…and I don’t want to be one.

Rebuking the idea of being a hero isn’t an act of defiance but a declaration of self-preservation. One gets tired of the relentless pursuit of happiness… no, the pursuit of contentment… because most folks you know will never touch the helm of happiness - and will settle for its mass-produced cousin, whose worth is determined by a date on the calendar or a Hallmark card.

…and yet here I am.

I yearn to be exposed; to be able to come as I am, unpolished, disheveled, and unhinged.

Magical.

I require the masses around me to be drawn to my aura and request a rare invitation to explore the lore of my life.

I crave more….

…but this world doesn’t want that. They want Superman. A powerful, perfect being in a tight wetsuit that one wonders… when does it get washed? Instead of being perceived as a man with trauma who has turned the world into his play pit for distraction, they have accepted him as a savior.

Clark Kent screwed us all.

They let a pale skinned, blue eyed, being adopt the ghettos of the earth so he can be ‘captain save a nigga’ (does he even save niggas?)…

…and I bet they didn’t ask him to produce a birth certificate or green card.

Superman is nothing but a ball of moldable clay… that can be shaped into whatever the world needs him to be. We literally have a man with an identity crisis going around putting out fires (or starting them)… seems too much like right, right?!

And if we gonna keep it all the way real, I have a feeling that he only puts on the cape to keep his messy damsel in distress from falling off buildings. I bet if she fell, the crime would drop tremendously… messy ass bitch.

There is nothing normal about Clark or whatever he decides to call himself. He forces himself to conform… and for what?! Applause that is easily given and taken away. Applause that requires you to give everything - your energy, your time, your life (didn’t he die?!). I’ve watched the folks he’s saved praise his name and curse his existence all in the same breath… and yet, he gets up time and time again to whoop ass or get his ass beat… depending on the day.

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“Superman didn't become Superman. Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears - the glasses, the business suit - that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent. He's weak... he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race.”

Bill talking sh!t in the movie Kill Bill

I refuse to be a captain save a hoe.

You can call me selfish all you want, but it won’t change the fact that women were burned at the stake just because of the jealousy of a man. How dare you have too much magic?! Now, what do you expect for them to try to do to my black ass when they find out I hold a whole lot of it.

…and this is why they can’t touch me nor look at me, without my permission.

I can turn something into nothing.

I wield the energy through my fingers like intricate ropes made of gold, sunshine, and ancestral tears. I can weave into existence a new universe… if I wanted…

…but I know better.

Playing God has never been my style and only a fool would try to recreate history. There is no timeline in which there is infinite peace. Free will has shackled us to the thrill of polarity. Pain and pleasure. Joy and sadness. The hero and the villain…with a sprinkle of the anti-hero somewhere along the way to balance the scale.

And the anti-hero is where I reside.

I don’t shy away from chaos. In fact, I’d be disingenuous if I didn’t admit that I enjoy when the world is on fire… just a tad bit.

Utopia’s are boring and lack flavor. It’s why I enjoy long stays in Gotham; there’s dirt, grime, and grit. The air is seasoned with struggle, redemption, and at least Batman knows why he chases the Joker; its the high from the infinite game of cat and mouse.

It’s arousing.

…and while Bruce Batman would never admit it, his purpose is wrapped in anger. Revenge is the excuse that allows him to let his intrusive thoughts run rampant. And that no kill rule? Yeah, okay.

I have no desire to destroy a life, nor do I desire to enhance it. Instead, I like to sit in the shadows of the dark, observing folks as they walk on by, and listen to their lore. I let their private thoughts run through my head like soap operas, entertained by the things they could never say out loud. But, whew, only if they did.

I am a figment of their imagination. A faint fragrance that feels familiar but dissipates as quickly as it came.

Every now and again, I let one come close enough to touch and scratch an itch (shit, I have needs too) and send them on their way, with just enough to catch a cab. If they were exceptional, I’ll give a little extra for a bacon, egg, and cheese from the good bodega.

…but they never remember, where their coming from or how they got there in the first place. All I allow is a slight memory, a recall to remind them that whatever they experienced was ethereal. Consider it my calling card that speaks to my ego, but I need folks to know down in the depths of their soul that my existence is unforgettable and their brief ride was a gift.

My aim is to stay under the radar and tip the balance in the opposite direction when things become uneven.

It’s how I keep myself occupied and satisfied with the safety amongst the shadows. I know the heroes and villains by name… I won’t say that I’m not intrigued by the ones who decide to wield their power in the light. It takes unmitigated gall to want to be displayed like a dog looking for an owner. Doing tricks for kids and presenting as a court jester for the grown and miserable.

But even with these intense feelings with how humans navigate this rock, the world is a little too hot, even for my liking… to the point where it has me wanting to choose a different side… you know, do it for the sake of character development.

…but I don’t know what I’d do or what side I’d have the most fun with…

I wonder how long I can navigate the shadows without company. There’s a shift in the air that lets me know that more anti-heroes are on the way.

…and baby, I like my space to myself.

But there’s also this pull. I have become attached to the stories in my head… and while I always knew that the down and out get overlooked by the Superman’s of the world… the scale is getting harder to balance.

So, where does that leave me?

I never liked being backed into a corner and there’s not a single soul on this planet can make me do a damn thing… but I guess this is that empathy sympathy shit folks talk about that makes me consider…

…becoming my own version of Superman.

a few quick notes:

I hope y’all enjoyed this micro fiction! It almost went to the land of no return because it’s been sitting in the drafts for damn near a year. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be an outlier in a world where super powers ran rampant; to be an off the grid nomad who clung to their gifts, not out of fear, but because not every one wants to save the world. This piece is meant to be raw and is lightly edited to maintain that voice. Have thoughts? Let is rip!

ICYMI:

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A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety is a free publication that centers creativity and personal excavation. Keeping this publication accessible is intentional. This is my effort to to support accessibility, especially for those of us navigating neurodiversity and mental health. Meds are high. If my work resonates and you feel compelled to sow a seed, tips are accepted but never required.

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Here we are.

We spiraled around the Earth and made it out alive (barely).

In this moment, I am grateful to be able to write the next chapter of this journey called life.

When I think of February, it feels warm, soft, and tinted in rose hues. It holds tremendous power that celebrates blackness and love and exudes energy that unlocks your creativity and inner softness. February is the month we transition out of the system shock that January often brings, and it reminds us that not only do we deserve love, but that we are love.

My goal for this year is to be softer, to come out wiser, and to continue to walk in purpose sprinkled with a lot of the ugly truth. I am transforming into a version of myself that not too long ago, felt unattainable. A version of myself that should have always been accessible in hindsight, but due to years of masking and conforming for the sake of likability, I allowed myself to lose the entire plot of what it meant to… just be me.

In case no one told you, seasons of transition are awkward as fvck. You will come off as the weird b!tch in the room a time or two. People will be uncomfortable with the cycles of grief, joy, and resistance that come along with shedding layers of damaged skin. Some relationships will not withstand this stage in your life, and guess what? You’ll live to see another day, week, month, and year.

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I see you. I see you writing, creating, and being in the midst of transition. I see you piecing your identity together while life continues to move, full speed ahead. I’m well aware of what it feels like to cry in the dark when no one is around and wonder when a wave of relief will come. Sometimes, it feels so far away, but it does come.

So, let’s cheer to the new season of not only life but this space that continues to grow. I truly appreciate you all for rocking with my words and dealing with my sporadic posting schedule as I suffer through grad school (we’re almost to the finish line). Now that we got the heartfelt stuff out of the way… let’s get into what’s been happening as of late.

a birthday gift

Your girl has been in her bag, literally and figuratively.

I have been spending money, writing papers, networking, meeting, and collaborating with some of the dopest people on this planet. On top of all of this, y’all have been showing so much love on the posts and allowing me to navigate this chaotic, creative, and sometimes overstimulating part of my life.

One thing that I was determined to do by my birthday was make sure that my brand was aligned. Digital community has always been a catalyst in my growth. When I was an angsty teenager trying to navigate identity, it was spaces such as LiveJournal, Twitter, BlackPlanet, and Tumblr that allowed me to connect with folks outside of my comfort zone. Sure, I probably was 2 seconds away from being snatched a time or two (I’ll leave those stories for another series) but as the great Tisha Campbell said, “I’m steel here, here, here!”

With that said, I’m so proud of the grassroots work that I’ve done the past few months and the behind the scenes grind of making sure that I had a live website on my special day.

Let me (re)introduce you to ctrlaltblackstudio.com

…but that’s not all! I have a gift for you. There are so many of you that I wish I could link up with, but since distance is a thing, I created what I hope will be the next best thing. Tumbld Espresso is the first digital space curated by ctrlaltblack studio and what I love to call, “a digital café for black folks”. It takes the energy and vibes from a time when social media moved a bit slower, when forums and chat rooms were spaces we gravitated to, and when algorithms? Pfft, you just had to find your tribe.

This space is meant to be a bit exclusive and allow us to tap into the inner renaissance that is currently brewing. Let’s link up for virtual coffee dates and co-working sessions. Share what excites you, ask questions, and even participate in some creative, accountability challenges. This space is meant to give the energy of your favorite café where we thrive off the synergy of the patrons who linger.

So, here’s your personal invite. I’ll be accepting folks until March 11th (end of day) to allow us to grow with intention. You can find the application form here (I promise, it’s to the point). If you have any questions, don’t be shy, message me :-)

P.S. I liked what I wrote here… so when you see it on the official studio newsletter… hush.

we are currently accepting donations for a life alert…

My baby! Let me tell you… I fell down the stairs. Again.

The steps caught the small of my back, and I managed to keep my head up just enough to prevent my head (and neck) from banging on each individual step. I was sprawled across stairs, legs spread, and hyperventilating. To add the cherry on top, my toddler was at the top of the stairs with a bowl in her hand (her signal that she needed more snacks), singing her ABCs as loud as she could, and the cat just walked across me like a log.

While all of this happened in less than 60 seconds, it felt like so much transpired in that time. My husband, who was on a work Zoom call, had come to my aid. He was trying to figure out if I needed an inhaler, an ambulance, assistance up, or all of the above. He was asking questions like “can you feel your legs?!” “did you hit your head?!” “can you get up?!”

And I know these are the things that you should ask someone who is clumsy, getting closer to forty, and could very well be extensively damaged… but baby, I was annoyed.

In between hyperventilated panting, I managed to tell him that all I know is my back took the brunt of the abuse and “leave me here to dieeee!”.

And so I laid there, with my husband just standing over me.

As I stared at the ceiling, I noticed my legs were going numb from being twisted into a pretzel. Slowly, I was starting to find the humor in the situation, so I allowed him to assist my thick ass up.

He holds me up, looks me up and down, and tells me, “You’re done for the day.”

…and I was indeed done… for 2 days to be exact… since I could barely move the next.

At the time of publishing this post, I have ordered grippy socks, have a bruise on my back, and I am now crowdfunding for a Life Alert (or iced coffee).

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cheers, jeers, and a case of the ick

I quite enjoyed the rapid fire of thoughts I let lose in the last episode… so, let’s keep that same energy shall we?!

cheers:

• solo dates, analog style. just you, your notebook, and a good glass of wine with the phone off for a few hours (or more).

• black women therapists who make you laugh and leave you feeling lighter after a session (I pray for them every night because that is NOT easy).

• when your wig from TikTok actually looks like the one from the influencer (cause folks be lying).

• WhatsApp… who knew it could be used for things other than scamming.

• Trader Joe’s for blessing me with this vanilla bourbon syrup (glad I bought two).

• the messiness of the America’s Next Top Model documentary (I gotta hand it to whoever media trained Tyra… because she be standing 10 toes down in her chaos and does it so well… but let us not forget that the judges weren’t sh!t either).

• the pretty black woman at the bar at Twin Peaks who allowed me to touch her red teddy Glamaholic bag on Valentine’s Day; after this transaction, she, along with the waitress, called me pretty and complimented my outfit.

• the husband who took my spoiled ass right to the mall to get the red teddy bag that was sold out online but available at the pop-up shop. #happyvalentinesday

• places that provide you with free items during your birthday month; I may forget to grab them, but it’s the thought that counts.

• Cold Stone and their cupcakes; because sometimes a cake is too much but a cupcake?! always just right (and it’s red velvet).

• the black side of journal and stationery TikTok; I just love how extra we are! I have been adding razzle and dazzle to my notebooks, and I have not stopped touching or writing in them because of it. I am embracing this level of joy in reconnecting with things that make me slow down and aim for healthier dopamine highs.

jeers:

• folks who still believe that we all have the same 24-hours in a day.

• watching recordings of myself talk.

• dry begging.

• almond milk (it’s still watery)

• icy hot (why is the smell so strong?! #seeineedalifealert)

• ALDI - love the store, hate the lines; it’s always a line! One cashier and 100 people stocking is not it.

• Michigan weather (we went from winter, spring, to zombie apocalypse fog and all within 72 hours).

• Fashion Nova - as if women's sizing wasn’t already inconsistent, Fashion Nova decided that it would be in their best interest to make it non-existent. You’ll always have at least one return.

• Corner stores that don’t take pride in their inventory; you should have spicy nacho Doritos, peach Arizona iced teas (for $0.99), and glazed honey buns stocked at all costs.

• men named Earl.

• folks who weaponize mental health and other disabilities only when they are losing a debate. eeeyuuckkk.

• BAFTA count your mfkin days! (see #currentlyonblacktwitter for context)

currently on #blacktwitter

…we’ve finally reached the end.

Go forth and hydrate, moisturize, and talk to yourself real nice, okay?! Oh… and send a prayer, I have a 32 inch kinky straight buss down to install. #maytheoddseverbeinmyfavor

Share A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety

It’s been a while… and I offer you salutations, well wishes, and an unreasonable abundance of snacks. Here we are at the end of the tumultuous road called 2025, and I figured it’s only right that a negress let loose and release a rapid-fire of thoughts into the ether. Let’s think of it as a let-go-and-kumbaya moment.

If you’re new here, *deep sighs in sarcasm* is a part of the Mental Munchies section. It’s the corner of the ADBGWA universe where typos are free range, thoughts zig when they should zag, and I get to explore emotions in their most feral form.

I hope you enjoy, and if not, it’s okay - some real introspective sh!t will find it’s way into the New Year.

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issa wrap (lessons from a long damn year)

I always looked forward to New Year’s Eve. There was something… almost sacred… about the collective agreement that we could leave our bullshit behind and try again in the morning. New notebooks. New pajamas. Grandiose beliefs that you had thirty-one days to audition new ambitions and maybe—maybe—one would stick long enough to carry you through the year.

Welp, I have the new notebook but no ambitions to audition. I won’t ignore the fact that the same problems will very well show up in January. In fact, I have a few bills due on the first (they never gave a damn about starting fresh anyway).

Instead of being optimistic, I choose to be realistic this time around. Despite 2025 whopping my tale, it brought valuable lessons:

• I grieved the living - something that most folks don’t get a chance to do.

• I said bold shit out loud.

• I have been transparent and aggressive in my desire to be my version of great.

• I’ve fallen down more times than I can count this year.

• Depression damn near ate me alive.

• I met new amazing friends.

• I lost some tattered connections.

• I made peace with being the villain in some folks' stories. To be quite frank, I don’t wish everyone well. It’s in some folks best interest to stay tf away from me.

  

Briefs for a Balanced Life

I plan on being a bitch in 2026 and this is why

I’ll be honest and say that I’ve never been a nice girl. Kind maybe? But never nice. The type to give you a pencil for the math test if you needed one, but I was not letting anyone gaslight me into giving them test answers or cut me in line for the water fountain. I told it how it is, regardless of the consequence because quite frankly my mom raised a …

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4 months ago · 582 likes · 56 comments · Off Worque

• I built up my esteem of self (while crying… a lot).

• I went out solo on purpose.

• I explored spirituality on my own terms.

• I went back to school - grad school - and I must say, I’m doing a damn good job.

• I noticed generational trauma and patterns that I did not intend to inherit in the first place and have been working my damndest to get rid of that shit, expeditiously.

But my favorite lesson is this: when you grow, your voice gets stronger—louder with the weight of authority. Personal authority. The kind no one can snatch from you. The kind that makes folks sit in awe and silence.

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It’s changed the way I write, the way I set my intentions, and the way I show up in this world. I’m no longer interested in contorting myself for the sake of likability. Going forward, I’m choosing to be intentional and selective with my energy. I won’t bend myself into knots to be the bigger person. I won’t over-explain, under-explain, or perform clarity for people who aren’t committed to understanding me.

What I owe myself now is presence, held by boundaries, and the freedom to become who I am, out loud, in the light, rather than assembling myself quietly in the dark.

photo dumps & twitter (aka an unintentional moodboard)

25 things I learned / loved / side-eyed in 2025 that may help you in 2026 (and beyond)

1. Peace is addictive once you stop confusing it with boredom.

2. Not every connection needs to be a thing. Some are just moments.

3. Being understood is overrated.

4. I am a damn good writer. #tootyourownhorn

5. Intentional spaces over safe spaces is the way. You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to understand everyone’s idea of a utopia.

6. Don’t romanticize potential; it’s delusional, and you will end up crying because of it. #realpiscestypeshit

7. Being busy is not impressive. Being intentional and present in the moment is.

8. I love folks who mind their business. It’s a beautiful thing.

9. A lot of folks confuse transparency with being an asshole. Don’t be an asshole.

10. Being a girl mom is not for the faint of heart (I should know, I have three).

11. If I have to keep explaining myself, we are not aligned.

12. Espresso might be the gateway to crack, and I’ve made peace with that. Quad me, please.

13. Which brings me to the next thought: Almond milk should be called almond water… because what type of consistency is that?! #teamoatmilk

14. Emotional intelligence is still rare. Very rare.

15. Less access = more peace. #girlmath

16. Go with your first mind and block that heaux.

17. Some folks avoid self-awareness like deodorant. Just walking around with a musty aura for the helluvait.

18. Only the folks who benefited from your lack of boundaries will try to negotiate you out of them. #keepthatboundary

19. A lot of folks don’t read, and I am deeply concerned.

20. Consistency based on someone else’s capacity will burn you out; showing up within your capacity is still showing up.

21. Sometimes, time passes without healing anything. #thatisall

22. A great quote from Easy A: “I don't know what your generation's fascination is with documenting your every thought... but I can assure you, they're not all diamonds.”

23. I own enough things; now it’s time to go outside and enjoy life.

24. You can’t please everyone. Live your life and try to be a good human.

25. I refuse to enter the new year thinking I need to rebrand. Instead, it’s time for my surroundings to match the energy of my becoming.

top 3 posts for 2025

Whew, y’all showed up and showed out on these:

on a sentimental note:

I can’t leave here without saying that you all have been the best part of the year. From the depths of my heart, I thank you all for taking the time to read, share, comment, and interact with my letters. You have encouraged me to expand my knowledge, creativity, and level of connections this year and beyond. Y’all allow me to show up, in all forms, at varied capacities, and accept my level of consistency.

You all are an example of a transformational connection built from organic and intentional community, filled with an abundance of talent.

I hope you all continue to rock with me as I explore the inner workings of my duality out loud.

Cheers to a better year that transforms us into the best versions of ourselves!

Love, Peace, and Caffeine!

-b.nicole

Share A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety

Lately, I’ve been hyper-focused on the quality of my relationships, both in person and offline. Substack has been an interesting dynamic for me because, among all the communities I participate in, this is the one I feel compelled to maintain (with joy in my heart). There’s something about the intimacy of it. The slowness. The exchange.

I know part of that comes from the level of transparency I place in these letters. It has been a pleasure to find a tribe of folks who are figuring this shit out right alongside me. Who understand that life doesn’t always look curated or aesthetically pleasing, but still find beauty in the process of becoming.

However, during these past few weeks… I have found myself overstimulated with the idea of relationships as a whole.

To be brutally honest, my life has been a whirlwind for the past 3 years. My husband almost died. I almost died. My dad almost died. And none of this is correlated to one event. This also doesn’t include layoffs, rebranding, shifting identity, and relearning how to parent.

In all of this, I’m grateful. We haven’t missed a meal, the lights have stayed on, and all of our immediate needs have been met and then some. Both of my parents are still here, albeit both were in the hospital at the same time a week ago. My mother is fine and back to work, while my dad just had surgery.

Now here comes the inevitable but…

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Gratitude doesn’t erase exhaustion.

My body is currently recalibrating from the last 3 years of constant chaos. Bronchitis had me in a chokehold literally, and while this isn’t my first rodeo with it, it was my longest bout.

I’m still recovering.

For two weeks, I coughed until my ribs bruised and functioned off spurts of sleep that lasted less than 2 hours. I ran through Ricola and Tylenol Cold & Flu like water. I found myself speed scrolling through Facebook at 3 AM, looking at faces that used to be so familiar. People that I once ran the streets with, cried with, crossed the Canadian borders at 19 to drink with (a Detroit right of passage). It was hurting my brain that these experiences felt so far away…

…and while we were still connected, there’s no connection.

Somewhere between survival and rebuilding, my capacity for connection shifted. I love deeply, but I’m also tired. I crave closeness, but sometimes the thought of maintaining another conversation feels like a chore. I’m not proud of that, but it’s honest.

are we moving the goal post on relationships without enhancing the quality?

That question’s been sitting heavy with me. Because lately, it feels like we’ve mistaken more for meaningful.

I struggle with this. I often feel guilty for not posting consistently; hell, if we’re continuing this wave of transparency, grad school has given me a level of consistency I didn’t know I missed. It’s the routine of showing up, checking in, submitting, and actively engaging. It can be a bit predictable over time, even a tad bit annoying, but there’s comfort in the rhythm of showing up and rising to the occasion… even when you don’t want to.

My last term paper was a deep dive into transformational learning and leadership. I found myself bursting at the seams throughout the entire class because it felt like I was connecting the dots between my personal endeavors and the ones I wish to contribute to society. In transformational learning, it’s not about what you know; it’s about how experience reshapes what you believe. It’s a process that allows you to be cracked open by life and force yourself to reconsider what you thought was stable... and somehow, through that new knowledge blended from old experience, you grow with it.

That same energy shows up in relationships.
The best ones don’t just affirm you, they s t r e t c h you.

As I sift through these endless voids of communication, while determining which spot I want to call home for my own growing community, I’m realizing that what I want, deeply, is a transformational connection: one that balances consistency and flexibility, where everyone involved can show up without the expectation of performance. A space that allows for both accountability and grace.

…but is this idealistic?

Part of me wonders if I’ve spent too much time inside the watered-down, Great Value versions of relationships that dominate now.

As I sat in bed, wallowing in a bit of self-pity and misery (fun fact: all meds don’t mix, and there were many days when I had to play “Which can I suffer through?” between being sick or protecting my mental health), I found myself settling into a familiar place of loneliness—diffusing bombs that depression tends to leave in my lap during times like this.

In this instance, it was de-weaponizing Facebook as the enemy.

For weeks, every scroll detonated something small inside me—old memories, faded friendships, faces behind nicknames, with my brain straining to remember their government. I often find that Facebook is one of the first social media apps people delete, and I never quite understood why. But the longer I scrolled, the more I realized that the platform has a way of presenting an illusion of connection.

What sets it apart from Twitter or Instagram is proximity. These aren’t strangers performing curated aesthetics; these are your people. Folks you went to school with, worked with, laughed with—now living versions of their highlight reels. The same people whose birthdays you once remembered by heart and baked cupcakes for, now get the generated “HBD!” on the timeline.

In those wee hours of the morning, I realized that the loss of connection doesn’t mean we lose people, per se, but rather, we archive them. We scroll past former best friends, lost loves, and the people who knew you when you couldn’t afford to “curate” yourself yet. You see them starting families, moving cities, living whole lifetimes—and somehow it all feels both close and impossibly far.

There’s often no fallout, no argument, no rupture—just the slow fade of familiarity. But then moments like this happen, when you’re sitting in the dark and fighting to breathe through your mouth, that you wonder when you stopped striving for closeness?

All of a sudden, your phone feels extra dry, and you start to scroll through text messages you forgot to respond to… and the ones that your friends left on read. You don’t know if you should feel guilty, embarrassed, or relieved. There’s something haunting about realizing you’re both the one who disappeared and the one who stopped being searched for.

The silence cuts both ways.

checking in, not showing up

I don’t think we were built to hold this much at once.

We’re constantly processing trauma, not just our own, but everyone’s. The collective grief, the political chaos, the algorithmic think pieces that lack critical thinking or awareness —it’s all too much information for one nervous system to metabolize.

We are overstimulated beyond recognition. Constantly on, constantly aware, constantly absorbing. The body doesn’t know the difference between witnessing harm and experiencing it anymore. Doom scrolls have become hits of dopamine mixed with adrenaline, another invitation to care about something we can’t control.

We have commodified friendships. Relationships.
Even care itself.

Everything feels transactional now—an exchange of energy, attention, aesthetics. We measure closeness through engagement, loyalty through visibility, and love through how quickly someone responds. The metrics of capitalism have seeped into how we define connection. And I have no way of definitively knowing how to navigate this.

My heart is in the right place; I know we’re in desperate need of community that prioritizes connection over commodification. Spaces rooted in curiosity and care instead of performance. But to sustain those spaces takes more than fumes of goodwill. It requires intentional reciprocity—something deeper than the easy language of “mutual support.”

Relationships need circulation; a rhythm of giving and receiving. It’s not always 50/50, but it should be honest. Some seasons you pour, some seasons you’re poured into. Sometimes love looks like stretching your capacity; other times it looks like respecting your limit.

Does that mean learning people’s love languages? Yes.
But it also means unlearning the ones we’ve been conditioned to expect. It means expanding how we define presence—how we engage, how we listen, how we repair. Adjusting what we seek from others based on what we’re truly offering, not what we wish they’d give back.

Often, we let go because we lack the ability to give grace.
And grace isn’t passive; it’s reflective. It asks you to sit with how you show up, how you love, and whether the energy you give leaves room for anyone else to breathe.

Relationships are transactional, and they’re rarely even. But the healthiest ones eventually find balance, not because everyone gives the same, but because everyone gives what they can.

transformational connections

The goal has to be more than to maintain relationships; we have to be willing to evolve within them.

In my eyes, transformational connection is the practice of allowing relationships to become a site of mutual growth that exists outside convenience, proximity, and performance. It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t require effort, but it has a strong emphasis on the willingness to be changed by your interactions. To absorb the conversations, the meet-ups, and the experiences of the folks you choose to surround yourself with. It asks for reciprocity, but also reflection, vulnerability, and boundaries.

We have to become better stewards of our relationships—better friends, better partners, better community members.

Transformational connection challenges us to go deeper than simply building silos for communities. It asks us to examine how we hold space for one another when we’re tired, grieving, distracted, or overwhelmed. It asks that we can sustain honesty and care at the same time—and challenges whether our closeness has room for truth without rupture.

Proximity is no longer just physical. We write to each other, see each other through a four-inch screen, and call it intimacy… and sometimes, it is. We strengthen closeness through intellect, creativity, spirituality, humor, and shared memory. But what we haven’t yet mastered is how to hold all of that without diluting the depth. Connection doesn’t lose meaning because it happens online; it loses meaning because it cannot thrive without intention.

Substack, for me, has become an unexpected medium to explore this truth. It feels like a living social experiment; proof that words can still carry warmth, the exploration of personal truths, and that curiosity can exist without competition. It reminds me that community, even when mediated by technology, can still be tender when it’s rooted in care.

History has shown us that anything rooted in authenticity will eventually be studied, replicated, and sold back to us. The same spaces that begin as sanctuaries can become spectacles if we don’t protect them.

Now, I’m not saying that Substack is the space to be protected—let me be abundantly clear, it’s not. However, for the sake of our stories, our experiences, and our transformation, we have to reimagine what communities that foster closeness and preserve the humanity within our need for connection should look like.

Maybe the lesson here isn’t to build new systems, but to return to humble beginnings. Spaces with limited features that demand we use our words instead of aesthetics. Rooms (digital or otherwise) where our presence matters more than our presentation. Where deep conversations replace content. Where the algorithm doesn’t determine our belonging.

It’s a call back to what we used to know: walks that turn into therapy sessions, late-night phone calls that stretch into morning, shared meals where laughter heals. The kind of intimacy that doesn’t need to be stopped, so it can be documented. It lives in our soul and can be retold as if it were the first time.

We have to be willing to put ourselves back in proximity of the people who make us feel alive. To risk being misunderstood in conversation rather than staying safe in silence. To transition from listening to respond and instead listen to engage. To step outside of our big feelings long enough to be honest with those who love us… because so many of us are fighting silent battles that we’re too proud to post about.

Connection was never meant to be curated. It was meant to be lived; messy, layered, reciprocal. It was meant to transform and sometimes even need a bit of repair, because even in close relationships, we still don’t walk the same path.

building from the fumes of lack

I’m striving for relationships that have depth.

In order to create transformational communities, I have to continue transforming within the spaces I already belong to. That means tending to my relationships with more presence, letting them stretch and teach me. It also means releasing what no longer honors that vision; the spaces that confuse visibility for value, or friendship for access. I can’t keep participating in the commodification of closeness and still expect to be nourished by it.

When folks say they don’t have community, I feel that ache deep. Because by design, this should be deeply rooted in our experience. But it’s also a reminder that community doesn’t just appear; it’s cultivated. It’s built through small, intentional acts of care: the check-ins that turn into conversations, the conversations that turn into trust, the trust that turns into something sacred.

I am blessed to have that, yet I still get lost in the weeds. Parasocial politics will have you questioning your worth, your belonging, and your visibility. But when I strip all that noise away, what remains is simple: the people who see me, and the people I’m learning to see more fully in return.

I’m choosing differently now.

To build slower. To engage deeper. To speak love into the folks I come across.

I also take ownership. To receive grace, I must extend the same towards those who have yet learned how to see…not only me, but others, and to offer care even when ego wants to withhold it. When we become selective towards who is or isn’t deserving of grace, we widen the gap between us, the very gap that weakens the communities we keep saying we long for.

That gap is dangerous. It destroys our infrastructure, and the failure sticks to our aura when the institutions fail. We need this level of closeness more than ever, especially as resources continue to be stripped away and the care systems collapse under profit and policy.

We need one another.

And to accept this need doesn’t mean disregarding boundaries. It means pausing long enough to consider that connection and closeness is a living ecosystem, and neglect anywhere eventually touches us all.

a few quick notes:

Words can not express how overwhelmed with gratitude I am. Y’all have shown so much love and support not only in regard to this space but also to my graduate journey. Y’all are truly the best muses ever.

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ICYMI:

This week’s letter has a few companion pieces you may want to check out.

how to support a creative

A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety is a free publication that explores the interconnectedness of becoming and duality. It’s fueled by humor and an authentic lens shaped through experience, education, and emotional ethnography. By keeping this publication free, I hope to spark the creative inside of my readers who are on the brink of walking in their purpose.

For those who ever feel compelled to sow a coffee bean in my direction - here’s my Ko-Fi link (never expected but always appreciated). These donations will always be honored and sown into the exploration of creativity, the expansion of my creative thought and holistic education studio, writing endeavors, and used to provide co-working/creative opportunities.

Surviving in spite…

I have closets that inadvertently became mausoleums for abandoned hobbies. A desk filled with clippings, paper samples, and unfinished thoughts. At one point, it was an altar to possibility, but now I avoid it, because somehow it’s become a map of how depression has quietly shaped my life.

Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) is a tricky bitch. Especially when she’s the functioning kind. She knows how to prioritize in a way that you feel you are functioning like a “normal” being. Until one day, during a day when your chest feels heavy and you wonder if you’re going to hyperventilate… you find yourself standing in a room that feels like the architecture of MDD.

It’s more than a mess; it’s a visualization of choices: the ways I’ve rationed energy to keep afloat and internal negotiations I’ve made with myself and the powers that be. What gets hidden, what gets postponed, what gets sacrificed… all for the sake of appearing “fine.”

The boxes I break down serve as physical proof of how often I trade my own joy for everyone else’s stability. It’s not just clutter, but evidence of how I’ve frequently abandon myself mid-thought.

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who saves you from yourself?

These past few weeks have felt as if I were disarming bombs - except instead of running from them, I’ve been sitting with each one. Studying. Dissecting. Asking questions: Who created you? What are your warning signs? What chain of experiences brought you here, ticking in the dusty corner of my life? And most haunting of all…

…what happens if I can’t diffuse you in time?

Most people might call them confirmations or revelations. I call them bombs because they carry weight, destruction, urgency. They force me into presence. They demand careful hands, steady breath, a willingness to be close to something that could shatter me. That’s the part people don’t understand about living with depression: the work isn’t just about surviving the blast. It’s about learning the bombs well enough that you can recognize the circuitry the next time one lands in your lap.

I recently came across Paolo Patrizi’s series A Disquieting Intimacy1; a visual curation that follows Nigerian women working on the outskirts of Rome — their lives folded into makeshift rooms in the wilderness where labor, survival, and intimacy bleed together. I admire how his camera didn’t flinch, nor did it provide the safe distance most prefer when exploring the seedier sides of the human experience. Much like Soft White Underbelly2, a YouTube channel I constantly binge, it pulls us uncomfortably close, and the silence allows us to explore our own trepidation.

And even though the images stirred me, its title… stuck to my core.

Disquieting.

Intimacy.

Two words that refused to sit quietly in my mind and will now forever be a part of my evolving thesis in duality and becoming. They shifted and rolled through me, unsettling, clinging, reappearing when I least expected. I was drawn to them like a moth to a flame, and while I did not know why then… as I wrote this letter, it started to make sense: this was the kind of intimacy I’d been living with for years.

“…the photographs detach themselves from the stereotyped and often narrow perception of the portrait.”

— 10b Photography, description of Paolo Patrizi’s A Disquieting Intimacy

Disquieting intimacy is a phrase that combines art and psychology. In its artistic context, it’s a softer layer of disruption; it allows a proximity of closeness to imagery and expression that unsettles more than it soothes—exposure therapy. In psychology, intimacy is often defined as closeness that fosters safety, comfort, or deepened understanding. Disquieting intimacy distorts that definition, reminding us that closeness can also confront, destabilize, and even force us into discomfort we’d rather avoid.

If this is what the definition is, then it’s the clearest language for what depression feels like: a relentless closeness to our own contradictions. To be the nurturer and the neglector, the builder and the saboteur, the survivor and the casualty. Depression forces those caught in its grasp to live inside a stifling intimacy that offers no safety, only proximity without reprieve.

the void in the room

Depression builds voids in me.

It’s not silence, and it’s not emptiness. It’s pressure; a low, relentless hum that lingers even after you’ve purged the room clean. It carries the weight of what’s no longer there, pressing itself into my chest until exhaustion spreads into body aches.

The void is where I come face-to-face with all the personalities I’ve collected - some abandoned, some avoided, some neglected until they're needed again. To stand in that space is to feel exposed, to know I am both the architect and the inhabitant of a house designed by depression.

Voids do not stay contained. Despite my best efforts, they bleed into the corners of life until you start to believe they are your life. And despite the happy pills, the controlled breathing, the scribbled pages where you write through intrusive thoughts - the void is never contained. At best, it is regulated, its edges blurred, its hum turned down low…

…but never contained.

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i’m tired of pray it away culture.

It has never served me well. In fact, it once pushed me so far from faith that I abandoned religion and spirituality altogether. At one point, prayer felt like punishment; a ritual that asked me to carry burdens older than myself, to atone for sins of ancestors I never met. I grew up believing that if I just prayed harder, if I just had more faith, the depression would one day disappear into the ether.

But instead of healing, all I found was shame.

Now that I’m older, I stand firm on the stance that prayer was never meant to be a pipeline for begging. In its purest form, prayer is supposed to be a conversation that makes space for a return to the self and to spirit, a practice of presence. But the way pray it away culture is often weaponized, especially in Black communities, prayer turns into a performance of endurance. It silences our need for therapy, medication, or rest, reducing depression to a test of how strong or faithful we are willing to be.

“I mostly want to remind her of the recipes of healing, and give her my own made-on-the-spot remedy for the easing of her pain. … ‘When you wake up and find yourself living someplace where there is nobody you love and trust … it is time to leave town … go … to any place where there are arms that can hold you, that will not let you go.’”

— bell hooks, Sisters of the Yam: Black Women and Self-Recovery

To withstand the void, it's essential that we find the arms, the spaces, and the practices that insist that you don't face it alone. If depression is to be my constant companion, then I have no choice but to reweaponize not the void itself, but how I respond to it. How I flow with it. How I become one with it.

Therefore, the way I create, the way I teach, the way I approach my passion projects allows me to return to self, not for the sake of endurance, but for presence.

surviving in spite of

My survival is built from fragments. Put together, they create a pattern and rhythm that sparks joy of being here - that reminds me that my life is necessary. This is not a letter disguised as a cry for help but instead... a version of my soft white underbelly exposed for the sake of disquieting intimacy. It's my personal protest that instead of wrapping difficult shit in a bow and hoping that it will transform into a gift, I give it the way it is.

I may not be able to choose the weight of pain, but I do get to decide what I do with it.

It took time to stop treating the void as an enemy and start seeing it as a place I could carve out space for myself. Time to realize that the void could hold both my contradictions and my creations. That it could be cluttered with avoidance one day and alive with possibility the next.

Creating from the void doesn’t mean I’ve conquered it. It means I’ve learned how to work inside it, to find breath and presence in the same place that once only suffocated me. It means I can shape something out of what was meant to flatten me.

Now, my lived experiences are finally starting to align with the path that was unintentionally carved. Depression still walks with me, but it no longer dictates the my whole story. I’m more than halfway through grad school, shaping a future that mirrors the theories I’ve been studying and the practices I’ve been building. Every paper, every project, every 4 am creative sessions is a testimony of my becoming; my transformation. Piece by piece, I’m not just building peace; I’m building a life that can hold both the void and the vision.

…and maybe that’s why it feels like I was being prepared for my daughter. Parenting a child on the spectrum has taught me a new language of intimacy; one rooted in patience, in presence, in learning how to love her in her love language. Her way of communicating forces me to stretch beyond what feels easy and into what feels authentic. And while I’m still learning, it reminds me that survival isn’t only about me. It’s about cultivating a community of care, about meeting people where they are, about choosing to love in the ways they yearn to be loved.

…and that’s reason enough to continue dragging through the void one breath, one word, one fragment at a time.

a few quick notes before you go:

If you’re in a hard place right now, I need you to know this: you belong here. The darkness you’re carrying isn’t proof of weakness, it’s part of the weight of the world. Don’t let your void cancel your worth.

We don’t get to the light by skipping over the shadows. We get there by learning to sit with them, by naming them, by accepting that they’re part of our story. There is no shame in the dark… instead, it’s what gives the light meaning when it arrives.

So if came across this today and made it to this part. I love you. Your presence. Your energy. Your support. Your smile. Your drive. Your highs, your lows, and all your quirks and whimsy.

You are an irreplaceable light in this world. Thank you for being here.

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ICYMI

Want to stay connected with my passion project progress? Check out

studio notes

studio notes #1

So first things first: yes, the name here has changed…

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8 months ago · 1 like

how to support

A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety is a free publication that explores the interconnectedness of becoming and duality. It’s fueled by humor and an authentic lens shaped through experience, education, and emotional ethnography. By keeping this publication free, I hope to spark the creative inside of my readers who are on the brink of walking in their purpose.

For those who ever feel compelled to sow a coffee bean in my direction - here’s my Ko-Fi link (never expected but always appreciated). These donations will always be honored and sown into the exploration of creativity, the expansion of my creative thought and holistic education studio, writing endeavors, and used to provide co-working/creative opportunities.

On behalf of my publication - I thank you for your continued support each and every week. I won’t say that I’m a vibe for everybody, but apparently, I’m one for you - and I thank you for taking this journey with me.

To actually be moved by who you’ve been.

Tired. Reckless. Guarded. Unconventional. Eccentric. Hyper-focused.

You.
As you were.
As you are.
Sometimes graceful, most times awkward. But either way, you show up - in whatever form you have to offer.

Unpolished.

… but still figuring out how to hold both softness and defense in the same body without letting either break you.

a strange thing happened…

I caught myself off guard.

I had just finished wrestling the toddler into a sundress and yelling orders at the top of the stairs to a preteen in need of three extra layers of deodorant (July was filled with heat waves, and I’ll be damned if I’m assaulted by puberty funk in 98-degree weather).

It was only 1:30 pm on a Saturday, and I was ready for bed. Road trips. Family gatherings. Reunions. Homework.

All the things that took massive amounts of energy. Most packed into one day - back to back - with about 5 minutes to spare to recollect my sanity.

July has been a busy month.
Not just in events but in awakening and enlightenment.

In self-discovery.

…and this particular Saturday… the last Saturday of the month… was the one that cracked me all the way open….

she’s getting there…

My relationship with beauty is complicated.

I never considered myself ugly… but didn’t consider myself pretty either.

It stems from a mother wound.

A vivid memory of my grandmother calling me a pretty girl and my mother scrunching her nose and saying, “she’s getting there”.

I was no more than 6 years old.

She has since apologized.

…and unfortunately, the thing about apologies is that it doesn’t erase the damage (even if unintentional).

So, you subconsciously do things that will lessen the blow and the fear of being called ugly.

Designate yourself as the friend with personality.

Stand in the back of your “prettier” friends.

Go silent when your interests start to speak.

If they see you - cool…

But you don’t do anything out of the ordinary to draw unnecessary attention to yourself…

…you’re not there… yet.

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…and then you meet someone…

…a few someone’s actually.

That make you feel things. New things.

People who awaken parts of you…

Parts you didn’t even know needed to be touched. Who make you curious about your femininity. Your softness. Your sensuality. Who make you want to arch your back more in photos, pout the lips, and learn how to smile through the eyes, and hold your own gaze longer in the mirror.

It’s more than a physical, sexual awakening…
It feels… slow yet intense…

It’s exciting.

And for a moment, you start to believe it.

That you are lovable.

Desirable.

Wanted.

Warm.

…until they break your heart and tell you your love is not enough.

They want something more.

Something that looks better in pictures and matches their dreams.

You’ve yet learned the meaning behind narcissism.

You just know it feels like being emptied.

Later, you’ll learn that this is a pattern. Later, you’ll learn what it means to attract people who want your light but not your weight.

But in the meantime… life goes on. And so do you.

With another wound to add to your trinkets of trauma.

For you to sift through in the dark.

let the light catch you right

let the light catch you right,
when you’re off guard and unbalanced,
soul raw,
mouth twisted.

let the mirror watch you survive,
as you struggle to put eyeliner on with precision,
and fuss with muted hues of rose and nude
while muttering soft, small spells that land on deaf ears.

your ears

you got one more night left in you.
one more night left in you...
one more night left in you...
one more fight left in you...

one more.

let the light catch you right,

to steady dem nerves
those fears
those insecurities
that keeps you in the mirror for far too long

your vanity lies
in the constant search
and expectation of finding
a version of self
that doesn’t look so jaded…
haunted by past selves
that will never come back.

Let. Them. Go.

let the light catch you right,
and shimmer in the dark and light.

let the mirror watch you thrive
in this light,
in this moment,
in all your polarity.

let it cause a pause,
let it stir up feelings,
let it push you to an evolution
of revolutionary self-worth.

you were always meant to be seen

your imperfections
an immaculate conception.

a MUSE that’s come to be

be a muse(d)

To be a muse(d) is to be moved by your own complications.
To be able to study yourself.
To know your way back home even on your ugliest days.
To be captivated by your quirks, your mess, and even the unpacked trauma.

You are imperfect.
But you are still the moment.
A vibe personified.

You are proof that beauty and contradiction can live in the same body.
A witness to self.

A vessel worthy of love, care, and connection.

You are a siren.
An echo.
A whisper of the beauty and pain behind becoming.

Still unpolished.
Still unraveling.
Forever magnetic.

Be a muse(d).

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a few quick notes before you go:

Song inspo that helped this piece reach completion:

ICYMI - SUBMISSIONS ARE OPEN!

Submissions are officially open for my studio publication NOTES TOWARDS A FEELING
If you dig pieces like this - this is the space for you.

NOTES TOWARDS A FEELING

[Insert Your Voice Here]

The day has come, my new friends - submissions for our digital publication are now open…

Read more

9 months ago · 2 likes · CTRLALTBLACK Studio

from the mental munchies section

You want to know what’s hard? Being someone’s mama when you feel like your uterus is about to fall out.

There’s this myth that motherhood comes with instant emotional regulation and a bulletproof vest. If I was supposed to be equipped with the patience of Vibranium, it was not given to me at the hospital… but I did receive lifelong back pain.

Every. Single. Day. I navigate hormones, overstimulation, growing pains, and a crumbling world - and while every day isn’t doom and gloom - there are weeks like this - when Aunt Flow decides to do a drive by, late, with her homegirls anger and sadness, right before a road trip.

Needless to say, I’m tired. Food don’t taste right. Time feels fake. I can only hope that through all of this slow suffering that I lost at least 5lbs.

we grown folks now

All my relationships are going through something right now. Transitions left and right. New jobs, businesses, degrees, babies, and boundaries.

It’s not all luxurious. To be honest, it’s been hard, awkward, and the group chat has been quiet. But what I love is… that in our own ways… we’ve decided to stop abandoning ourselves.

This season feels like leveling up towards the ultimate version of self, as a unit. And it moves beyond choosing softness but to stand on business and unlearning the pressure to move for the sake of being seen, and instead moving for the sake of being fulfilled.

It’s a beautiful thing.

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excuse me… wtf?!

All I’m going to say is this… I hope that all the “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” and “I paid my $2K worth of student loans because I only took a class and flunked but my wealthy parents paid for it so you should to despite your circumstance” folks keep that same energy with the nation and that $36.7 trillion debt, because IKYFL.

…just soft launched about a week agoooooo

In case y’all didn’t know, I’m shy (ask ) so announcing something like this, which feels so deeply personal was a lot. But since I’ve been using grad school to revamp the idea of coaching and what I think adult education and development should look like (especially as a neurodiverse creative) the feedback I received is… when am I going to do it.

So, here’s the thing: I’m not presenting CTRLALTBLACK Studio as this finished, polished production. It is very much grassroots, evolving in real-time… but I feel that’s the beauty of it all. I center most of my studies around holistic education and emotional ethnography (a fancy way of saying, I use my people watching skills as research lol) and believe that our duality is so intricate, sacred, and expansive. The conversations I have with other creatives about their journey is always a breath of fresh air and filled with new insight and things to explore deeper in my own self-definition… whether it’s undiscovered biases, triggers, or just interests I never thought of.

Notes Towards A Feeling is the publication that allows us, as a community, to do all of that. A living anthology of our work. Very much inspired by bell hooks teaching to transgress with a tinge of all about love.

All major updates for the studio will be on that page… because to be very honest, A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety is not my brand, it’s ME. It’s my very real thoughts, often unedited (unless it’s a deeper essay), and my space to be free. Not to say that the studio isn’t also an extension of me, it is, but ya know - when securing funding and submissions - that’s work - even if it’s work you love to do.

So, if you’re worried about the content changing over here - it won’t.

And if you’re interested in being a part of the Studio vision - reach out.

AND TO EVERYONE WHO LIKED, SHARED, SUBSCRIBED, SENT WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT - THANK YOU.

quick notes:

Mental Munchies is the space where (I hope) random thoughts will at least flow and somewhere along the way, make sense. It is a lightly edited curation of chaos. With that said, sometimes it may be deep-ish, but that’s not the point. If you see typos… and don’t like typos… *kanye shrug*

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things you may like (ICYMI):

SUPRISE! WE DID A THING!

I’ve been building something special behind the scenes…

and it’s finally time to let it breathe.

The very first piece just dropped under my new creative thought and holistic education studio, CTRLALTBLACK. This new journey is, emotional, Detroit-coded, and maybe even a little too honest (as usual). Tap in and celebrate with me:

NOTES TOWARDS A FEELING

built from a feeling

it might not be perfect, but it’s finally happening…

Read more

9 months ago · A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety and CTRLALTBLACK

See ya on the other side! ♡

If you’ve been around a while, then you know I talk about duality… a lot. I believe that duality is the space where two things exist as true at the same time; a messy intersection where growth and grit sit next, and even on top, of one another. I believe that accepting your duality is how you can be whole, finding peace in the light and dark sides of self.

We, as flawed humans, often tap dance on the line of morality… often.

Now that I’m a bit older and gave birth to these beautiful beings that kinda resemble me (not really, they look like their daddy) and call me mom - I’ve learned to pick my battles (most of the time), give grace, and be intentional with how I sprinkle out what I like to call a sophisticated crash out…

…and this is where my thoughts get a bit complicated. Walk with me on this introspective journey, beloved.

In the last year, I’ve been wrestling with what happens when people disrespect the version of you that’s doing its damndest to heal (and stay healed). The version of you that thinks before they speak, who considers other peoples feelings, who actually sifts through the shades of grey… because… in your own journey of becoming… you realize you’ve been both the superhero and villain, depending on who tells the story.

This year has pulled me back into rooms I thought I outgrew… and taught me the true definition of fair-weather relationships….

I’ve learned that I’m often expected to be graceful while being mishandled. And not just once or twice, but consistently. It’s been a quiet pattern throughout my life. In some ways, I’ve always carried an old soul. There are moments when things fall from my mouth that I didn’t plan; words that feel borrowed from someone wiser (my ancestor maybe?), someone I’ve never met but deeply remember in every fiber of being. I have dreams that don’t feel like metaphors; they feel like memories. And maybe because of that depth, people assume I’m strong enough to carry what they can’t name… feelings, trauma, and triggers they probably should spend time to wrestle with… but won’t.

This could be the reason folks think I’m weird.

This is definitely the reason I’m not a therapist.

I have a tendency to remind folks of a girl they use to know…

Not always the physical me—but something in my energy, my cadence, the way I look at a situation and say what needs to be said. People have told me for years that when I speak, they pause. That even if they didn’t want to hear it, they couldn’t ignore it. Now, this doesn’t mean that I’m always their favorite or that I’m always right… but what I say - good, bad, or indifferent - stirs up something.

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…and lately, I’ve been wondering if I even have the authority to keep speaking at all. Since re-entering school and navigating everything else life has handed me—a sick and aging parent, an autistic toddler, my own depression and neurodivergence, and the slow, erratic return to my creative self—I’ve questioned the very foundation I used to stand on. I’ve doubted my clarity, purpose, and forgot the overall plot in my life.

“Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard.”

I’ve spent the last year in a constant loop of asking myself: Who am I, outside of what I do for other people?

And because my brain works in mysterious ways, this is what lead us here - to exploring the dynamic of duality and complex relationships because of it.

I need solitude to survive. I’ve always needed it.
I feel everything. Too deeply. All at once.
That’s why digital communities have always been a balm for me—they let me show up in layers; on my own terms and in fragments. I can be fully engaged while fading between my duality; working through my internal conflicts. I can be posting my notes filled with dry humor and still be in the trenches of feelings. There’s room for that (here). There’s space for the nonlinear.

But even with that knowing, it’s been… complicated.
Because as much as I try to honor my need for space, I’m still triggered when people who claim to understand fall short.
I don’t think that we talk about this enough… support can be performative. Care can become a form of currency. Some folks only show interest in circumstances only to center themselves in the aftermath or inflate a deflated ego at your expense.

This level of performance of presence is what makes me want to pop off and crash out because… what was the reason?!

Especially when I didn’t ask for you to invade my bubble in the first place.

It’s hard to describe the weight of realizing someone’s support was never rooted in real connection. It’s frustrating and makes your inner homegirl (boy or person) scream when you watch someone not only step back— but cause calculated conflict.

…and for someone like me, who loves authentic connection and feels just about everything, when these seismic shifts happens without any real acknowledgment, it leaves me a bit confused. Then, the neurodiversity comes into play wanting to overanalyze conversations, replay interactions, and make sense of a fracture that was bound to happen.

I don’t have to take this… fvck you.

Some folks don’t want connection… they want access.
They show up long enough to siphon your energy, your insight, the soft patch of land you cultivated through self-discovery, shadow work, and growth, and then disappear when reciprocity is expected.
Others hide behind language like “tough love,” but really they just lack the emotional capacity to listen or love. If they can’t control, they don’t care.
I’ve learned to use discernment with people who say they lead with iron fists—because what that usually means is that they avoid emotional tasks that require them to soften; that they can’t be trusted with someone else’s vulnerability without weaponizing it when uncomfortable.

And still… I’ve had to check myself too.

I’m no angel and I’m as fragile as a bomb.

Even with all my self-awareness, this last year reminded me that healing isn’t arrival. It's repetition and the practice of restraint. It’s choosing to take a nap instead of traveling to the depths of hell when a person goes low or choosing not to send the message that could crush a soul. It's prayer. It’s a few nights with my main man Jack Daniels, a angsty playlist, and pen to paper with my cell phone off. It’s learning how to grieve people who were never mine to begin with. It’s knowing I could’ve let bitterness rot the roots I spent all this time strengthening but instead, I repotted into new soil and moved the fuck on.

Say Drake

So, to sum up today’s message, I want to let it be clear:

I still fight. Not out of impulse, but out of principle. I fight for my peace. I fight for my kids. I fight for this version of self that is so uncomfortably comfortable in becoming that she’s determined to build an entire living pedagogy from it.

I am allowed to be a being of duality.

I do not proclaim perfection, but I do, by all means, try my very best to do right by people. And I expect the same, nonetheless.

My space allows those to exist, fully, without being exploited.

Just because I’m in my healing era, doesn’t mean I’ve been softened into submission… however, it has made me selective.
This season of growth didn’t make me passive, but it has taught me to strike with precision.
And the true love and support I do receive? It taught me that in it’s genuine form, boundaries don’t require elaborate announcements, just enforcement.

Embracing my duality means I can cry in the shower about being overstimulated by my children and still love my family with every last breath.
It means I can forgive you and still never fuck with you again.
It means I can honor what you brought to my life and walk away anyway; with care, but no confusion.

So if you’re ever unsure…
If you catch me quiet and think it’s permission to cross a line...
If you mistake softness for weakness...
If you feel compelled to test me like a free sample at Costco…

Pause and remember these lines:

Try Jesus.
Please don’t try Bri.
Because she still fights.

a few quick notes:

Developing a living pedagogy: Lately, I’ve been sitting with the idea that becoming isn’t just mine to figure out—it’s something we all circle, wrestle with, redefine. As I navigate my creativity and this space, I see so many of you showing your own versions of becoming authentically in your works, and wonder if you even know it. So, as I continue expanding this living framework and stretching my ideologies around creativity, WHOLEism, and community education, I’m also thinking about what it looks like to invite others into the conversation.

We’ll talk more about what that may look like in the next letter or two, but in the meantime, if something in this piece hit home, or made you raise an eyebrow and rethink something, feel free to share it, save it, or sit with it. At the end of the day, the biggest takeaway is becoming isn’t linear; enjoy the ride, friends!

If you enjoyed this letter, consider sharing it on your favorite platform or restacking it on Substack. It’s one of the best (and free) ways to give a creative their flowers in real time.

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ICYMI:

This week’s letter has a few companion pieces you may want to check out.

i know i’m not suppose to be on twitter but….

You know what's been on my mind a lot lately? Black millennial trauma.

Black millennial trauma has equipped us with the uncanny ability to be incredibly witty and deeply self-aware, all while the world is actively on fire. We’ve become fluent in dark humor and dare I say, masters of making comedy out of trauma.

Is it avoidance? Maybe. Maybe not. …or maybe we’re just masking untreated PTSD with cleverness and audacity. Pick your poison.

I personally lean towards the ideology that we’re not avoiding anything—we just choose to frolic in the pockets of joy we got. Survival without joy is slow suffering. And if the world is going to blow up tomorrow… I’d rather be making the most out of the scraps I have to work with, instead of playing fire marshal to infernos I didn’t create.

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cussing folks out is an act of self-care

Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is let that mf know. Loudly. #thatisall

…and this happened

excuse me… wtf?!

• My husband being gone for more than 12 hours.
  He’s on a work trip. This man rarely leaves. But now that he’s gone? I’ve realized I might be a little codependent. I think it’s because we’ve worked from home so long, about 4 years or so now. During the day is fine, but at night?! Everything feels too quiet. I don’t like it. Maybe I have separation anxiety. Maybe I just love that man. Either way, it’s lowkey embarrassing and I hate it here.

• Reading is no longer fundamental.
  I don’t know if it’s TikTok or the fact that podcasts have replaced literacy—but I’m concerned. Deeply. People no longer want to read full sentences. Paragraphs are considered aggressive.

  

  I miss when reading wasn’t trendy. I miss books that sucked me in, that I couldn’t put down, and running to my circle to talk about. Hell, I miss having deep group chat conversations. I know I’m at auntie status, but damn! Have we strayed that far from connecting with content? Has the era of Vine, TikTok, YouTube Shorts, and Instagram rotted the brain so that we can’t consume anything longer than 30 seconds? I beg - if we ever have to migrate away from Substack (because it seems like they are starting to stray but we can talk about that later) - let me know where we go - because this and Twitter… it’s all I got when it comes to social media.

• BRING BACK THE TINY CHEF SHOW

  If an Emmy can’t save your job, what can?!

  

  

  @thetinychefshowSOS Cheffers, please go to the link our bio to learn how you can help us keep Chef on social media. Tiny chefs cooking show has officially been cancelled (very unexpected) and without the support of a major network we need crowd funding to keep cookin’ over here. Yesh this es weal! We want to thank @nickelodeon for giving Chef two blamazing seasons and all the besties he made there. Chef wouldn’t want anyone to blame his friends over there, he’s just deeply sad he doesn’t get to continue hosting a show he adores. Please let cheffy know how much he means to you in the comments he’s really feelin this one.

  Tiktok failed to load.
  
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quick notes:

Mental Munchies is the space where (I hope) random thoughts will at least flow and somewhere along the way, make sense. It is a lightly edited curation of chaos. With that said, sometimes it may be deep-ish, but that’s not the point. If you see typos… and don’t like typos… *kanye shrug*

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things you may like (ICYMI):

A Love Note to Us

TO MY PEOPLE

Our rhythm is not just movement, it’s memory
Passed from drum to hand, from heartbeat to street beat

We are the ones who turned survival into style,
Who transitioned resistance, now ornaments of gold on our fingers
Intertwined with stories and statements in the fabrics we rock…

We are the spark

In our words, in our walk, in our black-soaked joy
Our language is layered: ancestral, urban, divine, and fluid.

We bless the block with color and conviction

Because, “we cool like that”

They can’t replicate, only hate, gawking cause they can’t get in the club
Tapping on the glass hopping that it breaks…

…and even when it do, we build again…

…and again…

…and again…

What we celebrate today goes beyond freedom papers
It’s about the flavor that came before, during, and after
It’s about us being a culture with endless replay value
It’s about our black stories, lineage, education, and existence BEING the revolution they didn’t want televised

Black joy as inheritance.
Black education as a weapon.
Black love as rebellion.
Black creativity as scripture.
Black slang as poetry.
Black laughter as medicine.
Black grief as sacred.
Black rage as righteous.
Black stories as gospel.
Black presence as proof.
Black culture as currency.
Black being as birthright.
Black art as divination.
Black resistance as tradition.

Black healing as generational repair.

Let the record show,
We’ve always made a way.
From whispers turned anthems,
and porches where hustle and gospel intertwined
From chairs that held our crowns,
and hands that always knew our worth…

We didn’t just show up,
we shaped an entire universe

We been it

Even when they tried to make us forget
Tried to gaslight it,
repackage it into too loud, too bold, too much, too ghetto

We stayed.
We became.
We rose.

So, today
we honor, we remember, we celebrate,
and we live like the legacy we carry

BECAUSE

WE ARE

THE

SHIT!

a few quick notes:

If you enjoyed this letter, consider sharing it on your favorite platform or restacking it on Substack. It’s one of the best (and free) ways to give a creative their flowers in real time.

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Feel compelled to sow a coffee bean in my direction? - here’s my Ko-Fi link (never expected but always appreciated). For those of you who don’t know, I’m currently completing a dual focus M.Ed in Adult Education and Instructional Design & Ed. Technology. I have used this educational journey to (re)build my creative coaching practice and strengthen my holistic pedagogy, which has been stressful AF but rewarding. Any donations will always be honored and sown into the exploration and growth of this platform (and the advancement of merging introspective healing into holistic education). Stay tuned for more (but this is where I’ve been!) :-)

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ICYMI:

Some of my faves

abstract alex.

I moved differently in May and it was needed...

Hey Alexa. Play ‘untitled 07 levitate’ by Kendrick Lamar…

Read more

a year ago · 29 likes · 13 comments · alex b.

Black Woman Fly

My Grandmother’s Spirit Pulled Up—and She Had Something to Say

I don’t have memories of my grandmother. My mom’s mom…

Read more

10 months ago · 21 likes · 11 comments · Jelisha Jones

Ms.Maine Substack

The Devil Wears Shea Butter Episode 5: The Chain Reaction

Author’s Note…

Read more

10 months ago · 6 likes · 1 comment · Ms. Maine

-Dope Saint Jude

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a win is a win

I didn’t save the world today.
Didn’t clean my whole house either.
But I did drink water before coffee. And that’s something.

And I didn’t shame myself for not being productive enough or wearing the same outfit again. That’s something, too.

Old me would’ve acted like missing a task meant I was about to get evicted from adulthood. Like if I didn’t check every box, I’d get a notice on my spirit: “You are no longer qualified to be grown.”
And even still, I catch myself wondering how I got promoted here...

…probably birthing kids…

But we won’t dwell on that thought.
Not today.

Today, I let one small win stand on its own. No disclaimers. No “yeah, but…”

Just... yeah.

I showered today.
I fixed myself a meal.
I made my bed.
I stood on the porch and touched grass.

I did that. I chose better. Even if better was as small as unscrewing a cap, taking a sip of a tasteless substance that chased vitamins and happy pills.

…because there’s duality in tiredness…

It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be functional and still feel like you’re falling behind.
Everything is slower… off tempo.
You move, but the world moves faster.
People talk faster.
The day fills up before you get your footing.
You’re always arriving late to yourself.

You spend most of your time comparing.
Not to strangers online, but to the version of you that used to be quicker.
More certain. Less… heavy.

And you wonder, quietly, bitterly, what it would feel like to not be so aware of every step.
To not have to narrate your own effort just to prove it existed.
To do something simple, like clean your room or send an email, without it feeling like a whole-ass event.

Sometimes I want it to move faster.
I want me to move faster.
I want to catch up to the person people think I am.
To the version of me that doesn’t overthink how long it’s been since I returned that call, sorted through mail, or refilled the damn prescription.

But I’m not there yet.
So I count what I can.

And maybe that’s what today is
just a quiet admission: this is what progress looks like right now.

And it’s not cute.
It’s just real.

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quick notes:

Living with mental health struggles ain’t no walk in the park, but I also know that loving someone who struggles isn’t easy either. I’m not here to argue about which is harder. Instead, I just want to give flowers to everyone who takes the time to read my work - whether it’s because you relate, you learn something, or you just appreciate my dry-ass sense of humor. I take all of it. I appreciate all of it.

It’s Mental Health Month.
Check on your people.

And while I usually say “check on your strong friends,” in this climate?
Check on everyone who crosses your mind.

Eight minutes is all it takes to let someone know they’re loved, valued, and not alone.
Sometimes that’s enough to spark the little bit of joy they need to keep going.

things you may like (ICYMI):

Everything already high as is…

So, here's me getting a little yippy about the things that matter:

• Revelations from WFH

• Affordable weave

• Zeelol and the Nintendo Switch 2

Oh… wait… tarrifs got a 90-day rollback?! I think our concerns were heard (for now)… we can now carry on…

…nevermind, this doesn’t apply to China (whose rate is at least 145% last time I checked… and so the concerns continue…

the thing about working from home

Being able to work without someone micromanaging you into a spiral is the kind of freedom that most millennials pray for. My Slack messages are minimal, my meeting schedule is light, and I have the autonomy to work on projects at the time that best fits my needs. It’s a beautiful thing… but it took a long time to get here.

Working from home changed my life. It enhanced my confidence. It pushed me to be uncomfortable.

Those who stand in their truth often stand out in a world that values conformity over uniqueness. The fact that I won’t accept jobs that have policies on hair styles & color, piercings, or provide adequate mental health benefits is just a few things that I’ve made folks roll their eyes over… and that’s fine.

After having a career where I was valued for what I brought to the table and not the way I looked, I decided long ago that I would not conform - I would not change my aesthetic to fit the mold of someone else’s. I’m in my 30’s - I want to experience my life on my terms while I can enjoy it (God willing).

Pushing the limits of your aesthetic does not have an age limit.

excerpt from Iced Matcha Resets

…and this is where I fucked around and found out that “stiff wig, soft life” is a thing… and I was teetering that line.

It’s not that I don’t care about how I present myself. I do. Probably more than I let on. But I’m also a former uniform kid who grew up to work uniform jobs. I learned early that blending in kept you out of trouble and conformity was the path of least resistance. To put it simply, I just wanted to grab my check and go!

Transitioning into Zoom calls with Hillman hoodies, oversized hoops, face piercings, and intentionally sipping from a mug that said, “feeling IDGAFish” felt like quiet the rebellion. I think that’s one of the main reasons I mourned that job so much when through that whole acquirement thing that startups tend to do.

To be able to show up as you are and on your terms was something I never experienced in my professional life. It was a nice feeling for your work and impact to be the focus.

But here’s the plot twist: sometimes, presentation does matter.

Not in the “respectability politics” way, because I still don’t give a damn if my hair reaches the skylight and is bright blue. Deal with it.

But in the sense that when you stop giving a fvck too hard, it starts to leak. Leak into your attitude, your energy, even your work. I guess you can say there’s a thin line between rebellious and avoidance.

You look up one day and you realize you have been living in a bonnet for two weeks, forgot how to put on lip liner, and outside clothes feel foreign.

the aesthetic: bare minimum baddie

The current state of the world made me realize I did so much better at showing up for myself when I felt I was being perceived. Ain’t that something? I spent my entire adult life praying not to be… and then I act like this.

There’s something about the pressure of potential observation that forces you to at least try. Somewhere to go, someone to possibly impress, liking what you see in the reflection of a store window.

If the mirror is the only audience you have that day, doesn’t that make the performance even more important?

And to be clear, this isn’t me saying I’ve let myself go… because when your girl steps outside, I still hit em with the one, two, and three with an oversized bag to match. BUT this is me saying that showing up for self can’t just be an “outside” thing. It has to happen inside too (figuratively and literally). Within the four walls. In the quiet moment. When no one’s looking. And most importantly… for you.

tariffs are cramping my new allegiance to style

…and so to circle on back to what brought together all of these thoughts.

TARIFFS.

As I fluffed out a wig from the stash, put on my new glasses from Zeelol (I am so late to the game but baby?! I feel a collection starting), and carefully put on some lashes… it hit me… how much is this level of maintenance about to cost now?!

…and before you hit me with the “girl, just go natural” - I say this with a tinge of (dis)respect: NO.

{feel free to read my story here}

Blackstack

our hair tells a story sometimes we just need to listen to it.

You know one of the most beautiful things about being Black is our flexibility with our hair options. Because of the way our hair grows and the texture allows us to use our hairstyles as a form of self-expression, we are walking piecing of artwork…

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2 years ago · 50 likes · 10 comments · BlackStack, A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety, alex b., Johanna Smith, and Jacquie Verbal

The thing that’s really mess with me is how this tariff shift is highlighting how self-development in the form of basic care, clarity, and even consistency has started to feel like an unaffordable luxury.

I’m not talking about self-care upgrades like 5-star hotel stays and vacations that are filled with light blue skies and white sand (we deserve that too)… but being able to get your hair done without checking your account three times. Getting multiple pair of glasses without spending $500+ dollars (because without the lens upgrade your lenses would be thicker than the original class on a Coke bottle).

Sure, some of this is also coming from the harsh realization that I’m a girl mom with three daughters, two entering the materialistic phase of teenage evolution. But even still, they deserve to evolve into their best self without checking the version they want to become is financially feasible.

I’m also aware that a lot of this means going back to our roots and community. Circa you walking down the block and seeing your friend getting her hair done on the porch, laughing at her pain but knowing your doomsday is Saturday evening so you can be ready for Sunday morning. Picking up the sewing machine and designing those one-of-a-kind pieces like grandma use to do (y’all know she use to be SHARP!).

But even then, materials cost. Everything feels taxed (even before the looming tariffs).

what are we actually working towards?

If the most we can hope for is survival with a side a struggle, then wtf are we striving for? What do we even dream about? The dream should have progressed by now.

Because now? Even the thought of living check-to-check feels hard to catch.

I am grateful.
Grateful that I’m in a position to have a job + work remotely.
Grateful that I’m able to process these thoughts with a functioning brain (thanks, Zoloft), stable internet, and an upgraded MacBook I absolutely busted my ass to buy.

To be in a two-income household, to have the space to think, write, and create - that’s privilege. I don’t take that lightly.

But it’s also not lost on me that we’re one major setback away from flipping the table.
A reissue of the pandemic feels mighty close.

Most of us aren’t asking for excess.
We’re just asking for enough.
Enough room to grow. Enough peace to breathe.
Enough margin to feel like our lives belong to us.
To stop feeling like a continuously failed experiment.

So, yeah - this piece started with mourning the potential loss of a wig. But in this world where everything costs more than it should, that short video felt like a passive aggressive resistance, and I needed to allow myself the tantrum.

*pulls out debit card*

…cheers to tracking numbers, coupon codes, and a 90-day tariff rollback?! Oh, consumerism - you got me!

*insert deep sighs in black sarcasm*

quick notes:

Mental Munchies is the space where (I hope) random thoughts will at least flow and somewhere along the way, make sense. It is a lightly edited curation of chaos. With that said, sometimes it may be deep-ish, but that’s not the point. If you see typos… and don’t like typos… I’m sorry because there may be typos.

things you may like (ICYMI):

you know those 3am thoughts that probably should’ve stayed in the drafts? Yeah. These are those.

At this point, I’ve accepted that my mind is a chaotic place.
It’s giving cluttered attic.
I always have a new idea, a new hyperfixation, or some random “what if” scenario bouncing around up there.

I crave knowledge like it’s a snack.
I’m a millennial who loves a good trinket.
A blerd girl with an iPad, backpack, and emotional support bottle ready for war.
…surviving off iced coffee, matcha, and 4 hours of sleep.

the aesthetic: a lil delusional, highly intentional

I’ll own that I’m a maximalist.
If I like it, I want it in another color.

However, the goal in this season is mid-size abundance.

mid-size abundance = curated chaos that is a lil delusional, but highly intentional. A version of balance for the neurospicy (term coined by ME!).

Lately, I’ve been curating the chaos into things that actually feel like mine (queue Becoming Isn’t Pretty, But It’s Mine).

• Revamping corners of my space (I’m starting to get over the windowless basement corner that has now become my studio).

• Rebranding (personally, professionally - it’s giving a dash of Regina Hall for humor, Sza with the big hair energy, Olivia Pope because we’re down to business, and Khadijah James because she was gonna make it work even if it had to be held together by paperclips and Sinclair).

• Consolidating things into packages that make sense (for instance, Real Blerd Girl Ish… I didn’t mean to make a separate newsletter per say. Making it section feels better for my brain).

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duality is a thing

One of the best decisions I made? Taking my grown-ass back to school during the onset of a government collapse.

I’m serious AF.

The next part might sound a little ego-driven… because it is.

These last few classes? I’ve felt superior.

There’s just something about being black, opinionated, and alive during a time when they’re trying to bring back segregation, new age slavery, and delete DEI in the same breath…

All of a sudden you’re the unspoken expert in every social emotional learning discussion because these topics aren’t anything new. I sit back and watch folks fumble and stumble over the word “inclusion” as they explain what it means to have an inclusive classroom, and watching the glaze over look settle on their faces as they realize… the little resources they already had… are on the verge of being gone.

But in the strangest of ways, I’ve never felt so in tune with self and spirituality (the last time I was this close was 2020, yep, during the pandemic - coincidence? I think not!).

Now, this could be the delulu talking… but what if I was put on this earth to be a chaos coordinator?!

Hear me out…

Most of us avoid the mess… or at least try to make it prettier than what it is.
But lately, I’ve been learning how to just… let it be.

Sometimes, the mess is there to show you something. It’s not asking to be thrown away, just repurposed with intention.

So, that’s where I’m at.

A lil delusional, highly intentional.
Not striving for minimalism (in any form), just trying to find peace somewhere between “doing the most” and “doing what matters”.

Mid-size abundance.

that’s all I got. now, go forth and repurpose your chaos.

quick notes:

If you were subscribed to Real Blerd Girl Ish, you were automatically moved over. If the vibe no longer suits you, I promise, no hard feelings :-)

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things you may like (ICYMI):

She was never the damsel, never the hero, never the villain… but she was the one they called when they needed someone to exit before the credits rolled. A cleanup crew in human form. The one who could be everything, but never let anyone name her. They tried, though. They called her tough, strong, resilient. Words meant to be medals.

There was something about existing in the in-between, in that space where visibility flickered like a faulty streetlight. Noticed when it was convenient, disappearing just as quickly. People only saw her when they needed something; when they needed saving, when they needed a backbone, when they needed an excuse. But when she needed? Silence. It was a peculiar thing, to be necessary but never enough. To be relied upon but rarely remembered.

At 35, she had seen enough to fill a trilogy. Love that never arrived but always promised it was on the way. Friendships that unraveled over misunderstandings left to rot in the silence. The weight of being the responsible one, the dependable one, the one who always answered the late-night calls but never had a number to dial when the silence swallowed her whole.

The city knew her name, but not her story. She moved through the ghetto they called earth like a ghost in designer sneakers, the kind that had seen both better days and bad decisions. Friends that existed in half-written texts, promises that expired before they reached the lips. She had been everyone’s diary, but her pages remained blank when she needed somewhere to land. A light for everyone but herself, a smile that held secrets, a mind that never stood still. People said she had presence, but perception? That had never been her friend.

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She hadn’t asked to collect her stones, but life had a way of pressing them into her palm and now they adorned her hand. One for every lesson, every loss, every betrayal that she had survived. The stone of endurance, earned in the years she swallowed her own pain to be strong for others. The stone of discernment, carved from nights she realized not everyone she called a friend was willing to bleed for her the way she had for them. The stone of grit, because Detroit had taught her early that softness was currency few could afford. The stone of hope, the smallest and most fragile, but the only one she refused to let go.

And maybe, just maybe, she had joined the war because it let her feel. For others, always for others, but at least it was something. A purpose, a reason to stay in the fight. Because if she wasn’t carrying other people’s burdens, then what was left? Just her? And that was not merely enough.

She was tired of surviving. Tired of carrying the weight of expectations that felt like a chain-smoking landlord who refused to lower the rent.

Survival mode had been the default. The muscle memory of bracing for impact, of expecting the shoe to drop, even when it never did. Even in silence, the echoes of just in case rattled in her bones.

But what if… for once…she simply didn’t brace? What if she just… stood still?

Maybe being was enough. Maybe living didn’t have to be an act of resistance.

But survival had shaped her, carved out pieces of her identity like a sculptor with an unsteady hand. She had fought wars that had no interest in her survival but demanded her presence anyway. Wars waged in boardrooms where her words were stolen and rebranded in voices that carried more weight. Wars in relationships where her love was enough to build temples but never enough to be worshipped. Wars in a country that celebrated her resilience while stripping her of rest. Wars in her own mind, where the battle of should be and could have been left scars invisible to everyone but her.

She had given herself to wars that never had her in mind, and now she bore the scars no one would ever tend to. But if they wouldn’t, she would. Slowly, carefully, with the kind of patience she had reserved for everyone else but herself.

For once, she let herself breathe. No battle strategy, no escape plan. Just air filling her lungs, just the hum of a world that would never be decoded.

“No more hanging around. Oh, my sun’s going down. Bittersweet.”

She laughed then, a real laugh, the kind that felt like breaking a curse.

Maybe that was the war all along. Not the fight, not the endurance, not the weight of battles that didn’t belong to her. Maybe the real fight was the one she never wanted to name: learning how to live when survival had been the only language she ever spoke.

a few quick notes:

If you enjoyed this letter, consider sharing it on your favorite platform or restacking it on Substack. It’s one of the best (and free) ways to give a creative their flowers in real time.

Feel compelled to sow a coffee bean in my direction? - here’s my Ko-Fi link (never expected but always appreciated). These donations will always be honored and sown into the exploration and growth of this platform.

piece inspo:

I finally finished a flash fiction piece! Inspired by a product of Detroit’s Culture and Creativity! I appreciate you more than ya know!

abstract alex.

Strangers in Costumes

“Flight 3756 to St. Louis will be boarding in 30 minutes.” the airline attendant announces…

Read more

a year ago · 20 likes · 21 comments · alex b.

ICYMI:

But the cost doesn’t matter if the result is freedom.

If it leads to a life where I am fully present, where my truest self is no longer suffocating under expectations, then I will strip away every last layer, no matter how painful.

For years I moved through life with an innate ability to adapt, to adjust, to fit. And for a long time, that felt like a skill. I was proud of it. But in the thick of now, I realize that constantly shapeshifting has a cost and I was losing myself in the performance.

Am I fully unmasked? Am I fully aligned? NOPE!, but I’m closer than I’ve ever been. And instead of telling myself to fake it till I make it, I’ll lean into the uncomfortable because faking it sounds good until you realize you’ve faked yourself into a version of reality that was never yours to begin with (cue “Denial is a River” by Doechii).

Last year was about following purpose. This year is about walking in it.

There’s a difference.

Following purpose still leaves room for uncertainty; it allows your mind to wonder if you’re on the right path, if you’ve missed your moment, if what you’re working toward is even meant for you. But walking in purpose means knowing. It means trusting that every step, every decision, every hard-earned lesson (and even harder loss) was positioning you exactly where you needed to be.

I used to think I was falling behind (in fact, I’ve talked about it a few times), that somehow, I had veered off track while everyone else was miles ahead, effortlessly moving toward their destiny…

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But the pursuit of higher education has been enlightening, frustrating, and humbling, all at the same damn time. I thought I had found the ultimate cheat code by using my practice as the foundation to test research and theories, and whew! let me tell you, I have never been so humbled, inspired, and frustrated.

The takeaway is that I am innovative, creative, and determined AF. I am thankful for the universal confirmations and encouragement that continue to push me forward… but since I believe in duality, that two things can be true at the same time, I’ll keep it 100% - this process is stretching my brain—painfully, at times. And beyond just intellectual growth, I’ve been forced to confront something I never really examined before: how deeply I feel the need to defend ideology, how justice moves through me like instinct. I never thought about it until recently, how things that feel off spiritually, morally, and in-between trigger the vigilante in me.

Is it the ADHD-tism?!

Maybe… but let’s unpack moral justice for a second.

When I think about justice, it’s more than just a concept, its a responsibility. The responsibility to see beyond my own experience, to understand, to listen, and to push for clarity… not just for myself, but for those around me. It’s why I struggle with people who refuse to engage with their emotions, who sit in discomfort rather than unpack it. It frustrates me when people surround themselves with yes-people, avoiding growth because they’re too afraid to be challenged.

Accountability isn’t an attack. Reflection isn’t a punishment. And yet, so many people reject both.

"Do not be afraid to disappear—from it, from us—for a while, and see what comes to you in the silence."

-Michaela Cole

I didn’t disappear from life, I just took a digital detox. Deleted apps, left groups, shut the laptop, and let myself process the big feelings instead of performing through them. Some of that was because it was necessary, I shifted a lot in the last few months school, career, motherhood, but the biggest factor? I let imposter syndrome ride shotgun in my life (but it’s time I let that bitch choke).

And let’s be clear: imposter syndrome is not jealousy. It’s not about wishing for what someone else has - in the grand scheme of things, as my husband would say, I’m doing my thang - but that internal battle… feeling like you are never enough is the feeling that lingers inside and outside of spaces, replaying situations in your head—a constant, exhausting push to be more.

Because that’s what we’re told, right?

The Black girl struggle of always having to prove something, always feeling like you can’t just be… because someone, somewhere, is waiting to question your credentials. But at some point, you have to let imposter syndrome choke.

I’m learning to ease into knowing that I have and will always be enough. That my capacity shifts. My percentage of “I give a fuck” is allowed to fluctuate. The people who rock with me will honor that. The ones who don’t? They can stay exactly where they are.

And I am not without fault. I hold myself accountable. How I believe others perceive me? That’s a me issue. I can’t control their perception, but I can control how I see myself. And I have to love me more than anyone.

“We are all in the process of becoming.”

-Audre Lorde

My interpretation of becoming is that, it’s not about arriving, but instead existing in the in-between. The stretch, the friction, the moments where you feel like I’m right on the edge of something but not quite there yet.

And there’s a need for voices in the in-between. These voices speak to those who crave realness, not just curated highlights. Who need to see the process unfold, not just the final product. We want the struggle, the pivots, the behind-the-scenes messiness that reminds us we’re not alone in figuring it all out.

I always tell my clients and my team: never be afraid to challenge (or as I like to say, coach the coach). Growth doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in conversations that challenge us, in perspectives that expand us, in moments where we’re forced to sit with discomfort and actually listen.

Being in the in-between, riding the ebbs and flows of life, allows me to unlock… something deeper. A sharper sense of self. A clearer understanding of my voice. A willingness to be seen in motion, not just when the work is done, but while it’s still unfolding.

My work is evolving. My writing is shifting. I can feel my voice getting sharper, my vision getting clearer, even as I struggle to hold it all together. I don’t have to name it yet. I don’t have to rush to explain it or package it into something digestible. Right now, it’s just mine.

I don’t know if becoming ever feels comfortable. But maybe it’s not supposed to. Maybe it’s just about making peace with the fact that I am in motion, whether I feel ready or not.

a few quick notes:

If you enjoyed this letter, consider sharing it on your favorite platform or restacking it on Substack. It’s one of the best (and free) ways to give a creative their flowers in real time.

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Feel compelled to sow a coffee bean in my direction? - here’s my Ko-Fi link (never expected but always appreciated). These donations will always be honored and sown into the exploration and growth of this platform.

ICYMI:

-Solange

“My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.”

-Maya Angelou

f o r w a r d (the mantra)

Who I was made space for, who I am becoming.
Every version of me was necessary—every pause, every shift, every moment of stillness.
The world does not get to define me in my becoming.

I do not rush back.
I do not move for the sake of movement.
I am intentional. I am here. I am steady.

I have seen myself in the stillness, and I am worth the wait.
This is not a return, it is a continuation.
And I am still moving forward.

a few quick notes:

If you enjoyed this letter, consider sharing it on your favorite platform or restacking it on Substack. It’s one of the best (and free) ways to give a creative their flowers in real time.

Share

A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety was created as a space to explore my inner thoughts and pursue my passions. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for all of those who subscribe to this space (especially during my hiatus), follow my neuro-thoughts, and provide words of encouragement along the way. You are appreciated, valued, and loved!

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song inspo:

**the photos used in this post are courtesy of Pinterest, unless otherwise stated. Poetry is by Bri Nicole (aka ME). If posted on sites other than Substack, please credit **

tales from the mother(hood) is the series I thought would be easiest to write - after all, I am a muva 24/7, 7-days a week, no days off. Instead, this is the series with the most (unfinished) drafts.

There’s part of me that feels it’s in my best interest to keep my thoughts surrounding this journey locked tight in the crevices of my mind - navigate through this space during my own personal time and let the series die.

But my mama didn’t raise a quitter - even if we don’t speak.

healing while nurturing

The truth is… sometimes, it feels unfair.

Unfair to myself because I will never experience the traditional sense of a mother’s love. Even if by some chance things were to resolve themselves tomorrow, I probably wouldn’t know what to do with it. Spending 30+ years tip toeing on a tightrope when the unrealistic expectation is to tap dance frazzles the nerves.

Unfair to my children because I’ll be the first to admit that my mother wound is still raw… if I stretch too hard, it can start to ooze.

To be transparent, I often wonder what will my daughters have to heal from? Will they inherit my pain, the echoes of a mother’s love that never fully manifested? Or will they carry their own burdens, shaped by the moments when my scars interfered with the softness I tried to give them?

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There’s a constant balancing act between tending to my own wounds and nurturing theirs. I want to be the mother who holds them without the weight of the past pulling me down. But I also know that healing is a winding journey, with some days where I fall short, and the wounds ache more than usual.

My hope is that by acknowledging my wounds and working through them, I can break the cycle. I can show my daughters that healing is not only possible but necessary. That it’s okay to feel the pain, to address it, and to let it be a part of our story without letting it define us.

as i heal

“For better or for worse, I am my mother’s daughter, and her story is my story too. It’s mine to carry, mine to hold – with love if I can manage it – and mine to weave into my own.”

Hazel Hayes

While this quote is good in theory, my hope is this: that I’m able to teach my daughters that they don’t have to carry my wounds or anyone else's. They can create their own paths, unburdened by the weight of generational pain. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll have less to heal from because I chose to do the work now.

But in this process, I’ve also come to recognize a challenging truth: we often expect others to hold space for our trauma with grace, yet we struggle to do the same when their pain mirrors our own. It’s easy to seek understanding for our wounds, but when faced with the echoes of our past in someone else’s story, the instinct can be to turn away, to dissociate. I’ve noticed this within myself—how I unintentionally disconnect when repressed emotions rise to the surface, when someone’s trauma feels too familiar, too close to home.

…but is that always a bad thing? THAT is the question!

Another challenging truth and reflection: In this era, I’m no longer searching for grace or understanding from others. I’ve spent too much time seeking that from someone who should have given it to me unconditionally. Now, I can only offer what I’ve got, and I’ve come to terms with that. It may not be perfect, but it’s real—take it or leave it. I’ve learned that my energy is precious, and I won’t waste it on trying to be more than I am for the sake of someone else’s expectations.

I’m often expected to accept what’s given and offer support unconditionally, but the moment I show any sign of resistance, it’s like I’m immediately punished—off with my head. So here I am, saying it is what it is because I’ve got nothing left to give beyond what I’ve already offered. I’m okay with that, and I say it earnestly. I’ve come to a place where I’m no longer willing to bend until I break just to meet the needs of others.

This is what I want my daughters to understand: you are enough as you are, and your boundaries are valid. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you have to give more than you’re able, and don’t let the fear of rejection or punishment keep you from standing firm in your truth. You deserve to protect your peace, even if it means some people won’t understand or accept it - including me. Teach others how to treat you by showing them how you treat yourself—with respect, love, and the understanding that your well-being comes first.

Because sometimes, just letting things be as they are is an extension of grace.

a few quick notes:

If you enjoyed this letter, consider sharing it on your favorite platform or restacking it on Substack. It’s one of the best (and free) ways to give a creative their flowers in real time.

Share

Feel compelled to sow a coffee bean in my direction? - here’s my Ko-Fi link (never expected but always appreciated). These donations will always be honored and sown into the exploration and growth of this platform.

ICYMI:

Real Blerd Girl Ish

Welcome to Real Blerd Girl Ish, a curation of culture, tech, reads, and hyperfixations hosted by A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety.

Real Blerd Girl Ish

Down the Rabbit Hole Vol.1

you’re in the hood now, baby…

Read more

2 years ago · 3 likes · 2 comments · A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety

Sunday mornings
When the sun barely peaks through
And you can smell the onset of rain

You’re filled with the urge to rest…and love
To embrace love, to be love, to be filled with love

More than gratitude
You want to take it all in
Breathe in peace and let whatever else wash away in the rain

A Sunday type of love

That lingers in the air long after the day is done
Wrapping you in warmth, a soft blanket of belonging
A love that doesn’t rush, that doesn’t demand
But simply is—present, unwavering, steady
It’s in the way you laugh at old stories
In the quiet moments, where words aren’t needed

A Sunday type of love

That meets you where you are, every single time
That finds beauty in the simple, the mundane, the real
A love that holds space for you, as you are
And lets you just be, in all your beautiful complexity

A Sunday type of love

That carries you through the week ahead
Filling you with the strength of knowing
You are loved, deeply, truly, and always
In the rhythm of your heartbeat, in the quiet of your soul
In the tenderness of your cocoa covered kisses

A love that whispers, softly and sweetly,
“You are home.”

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The Inspo:

’s newsletter always spark a level of poetic creativity within me. The pairing of art work & microfictions that leave room for personal interpretation is a talent. While I still want to try my hand at exploring the microfiction world (once I sift through the characters that dance around in my mind) - let’s consider this my first exercise.

Art Life by Alex B

You won't see my tears...

The toughest fight I’ve ever been in was with myself. I repeatedly take jabs and gut punches when life wants to challenge me…

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2 years ago · 37 likes · 11 comments · Alex B

A Moment of Reflection

In this moment, I embrace the simplicity of being present. I breathe in peace, and I breathe out all that no longer serves me. I am grateful for the small joys that make life rich—the laughter, the stillness, the feeling of belonging.

I remind myself that I am worthy of this love, just as I am. I hold space for my own complexity, knowing that I don’t need to rush, change, or be anything other than who I am right now.

a few quick notes:

If you enjoyed this letter, consider sharing it on your favorite platform or restacking it on Substack. It’s one of the best (and free) ways to give a creative their flowers in real time.

Share

Feel compelled to sow a coffee bean in my direction? - here’s my Ko-Fi link (never expected but always appreciated). These donations will always be honored and sown into the exploration and growth of this platform.

ICYMI:

Real Blerd Girl Ish

Welcome to Real Blerd Girl Ish, a curation of culture, tech, reads, and hyperfixations hosted by A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety.

Real Blerd Girl Ish

Down the Rabbit Hole Vol.1

you’re in the hood now, baby…

Read more

2 years ago · 3 likes · 1 comment · A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety

today was a good day - a curation of vibes from the stack

The publications that just keep on giving and mentioned above: , , ,

With vision as vast as the sky, your bag is packed with potential. Keep it ready because you're always on the path to greatness.

Hold your purpose with joy and confidence, reminding yourself that you’re now standing in the place you once only dreamed of.

a few quick notes:

If you enjoyed this letter, consider sharing it on your favorite platform or restacking it on Substack. It’s one of the best (and free) ways to give a creative their flowers in real time.

Share

A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety was created as a space to explore my inner thoughts and pursue my passions. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for all of those who subscribe to this space, follow my neuro-thoughts, and provide words of encouragement along the way. You are appreciated, valued, and loved!

Subscribe now

Feel compelled to sow a coffee bean in my direction? - here’s my Ko-Fi link (never expected but always appreciated). These donations will always be honored and sown into the exploration and growth of this platform.

song inspo:

ICYMI:

BlackStack

Week 8: Sunday Service Announcements

Faith without works is dead. Have you ever heard that said in church before…

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2 years ago · 21 likes · 7 comments · BlackStack, A Dope Black Girl With Anxiety, Jamiya, Tabitha Blair, and Jacquie Verbal