If You Thought I Changed... You Were Half Right

An introspective journey through the complexity of duality and why you shouldn't play in my face, even if I've grown (I still have hands).

Today’s message: Just because I healed… don’t mean I won’t spin the block, my baby.

Whitney Houston once said: "I don't fight. I don't wrestle. I beat b!tches up." Photos courtesy of Pinterest

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.

…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.

Pinterest Moodboard: Category - Over It.

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

Might write this for the doctorate...

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.

ICYMI:

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