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Having a Baby, Pt. 2

I've talked previously about Having a Baby on here-

Not just having a baby but not feeling like I need a man to do it. It was a revolutionary act of self-love to declare, this past January, that I wasn't waiting on the perfect partner, the right time, or the best financial situation to have a baby. Black women, in particular, have it hard out here. For those of us who didn't accidentally get pregnant at 17, we were told by many to wait--to wait until we got settled into our careers, to wait until we made partner at the firm and then wait 3 years after that so that we could keep wait until we made tenure at whatever wait until we got our first church or our first job as wait and wait and wait....until our eggs disappear or we can no longer carry a child to term because we've reached advanced maternal age. I've heard the stories--both dictated to me in private and publicly shared in books and interviews [Read Gabrielle Union&#…
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Letting Love Go

I'd always heard that "if you love someone, you have to let them go." I didn't know everything about what that meant until recently. It sounds so simple--until you're clutching your chest at 2am, lost somewhere between a heartattack and freedom.
It's always been easy letting people go...or shall I say easier. I didn't love them. The love didn't run deep. My hopes and dreams weren't tangled up in them. I didn't care of they were happy after I let them go. I didn't care if they'd ever be satisfied. But when love is involved, it's hard to not care. It's hard to not wonder what they are doing with the Sunday evenings you used to share together. Letting love go is miserable.

I'm slowly beginning to embrace the freedom that I have been involuntarily granted. But would I rather love than be free? Today, I would. Maybe tomorrow, I'll feel differently. And the next day, I'll go back to favoring love. Who knows? I don'…

Social Media is Shrinking Our Minds

I posted a click-bait blog on Instagram and Facebook today--Having A Baby, Pt. 2.The blog wasn't meant to mislead; however, I was curious to see how many people would congratulate me on my non-existent pregnancy before actually clicking the link and reading the post. I'm currently on a social media fast, so my friend T is posting for me when I feel like my blog could help somebody. I knew that the post had gone up because people we're blowing up my phone 🤣🤣🤣! It was comical, but it also proved my theory about social media and our quickness to run with information that is incorrect because of our unwillingness to dig deeper...or to click the link and read a few paragraphs (it really doesn't take that's not like I had written a dissertation 🙄). I had T go back to the post and add #NotPregnant in the caption so that the "congratulations" comments would slow down. It's amazing how you can lose an audience if you're asking them to ta…


God of ages past
Of the robust present
And of unknown and uncertain futuresWe come before you with gratitude
For getting us through the week,
And providing opportunity for
The experience of joy.I know I should be dead in my grave--
Or cutting my wrists--
Or planning my departure from this world--
But I'm still here,
In the land of the living,
Sipping bourbon and giving thanks.Life throws us unexpected curve balls sometimes,
But we are still here to tell the story.
We are still here to let somebody know that
though weeping may endure for a night--
And it will endure--
Joy comes.She comes, riding in on a great black horse.
Joy--Sable is what I call her--
Sable comes riding in and
We are reminded that there is so much more to life than our weeping.
There is so much more to life than our depression.
There is so much more to life than our despair.Sable.
Sable comes.
Joy comes.
And she rides into our lives with gusto.I'm grateful for her.
May she carry me through this uncer…


I wish more people could admit publicly that they are lonely. Today, I'm talking about loneliness, imperfection, and vulnerability on the vLog. Tune in!

A Weary Black Woman/Could the Black Man Be Sane?

I'm sitting across from a black woman on the train who looks tired. She is tired. She has fallen asleep with many bags in her hand. A bag lady. Beside her are two you gentlemen who could be her sons--one 4, maybe, and one teenaged. They seem carefree. Joyful. Perhaps, a little tired but awake enough to smack each other around, playfully, as they make the trek from Brooklyn to Manhattan. I can't imagine that the woman is over 35, but she looks tired and weariness has aged her.As I watched her, I reflected on my own weariness--how it's aged me. I wonder if it shows on my face--if it showed on my face...if people saw that I was weary while my ex-partner, my brothers, my male cousins played around as the wrinkles grew into my otherwise plump and creamy skin. I wondered if my father was ever as weary as my mother. I wondered if my grandfather helped my grandmother carry the bags that weighed her down and wore her out.A black man walks into the subway car, entering from another …

A Broken Heart Still Beats

No matter what you're going through,
you ought to thank God that blood stills flows through your arteries, no matter how clogged they are.
A Broken Heart Still Beats, and though you may be bruised,  wounded, scarred, scabbed, bloody, the fact that the blood is still dripping, messing up your clothing, staining your carpet, soiling your sheets, is a sign that you are still alive!
Somebody ought to be grateful that your last drop of blood wasn't your last drop of blood. You are still alive.
I know you feel lonely. I know you feel abandoned. I know you feel betrayed. I know you feel angry. I know you feel sad. I know you feel... but you feel. You feel...and Your feeling is a sign that you are still alive!
A Broken Heart Still Beats.
I'm grateful for the blood pumping through my veins. It lets me know that there's work to do. It lets me know that the Universe needs me-- that I'm not done-- that it is not finished-- that the cross is not the end of my story.
Your Sunday …

Speaking Joy

I'm speaking joy into the atmosphere from now on--That's not to say
That the tears don't come,
That the grief doesn't rear its head,
That I don't miss elements of my past,But I'm speaking joy--
And life
And wealth
And love
And passion
And peace
And hope
Into my life, into your life, into the universe,
Nonetheless.Songs have been dropping into my spirit lately--songs of encouragement and of optimism. I thank the ancestors. I know that I am surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, and that the prayers of the righteous on earth availeth much. I'm heading to the studio in a few weeks but I'm playing around with a little diddy that speaks life into the lifeless, hope into the hopeless:Your breaks and your bruises
Are not the end of your story.
Not the end of your story.Your cross and your crisis
Are not the end of your story
Not the end of your storyI'm claiming victoryI don't know how the lyrics will end up working their way around a melody this so…