Matching Energy: A Quiet Journey Toward Connection

     

I’m a kind person. Friendly, even. But I’m also an introvert — the kind who finds comfort in quiet corners and deep conversations over small talk. Lately, I’ve been trying to stretch beyond that comfort zone, to be more sociable, more open. It’s not always easy, but it’s a journey I’m proud of.

     One of the biggest changes in that journey? I’ve started matching energy.

     That’s new for me. For a long time, being liked felt essential. I used to go above and beyond — overextending myself, ignoring red flags, trying to earn approval that never felt guaranteed. I thought that if I gave more, people would value me more. But I’ve outgrown that.

     Now, I still want to be accepted — who doesn’t? But I’m no longer bothered if I’m not. I’ve learned that peace comes from authenticity, not performance. I match energy because I respect myself enough not to chase what isn’t mutual.

     If you greet me with warmth, I’ll meet you with the same. If you show genuine interest, I’ll open up. But if your energy is distant, dismissive, or performative, I won’t chase it. I won’t force connection. I believe relationships — whether friendships, collaborations, or support — should be mutual.

     This shift has been liberating. It’s not coldness — it’s clarity.

     And when it comes to my creative work — my side hustle — that clarity matters even more. I pour my heart into what I do. So if you haven’t supported it, maybe don’t ask how it’s going. That question hits differently when it comes from someone who hasn’t been part of the journey.

   I’m learning to be more visible, more vocal. But I’ll always be someone who values reciprocity. Not out of pride — but out of peace.

currently listening to C.O.D. (I'll Deliver) by Mtime

The Invisible Struggles: Why Your Kindness Matters More Than You Know

 

We see people every day, but we never see their full story. The impatient woman in line might have just received devastating news. The quiet coworker could be grieving a loss. The slow cashier might be working three jobs while battling anxiety.

Hidden Battles

Everyone puts on a brave face. Social media shows highlight reels while struggles stay hidden. Behind every composed exterior might be someone fighting battles we know nothing about—financial stress, health scares, loneliness, depression. Many people wake up just trying to get through another day, desperately hoping for one genuine moment of human connection.

Small Kindnesses, Big Impact

This is why small acts of kindness carry tremendous power. A sincere "thank you," holding the door, letting someone merge in traffic, asking "How are you?" and actually listening—these moments might seem insignificant to you, but they can be everything to someone barely holding on.

Your smile might be the first one they've seen in days. Your patience might be the only gentleness they encounter. Your kindness might be the reminder they needed that they matter.

Choose Compassion

Instead of making snap judgments about the "rude" customer or "inconsiderate" driver, what if we assumed everyone is doing their best with whatever they're dealing with? What if we chose curiosity over judgment, compassion over criticism?

You Might Be the Only One

Here's the profound truth: you might be the only person who's kind to someone today. In a harsh, disconnected world, your moment of genuine warmth might help someone keep going. We underestimate how much our small actions affect others.

Tomorrow, remember that everyone you encounter is carrying something. Choose kindness anyway—especially when it's difficult. Your compassion matters more than you know. In a world that can feel divided and harsh, every act of kindness is a small rebellion against despair.

Be kind. You never know whose day—or life—you might be changing.

Currently listening to Clearly, by Anthony Hamilton

i hope there was a reckoning

(my mother passed) a year ago

and i 

   often wonder—

across these 62 years—

 if my bloodmother ever saw 

   how i was treated

(did she imagine

    a reckoning in heaven 

      a moment to confront

 the friend she entrusted me to;

regret rising in her voice as she recalled

    handing me over

before i was 1?)

i don’t know the full story

but i believe 

she thought she was making 

          the best decision

not by seeking parents

but by trusting someone she knew

 maybe

    that trust was misplaced

maybe l(ove) 

   when handed off without clarity

becomes someThing else      

       entirely

- me

The Soft Machinery of Memory

 

About once a week, something makes me cry.

Not the kind of crying that announces itself with sobs or explanations. It’s quieter than that. It sneaks in sideways—through a glimpse, a sound, a passing face, or a flicker of memory I didn’t know was still lit. I’ll be walking, scrolling, washing dishes, and then suddenly I’m not. I’m somewhere else entirely. My thoughts scatter like birds startled from a wire, and before I can gather them again, my eyes well up.

And I ask myself: Why am I crying?

Sometimes I call my best friend. He’s got this gift—he can trace the emotional thread back to its source in seconds. He’ll say, “Oh, it’s because that photo reminded you of  (private) ,” or “That song carries the same chord as the one you played during  (private).” He’s like emotional sonar. I don’t always call him, though. Sometimes I just let the tears come. I let them do their quiet work. And about thirty seconds later, I’m done.

It’s not sadness, exactly. It’s more like a release. A soft exhale from some part of me that’s been holding its breath. A reminder that I’m still porous, still paying attention, still stitched together by memory and meaning even when I don’t realize it.

These moments don’t ask for resolution. They don’t demand a story. They just arrive, do their work, and leave. Like a passing raincloud that waters something underground.

Earlier today, I read those first few lines again—“About once a week, something makes me cry…”—and I felt it. That familiar wetness rising. Not enough to spill, just enough to shimmer. I kept reading. I didn’t cry. I didn’t need to. The feeling passed, but it left a trace. Like a fingerprint on glass. Like a ghost tapping gently on the shoulder of my attention.

I used to think I needed to explain these moments. Now I think they’re proof that I’m still connected—to my past, to my people, to the parts of myself that live just below the surface. They’re small floods of feeling that remind me I’m still here. Still feeling. Still open.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

currently listening to All Day, All Night by Jill Jones (with Prince & The Revolution)

The Science of Forgetting Birth

We don’t remember being born because the mind was still a house without walls—just wind, sensation, and ancestral breath. Memory needed language to anchor itself, and we hadn’t yet learned the names of things. So our first moments slipped into myth, carried by others who witnessed us before we could witness ourselves.

But then, one day, a wall formed. Thin, translucent. I remember kneeling beside my cousin Joy, both of us pressed against the bed, watching my newborn sister Cheryl swaddled in quiet mystery. My mother stepped away to fetch something, and for a moment, the room held only us—two children witnessing the arrival of someone new. That memory stayed because it had shape: names, relationships, the rhythm of a home rearranging itself.

After that, the walls of memory rose slowly. Built from repetition, from the scent of my mother’s skin, from the way Joy said my name. Memory became a house with rooms—some lit, some locked, some echoing with voices I no longer hear but still feel.

-me

  currently listening to Family, by The RH Factor

The Currency of Connection

 

Need brings some people close. But when it’s gone, so are they—like they were never really here.

-me

Currently listening to Heavy, by Anne-Marie

The Power of No.

A soft release from what was never mutual.

I’m releasing expectations that were never mutual. Not with bitterness. Just clarity. I won’t keep showing up where reciprocity never lived. I’m learning to stop hoping others will return the favor. Not because I’ve hardened. But because I’m choosing myself—quietly, like everyone else already did. This isn’t a goodbye. Just a soft re-centering.

-me

Currently listening to Back To Work Boogie // 1982 VaporFunk, Chillwave, Vaporwave, Synthwave, Retro Funk Groove Playlist

I used to resent the morning aches of aging, but now I greet them like old friends—proof that I’ve lived, and that I’m still here to listen.

-me

currently listening to Veinte Anos, by Buena Vista Social Club 

Note To Self.

 

 Each day, your body asks for stillness. If you refuse, it will one day collect its debt in full, all at once.

-me

Currenttly listerning to Up, by Akili Ni Mali 

As of Today,

 I'm manifesting love and everything I desire—with clarity and intention. I'm being specific, because the universe responds to aligned action.

Rain Come, Roots Talk

 

Every word weh fly from yuh mouth, every ting yuh do, is a likkle seed yuh drop in di earth. Kindness? Dat one plant whole orchard—sweet fruit fi days. But cruelty? Eh, dat only raise up bush full a bramble an’ thorn. So tek care what yuh water, 'cause when di season turn, ah dat same crop gwine meet yuh at di door.

Curently listening to: Original Koffee, by Toast

The Beauty in Broken Things

 

In a world that often prizes flawlessness, the Japanese philosophy of kintsugi offers a radical alternative—one that sees beauty in imperfection, strength in fractures, and wisdom in the act of repair. More than an art form, kintsugi is a testament to resilience, celebrating history rather than concealing flaws.

Originating in the 15th century, kintsugi emerged when Japanese artisans began mending broken ceramics with lacquer infused with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Instead of hiding damage, they illuminated it—transforming cracks into veins of brilliance. This practice aligns with the broader philosophy of wabi-sabi, which cherishes impermanence and imperfection. Each repaired bowl, cup, and plate carries a story—not of loss, but of endurance.

Kintsugi is more than a craft; it is a metaphor for life. Hardship, heartbreak, and struggle shape us, but they do not diminish our worth. Like fractured pottery gilded with gold, our scars do not mark weakness—they reveal transformation. As the poet Leonard Cohen once wrote, "There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in." 

Perhaps it is in our brokenness that our most luminous selves emerge.

-me

currently listening to Naima - John Coltrane Quartet 1965

Privilege

            It must be nice to not have to worry about politics because none of the changes affect you.

                                                                           -me

currently listening to Running Away 12" Version-Roy Ayers

Twenty-word Story

I've been lied to, and the only two people who knew the truth have died without revealing it to me.

When Pleasing Others Leaves You Empty

 

If I had known she was never going to be happy regardless of what I did to please her, and that I would have to defend myself against her lies while she was alive, and even the lies she told people about me that I discovered months after she died, I would have given up trying to please her and focused on pleasing myself. I wasted so much time filling her up while I was empty.

I am still cleaning up the mess she made. 

This blog post reflects on the profound realization that spending too much time and energy trying to please someone who will never be satisfied can leave us feeling empty and unfulfilled. It's a powerful reminder of the importance of self-care and prioritizing our own well-being. Sometimes, it's necessary to recognize that it's okay to let go of people who are impossible to please and focus on nurturing ourselves. This self-awareness can help us reclaim the time and energy we need to build a more fulfilling and balanced life.

currently listening to Get You by Daniel Caesar (featuring Kali Uchis)

Judgment

He estado pensando—estoy enojado con ella; me hizo daño. Pero por otro lado, ahora está muerta, y Dios es el juez supremo. Me siento como un niño cuyo padre acaba de intervenir y reprender a un matón. Parte de mí se siente aliviada y protegida, pero otra parte todavía está procesando la ira y el dolor.

Some Housecleaning Is Necessary

 So, if you choose not to share your personal information with everyone, it tends to irritate those who feel entitled to know everything about you?  And they will resort to creating and spreading assumptions in response?      Ok, got it.

currently listening to Beautiful things, by Bahamadia

The Sound Of Silence

 

"Silence in the face of injustice can be interpreted as agreement with the status quo." 

-me

It means that by not speaking out, a person might be seen as being okay with things staying the same, even if those things are unfair.

currently listening to Tambourine, by Prince

Imma leave this right here

 A relationship shouldn’t survive on one person’s effort alone. If they want you in their life, they’ll make room for you—not just update you when it’s convenient.

The Limits of Knowing: What People Don’t Tell Us

  

 In a recent episode of FBI, two characters shared a poignant exchange. One lamented, "I thought I knew him." The other responded with a wisdom that hits close to home: "You can't know what people don't tell you." These words resonate deeply, evoking reflections on human relationships, the enigma of personal identity, and the invisible layers that make up each individual.

The Surface and the Depths

Humans are like icebergs: what we see is only a fraction of the whole. Our interactions, no matter how frequent or intimate, often only scratch the surface. We tend to believe we understand those around us based on our shared experiences and observable behaviors. Yet beneath the surface lies a vast expanse of unspoken thoughts, emotions, and past experiences.

The Facade We Present

People are complex beings, and often, we only show a fraction of ourselves to the world. We wear masks, build facades, and share only what we choose to reveal. This is not inherently deceitful; it's a survival mechanism, a way to protect our most vulnerable selves. We curate our image, deciding what to share and what to conceal based on trust, comfort, and past experiences.

The Unspoken Truths

What people don't tell us can be just as significant as what they do. These unspoken truths might be past traumas, fears, dreams, or even aspects of their identity they are still coming to terms with. The reasons for keeping these things private vary: fear of judgment, the pain of revisiting old wounds, or simply the belief that some things are too personal to share.

The Illusion of Knowing

When we think we know someone, it's based on the information they have provided us. We fill in the gaps with our assumptions and interpretations, often colored by our perspectives and biases. But the reality is, we can never fully know another person. We can only know what they choose to disclose.

The Dynamic Nature of Identity

Moreover, identity is not a static construct; it evolves over time. The person you thought you knew five years ago may have undergone significant changes in beliefs, values, or life circumstances. These shifts might not always be outwardly evident, further complicating our understanding of each other.

Building Deeper Connections

To build deeper connections, we must acknowledge this limitation. True intimacy comes from a place of mutual understanding and acceptance. It involves creating a safe space where individuals feel comfortable sharing their truths. This requires patience, empathy, and the willingness to listen without judgment.

Embracing the Unknown

Embracing the unknown is part of the journey of relationships. It means accepting that we will never have all the answers and that some aspects of those we love will remain a mystery

currently listening to Someone Like You, by Adele

This is an example of a rhetorical question

 Why do I let myself forget that I live in America as a black man and that I need to take some extra steps to get a fair result?

currently listening to Black Man In A White World, by Michael Kiwanuka 

ok. and...

 my therapist once told me that I need to be intentional with what I want and it will show up.

ok. and?

Disappear.

 Today, I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen since the 1990s.

His name is Rusty. He was surprised to see me and even more surprised to learn I now live in Milwaukee. We knew each other back when I lived in Madison. Rusty, my best friend Steve, and I were inseparable in those days—they were my two closest friends.

Steve moved to California in 1991, and I moved to Maryland in 1997. Steve and I kept in touch over the years, but staying connected with Rusty was a challenge. He never returned my calls after Steve moved away. 

This evening, January 2, 2025, I was walking into the Pic ‘N Save on Humboldt Street when Rusty was walking out. He saw me first and called my name. At first, I didn’t recognize him, but the sound of his voice brought it all back.

He looked genuinely happy to see me. We made small talk, catching up briefly. He mentioned that the last he’d heard, I had moved to Maryland. I told him about my life since then, and he started reminiscing about the old days—how he, Steve, and I hung out all the time and the crazy adventures we shared.

“Wow,” Rusty said, shaking his head. “That was over 30 years ago. I wonder how Steve’s doing.”

“He’s doing great,” I said casually.

Rusty blinked in surprise. “You still keep in touch with him?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We always have.”

Rusty looked stunned. “I haven’t heard from him since he moved to Laguna Niguel in the 1990s. When was the last time you talked to him?”

“About an hour ago,” I replied.

Rusty couldn’t hide his shock. “You’ve been in touch all this time?”

“Yep,” I said. “The last time I tried to reach you was not long after Steve moved. I left you a voicemail, but you never responded. Steve said he hadn’t heard from you either since leaving Wisconsin.”

After a pause, Rusty asked for my contact information.

I smiled politely and said, “No, I’m good. Thanks, though. Take care.”

With that, I grabbed a cart and went on with my shopping.

Friendships, I’ve realized, are not meant to be one-way streets. Communication requires effort from both sides, a mutual desire to stay connected. Over the years, I’ve found that when I stop reaching out to certain people, I never hear from them again. It’s a hard truth to accept, but one that has helped me prioritize the relationships that truly matter—the ones where the effort is reciprocated.

currently listening to Rollercoaster, by October London

Decades From Now

 Strangers,

decades from now,

will stumble upon the echoes of my life—

My blog posts,

Facebook musings,

TikTok desserts spun with care,

Instagram snapshots of edible art,

Amazon pages of short stories and novellas,

Pictures of me, smiling with family and friends,

Draped in compliments,

DMs,

and countless hearts.

They’ll wonder,

peering through this curated window,

why life felt so heavy on my shoulders,

why loneliness lingered like a shadow,

why success danced just out of reach,

why companionship slipped through my fingers,

why love, so deeply yearned for,

never quite stayed.

They’ll wonder,

despite the effort,

the trying,

the longing—

how it all still felt so far away.

--me