Tag: resilience

everyday miracle: a birthday story

Long before we were ever dating, my husband and I talked about how birth order and spacing impacted our lives. He is almost 7 years older than the sister he grew up with, and they didn’t have much of a relationship until they became adults. I am a little more than 5 years older than my sister I grew up with and, while we had a good relationship, it didn’t feel like reciprocal siblinghood most of our lives.

From that sprung our thoughts on what an ideal family makeup would be. Two kids, so we’re not outnumbered. One boy and one girl to replace us, statistically, for the good of the world if nothing else. Two and a half years apart so that the first child’s stuff isn’t all outdated for the purposes of hand-me-downs, but as parents, it’s not overwhelming to have both the littles going through similar developmental stages. It was refreshing to find agreement in pragmatism. By the time we were actually married, we were already on the same page. So, when our first child reached the year and a half mark, we checked in with each other about when to try for a second child. Might as well, we agreed.

Late one crisp, autumn morning, I was in the middle of the floor, screaming in pain, writhing in agony. You have to see a doctor, my husband said. The ER nurse thought my cries of pain were a ploy for pain medicine, so she made me sit there, waiting for me to give it up and go home. I cried til there were no tears left. Until the rest of the patients refused to be seen until I was at least looked at. It took an emergency motion from the hospital’s Board of Directors to get the care I needed. And by the time I got help, morphine wasn’t enough. I felt like I was dying inside. Because I was. Many hours and an emergency surgery later, the dead part was gone. Post-op, a month later, the doctor told us: not sure what your family planning goals were, but don’t expect another little for a couple years, if that…because statistics. Just…don’t get your hopes up.

A few weeks later, we popped by our sister-friend’s house to see her mom, who had been battling cancer. She lit up when she saw us. And then, a playful scowl followed.

“Oooh! Ima beat y’all! He just got good and home and here y’all are, making babies? How far along are you?!”

We stared at each other in disbelief.

“Who’s pregnant?”

“It sho’ ain’t me!” She laughed heartily, far bigger than her frailty suggested was possible. “the one glowing!”

I giggled. “No ma’am. I’m just feeling good today. The doctor said that I won’t be having any babies the next few years, at least. If at all.”

“Uh-huh. Them doctors don’t have the final say!” She pointed to the heavens. “He does,” she stated with resolved. “Y’all come on give me a hug. I need some rest. And make sure you bring that cute lil baby by when it’s time.”

“But—,” my husband attempted to explain.

“No buts!” she stated perfunctorily.

“Yes ma’am,” we replied in unison.

Christmas Eve, my best friend and I were joking around.

“I’ll take a test if you take a test,” I said. “Girl, I’m not the one poppin Pepto pills like they’re Tic-Tacs!” We laughed.

“You know what the doctor said!”

“And I know that doctors don’t know it all! What’d they tell you about getting pregnant the first time? And they was dead wrong!” Her query brought to mind the appointments with the fertility specialist during my first marriage. How they told me I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant without medical intervention, and then how I got pregnant without it while waiting for my birth control prescription to be transferred to my doctor after I moved to Japan.

“Yeen never lied!” More chuckles. “I do have one leftover from when I was pregnant with the boy child…”

“Girl, that test prolly expired! It’s gon say you having an alien. Don’t you do it!” Laughter erupts and spills over til it hurts.

We get off the phone. My husband says, with all the gentleness and care he had, “maybe you should. What could it hurt?”

“Pretty sure I’d know if I was pregnant. Plus…”

“I know what the doctor said. But just be sure. A lot has been going on. Ya never know.”

“Fine. I’ll take one just to shut y’all up. Better be glad I have one already and don’t have to spend no money.”

The pregnant line showed up before the not pregnant one did. I wiped the shock from my face and didn’t say a word. The first time I did this, my husband was deployed and I had to email him a picture of the test. He left a flat-stomached, normal-walking me and returned to a rounder, waddling one.

“Well?”

“Didn’t look at it. You know it says you gotta wait like two minutes or something.”

He goes in the bathroom. “KAMALA.” He comes back, eyes bright and borderline juicy, brimming with joy. “KAMALA!”

“Yes?”

“You saw it didn’t you?”

“Yea.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Wanted to see that reaction. Missed it the first go round.”

“This test not expired?!”

“No, man!”

“Hey lil man! You’re going to be a big brother!”

A jubilant “wooohoooo!” erupted from the currently reigning littlest member of our lil family.

“All that cheering and he doesn’t know what that means, ” I chuckled while shaking my head.

“He’s happy because we’re happy,” my husband assured me.

“Touché.”

“Merry happy Christmas Eve, mother of my children.”

“…Merry happy Christmas Eve, father of mine.”

He pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. Then, the boy child rushed us to get his share of the love. I basked in the warmth of the family I had prayed for.

A couple of weeks later, at my confirmation appointment, the doctor came in with “so ya think you’re pregnant” followed by “I was just in there, no baby then.”

“I know.” I wouldn’t have believed it either had I not done extensive research on the statistical likelihood of a false positive.

She flipped the folder open and shocked filled her face (too). “Congratulations!” She studied my face. “You okay?”

“Yea. Shock hasn’t worn off. A summer pregnancy is…ew. And this…isn’t what I planned for after…”

“I know I said two years. But you know, those are statistical likelihoods we go off. We don’t even have the final say.” She lifted her chin, her eyes looked to heaven.

I offered a dry chuckle in retort. “I’ve heard that before.”

What followed were 20 weeks of sickness all times of the day, stretching of surgery scars not yet healed internally, and appointments to specialists because…high risk. On top of mommying a very curious two-year-old and being a military spouse in flux and teaching high school students who hadn’t had a steady teacher the first part of the school year. I was exhausted.

I knew she was coming before she came. Still, I stalled. I cleaned the house between contractions. Our good friend, who had been staying with us until his apartment was ready, was unnerved.

“You sure you’re good?!”

“Don’t ask during a contraction” was my only reply.

“She will let us know when to go, bruh. Just help her if she asks,” my husband told him with assurance.

Between contractions, I directed each man a task. My husband was to call the hospital to let them know we were on the way, text our parents and sisters to let them know it was go time, and do final checks before we left the house. The boy child was to clean up his toys and make sure he had his tablet and a book. Our friend was to make sure the boy child stays on task and text the framily (friend-family) that it was go time. I timed my contractions and made sure the kitchen was clean.

On the way, I directed my husband to stop at Chick-fil-a. Although I couldn’t eat, I also hadn’t cooked, so I wanted to make sure everyone was good before I got to the hospital. I also wanted to give my doctor plenty of time to get to the hospital so there were no issues. Based on how the first labor went, I knew, once my water broke, we’d have less than a hour before baby was here with us.

We got there an hour after my husband made the call. Despite my preparations, it still became an event because no one but my husband listened when I said the baby was coming. A nurse tried to push her back in because the doctor hadn’t arrived. She said it was to support baby’s head, but this was my second unmedicated labor. I knew what it was supposed to feel like. And that push back was a level of pain I had never before experienced. But his Chunky, my Yaya. She wasn’t having that.

15 minutes passed from waters breaking to her arrival. A year to the day from when we buried my husband’s brother, joy supplanted his grief anniversary.

They had originally said my husband and son could stay with baby and I that first night. They sent a Patient Advocate in to ask about my delivery experience. I politely and exhaustedly asked her to leave. I just wanted to be with my family. A nurse was sent in promptly thereafter to say that visiting hours were over and my husband and son needed to leave. I shared that we’d been told the whole family could stay overnight. Said it was against policy. My husband took our son home and we spent that first night separated.

The next morning, I got a call from my husband. Our friend’s mom, the one who was supposed to be the first to meet New Baby, had passed away. I didn’t have anyone with me in the hospital, so I held our baby girl as gratitude and grief conjoined. I held her until I couldn’t. Until we both found peace in slumber.

I awoke to someone prying my baby from my arms. They told me they would call Child Protective Services on me because, after I nursed her, she fell asleep on my chest. They said I could have killed her by not putting her in the bassinet. I wanted to fight. I wanted to argue. But I didn’t have the energy. It felt retaliatory, but I didn’t say anything. I did as they told me so I could just get out of the hospital and back home. Back to the comfort of familiarity.

Then, they said they were discharging me but keeping the baby. For observation. Fortunately, my husband was there. The fight I didn’t have left to give, he did. And then some. He demanded they explain why she needed further observation. He recounted her perfect APGAR scores. He outlined how, despite the fact that we could be suing them for the pushback incident, we’re just glad to have a healthy mom and baby and we just lost a dear friend’s mom and all we want to do is get out of here. Together. As a family. And he cited their Catholic background as he asked, with narrowed eyes, if they actually upheld the family values they purported to. They relented. We were released together. And they wouldn’t call CPS as long as we made sure to get her to a pediatrician within 24 hours. It was a Friday at noon. We had roughly 4 hours to find a pediatrician open on weekends who was accepting new patients, could see us, and took our insurance. The Creator provided. There was exactly one, and they had just had a cancellation literally before we called.

The trauma of the experience sat with me. How could I take care of this baby girl and advocate for her when I couldn’t even advocate for myself? Then came the depression. But his Chunky, my Yaya. She wasn’t having that either.

She spent her earliest existence depending on me for food only. Her dad bathed her, changed her, played with her, watched Narcos with her, and danced to Boyz II Men with her. Every nighttime feeding posed a new daddy-daughter adventure. Everyday presented a new solo parenting experience for him juggling both kids when I couldn’t. They conspired to be OK until I was.

So, anyway thanks be to the Creator for the daughter I was afraid to have, didn’t know could come, and for the experience I didn’t know I needed: his Chunky, my Yaya, our miracle baby. We celebrate the events that preceded connected to her presence blessing our world.

August 10, 2025
brown bag folds: reflections on growth and adaptation

Last week, I learned that my entire department will be shuffled. A group of almost 1000 people who have worked together in the same organizational structure for years, will all be re-assigned. The aim is to grow us. The aim is to create better pathways for networking and collaboration to promote greater efficiency. For me, this news was initially met with a mix of skepticism about leadership’s true intentions and amusement that they’d rather focus on team organization than improving resources required to do our jobs and do them well.

I sat with the news and lamented its implications with colleagues. I listened as they vacillated between frustration and rage, sorrow and fear, excitement and anxiety. Some likened the impending change to the first day at a new school. I went to five elementary schools and two high schools. I worked in schools for years and still hate the first day of school. I couldn’t relate to anyone else’s feelings. I wasn’t opposed to the change, I just didn’t like it. But, I’ve not liked plenty of things in my life that turned out to be in my best interests, so when the petition to repeal the change began to circulate, I couldn’t support the cause. At the time, I didn’t know why, exactly. I felt for them. I listened as they catastrophized through potential implications and lofted questions that would likely never be answered to their liking. I hated the change for them because they seemed so hurt and confused by the announcement. I couldn’t hate the change for myself, though.

I sat on that feeling, trying to tease it out like a jumbled knot of hair. I thought of all the ways it could play out—good, bad, or otherwise. So far, I’d had one team lead who helped me set up systems and routines to do the job well, and I enjoyed working with the team that’d been built. I’d also had a team lead who tap danced on my good nerve at least once a week—intentionally or not, which forced me to reinforce how I do what I do and why it works. More than half of that team was indifferent to my very existence. Both situations presented unique challenges. Even though one was less likable, they both taught me about myself if only I was willing to learn. I valued that despite the discomfort it presented me.

In my last meeting about the change, my team lead asked me how I was feeling. By that time, that question had been asked ad nauseum, so I repeated the same answer because it hadn’t changed: I felt like a brown paper bag blowing in the breeze, praying not to become rain-soaked so I don’t get stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe and tracked into unsavory places. I don’t know if they truly understood my intent. They said they did, but I know sometimes people say they get me because they don’t want me to feel alienated. Or, they don’t want to seem slow on the uptake.

They hadn’t asked me to explain, but I will here, for clarity’s sake: I know that I only have the structure I have because of the folds someone or something else made for me. I can only handle certain things, as a result. I can fold or I can stand. If I stand empty, or without carrying too much, I could go anywhere. But I don’t know which way the winds could blow me, if at all. If I fold, I can be taken anywhere, but I couldn’t hold or handle anything at all. It only makes sense to stand ready, packed lightly, and hope rain doesn’t come too fast or too much. Because that’s when I’ll forget the folds—even the ones that help me stand. That’s when it becomes easier to lose pieces of myself. That’s when I could end up stuck somewhere I don’t want or need to be. But, how’s that much different from where I am now? Doing what I’ve always done?

As I consider it, the systems and routines I have in place, while familiar and efficient, don’t always serve me. Most, I’ve learned, are seasonal, conditional, and circumstantial. But I’ve made them more exhaustible than they ever should have been. They don’t consistently push me toward being my best, most authentic self. They inspire a sense of consistency, which frames authenticity in a way that makes others believe I’m the same in most situations. My habits support my success; I appear good and reliable, which is better than most. While seemingly on brand, those systems and routines have kept me mostly stagnant, if I’m honest. They idle me in this neutral space that allows me to show up in all seasons even when I may not be fully present. They help me to be somewhat prescient. But only because the predictable is predicated upon sameness. And as long as I’m in the same place doing the same things with the same people, I’m checking the blocks. Even while I’m learning new things that may or may not be useful to life as I know it. That doesn’t mean I’m growing, but then I don’t really have to concern myself with growing pains. Consistently checking the blocks inspires comfort. And wins come without whim when comfort conspires with familiarity to mimic stability. And because imitation is the sincerest form of flattery mediocrity can pay to greatness, word to Oscar Wilde, stability aspires to keep me safe by keeping me small.

The systems and routines I’ve built to keep me afloat offer nothing more than the illusion of control. They amount to little more than an allusion to humble obedience despite the call for bold courage. By staying in line, I never learn what soaring to the front feels like—what failing forward looks like. I reduce my resilience by avoiding risk. My faith and work experience disconnect while somehow reflecting different sides of the same dwarf star. How foolish to have missed 100% of the shots I don’t take, and then applaud my low failure rate. How will I know greatness if all I do is settle for mediocrity or the semblance thereof? How do I find the space of celebration if all I seek is toleration? How can I grow without change? Can’t I stand more firm having known the folds all too well?

July 28, 2025
lessons from the sower: a journey of faith (pt. III)

When I turned 18, one of the first things I did was get a tattoo. It was of the biblical definition of love. In red. In the shape of a heart. I felt like I’d carried love on my back for so long it’d started to feel like a burden. I needed any and everyone to know that if I turned my back on them, it was only because I needed to remind them of what love was. What it looked like. What it felt like.

The Man with the Glow shared his light and his love without expectation of return. Not even because he knew what I needed, but because he knew what he wanted to give me. When he found out that I had gone to school for Cosmetology, he asked if I could teach him how to cut women’s hair. He was barbering while in college, for extra money, and cutting longer hair would expand his business. I agreed, but only if he’d take it seriously. He agreed. “Great! Then your final exam will be to cut mine.” At the time, I had waist-length hair. He said he was scared to mess it up. “Then don’t,” I shrugged.

About six months after having to move out of my house, I found a roommate and got an apartment. I wasn’t a stranger to roommate situations, so we set a few ground rules. No rah-rah after midnight she stated. No problem. Clean up what you or your guests mess up, she suggested. Done. Pay your portion on time. Normal stuff. The only rule I had was that there were certain groceries—my chips and my pizza, that were off limits. Anything else, I am more than willing to share, just let me know it’s been shared. We agreed.

After a particularly long day of teaching, then tutoring, then running the after school program, then having a cut lesson with the Man with the Glow, I was spent. And it was cold and rainy out. Plus, I just realized that I didn’t have any money left after bills were paid. But I was grateful bills were paid and I had frozen pizza and chips at home, so I worried not. I just wanted a hot shower, and chips and pizza. That’s it, that’s all.

I got back to the apartment, and my roommate’s boyfriend was in the shower. Fine. I can wait. I would just eat first. I went to the kitchen to munch on my chips while the pizza cooked. I climbed on top of the counter to reach the cabinet over the refrigerator, where I’d put them to make sure that they were not easily visible. No chips. I opened the other side. No chips. I climbed down and opened every cabinet door. No chips. Checked the freezer for my pizza. No pizza. I didn’t need to check my purse to know I also didn’t have any money.

My roommate walked into the kitchen just as the realization that my hopes for my evening had been crushed. “Hey. C didn’t want my vegetarian food, so he ate your pizza and chips. I will replace them when I get paid,” she said nonchalantly.

My head tilted. My eyes blinked. The rage of frustration began to creep up my back, onto my neck, and out of my throat. “What was the one rule I had? Do you remember?”

Her head tilted. It was her eyes’ turn to blink. “Excuse me?”

“When we moved in, I had one rule to your three. Do you remember what it was?”

“Yea, you had stuff you didn’t want anyone to eat but if they did, to let you know. I’m letting you know.” Her voice was flippant. Her face was polite. The incongruity was not purposeful.

“No, it was that my pizza and my chips were off limits. And anything else could be eaten as long as you let me know.”

Her eyes blinked again. “How’s that different?”

“The difference is that one leaves me with my favorites as the fruit of my labor. I don’t have a credit card to spend at will for someone else to pay. I don’t have a job that will allow me to go in whenever I want to get extra hours just because. And I don’t have a boyfriend funding anything the other two won’t cover. What I have is all I have.”

“Damn, girl, calm down. Matter of fact, me and C are going out tonight. You should come. Drinks on me because you definitely need it. Get dressed. Bathroom is open now, but fair warning there may not be much hot water left so make it quick.” Her mouth flashed a smile.

The hot water warning broke the levies, but only a stream trickled out.

“I’m not going out. I’ll be in my room.” I turned on my heels because I knew hot, frustrated tears would come soon.

“Ugh! You are no fun. You’re always sad. Always in your room. Always doing homework. I thought being your roommate would mean we’d be friends. Hang out. Partayyy.” Her smile widened as her shoulders shimmied the last of her statement.

A heaving sigh released like a balloon deflating. “I wasn’t looking for friends. I was looking for a safe space to stay. I’m working on a Master’s degree and it’s important to me to finish and finish well.” The truth escaped with quiet assurance.

Her mouth chuckled as her eyes narrowed into slits. “I see why your man left you.”

Sorrow and anger pushed for a greater share of mind space. Neither won. Defeat took lead as I quietly retreated to my room. I flopped onto the edge of my bed and closed the door just as my roommate’s boyfriend walked out of the bathroom with plumes of steam rising off his golden skin. Just as angry tears got caught in my throat, my phone vibrated. I wasn’t going to acknowledge it, but I needed a distraction. It was the Man with the Glow. He was asking me for a favor. Part of me wanted to tell him I was tired of being used for the day and maybe he should try again tomorrow, but I remembered how patient and attentive he’d been during our cut lesson earlier. He didn’t deserve that.

He wanted to use my address to order pizza. They didn’t deliver to where he was. I didn’t ask where he was or why. I knew the city enough to know that’s not uncommon. I said it was fine and gave him my address, then laid down. “At least someone gets to eat today,” I mumbled to myself. Immediately, I thought about how, if I’d never sowed that seed, I’d still be in my house with my own bathroom. I’d probably have food, too. Even if I was miserable every day there versus just frustrated by people every so often here.

Twenty minutes later, I heard my roommate and her boyfriend leave. Thirty minutes later, I heard a knock at the apartment door. I laid still. I wasn’t getting up for my roommate or her boyfriend if she forgot her key. Another knock. I thought it could be the pizza man, but it was more rhythmic than the pizza man had ever offered. Then, it turned into a Clipse lunch table beat. I still didn’t know who it could be, but I was fully prepared to tell someone they’re at the wrong door when I trudged to check the peep hole. It was the Man with the Glow. He had three pizzas in hand. I opened the door with caution.

“Here ya go,” he smiled that smile that lit up rooms while handing me a pizza box off the top, “I hope you like pepperoni. I forgot to ask. I met the pizza guy downstairs. You didn’t tell me you live right across the street. You could probably see them making the pizzas.”

I stared at him in silence, my hands holding the box up without fully accepting it into my hands. “You didn’t have to get me one.”

“I know I didn’t have to, but what kinda person would I be to use your address and you not get something out of it. That’s rude. I’m not rude.”

My eyes grew juicy. “I appreciate you. Thank you.”

“No thanks needed. Enjoy!” And there he went. Smile and glow and all.

A root grew that day.

For months, about once a week or so, he’d use my address to have pizza delivered and give me a box or two. I never told him that he was the reason I ate most days. I didn’t tell him that the times he left two boxes were the times I didn’t know how I was going to eat between paydays. Every box of pizza became a leaf.

One day, he asked if I ate anything other than pizza. He invited me to IHOP’s free pancake day. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was our first date. And the stem grew longer.

Then, after a cut lesson, we went to the beach and walked and talked so long that I lost my phone and we ran out of beach to walk and didn’t even know either happened til they did. We lamented the dating scene together. And sometimes, he’d help me grade papers after a cut lesson. Branches stretched up, up, and out.

After my divorce was finalized and Master’s degree earned , we sat on my apartment balcony as the rain poured from the nighttime sky. I told him I had to tell something important and he replied the same. I let him go first because I didn’t have the courage to say that I had feelings for him, but I didn’t want to ruin the friendship that was in full bloom. He shared that he was joining the military and would be leaving soon. I told him I was happy for him, which I was. It was for me sorrow loomed. More leaves.

I had two job offers. One local, one distant. I took the offer to move an hour north to teach once I knew he would be gone. On moving day, he came to help. Despite being sick. Despite my parents and sister pestering him with incessant curiosity. Despite my ex-husband showing up and trying to show him up. Despite my former roommate’s ex-boyfriend being flippant toward him. He showed up. He helped. He deflected when needed and protected when wanted. Buds formed.

I started my new job and it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. It was like East Side High from Lean on Me. I was exhausted and frustrated and lonely. My new roommate was better than the last, but she wasn’t my person. She wasn’t him. I didn’t know what to do with that. I would talk to him for hours until I glowed right along with him. And then fear would envelop me and I would avoid him for weeks. Branches stretched just to be pruned.

Then came the time for him to process into the military. He was 15 minutes away and I wanted to be in his space and have him in mine. We went to dinner. We talked. At the end of the night, we hugged differently. Like we didn’t want to let go. The buds bloomed into a vibrant yellow and would not close.

The following weekend, I went to visit him. He asked me what’s taking me so long to be his girlfriend. I stared sheepishly. I said I didn’t know because I didn’t know what else to say. I knew it was because I was scared of forever. I knew it was because I didn’t know if I could trust someone else with my heart again. Not like last time. But that this didn’t feel like last time. His eyes twinkled, he bent toward me just enough that his words had nowhere else to go but in my ear. “Don’t tell me you’ll be my girlfriend unless you’re willing to be my wife.” I blushed. “Fair enough.”

I sowed a seed for my husband–a mustard seed of faith wrapped in a crisp $20 bill. Both tears and rainstorms watered it. It found light from the man’s glow, my smile with him, and our energy combined. It found fertilizer in the mess of life and the ones that weren’t worthy. The seed found bloom in love. Biblical love. It took a year or two to fully mature, and once it did, the tattoo faded as if I’d never again need to remind anyone was love was. What it looked like. What it felt like. They could see it in us.

June 25, 2025
lessons from the sower: a journey of faith (pt. I)

I am the daughter of a preacher-man, and grew up in church, but not necessarily Christian. That is, my lineage and presence of Sunday placements didn’t make me a believer any more than being factory-built and sitting in a garage makes one a car. But I’ve told you that already. If I’m honest, I’ve been more self-reliant than faith suggests. So, the religion of my childhood sort of became a fail-safe measure. I activated it only when all else failed. There was never a “pray until something happens” sort of approach; it was more like “pray if everything fails.”

Over my lifetime, there were times when I knew God had to have looked out for me. That, or I had a guardian angel. After all, God looks out for babies and fools and, for a pretty smart person, I have done very foolish, very childish things.

While I don’t always count my first marriage a foolish decision, I do consider it unwise. Regretful? No. It brought me to this path, and for that reason alone, I’d do it all over again. But, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to tell you about a real-life story about a sower. So, let me set the stage.

First off, I was unhappily married to my first husband. During the week, I was teaching, tutoring, running an after school program at my church, and on the weekends, I was a hair braider. I had also just started working on my Master’s degree. I know. It was a lot. That’s not the point, though. I’m setting the stage, remember?

Anyway, my marriage was challenging, but we vowed we would not get divorced. We’d love each other through it or stay together for the sake of it because we didn’t want to be another statistic or, as children of divorced parents, perpetuate it within our families. We agreed. But, it’d become so much work to even muster the energy and effort to go home. It was like fighting the world, then coming home to hell. My spirit grew so heavy.

We tried talking. That led to arguing. We tried having a baby. Yes, I know. Again, not the point. That led to failed fertility treatments. We tried individual therapy. That didn’t help in a holistic way because he didn’t go. He suggested marriage counseling with our former youth pastor, Rev, who now worked for the same church I did, but my (then) husband never showed up to the sessions. Towards the end of the sessions, my husband and I were basically roommates. I wore the ring, but I did life alone, with the exception of both our names being listed on the mortgage. So, in one of my last counseling sessions, I asked about what seemed to me to be the most logical next step: What I’m to do if divorce seems the only option unexplored. I was met with a novel question in response: Have you been released to get divorced?

I blinked in rapid succession. “Released?” I was genuinely confused. My grandmother and mother both had been divorced. No one ever mentioned being released to do so. I’d asked many divorced people and read about divorce at length–like any researcher worth her salt. In all the primary, secondary, and even tertiary sources reviewed, my bibliographical annotations did not, in fact, include a pre-divorce release.

“I have to be released to get a divorce?” I asked Rev incredulously. At this point, I was tired of trying. At the same time, the shame of publicly admitting that my marriage was a failure and potentially a waste of time, paired with the guilt of breaking the promise I made myself that I would not be another divorcee in this world made me hope that there was another chance at redemption.

“Have you prayed to God, in earnest, about what you need and want in your marriage?” Rev asked.

“Yes, if the tears I didn’t want to shed are any indication.”

Then, he reminded me that the Supernatural Day of Giving was coming up. On Resurrection Sunday, the congregation was invited to sow a sacrificial seed to remember Jesus’s sacrifice on the cross. To show a deeper kind of love and a higher level obedience to God’s will. I reminded Rev I didn’t have any money anyway. Rev’s parting words were to seek God.

For the next two weeks, I wrestled with that decision. When payday came, I paid my bills. That left nothing. I did hair and that gave me enough to put gas in my car, get groceries, and have one crisp, fresh-from-the-bank 20 dollar bill leftover. Those were my favorite and I’d hold onto them as long as I possibly could. My only weakness was the comfort of hotcakes and sausage, though, remember? So, anyway, I was holding onto that $20 until I was so sad that the only thing that could cheer me up was my favorite breakfast.

The week before Resurrection Sunday was a doozy. One day, I came home to find out he’d given our dog away. She was disloyal, he said. Another day, I came home to find him asleep on the couch, back screen door slightly ajar—just enough to let flies and ants in. The jars of both peanut butter and jelly I’d just bought were open, as was the bread. An entire gallon of milk—the one I’d just bought—was also open. The fridge was wide open and the food inside was tepid to the touch. Most of the groceries I’d just bought had to be thrown out. I didn’t have money to replace them—I only had $20 until next payday, remember? I felt so defeated. It’s easier to be mad than be sad, though, so I immediately started yelling. I tore into him for being irresponsible and wasteful. He jerked awake and told me that my nagging was the reason no one would ever want to be with me. He said I was awful at even attempting to understand what he’s going through, and I always expected perfection. He reminded me that I’m not perfect and said, if we’re honest, I’m not even that great. He listed a litany of my faults, many of which he knew were hot buttons for me.

I tuned him out because my hurt was too loud. I told God that if He can fix this, I’d give Him my last $20. Hotcakes and sausage couldn’t comfort this. I went to my room, showered, and slept. Saturday, I slept some more. I don’t even think I ate that day. I was just waiting for Sunday. I needed to get to church. It was the only place I felt any peace anymore.

Sunday morning, I still wasn’t totally on board with giving my last $20. But, I was going to go to church anyway. Service was just what I needed. I felt better. My spirit felt lighter. Then, I froze. The call for those who wanted to sow a supernatural seed came. I kept thinking of the what if’s. What if I needed to top off my gas? What if I needed food on the go because I had to work late? What if my car overheated and I needed oil? Two weeks is a long time to stretch $20 but it’s even longer of a time trying to stretch nothing. I asked people around me if they had change for a 20. No one did.

I heard our pastor say no seed was too small—that God only needs a mustard seed. I sat there, thinking that the line was too long anyway and service was about over. Then, Pastor said that if there was anyone wrestling with what to give or how, to just listen for God’s direction, and we wouldn’t finish without giving everyone a chance to give what they needed. I thought about how I had tried everything I could think of and how nothing had worked, and how I wanted to try God, but didn’t understand why it had to cost me money—specifically why it had to cost me my last. Pastor said, “I hear you, God. Love cost Jesus His life.” I sat at attention. I could not understand why my every thought was responded to by a Pastor I did not know personally and who was more than 50 feet from me. It felt like more than just mere coincidence. Fine, I thought, I’ll do it. But I’m not standing in that line. Something told me to turn and look at the line. I slowly tilted my head. There was one person, and they were dropping their seed in the bucket. I’m not telling my business to a bunch of strangers, I thought. Then, Pastor said that we don’t need to know what the seed is for or how much. That’s between you and God, he said. Share whatever you feel comfortable, he said.

I didn’t have any excuses left, y’all. I got up, I stood silently at the mic. Head bowed. I prayed for all the things I needed and wanted. My heart grew full as I thought about the marriage I needed, the love I yearned for, and the friendship I so desperately desired. I almost felt like I was floating. As I dropped my crisp $20 in the bucket, I said in a voice just above a whisper, “I’m praying for my marriage. God’s will be done.” I turned on my heels, and plopped back into my seat. People around me rubbed my back with care, shared amen’s, and said they pray that God does whatever I need Him to. I sat upright again, this time with a gasp. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t said my husband’s name. I panicked. How would God know? Then, I remembered my prayer. God knows my heart, I thought to myself, God’s will be done. I sighed a sigh of relief.

The weeks that followed were crazy. That’s really the only way to describe them.

That same week, we argued every time I saw him. I started to avoid going home until it was time to go bed unless I knew he wasn’t there. Wearing the ring started to feel like a chore, and I sometimes forgot. One night, he was brought home drunk. His friends banged on the door, jarring me awake, and kept up until I opened it. They’d driven his car, but didn’t know which key was his house key. He woke up just before I went to work and we argued. Again.

It had gotten to the point where I would go as far through my day as I could without crying, cry as much and as hard as I could just to get it out, and then clean up my face at the church before the after school program started. I got found out by my principal, who also happened to be Rev’s wife. She found me finishing up my cry session in one of the empty classrooms because there was an event that was still letting out, so I couldn’t cry in my car without being seen. I’d thought everyone was in the gym and I had time. She hugged me and it reminded me that I hadn’t been hugged in months. I sobbed even harder. She had known me since I was a middle schooler, and knew that I’d been different—that my light had dimmed, she said. She didn’t want to pry but wanted to know why I was crying. I told her everything. I closed with frustration that, after sowing my seed, things got worse instead of better. Without judgment, she hugged me again, and told me to anoint the house.

Again, confusion. I knew, in theory, what an anointing was. What anointing oil claimed to do. But, again, if I’m honest, I didn’t believe it. I also had nothing to lose. She gave me a vial of oil mixed by the women of the church according to the biblical recipe. She handed me a purple prayer cloth. That same night, I did exactly what she said. I washed my hands, and then placed anointing oil on them. I prayed over the threshold that no negative energy or evil spirits were welcomed. I prayed over his pillow that nothing bad slept, rested, or felt peace. I prayed over his work shoes that they only would take him into good, positive situations. I prayed over the television that only things that would uplift us were viewed. I prayed over the room I slept in that only peace and joy would enter my space. Then, I prayed about how thankful I was for Rev and his wife’s presence in my life, how frustrated I’d been about my seed, how confused I was about everything that had happened. I told God that I needed His light to show me the way. When I finished, I didn’t even realize I’d been crying until I felt the dampness of the carpet beneath me. But again, my spirit felt lighter. I slept peacefully for the first time in months.

He didn’t come home that night. Or the next. When he did, he came home late and drunk, only this time he’d driven himself. I heard him come in. He rustled around. Slammed some doors and cabinets. I heard him smack his teeth a few times. Exclaim WTF a few times. I rolled over, covered my head with a pillow to muffle the noise, and drifted back to sleep. I was jarred back awake. This time, he was banging on the door to the room where I slept, yelling for me to tell him who was in the room with me. I yelled back asking why he thought someone was with me. IN response, he yelled for me to open the door before he opened it for me. He jiggled the knob and cursed at me about it being locked. He hollered about knowing there’s someone else because why else would I have the door locked. I said because I never knew if he’d be alone or not when he did come home. He snorted and reminded me that no one wants me. He said he’d ask one more time. “JESUS,” I yelled, “ain’t nobody in here but me and Jesus. Now let me go to sleep. I’ve got work in the morning.”

I don’t know why that made him so upset, but he immediately started yanking at the door and yelling for me to open it. I had just gotten out of the bed to finally open it when he ripped the door off the hinges and frame, rushed past me, and began searching the room. “What took so long?” he asked. “Had to hide someone?”

“Jesus doesn’t have to hide,” I retorted.

He stood up and walked toward me, narrowing his eyes. I almost thought he was going to hit me. But, he got to a certain point and stopped.

“What’s with all the crosses?”

“What are you talking about?” I had truly forgotten in my grogginess and the intensity of the moment of the anointing from a few days ago. I really didn’t know what he was talking about and my face matched my lack of recognition.

“The crosses! On the door and the pillow and the TV and the couch. Crosses every-fucking-where. Who did that?”

My eyes widened. “You see crosses?” Y’all. I put them in the air. The oil was on my hands and I just drew air crosses as I prayed through the house, like Rev’s wife told me to. I couldn’t even see the crosses.

“Yea! I can’t sleep here. Not now.”

By this time, I didn’t even know how to react. I still wasn’t sure what to believe. “Why can’t you sleep here? How do you even know—you just got home after what, like 3 days since I’ve seen you?”

“The crosses! I’ve been back and forth two days now trying to get some sleep. Now tonight. I can’t rest. I can’t get comfortable. I can’t. Sleep. Here.” His nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw between the fragments of his statement.

I just stared at him in wonder, my hand clutching invisible pearls. “My God.”

“That’s all you do now is talk about God. I’m sick of hearing about God. Tell you what, since you sleepin’ with Jesus, you and Him can get the hell on. Find another place to lay your head. I put this place up for rent and the tenant moves in soon.”

My eyes grew juicy. I didn’t expect to be homeless.

Satisfied that the tables had turned, he smirked, leaned the door against the frame, and tossed a gruff “sleep well” over his shoulder.

June 3, 2025
discovering the real magic in words

If your childhood was anything like my childhood, and even if it wasn’t, I’m sure you know what magic words are and what they do. You know, the words that make wishes come true. For some, those words were “please” and “thank you.” For others, those words were “yes” and “now.” For still others, the word was simply “abracadabra.” For you, it could’ve been something totally different. No matter the word, I want you to think of it. I want you to try to think of the moment or situation that introduced you to the power of those magic words. Hold onto that memory as we venture onward.

I’m going to ramble a bit to give our friends who need more time finding that moment. I get it. It was hard for me, too. That’s why I’m writing this. So, anyway. Listen. I was taught that please and thank you were magic. That those were the words you said when you meant business about getting what you wanted and needed. Thing is, the magic in the words was hit and miss. Literally. If I said them, I didn’t get hit and I might still miss getting said thing. If I didn’t say them, I would get hit and definitely might still miss getting said thing. Things could interfere with the magic is what I’m saying. I had to consider my tone, my face, whether I deserved the thing, cost versus worth, nonverbal cues, the temperature, the season, the day of the week, and more. I constantly found myself questioning the strength of the magic in those words. As I consider it now, I’m inclined to believe the magic words I was taught are the cheapest in the arsenal and I need some with a lil more umph.

If you’ve gotten here, I’m hoping you definitely have the magic words you were taught and when you realized their power. I’m also hoping that you have wondered, at some point or another, whether there were words with even more magic than the ones your childhood implanted.

For good bit of time, I thought cuss words were more magical than please and thanks. Wild, I know. But they had the spice I’d been missing. They were bold and colorful and stood out from the crowd. They were the kids who knew the rules and did what they wanted anyway. I wanted to know what that felt like. So I spun up spell after spell, each brewed with its own base of eau de crass-cuss til I wore each word down to standard circle-to-peg fittings. The power remains, but only with the most skilled among us. The magic only works with what’s already there. Nothing more. Not like before.

For years after, I’d try different words each season, hoping to stumble into the most magical words by sheer luck. Over and again, I’d pore over memories of manifestation. It was like watching tape, tweaking my game with every revelation. When I exhausted my own life’s lessons, I looked to those closest to me. There, in the many moments with my mother, I found the most magical words. My search had ended. I found pattern after pattern where, once the magic words were uttered, wills bent toward her. The arc of justice refused interference. These were the sacred ones all along. Right on the tip of her tongue—these very words that went in one ear and out the other, just as she forecasted. How had I discounted them all these years?! I know I will need to work with them to wield full power, but I have an excellent model. The next time I say those magic words “because I said so,” the impossible will be possible. Mountains will be moved. Wills will bend to me. Just because I said they would.

May 30, 2025
finding strength in imperfection: a spiritual retrospective

Don’t call it sadness or sorrow, this wet blanket that weighs on me. That warms, but doesn’t soothe. That covers, but doesn’t protect. That hides. That hinders. That hulks. It must be melancholy. This in-between where I exist alongside the feeling. It is one on its own. As am I. We are separate. But we are tethered. Intrinsically bound since birth. Commensal symbiosis, I’d suppose we are.

I let myself down daily. Not to take up my cross. Not to let it be. These, too, are separate. Disparate. I have faith that we will be covered not just clothed. Blessed not just bountiful. And I am anxious that even with that, even though we will fare better than most, we will not reach the fullness of our blessing because of past mistakes. That may not be true. But I’m realizing I have a hard time forgiving myself of my transgressions. Of my mistakes. Of my missteps. I fall short daily. And I am ever-concerned that my imperfections will be the downfall of us all. But I am reminded, in the quietest of whispers, the Creator created even my imperfections. That I can be indecisive, but it wasn’t always this way. That I can be insecure and feel like an impostor. That I’m capable of so much more than I give myself credit for but the thought of rejection stops me in my tracks more often than not. That I struggle with investing in vices that attempt to minimize my big thoughts and bigger feelings. That I focus on pouring into others so I can care less about the dreams of my own that haven’t come true. It hurts less that way. So often it feels like my time has passed. That I missed chance after chance. That I squandered opportunity after opportunity. And now I’ve made my bed. And this is where I lie. Still. Like I didn’t learn the lesson and I don’t know better. Like I can’t know better from worse. Like I won’t understand ignorance for bliss.

The Creator knew me from my mother’s womb. But I didn’t. Still don’t. Not really. Not if I’m honest with myself. I know what I allow myself to know. I don’t allow myself to know the overwhelming truths. But they’re there. Sitting in the corner like the spook by the door.

I said, “your servant is listening, Lord,” and closed my eyes. I said, “use me, Lord,” and closed my mind. I said, “bless me, Lord,” and closed my heart. Not on purpose. I have ears to hear and want to listen. I crave wisdom and discernment. I yearn for a heart open to love fully without reserve. But that will mean I will see. And I will hear. And I will be used. And my mind will be opened. And I will be blessed. And my heart will be softened. I can no longer be numb. It is the lack of filter of which I’m most concerned. How do I regulate what enters my spirit? How do I know I’m equipped to not fall? People depend on me. To stand firm. To step assuredly. So I do the safe things. The things that tear me up inside because I’m falling short. It feels like I don’t know how to win. Like I self-sabotage. How can I be great if I never try? What does it matter about falling if I never fly? How will I know how close to the stars I can get if I don’t even shoot for the moon?

I am my own sadness. My own sorrow. My own melancholy. I don’t need others’ judgement. I have my own. I don’t need anyone’s else’s boxes either. I shrunk as small as I could for as long as I could and now I feel deformed. Like I don’t know what stretched out feels like. Like I play small because it’s all I know now. And that makes me even more sad. I don’t want this for me.

I want to live out loud. I want to thrive and create and call it good. I want to be the image bearer I was called to be. I am in my own way. I have to move. I have to remember the promises. I have to stop seeing my Heavenly Creator like my earthly one. They are not the same. I have to see me the way the Creator sees me. They are not the same. It doesn’t matter if the world burns. If the Creator be for us, who can be against us? Find the time. Make the time. Be the version of me that makes me most proud.

Even infighting can prove victorious. The Creator showed us that. Every need will be supplied according to the riches in glory. The Creator showed us that. Ask and it shall be given. The Creator showed us that. We will never be left nor forsaken. The Creator showed us that. I cannot think of a time where the Creator hasn’t shown up for me. Hadn’t protected. Hadn’t provided. Hadn’t clothed and covered. Over and again promises have been kept. Why would that change now?

Do the thing. Call it good.

Be the change. Call it good.

Create the thing. Call it good.

Try and try again. Call it good.

Rest. Call it good.

Call it good. Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet. Call it good. Even if it doesn’t look like it yet. Call it good. Even if it doesn’t seem like it yet.

Yet is powerful. Especially when our timing isn’t the Creator’s timing. Call it good now. Yet will come.

May 27, 2025
understanding bread women: the essence of nourishment

we are the bread women. the ones who have all the ingredients to make something of sustenance. the ones who can buy the things and make the things that create and maintain life. the ones who have what it takes to satiate even the insatiable…if only we wanted.

there’s a curious thing about need. when one needs, they will do whatever it takes to meet the need. they will forego emotional investment. they will avoid financial divestment. they will reduce self-investment. label it devotion. shrink-wrap it in tradition. and call it a loving marriage.

the mothers before held to husbands that did not love. did not cherish. did not honor. did not respect. submitted to husbands that did not offer reciprocity of submission. submitted to husbands who were socialized to fulfill biblical roles with the world’s dirt. making a mess and mockery of the truth. the divorce rate is high now not because of hardened hearts, but because of the bread women.

we want what we need to go beyond the basic tenets of food, water, shelter, and safety. if that’s all you bring, we don’t need you. our Father does that. we want mutual submission as God intended. if all you want is to lord power, go play a video game. the virtual world of war beckons. we crave the love God calls you to give us. if all that concerns you is what you are called to receive, then this bread of life and love is not yours to have or to hold.

Jesus fed the five thousand with 5 loaves and 2 fish. we are bread women. it is the gift of us that offers something out of virtually nothing. man does not exist on bread alone, but on the Word of God. we are bread women. sent to help you. to remind you of God’s love and grace. it is not suitable for man to be alone. we are bread women. sent to help you. not to be hurt, harassed, or hindered. we might be hard on the outside, but we are soft and warm within.

we are bread women. meant to rise.

we are bread women. meant to nourish.

we are bread women. meant to fill.

we are bread women. meant to share.

and we, too, have a shelf life.

May 20, 2025
the power of storytelling: from pain into purpose

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to have a story to tell. I’m not the most outgoing person, so I’m not sure who I wanted to tell, exactly, but I wanted to have a story worth sharing. I didn’t want to be like the characters in the books I escaped into—I didn’t want a life that inspired escape for someone else. I wanted a life that showed someone else what was possible. What hope could do. What love could do. What struggle could birth. I wanted to tell a story that would inspire someone to keep going, to keep pushing.

I started this blog as a scab collection, of sorts. The plan was to impart reflections and lessons from yesterday’s scars. That’s where the inspiration sourced its power. The power of yet. Wounds still open and gaping and raw weren’t to go here. They were to be felt, not seen. Quiet stillness pooling the saltwater of tears in peace. They were supposed to fester until sutured. It was supposed to be my way of having a means for catharsis without the show of pain. But that’s never been how I write. It’s never been why I write. I’m not sure why I thought the tide would turn this time around.

I used to write to capture moments. Feelings. It was how I processed the world around me. It was how I dealt with the multitude of feelings coursing through me. It helped me stay leveled and sane with all that my mind and life had going on. It helped me stayed connected to the Spirit too.

When I hurt, I wrote. When frustration threatened to overwhelm me, I wrote. When others hurt, I wrote for them for me. When life happened, I wrote. I wrote for the good and I wrote for the bad. I wrote in the good and I wrote in the bad. And throughout it all, I prayed for change. I prayed for hope and peace and resilience. I was my whole self when I wrote. I was a reflection of hope and love and peace, and I loved that. But what about now?

If I’m honest, I’ve been too scared or nervous or insecure to publish my work. Sometimes more ‘and’ than ‘or.’ It’s mostly tucked away in notes and files that get buried in yesterday’s pockets of truth. Today’s truths must fend for themselves. If I’m honest, there are few lessons to easily pull out and share. The reflections in mirror pools of old tears are plentiful, though. Introspections that lead to holes from rabbits delayed from going on their way are innumerable, too. I am capable. I think. I am able. I know. I am better than I give myself credit for. And but so why don’t I give myself credit?

I have to release this idea that I’m so far from perfect that my voice and my view don’t matter no matter how beautifully written. Even if it’s not my definition of perfection, it’s beautiful because I’m beautiful because The Creator said so. Even if it’s not a Nikki or a Zora or a Toni or an Alice original, it’s a Kamala Starr original. That’s enough. That’s more than enough. It’s got to be.

This isn’t about me. It’s about my gift. It’s about my ability to impact people with words. Just words. My words. The Creator’s grace. My harmony. The Creator’s amp. My heart. The Creator’s love. My war. The Creator’s peace. Beyond understanding. It is beyond understanding. It is incomprehensible that I’d wake up in the peak of morning with nothing on my mind but The Creator’s light and these words floating, phrases and participles like anti-gravity particles, waiting to spark connection. Consciousness. Compassion. Community. Comprehension. This, too, is love. Overdue.

March 4, 2025
unveiling truths: living beyond our shadows

only sometimes, i wonder what it’d feel like to live on the other side of fear. on the other side of restraint. on the other side of caution. what would it feel like to not think about the mess to be cleaned up or the tasks to get caught up or the screams to explain or the shape and folds of my body and the faces or the ways my heart makes visible the emotions that rise and fall and rise and grow and rise and expand til there’s no space or air left to do anything else but explode. what happens and who am i after boom goes the dynamite?

what’s life like after i give more than i thought i had? after i show more than i meant to? after i expose truths i didn’t know i had lied about? after i open the door to rooms i have yet to look at or inside myself? after light is shed on shadows i called monsters and left for dead? after i show what i was scared to see? what is left of treasures untold?

sometimes i wonder if i jumped in feet first just because you asked or if it was because I didn’t know how to breathe the air up there with you. i wonder if fear or faith kept me from drowning. did i even go deep enough? or did you stay with me, where i felt safe, because you were fine wading even if it wasn’t fair? sometimes i wonder if i let lil ol me get in the way of a big new us.

February 26, 2025
unfolding authenticity: discoveries from divorce

a long time ago, a supervisor told me that people are the most unpredictable product. but humans are creatures of habit, i’d proudly retorted. he ignored me, and explained why data on patterns and trends matters so much. because, while the behavior might look different person to person or maybe even over time in the same person, it can be traced back to pretty reliable motivations. the triggers are there, if we know where to look and for what we’re looking. people are who and how they are, he’d said, even when they don’t want to be. especially, he’d emphasized, when they don’t want to be. i didn’t revisit that until after my divorce. after realizing i had focused on all the ways i could repair what was never actually broken.

i first met my ex-husband in middle school at church. a friend brought him after our youth pastor taught us what evangelism could look like at our age. we crushed on each other a bit, but nothing really happened. he seemed too particular for my liking, and i may have been a bit too flitty for his. a couple years later, it didn’t much matter. the youth ministry sort of lost its luster. we all grew up; high school changed what life required of us, and many of us got jobs that required us to work sunday service and wednesday night bible study hours. so, when we crossed paths at an ice cream social at the university we both ended up going to, it seemed kismet. i thought the creator was orchestrating a grand symphony for us.

i didn’t rush it. i dated. liked. loved. even got heartbroken. i wanted to get it all out of my system before settling into forever with my fated. when we finally got together, it sort of felt more like completing an item on a checklist than the kismet moment in time people lauded it as. where they saw a good catch, i felt trapped. with him, i couldn’t be the version of myself i loved most, but i also had never seen any woman be that version in marriage, so i thought it was par for the course. i thought our married selves were meant to be different. more reserved. not knowing how to be married, we just did what we saw other married people do. as i consider it, we never really cleaved unto one another. we didn’t know how. so, we folded. we even folded the red flags in and called them tests. and i think we thought that, at some point, folding was enough. that, one day, it’d be easier to just stay that way.

you know how, if you don’t have scissors, but you need to only use a piece of a piece of paper, you fold it back and forth and sharpen the crease where you plan to separate the pieces? and how, after all those folds, and maybe a little moisture, the paper just sort of gives way? that’s how our divorce happened. we folded. and folded again. and again. back and forth. and by the time the first little bit of rain came, the fold wasn’t a fold anymore.

i was returning from a field trip with my students when i received the curious text that changed my life: i don’t want to do this anymore. at the time, i’d thought he was referring to his job. i had just recently resigned from my sales job to pursue my master’s degree and go into education. i thought he wanted to sit down and plan his own escape. when i later realized his truth, i tried desperately to save our marriage. it wasn’t so much that i thought it worth saving, but that i didn’t want to fail publicly. i didn’t want to admit that we’d made a mistake. i didn’t want to add to the statistic. and all i could think of were all the divorced women i’d known who never even found self-love let alone that of another person. i was scared of what was on the other side. i didn’t know if the grass could be greener.

i later realized that he didn’t want a divorce. he was content with not wanting me as his wife and not allowing anyone else to have me, either. we were to remain married on paper. split the bills. share the house. and “do our own thing.” he knew me enough to know that i couldn’t, in good conscience, do ‘my own thing’ and still be married. i didn’t take my vows lightly. so, if we divorced, it’d be solely my decision. my financial burden. my public admission of failure. it took me awhile, and then just a moment.

in the thick of that season, i could only think of how surprising his actions were. he suddenly seemed so callous. combative. manipulative. so unlike the boy i’d met in church all those years ago. i could not understand how someone who called themselves my friend first could ever treat me roughly as their partner. the pursuit of happiness, for me, is intrinsically linked to my ability to flow where the streams take me and to allow others that same pursuit. even if it doesn’t suit or serve me. for him, it was to control the flow—to dam or divert the streams at will, especially to suit or serve him. that’s what made me seem flitty—what made him too particular to me, respectively, way back when. i just didn’t think he’d be that way with me. but, it was never about me, and i won’t fault him for being his authentic self. it just served as a reminder: when people show you who they are, believe them. the first time. the best people, places, and things in life don’t often require you to fold. and even schisms as cataclysmic as divorce have their merits.

February 24, 2025