new while part of me was still trying to understand who and what I had lost.

And my relationship with food changed with me.

When someone dies, people feed you.

They bring trays to the house. They make plates. They ask if you’ve eaten. Food becomes one of the ways people say, I don’t know how to fix this, but I can make sure you don’t go hungry.

I was surrounded by that kind of love.

Eventually, food became comfort in another way too. I wasn’t always sitting down and eating full meals. Sometimes I just snacked throughout the day. Sometimes I ate because I was sad. Sometimes eating gave me something comforting to reach for when I didn’t know what else to do with everything I was feeling.

My body changed because my life had changed.

For a long time, though, I didn’t give myself that context.

I just thought I had gotten bigger.

And I think that’s something many of us do.

We find an old photograph and immediately begin comparing. We remember the smaller waist, but not the stress. We remember the jeans we used to fit into, but not how we felt while wearing them. We remember the number on the scale without remembering the life happening around it.

Maybe your body changed after grief.

Maybe it changed when you went to college and suddenly had to figure out meals on your own. Maybe it changed after a breakup, a stressful semester, a new job, medication, an illness, becoming a parent or simply getting older.

Maybe there isn’t a dramatic reason at all.

Bodies change because we live in them.

Still, there are days when knowing that isn’t enough.

There are days when I put on an outfit and immediately want to take it off. There are pictures I don’t want to look at for too long. There are moments when someone tells me I look good and I wonder how they can see something I can’t.

And there are still old pictures.

Sometimes I look at them too long.

I don’t think I’m at the point where I can say I love everything I see in the mirror. Maybe that’s why I’ve stopped making unconditional self-love the destination. Telling someone to “just love your body” sounds simple until you’re the one standing in front of the mirror trying to undo years of criticism.

Maybe there’s something between loving your body and hating it.

Maybe there is simply allowing it to exist.

For so long, I thought being pretty was something my body had to prove. It was in my waist, my weight, my face or how good I looked in a picture. And when those things changed, so did the way I saw myself.

But my weight has gone up and down. My face has changed as I’ve gotten older. My clothes fit differently. There will probably be even more versions of this body that I haven’t met yet.

Through all of them, my heart has remained mine.

The way I love people is still mine. My passion is still mine. My dreams, my kindness, my ability to care, my worth, none of those things have ever depended on the number sewn into the back of my jeans.

Maybe I’ve been looking for my beauty in the wrong place.

My body was never the thing that made my heart beautiful. If anything, my body is beautiful because it protects it. It is the shield built around the very core of me. The place that carries everything I love, everything I dream about, everything I’ve lost and everything I still have left to give.

Maybe that’s reason enough to be gentler with it.

I’m trying to learn that my body doesn’t owe me permanence. It doesn’t have to remain the same size through every version of my life. It doesn’t have to look like it did before grief, before adulthood or before change.

And I don’t have to punish it for keeping the evidence that I’ve lived.

Sometimes, I still miss that smaller version of myself.

But now, when I look at her, I’m trying to look beyond her body.

I see a girl who didn’t know how much her life was about to change. A girl who was still learning what womanhood meant. A girl who could look exactly like the person I sometimes wish I could be again and still stand in front of a mirror believing she wasn’t enough.

So when I catch myself wishing for her body, I’m trying to ask a different question.

Do I actually want to be her again, or have I just convinced myself that smaller meant more beautiful?

Because I know something now that I couldn’t see when that picture was taken.

She deserved kindness then.

And the body carrying my heart through this version of my life deserves some too.

Maybe I don’t need her body back.

Maybe I just need to remember that the most beautiful part of her never left.

Now playing: Priorities by SayGrace

There comes a point in your life when you stop waiting.

You stop waiting for people to choose you. You stop waiting for permission. You stop waiting for someone to tell you that you’re enough.

For a long time, I thought growing up meant reaching a destination. I thought one day I would wake up and suddenly have everything figured out. (That would be nice...) I thought confidence would arrive all at once, neatly packaged with answers to questions I was still asking.

It never happened that way.

Instead, growing up has looked a lot like unlearning: unlearning the idea that my worth is tied to how useful I am to other people, unlearning the habit of making myself smaller so that others can feel comfortable, and unlearning the belief that saying no makes me selfish.

For years, I gave people access to me simply because they asked for it—my time, my energy, my attention, and my peace.

I thought being a good person meant always being available. I thought being kind meant never disappointing anyone. I thought setting boundaries would make people leave.

What I’ve learned is that access and love are not the same thing. Someone can love you and still respect your boundaries. Someone can care about you and still hear the word no. And the people who become upset when you set boundaries are often the same people who benefited from you having none.

Lately, I’ve found myself becoming more protective of my peace. Not because I love people less, but because I finally love myself enough to understand that I deserve peace too.

I’ve learned that not every text message requires an immediate response, not every invitation requires a yes, and not every relationship deserves unlimited access to my life.

There are parts of me that belong to me now: my dreams, my goals, my quiet moments, and my future. I guard them carefully.

Growing up has taught me that boundaries are not walls. They are doors, and I get to decide who walks through them.

That realization changed everything.

Because the woman I needed growing up wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t fearless. She didn’t have all the answers.

She simply trusted herself.

She knew that protecting her peace was not something she had to apologize for. She understood that choosing herself was not an act of selfishness—it was an act of self-respect.

When I look back at the younger versions of myself, I see a girl who spent her days reading books and dreaming about the future. I see a girl who played dress-up and imagined a hundred different lives. I see a girl who wondered what existed beyond the familiar streets of home.

I see a girl who was becoming.

And if I could tell her anything now, it would be this:

You do not have to earn your place in your own life. You do not have to explain every decision. You do not have to make yourself available to everyone.

You are allowed to choose yourself.

You are allowed to become.

The woman I needed growing up was never waiting somewhere in the future.

I’ve been becoming her all along.

1

Now playing: Golden by Jill Scott

Every now and then, I think about the version of me that never left Raleigh.

The one who never packed her bags. The one who never drove away from everything familiar. The one who never stepped onto Howard University’s campus wondering whether she belonged there.

I think about her more than I admit. Not because I wish I had stayed, but because I’m curious about what became of her.

Would she still spend hours writing? Would she have started The Daydreamer? Would she have found her voice the same way I did? Or would she still be waiting for permission to use it?

I can imagine her walking the same streets we’ve known our entire lives, seeing the same faces and going to the same places. Always knowing what to expect, where everything seemed to move like clockwork.

She probably lives a life that looks familiar from the outside. Maybe she’s happy. Maybe she built a beautiful life there. Maybe she became exactly who she was supposed to be.

Because this isn’t a story about one version of me succeeding and another failing. It’s a story about how one decision can create two completely different lives.

For a long time, I thought leaving home changed me. But honestly, I’ve never liked the word change.

I think people grow more than they change. Growth is simply getting to know yourself better, and sometimes that can look like becoming someone completely different to the people around you.

Leaving Raleigh didn’t magically change me, and it certainly wasn’t something that happened overnight. It only revealed parts of me that were already there, waiting for room to grow.

It simply gave me opportunities to practice bravery. It didn’t create my curiosity; it gave my curiosity room to breathe. It didn’t give me a voice.

It forced me to use the one I already had.

Honestly, the version of me who stayed home and the version of me who left are not as different as I once imagined.

We’re both dreamers. We’re both searching for something, and we’re both trying to build lives that make us proud.

The difference is that one of us chose the familiar and the other chose the unknown. Both were brave enough to make a decision that would shape the rest of their lives.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the unknown has a way of introducing you to yourself.

I still carry Raleigh with me.

I carry the lessons.

The memories.

The people who helped shape me, and I’ll never forget what they’ve done for me.

Home didn’t disappear when I left. It simply came with me.

I am my home.

I make a home wherever I go.

But thinking about the version of me that never left reminds me of something important:

No matter where I went, I was always becoming this version of myself.

The destination changed.

The journey changed.

But the dreamer remained the same.

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1

Now playing: “Sweet⭑Honey ⭑Buckin’” - Beyoncé, Shaboozey

When I was little, pretending wasn’t just about imaginary stories. It was dress-up bins, trying on shoes that were too big, and wrapping random pieces of fabric around myself because I thought they looked like dresses. It was imagining who I could become before I had the words to describe her.

Some days I was a writer. Some days I was a singer. Some days I was a businesswoman carrying around a notebook like it was a briefcase. I was constantly trying on different versions of myself, not realizing that none of them were completely made up.

Back then, nobody thought there was anything strange about it.

Adults would smile and call it imagination.

They'd encourage us to dream big. They'd ask us what we wanted to be when we grew up. They'd tell us we could be anything.

But somewhere along the way, something changes.

The same imagination that was celebrated in childhood becomes something we’re told to leave behind.

We start hearing words like realistic.

Practical.

Responsible.

Suddenly, dreaming becomes something we’re supposed to do less of.

And I’ve always wondered why.

What was wrong with wanting being a cowgirl with a dress on. Beyonce did it…

Because the older I get, the more I realize that adults are still pretending all the time.

Writers imagine worlds before they exist.

Artists see paintings before the first brushstroke touches the canvas.

Entrepreneurs imagine businesses before they open their doors.

Journalists imagine stories before they write the first sentence.

Fashion designers created looks and trends that no one has ever seen before.

If i wanted to be like Cowboy carter, why not?

Every accomplishment begins as a thought that doesn't exist anywhere except inside someone's mind.

That sounds like pretending to me. Making up things and beleiving they will come true and trust me, they become true.

Just like me beliveing that i would be a writer with an amazing style might i say and it came true.

I went from this…

To this…

Maybe the difference isn’t that we stop pretending.

Maybe we just start calling it something else.

Vision.

Creativity.

Innovation.

Goals.

Dreams.

The language changes, but the act remains the same.

We are still imagining futures that don’t exist yet.

We are still creating possibilities from nothing.

We are still asking ourselves, “What if?”

As someone who spends a lot of time daydreaming, I’ve wrestled with the feeling that I should spend less time in my head. That I should stop imagining so much.

That I should focus only on what is in front of me.

But every meaningful thing in my life started as a daydream first.

This blog was a daydream.

The stories I want to tell are daydreams.

The woman I’m becoming was once a daydream too.

Because we never stopped playing pretend.

We just forgot how important it was.

The little girl playing dress-up, creating stories, and imagining different futures wasn’t wasting time. She was practicing. She was learning how to envision a life beyond the one in front of her.

The same imagination that helped me create worlds as a child is the same imagination that helps me create a future for myself now.

Growing up didn’t require me to stop pretending.

It required me to believe that the things I imagined were possible.

Editor's Note: This essay is the second installment in Becoming, a four-part series exploring the different versions of myself that have shaped who I am today. In the first essay, I reflected on the quiet girl who found comfort in books. This time, I'm thinking about imagination, daydreaming, and the ways we are encouraged to leave wonder behind as we grow older.

Now playing: “ Cranes in the Sky” - Solange

Growing up, I was the library girl

you know the one.

The girl whose head was always buried in a book. The girl who preferred turning pages over making small talk. The girl sitting quietly in the corner while everyone else seemed to know exactly how to take up space.

Every opportunity and time was spent scoping out books. Building a relationship with books. Fixing displays in the library. Big round glasses and untamed curls.

for a long time that girl would always be me. In a way I’m still am that girl.

But of course, when you're young, it's easy to believe that who you are is permanent. If you're shy, you'll always be shy. If you're quiet, you'll always be quiet. If you're the girl who spends lunch in the library, you'll always be the girl who spends lunch in the library.

at least that’s what I thought.

The funny thing is how people immediately assumes growing up means you automatically become someone different. They think confidence arrives all at once. They think finding your voice means abandoning the person you were.

but that’s not what happened to me.

The library girl grew up.

She left home.

She went to college

she started writing things that other people would actually enjoy reading.

She learned how to ask questions and tell stories. she learned how to speak up even when her voice shook. She learned that being quiet and being invisible are not the same.

But she never stopped being the library girl.

still get lost in my thoughts.

I still disappear into stories.

I still daydream more than I probably should.

I still find comfort in words when the world feels too loud.

The difference is that now, instead of keeping those words to myself, I share them.

Looking back, I realize that little girl wasn’t hiding. She was learning.

She was paying attention.

She was collecting stories.

She was building an imagination that would one day become a blog called The Daydreamer. She was becoming someone who would use words to make sense of the world around her.

Sometimes i think we are too eager to outgrow ourselves. We always watch others grow up and immediately think that we will too if we just believe but it’s a process. We talk about our younger selves as if they're people we left behind. As if growth requires separation.

But maybe growing up isn't about leaving old versions of ourselves behind.

Those version are still there. They may not be needed fully, but when you need them, she will be right there.

Maybe it’s about carrying them with us.

The library girl still lives somewhere inside me.

She’s there when I pick up a new book.

She’s there when I stare out a window and get lost in thought.

She’s there every time I sit down to write.

She’s there every time I choose curiosity over certainty.

The library girl grew up.

She found her voice.

She left the corner she used to hide in.

But she never stopped dreaming.

And honestly, I’m glad she didn’t.

1

Song: Alien Superstar by Beyonce

Growing up, I noticed a lot of people had someone they channeled their energy through. Some people even had alter egos, like Beyoncé with Sasha Fierce or Nicki Minaj with Harajuku Barbie and Roman. Looking back now, I think I had alter egos too.

I was always the quiet, shy, smart girl whose head stayed buried behind books, sitting in the corner of the library like the librarian’s little best friend. But as I got older and entered middle school, people constantly told me I looked like a boy or dressed like one. It was always skinny jeans, plaid T-shirts, and high-top Vans.

My mom and I used to argue about it all the time because she was so feminine. She loved pink, Hello Kitty, unicorns, everything colorful and bright. I hated dresses. She practically had to force me to wear one, but eventually we made compromises. The dress had to have pockets, and I had to wear my high-top Converse with it. They also had to match.

I carried so many insecurities about the way I looked because I was always identified as my dad’s twin. In my mind, I looked like a little boy, even though I wasn’t one. For about a year in middle school, I gave into that idea completely. I wanted people to call me TJ instead of Torrie. I tried to act like a boy, even though I didn’t even know how boys acted. I barely talked to them. But in my mind, I wasn’t girly and prissy like my mom or my sister.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that TJ had become my alter ego.

TJ was tomboyish, but she was confident. She said what was on her mind. She knew when someone treated her badly and wasn’t afraid to say something back. She didn’t care who stared when she walked through the door. She had her own style, and it wasn’t “normal” compared to everybody else’s. It was different.

Eventually, my mom gave into TJ too. She started doing creative hairstyles where the braids in my hair spelled out my name. Mohawks, braided sides with curls on the other side, she let me experiment. TJ was cool.

As I got older, I thought I wouldn’t need her anymore once I got to high school, but honestly, I needed her even more. I was learning about my sexuality, learning how to become a more responsible version of myself, and trying to figure out life after the pandemic. Her confidence dimmed a little during that time. There were still moments where she showed up, for speeches or when I needed to defend myself, but I slowly started feeling like TJ alone wasn’t enough anymore.

That’s when Tajaneya, or Taj, came around.

Taj became my boldness. She was the version of me that walked into rooms with confidence before I actually felt it. When insecurities started pouring back in, she helped carry me through them. She wasn’t fake. She was still me, just the fearless version I needed during moments when I felt small.

When I dance, people always wonder how I perform with so much emotion or where that energy comes from. Honestly, I can never fully explain it outside of saying I channel something. It’s all Taj, really. She is the one that lets me let go. The one that pushes fear aside long enough for me to feel everything fully and pour it into movement.

I have always been afraid of stepping outside my comfort zone. Moving to another state by myself and leaving my family behind terrified me. The reserved, shy, sweet version of Torrie was not going to survive that transition alone.

Taj pushed me forward.

She taught me how to recognize when people were trying to take advantage of me. She taught me how to speak up for myself. She taught me how to walk into a room with my head held high, even when anxiety tried to convince me otherwise.

And now, confidence looks different.

It looked like cutting all my hair off.

And I did.

Younger me probably would have spiraled over that decision because people already thought I looked like a boy anyway. For years, I carried this quiet fear of not looking feminine enough, not soft enough, not enough in the way girls were supposed to be. Long hair, dresses, pink. The checklist never really fit me.

So cutting all my hair off should have felt terrifying.

Instead, it felt freeing.

Freeing in the way taking a deep breath after holding it for too long feels. Freeing in the way finally putting down something heavy you did not realize you had been carrying. For the first time, I was not hiding behind what people thought femininity was supposed to look like. There was no long hair to soften me up for other people’s comfort. No trying to fit into a version of womanhood that never completely felt like mine.

And somehow, standing there with all my hair gone, I felt more like myself.

Not less feminine. Just different.

The kind of different that feels bold. Sharp. Unapologetic.

The kind that feels a little like Grace Jones.

A femininity that does not beg to be understood. One that takes up space without asking permission. One that can be soft and strong, quiet and commanding, sweet and intimidating all at once.

I am learning that femininity never lived in my hair, my clothes, or how people decided to label me. It lives in the confidence to define myself before anybody else can.

TJ and Taj were never people I became. They were parts of me I needed permission to be.

That might be what being a daydreamer really is. Not escaping reality, but creating versions of yourself strong enough to survive it… until one day, you realize you were becoming yourself all along.

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I’m going to admit it, if no one else will. I hate being the glue that holds everyone and everything down.

Being the glue means being the person who keeps everyone connected. The one who checks in first, reaches out first, forgives first, loves first. The person who stretches themselves so thin trying to keep everyone else from falling apart that they never realize they are falling apart too.

My arms are tired from extending my love to everyone, especially the ones who really don’t deserve it. Everyone deserves love, but when you are constantly the one trying to extend what little love you have left, it becomes exhausting.

I want someone to show up for me.

I show up for everyone else. Always saying yes when everything in my body is screaming no. I’m tired of forcing a smile when everyone only seems to stare. I want someone to smile back at me. I want someone to say yes to me for once.

And maybe this sounds selfish, but is it really?

It’s not selfish for me to do things for others when I could be spending that time working on myself. It’s not selfish when I’m always the one reaching out to people who never respond back. It’s not selfish to wonder if I’m the problem because somehow I always end up being the last option.

I’m learning that it’s okay to be selfish for the sake of your own well-being.

I’ve been holding down a fort that no one has helped me carry through the storm, the rainbow, or the snow. I’ve spent so much time making sure everyone else felt loved that somewhere along the way, I stopped asking if I felt loved too.

Maybe it’s hypocritical of me to say I have so much love to give, because the truth is, I don’t.

I only have enough love to give to the people who show me love back and to the person who needs it most: myself.

So what if I start to sound like those puppets on Amazing World of gumball.

I don’t want to be the glue anymore. Somebody go get the Gorilla Glue, because I’m tired of holding everything together with my bare hands. My arms are not big enough to wrap around the whole world.

Only one person at a time.

And right now, that person has to be me.

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There is something almost embarrassing about how quickly I fall in love with things.

A new hobby, a new idea, a new version of myself.

I have so many hobbies and things I like to do that when someone asks me, “What are your hobbies?” I just look at them blankly and say, “I don’t know… everything.” Mostly because I’ve tried so many things that I don’t even feel like listing all the things I do and have done.

One moment I am convinced I should dedicate my life to journalism. The next, I’m buying ingredients for a recipe I saw at midnight, researching cameras I cannot afford, opening Pinterest boards for hobbies I have not even started yet, and telling myself that maybe — just maybe — I could learn how to do everything if I tried hard enough.

My life feels like a collection of unfinished dreams scattered across my bedroom floor. Half-read books. Random notes in my phone. Burnt candles beside projects I swore I would finish.

Maybe I fall in love with things so quickly because I am constantly searching for new ways to understand myself. Every hobby feels like opening a different door. Every new interest feels like proof that there are still parts of me I haven’t met yet.

I envy people sometimes — the ones who have had one dream since childhood and never questioned it. The girls who can answer “What do you want to do with your life?” without changing their answer every few months. Meanwhile, I collect passions like little souvenirs. Writing. Baking. Sewing. Photography. Dancing. Languages. Music. Film. Art. Things I picked up for a week. Things that stayed for years. Things I revisit whenever life starts feeling too small.

But maybe that’s the beauty of it.

Maybe I was never meant to experience life in one straight line.

I care deeply about things. I love learning about the different pieces of myself and discovering what I’m capable of. Even when it becomes overwhelming, there is something warm about it. Even when I can’t keep up with my own mind, I still find ways to manage.

I carry a big blue bag full of all the things I enjoy because I never know where I’m going to end up next. Maybe I’ll want to pick up a book and read, start another probably-never-going-to-be-finished story, or sew something onto my jeans while sitting somewhere random. So I carry it all — all the little pieces of me jangling on my arm, just in case.

As daydreamers, I think we eventually begin to understand that we are not meant to be one linear thing. I am not just someone who likes reading and listening to music. I enjoy everything that sparks curiosity in me because I want to become a well-rounded and interesting person. I want to be able to say, “I tried that before,” or “I know how to do that.”

My grandma always said, “If you try something once and you don’t like it, you never have to do it again. But if you enjoy it, keep enjoying it and introduce it into your life.”

She taught me never to judge something just because it seems weird at first. Most things are only strange until they become familiar.

Maybe being a daydreamer means accepting that I was never meant to stay the same for too long.

So I’m going to keep trying to learn new languages, even if I only remember a few words. I’m going to keep stacking books beside my bed and filling notebooks with unfinished ideas. I’m going to keep dancing, sewing patches onto my jeans, starting projects at midnight, and falling in love with every little thing that makes life feel bigger.

Because until the day I die, there will always be something I haven’t tried before.

And maybe I will always be a hopeless romantic — not just with people, but with life itself. With curiosity. With becoming. With the endless possibility of who I could be next.

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Song: I Lost a Friend by FINNEAS

Have you ever
loved someone
more carefully
than you have ever loved yourself

held their happiness
like it was fragile
like it was yours to protect

and lived
just to see them smile

you gave
and gave
never asking

but somewhere inside
you still hoped
they would choose you too

they didn’t

betrayal doesn’t warn you
it doesn’t knock

it slips in quietly
wearing the face
you trusted most

one moment
you are safe

the next
you are split open

not numb
not quiet

but burning

your blood runs hot
your skin crawls
like something is wrong inside you
like your body knows
before your mind does

your heart pounds
loud
unsteady
echoing in your ears

and you stand there
trying to understand
how something so soft
turned into something
that cuts this deep

you don’t cry

not because it doesn’t hurt
but because the hurt
is too sharp
too sudden
to even name

so you stay still
choosing every movement carefully

because now you know

the person you trusted
didn’t just break you

they handed you the blade
and watched you bleed

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You’re all probably wondering, “Who’s Liz? That’s not your name..”

In a way.. it is.

Liz is short for Elizabeth. Which is part of the middle name I was given at birth, and for a long time,

a name I hated.

It is the name my mom used when I was in trouble, the one she used when I was inches away from a butt whooping.

The name that made my chest tighten.

For a long time, Elizabeth didn’t feel like me. It felt distant…

Almost like a shadow I couldn’t step out of, weighing heavily on my shoulders. But as I get older, I’m starting to understand that it is not meant to weigh you down,

it’s something you carry.

Elizabeth isn’t just something I was called, it’s something I come from.

A name given to me by the woman who shaped so much of who I am.

By a simple word,

she is stitched into me whether I noticed it or not.

But why this name?

Simply put, It’s short and sweet, not hard on the tongue, but sharp enough to notice.

But on a deeper level..

It holds history.

Liz is lighter on the tongue, softer yet still rooted in something deeper.

And maybe I didn’t like it before because I hadn’t grown into it yet. Because now It feels like a bridge between who I was and who I’m becoming

And this,

Is who I was destined to be.

For that, I hold this name close to my heart. Like the lingering warmth of the one who was always there.

It’s my turn to carry her.

Now when I hear the name, I no longer hear the consequences.

I hear her. Because even when I was unsure of who I was,

she always knew.

I was her sweet baby girl

and nothing less.

Thank you Mama 🩷

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photo by “field of colors” by Edith Peterson-Watson

As I continued to experience life and daydream about the life I want, I learned that people really don’t care about what you have going on in your life.

When I try to tell people about the excitement and joy in the little things that matter to me—even if I’m happy that an hour passed or that I posted a blog for my two little viewers—the only thing they say is, “I’m happy for you.” But really, they don’t care. Not like you do.

You’re ready to scream from the rooftops about the small good things happening in your life, but no one is a bigger advocate for you than yourself. Yeah, there’s family, but it’s still the same thing: “I’m proud,” “I’m happy for you.” Then if you bring it up again, they’re like, “When did that happen?” When you literally just told them yesterday.

What’s news to them today won’t be news to them tomorrow. No matter how many times you share something you’re excited or proud of, they’re still not going to care the way you do—because it didn’t happen to them. It happened to you.

You might tell them to read your blog, and yeah, they might read one post. But are they actually going to go back and keep reading? No. Not unless you force them or keep reminding them until they finally do it.

So I realized something: I am my biggest advocate. If I don’t go out and brag about my wins, if I don’t celebrate the small things that make me smile every time I think about them, no one else will.

No matter how much people care about you or love you, nobody loves you like you love yourself. So love yourself.

So celebrate yourself. Do things for yourself. Because people don’t care the way you do.

But I do. And that’s enough.

No one told me grief would take me too

No one told me that when you grieve a loved one, you don’t just lose them.
You lose yourself too.

The version of you they knew.
The version of you that existed with them.

So now, you’re mourning two people at once.
Them, and you.

Let’s talk about it.

I lost my mom and my aunt within 35 days of each other.
I had been studying for my final exams, literally the next day, when my mom’s best friend walked in to tell me something I thought I had more time before hearing.

She’s gone.

My mom was gone.

And in a way, I was gone too.

The one person who knew me deeply, how my mind worked, what I loved, what made me happy, was gone.

And now I had to figure myself out without her.

I was 18.

I said my goodbyes to my aunt and my mom, and the next day I was graduating with my associate’s degree.

The next day.

Before I could even process anything, I was packing to go to college.

So now I’m stepping into adulthood without my mom, trying to figure out a world that keeps moving while I feel stuck. Trying to figure out myself at the same time.

And the truth is, I didn’t know who I was.

I had only ever dreamed about who I wanted to be, not who I actually was.

It was scary.
It was gut-wrenching.

I had to learn how to be alone in a whole new state, with no one in my circle except family back home. I had to start from a blank canvas, redrawing the woman I wanted to become.

But I didn’t have my mom to show me how.

All the things that come with womanhood, I had to face them without her.

There were days I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror because I didn’t recognize who I was anymore.

My style changed.
The music I loved didn’t feel the same.
My body changed.

Grief showed up in ways no one prepares you for.

It was weird.
Uncomfortable.
Frustrating.

I was angry all the time.

I lashed out at the people I loved. I said things like,
“No one will ever understand what it’s like to lose a mother, unless they’ve lost their own.”

And yes, that was selfish.

But it was also a cry for help.

I was hurting. I’m still hurting.

People tried to comfort me, but sometimes it just made me more frustrated.

“Just pray.”
“It’ll get easier.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”

What do you mean, for a reason?

One minute my mom is here, and the next she’s gone, and I’m crying out for her like a child.

Watching other people call their moms, hug them, laugh with them, while I’m left holding memories.

I felt everything.

Not the neat, textbook version of grief, but the raw, ugly, overwhelming kind.

I was sensitive.
I was vulnerable.
I was broken in ways I didn’t even understand.

And I had to sit with that.

Feel it.

Endure it.

Because the truth is, the pain doesn’t go away.

It just becomes something you learn how to carry.

It’s been almost a year since the last time I said “I love you.”
The last time I hugged her.
The last time she called my name.
The last time I said “Mommy.”

She was a beautiful woman.
A strong woman.

And even though she’s gone, she didn’t leave me empty.

Every lesson, every trait, every piece of her lives in me.

She left her mark on me.

And somehow, through all of this,

I’m still here.

Let’s be honest for a second…
This part? Right here? It’s exhausting.

I know for all my daydreamers, this stretch has been hard. The kind of hard that doesn’t always look dramatic from the outside—but feels heavy in your chest. The days keep moving, but you feel stuck. Like you’re treading water, trying to stay afloat while everything keeps piling up.

You’re putting things off.
You’re tired all the time.
You can barely keep your eyes open.

And somehow, you’re still expected to show up—to that meeting, that class, that job—like everything is fine.

It’s draining.

And the worst part? Sometimes you don’t even have the energy to explain why you feel this way. You just… do.

But I need you to hear this, and really let it sit with you:

It is okay to pause.

Not quit. Not give up.
Pause.

Take 15 minutes—just 15—and make it yours. Put your phone down (or don’t, just be intentional). Play some smooth music. Sit in silence. Lay down. Step outside. Let your mind breathe for a second instead of constantly running.

Because the world right now? It’s a lot.
Everything feels loud. Fast. Unpredictable.

Of course you’re overwhelmed.
Of course you’re tired.

You’re human.

But even in the middle of all of this… you are closer than you think.

I know it doesn’t always feel like it. I know some days feel like you’re going backwards instead of forward. But you’re not stuck—you’re just in the messy middle. The part nobody really talks about. The part where growth doesn’t feel inspiring… it just feels hard.

But the end? It’s there.

You can see it.
You can almost taste it.

So don’t let your thoughts convince you that you can’t make it. Don’t let your exhaustion turn into doubt about who you are or what you’re capable of.

Get out of your head—even if it’s just for a moment.
Give yourself permission to feel everything without judging it.

And if you need to cry?

Cry.

Not because you’re weak—but because you’ve been holding so much in for so long.

Then when you’re ready… take a breath, pick yourself back up, and keep going.

Not perfectly.
Just honestly.

You’ve made it this far. Don’t forget that.

Have a cookie > 🍪

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Nobody really talks about the kind of “no” that stays with you.
Not the casual ones—but the ones tied to something you care about.
The ones that make you question if you should keep going… or quietly let it go.

There’s been something heavy on my heart. Something I needed to get out—something I felt like I needed to scream.

About two months ago, I was tasked with telling a story in a specific part of the city. And when I found it… I knew.
This wasn’t just any story—this was important.

I felt it. I got excited. I was ready.

When I first pitched it, I was told it was good—something to keep working on. But then I stepped away from it for a while. And in just two months, everything changed.

When I came back to it, I tried to pitch it again.
And that’s when I heard my first “no.”

My heart sank.

I tried not to take it personally. I told myself to keep going.
But as the deadline got closer, everything around me kept moving—news was changing, conversations were evolving—and I felt like I was falling behind.

I was frustrated.

I wanted to write so badly, but I felt stuck… constantly pitching, constantly searching for the perfect story just to get permission to begin.
And the “no’s” kept coming.

Every class, there was something missing. Something I wasn’t seeing. Something I wasn’t understanding.

And I’m not going to lie—I cried in front of my professor.

Not because of what they said.
Not because I did something wrong.

I cried because I just wanted to hear one word: go.

I watched everyone else moving forward, getting closer to the finish line…
And I felt like I was still standing at the start, waiting for my light to turn green.

I needed it to be green.

That’s when my professor pulled me aside and told me to start from the beginning.
To explain what I was really trying to do.

And through my frustration, I said it as simply as I could:
I just want to tell this story.

Because there are people who need a voice.
People who deserve to be heard—the raw, the real, the truth. No sugarcoating.

And that’s when everything shifted.

They looked at me and said, “That’s the story.”

They told me I could even go deeper with it.

So I did.

I started writing. I poured everything out—every feeling, every frustration—and shaped it into something real.
I let the people speak. I let the numbers speak.

And somewhere along the way, I came across something that made me stop.
Something that made me cry.

And in that moment, I realized why I’m doing this.

Not for a grade.
Not for a paycheck.

But for the people who are calling out to be heard.
The ones who need someone to translate their pain into something the world can understand.
The ones who need someone to grab a megaphone and say,
“Hey—listen to them. Hear them.”

When I went back to my professor, they told me something that stayed with me:

The people who become great writers—the great journalists—are the ones who feel like this.
Because if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be this attached.

You wouldn’t be fighting this hard.

So maybe that “no” wasn’t meant to stop me.

Maybe it was meant to push me.
To challenge me.
To make me dig deeper.

Because sometimes, “no” doesn’t mean the end.

Sometimes… it means
fight harder.

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Let’s be real for a second… have you ever walked into a room and felt like you accidentally snuck in?

Let’s talk about it.

When you finally start doing something you once prayed for, these thoughts slowly begin to creep in. Quietly. Almost like a whisper. And suddenly, you find yourself questioning every decision that led you to that moment.

Am I good enough?
Pretty enough?
Smart enough?

You start looking at the people around you—the way they dress, the way they talk, the way they carry themselves—and now you feel like you should be doing the same. Like you need to shrink or shift just to fit into a space you already earned.

I know… I know. It happens to all of us at some point.

But nobody really talks about it because of the shame that comes with it. Why are we thinking like this? We wanted to be in this room. We believed we were worthy enough to bring something to the table. We worked so hard to finally find a place where we could thrive… and then suddenly, our own minds start tearing us down.

And the craziest part?
No one is actually judging you.

No one is sitting there thinking, “Oh, she’s not cute,” or “She doesn’t belong here.” In reality, they’re probably thinking the exact same thing about themselves—overanalyzing every little detail, slowly chipping away at their own confidence just like you are.

Imposter syndrome is a real thing.

Coming to college, surrounded by people who seem effortlessly beautiful, confident, and put together—it got to me. I’m not even going to lie. The place I used to daydream about stepping into started to feel overwhelming. I felt behind. Like I missed the memo on trends, on social norms, on how to just… be.

I had to learn the lingo. Adjust to people from all over the country. It felt like everything was happening at once, like I was being hit with a wave I wasn’t prepared for.

And in the middle of all of that, I felt like I stuck out.
Like a sore thumb.

I didn’t have friends. I was in a completely new environment where the only person I knew was myself. I was eating breakfast and lunch alone. Shopping alone. Walking alone. Meanwhile, it felt like everyone else already had their people—laughing in the hallways, moving in groups, living in a rhythm I didn’t understand yet.

Somewhere along the way… I lost my sense of self.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.
That little daydreamer? I couldn’t even recognize her.

There were moments I could barely look at myself in the mirror, not because I didn’t know what I looked like—but because I felt like I didn’t measure up to what I thought I was supposed to be.

But here’s what I’m starting to realize…

Maybe I was never an imposter.
Maybe I was just new.

New to the space.
New to the environment.
New to a version of myself I had never met before.

And instead of giving myself grace, I was tearing myself down for not already knowing how to exist in a place I had just arrived in.

The truth is… you don’t “fake” your way into rooms like this.
You don’t accidentally end up in spaces meant for growth, opportunity, and purpose.

You prayed for this.
You worked for this.
You became someone capable of being here—even if you’re still figuring out what that looks like.

So no… I didn’t sneak in.

I walked in.
Even if it was quietly.
Even if I was unsure.
Even if I was still becoming.

And maybe that’s the part no one tells you—
becoming doesn’t feel like confidence at first.

It feels like doubt.
Like discomfort.
Like questioning everything.

But that doesn’t make you a fraud.

It makes you human.

Not every dream we have is meant for us.

For the longest time—and I mean the longest—I thought I had my whole life figured out. I was going to get straight A’s all through high school, go to Harvard, and become a doctor. Boom. Easy, right?

…yeah, no. Little daydreamer was very wrong.

First of all, you can’t just get A’s. You actually have to study, go to class, ask questions… and do the work. (And asking questions? That was always hard for me. I was curious, just scared to speak up—but that’s another story.)

Second, you can’t just “get into Harvard.” Everything you’ve done throughout your life has to reflect a certain level of excellence just to even be considered. Now, I’m not saying I couldn’t do it—but it was never going to be simple.

And third, you don’t just graduate and magically become a doctor. It takes years of school, training, studying, and practicing before you even get close to the life people imagine when they hear that title.

And I mean no disrespect to anyone pursuing that path—I truly wish you the best. But for me… that wasn’t really my dream.

I didn’t actually want to be a doctor.
I just wanted to help people.

I grew up watching my family be failed by the healthcare system, and I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to ease their pain. It felt like I was looking at a world so much bigger than me, and somehow, I wanted to fix all of it.

But if I’m being honest… I also liked how it sounded.

I liked telling people I wanted to be a doctor. I liked their reactions—the way their faces lit up, like I had just said the best thing they could hear. I liked when people said, “You must have it all figured out.” It made me feel like I was doing something right. Like I was making my family proud.

And I was… but at what cost?

Somewhere along the way, everything started to fall apart.

I had built such high expectations for myself that I didn’t even realize I was slowly driving myself crazy. I was neglecting my mental health, my physical well-being—everything. I convinced myself that if I didn’t make an A, the world would end.

Dramatic? Yes.
Real? Also yes.

The crazy part is, my family was already proud of me. As long as I was doing well and staying on track, that was enough for them. But somehow, my mind created these impossible standards anyway.

And sure—they worked. I got the A’s.

But I wasn’t happy.

I wasn’t doing the one thing I truly loved: Writing. Reading. Creating.

Still, I held on to the doctor dream because I had been told over and over again that if you want to be successful—if you want money—that’s the path you take.

But is money worth your happiness?

Yes, money matters. It makes the world go round. But I knew deep down I would be miserable—successful on paper, but not proud of the life I built.

Then junior year hit. Dual enrollment, harder classes… and something felt off. Maybe it was the first D I made in chemistry. Or maybe it was my grandma reminding me that the one thing I’ve always done naturally—writing—was the thing that made me the happiest.

And just like that, I felt stuck.

I was at a health science-focused school, but my heart wanted something completely different. The closest I could get to writing was English class or yearbook. So I joined yearbook. I stayed for two years and worked my way up to editor.

And I loved it.

But then senior year came, and reality hit me hard:
How do I follow my passion and still build a stable life for myself?

I searched for hours. I talked to friends. I tried to piece it all together.

And then it clicked.

Journalism.

I could talk to people. I could help them by telling their stories—by amplifying their voices. I could write, connect, and make an impact all at the same time.

It felt like a win-win.

I don’t know if I was the first person at my school to choose this path, but I do know I was one of the few who had the courage to change direction.

And honestly?
That made all the difference.

At the end of the day, I’ve realized something important: things are going to change.

Plans fall through. Dreams shift. The version of yourself you once believed in might not be the version you grow into—and that’s okay.

What really matters is how you maneuver through it.

Do you hold on to something that no longer fits you, just because it’s comfortable? Or do you have the courage to adjust, to pivot, to listen to yourself even when it’s scary?

I won’t lie—changing direction wasn’t easy. It felt uncertain, uncomfortable… and honestly, a little disappointing at first. But sometimes, change isn’t there to set you back. Sometimes it’s there to realign you.

To push you closer to who you’re actually meant to be.

So no, everything didn’t go according to plan.
But maybe that’s the point.

Because in learning how to adapt, how to let go, and how to trust myself, I found something better than a “perfect” dream—

I found my dream.

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Let’s talk about it.
Because being “ahead” in life isn’t always as glamorous as it sounds.

As a journalist and dual enrollment student in college, I did not expect to be this ahead in life at such a young age. It made me wonder—how are these prodigies doing it? Being the first to go to college so early, knowing all this information, being so studious at such a young age.

And yet… here I am.
At my big age, trying to slow down.

I graduated high school with an associate’s degree before I even got my diploma.
Yes, yes… yay to me. But also… oh no to me.

Now I’m at a four-year college—
and might I say, the top HBCU. If you know, you know.

I fell in love with this school the moment I stepped on campus. I was amazed at how alive everything felt. A small country girl with an associate’s degree, already a junior in her first year. There was so much to do, so much to be a part of, that I almost wanted to ask my advisor for more classes—just to have an excuse to stay longer.

I wanted to do everything. Be everywhere. Talk to everyone.
(…ahhh, socializing.)

But then I sat down and counted my credits.

I had just gotten here.
Barely been a year… and I’m already graduating next year.

Now I’m being pushed to find internships, to get “real” job experience. I look at the criteria, and technically, I fit. I’m a junior. I’ve learned what I need to know to be a journalist.

But there’s still so much I don’t feel confident in.

And I’m scared that maybe… I’m not ready.

I was ahead of all my peers. I did the work—a lot of work.
But I still don’t feel ready.

I still feel like a kid, even when everyone keeps calling me an adult.
(No, seriously… adulting? Not fun. I don’t recommend.)

I’m still a little daydreamer who loves chicken nuggets and mac and cheese.
Who still has her stuffed animals. (Hey—don’t judge. Everyone has their favorite stuffy. Not too much on me.)

And that’s when I really started to believe that age is just a number.

Because yes, I’m an adult.
But I’m also just a child at heart—
one who somehow has the ability to start living out her daydreams.

And maybe that’s the confusing part.

I have a lot to be proud of. I really do.
But when do you actually start to feel prepared for something like this?

Whether you take four years…
or just two, like me.

Maybe the truth is… you never fully feel ready.

Maybe there isn’t a moment where everything just clicks and suddenly you feel like the adult everyone says you are. Maybe growing up isn’t about arriving somewhere—it’s about learning how to exist in the in-between.

Because right now, I’m in between.
Between being ahead and feeling behind.
Between being capable and still learning.
Between being an adult… and still just a girl who daydreams.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe I don’t need to rush to catch up to the version of me everyone else already sees. Maybe I can take my time becoming her.

So yes, I’m ahead.
But I’m also still becoming.

And for now… I think I’m okay with that. 💭✨

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Hi! It’s your favorite daydreamer. I have a question: what is everyone doing in this very confusing and concerning weather we’re having right now? Well… other than reading this blog. If you’re not doing anything and need a little help saving yourself from the deep depths of boredom, you are in the right place. Here are five things you can do while stuck in the house — or even at work. I got you, working class ;)

1. Reading

   Whether it’s reading this blog or diving into a news article, find something to read. We can make something out of this very depressing and murky weather. Of course, for safety reasons, if you’re in a situation where reading isn’t the best idea, please be safe. But if it’s just a light rain, sit by a window and read something.

   We always say don’t get stuck doomscrolling on social media (specifically TikTok… definitely guilty of this myself), but our brains need to be stimulated in different ways, and reading is one of them. Not only are you improving your reading skills, but you’re also giving your eyes a break from constant screen strain. You build your imagination, pick up better vocabulary (yes, big words! :0), and strengthen your focus.

   One thing that has been highly concerning lately? Our attention spans. So read something — and not on a screen if you can help it. Paper is preferred.

   

   2. Listen to your favorite playlist

   There are a lot of platforms where you can listen to music. For the old-school crowd, record players and radios are perfect for playing some smooth tunes. For Gen Z — Spotify, YouTube Music, Apple Music, and SoundCloud are great places to listen to all your favorite artists.

   Music communicates with everyone in its own way. It can distract you from time, keep you grounded during stressful and gloomy days, uplift your mood, and motivate you to get things done. I’m actually listening to music as I write this to keep myself focused.

   There’s just something about music that can trigger a really good daydream. I even challenge you to make a playlist specifically for this weather. Here’s mine ;)

   3. Spend time with friends and family

   Hang out with the people in your circle — over the phone, FaceTime, WhatsApp, Zoom, Google Meet, or even in person. Just talk to them. There are endless ways to spend time with the people you love.

   Even if it’s just checking in on each other or reaching out to someone who might need help (or if you need help yourself). Go raid your sister’s closet and find some cute outfits. Or just go jump on her — they make everything better.

   I know my sister hates to see me coming… but at the same time she loves it. She knows she does :)

   

4. Do some work or chores

   I know… I know. This is not what anyone wants to do. This is supposed to be cozy weather — the kind where you sleep, nap, and eat potato chips on the couch. Yes, we’ve all daydreamed about becoming full-time couch potatoes.

   But take this extra time to get a few things done. Fold that dreaded pile of clothes sitting in the corner of your bed. Wash your hair and style it. Do that assignment that is definitely due at 11:59 p.m. — yeah, the one your teacher gave you two weeks ago… mhmm, that assignment.

   Or just organize your closet or drawers. Get a head start on homework. There are probably a few things you’ve been putting off — and you know it. Put some fun music on while you do it. Dance a little… but get it done.

   

5. Daydream a little

   This one might sound simple… but hear me out. Take a moment to just daydream. Sit by the window, watch the rain, lay on the couch, or curl up under a blanket and let your mind wander.

   Sometimes we’re so busy trying to be productive that we forget it’s okay to just think. Think about your goals, the places you want to travel, the life you want to build, or even the smallest things that make you happy. Some of the best ideas come from quiet moments like this.

   You can even write those thoughts down in a journal, sketch something random, or start planning something you’ve always wanted to try.

   Daydreaming isn’t wasted time — it’s where creativity starts.

   And who knows… maybe the next big idea for your life is hiding somewhere in that rainy-day daydream. ✨

   

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As I sit here laying next to my dog, who drifts in and out of sleep, waking at every suspicious sound, I keep thinking about how I should probably be doing something more productive with my Saturday. With daylight saving time, the day feels like it sped up in a way my mind can’t quite wrap itself around.

Being vulnerable, I once told someone that I feel bad when I spend a day doing nothing but sleeping and laying in bed because it feels unproductive. It’s not me doing the homework I’ve been procrastinating on. It’s not me washing the dishes or taking the trash out. Instead, I’m just laying there watching my favorite TV show, scrolling through social media, and sleeping—drifting in and out of slumber like my dog beside me.

What I didn’t realize was that this, too, was a form of productivity.

I’m not justifying laziness, because I’m not lazy—or at least I didn’t think I was. What I wasn’t acknowledging were all the days I was constantly working. The days I spent finishing homework for the week, applying to internships, cleaning up my space, doing my laundry, and trying to stay on top of everything.

I had done a lot. And sometimes, it was productive to nap, to slow down, and to let my mind and body rest.

I’m learning that I shouldn’t beat myself up for wanting to rest for a little while. I owed that to myself. After all, I push myself to limits I didn’t even know I had. Taking a moment to sit back and relax isn’t a failure—it’s necessary.

Still, I wonder where this idea came from that laying down and not worrying about anything makes you lazy. Why is choosing one day to recharge your battery not viewed as productive?

Is it because we live in a society where we’re expected to keep working, as if rest isn’t allowed?
Is it because we fear that if we sleep, we might miss opportunities that could change our lives?
Or is it because we were taught from a young age that if we’re not constantly being “responsible” with our time, then we must be lazy—that we’ll never become somebody if we allow ourselves one day to simply rest?

Wherever this idea came from, whoever spread that notion was wrong.

We need days to recharge—to take care of the one thing that takes care of us every single day: our bodies. Our bodies are what allow us to work so hard. They carry us through the difficult days and the good ones too.

We should want to take care of them. We should want to rest, to relax, and to simply be present for a little while.

So push back against the idea that rest makes you lazy. It doesn’t. Sometimes, it just means you’re finally choosing to prioritize yourself after a week of constantly pouring into everything else.

And when Sunday comes, the work will still be there waiting.

But at least you’ll be rested enough to face it.

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