Let me keep it real with y’all —
If you know me [like really know me], you know that I am a writer. I write for solace, for love, for healing, for fun, for God, for friends, for everything. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t remember the last time I wrote anything.
I made it my duty to buy a new journal in every country (7) I’ve visited, but converted those jounrals into planners.
I guess that was me trying to gain some kind of control over my confusion.
I’ve battled the nuances of happiness and feeling accomplished, simultaneously realizing that I cannot let my success stress me bare. You’re not supposed to kill yourself while you’re attempting to build yourself.
I didn’t realize that my disengagement with writing was a sign that something was and is wrong. I thought I was growing out of an old hobby on this “new” journey.
Note to self: Bull Sh*t! You were just trying to hide your feelings from yourself, but you ain’t low, Na!
I almost thought about giving up on the blog because of my inconsistency, but that would just be me giving up on me! But I decided against it – I matter to me and my voice and presence is necessary.
trying to make making time for myself— diving into what makes me happy, and still on the grind without putting myself through the grinder. Finding time and space for me is so important!
Counting my wins. Glorifying my losses. Loving God always. And always leaving haters on read.
Note to self: I love you, Na! Remember that!
I travel often and I don’t usually get homesick. I like to think that I am so adaptable in the ways I can make any space home. But in between whispers about cranes and magic and Master P’s words of black wisdom, I found my mind somewhere in Harlem surrounded by black people.
I heard loud robust laughter in the distance accompanied by some trap music. I smelled oxtails and coconut oil. And then there was me standing in the intersection waiting for the light to change, smiling. It was weird. All of it…
Solange made me miss being surrounded by blackness. Yes, Greece is an amazing place with welcoming people, but there’s no home like black mother’s hug.
I’m sure the feeling will pass, but I am hoping it won’t. I never want to lose the craving for my people.