The Gift of Being Wanted

The best gift I ever received was given to me when I was too young to realize it was a gift. My birth mother had to get rid of me when I was a baby, but my mom wanted to raise me.

One needed me gone. The other wanted me.

Don’t You Dare Give Up

       

        “Soooo you mean to tell me that someone down your ancestry line survived being chained to other human bodies for several months in the bottom of a disease-infested ship during the Middle Passage, lost their language, customs and traditions, picked up the English language as best they could while working free of charge from sunup to sundown as they watched babies sold from out of their arms and women raped by ruthless slave owners.

       Took names with no last names, no birth certificates, no heritage of any kind, braved the Underground Railroad, survived the Civil War to enter into sharecropping... Learned to read and write out of sheer will and determination, faced the burning crosses of the KKK, everted their eyes at the black bodies swinging from ropes hung on trees... Fought in World Wars as soldiers to return to America as boys, marched in Birmingham, hosed in Selma, jailed in Wilmington, assassinated in Memphis, segregated in the South, ghettoed in the North, ignored in history books, stereotyped in Hollywood... and in spite of it all someone in your family line endured every era to make sure you would get here and you receive one rejection, face one obstacle, lose one friend, get overlooked, and you want to quit? How dare you entertain the very thought of quitting. People, you will never know, survived from generation to generation so you could succeed. Don’t you dare let them down!

      Give this to your young people who don’t know their history and want to get weak! It is NOT in our DNA to quit!” 

I almost did something good today.

 

I almost did something today.

Something good.

For someone;

A friend of mine has an etsy page where he is now selling personalized leather goods. Everything looks good. There are a lot of things I want to buy, 

and I almost did,

but I stopped-

I almost did something today.

Something good.

For them.

I almost bought something.

                                          I also almost shared his posts with friends who would love what he’s selling. But then I remembered…

he's known me for about 20 years,

and for at least 20 years 

my side hustle has been baking 

and I've published about 15 short stories, novellas, a play, and a book;

he has complimented everything I have made

but has purchased 

ZERO/

I see a personal text from him offering me a discount on anything I get from his site,

and asking me to share his page.

I almost did something good today. 

-but I’m done pretending reciprocity is optional.

Note 2 self

CASEY

(a poem trying to remember itself)

(a diptych in two silences)

I.

she

wasn’t—

perfect

but in the small

untranslated

rooms

of her choosing

she

held

me

not the

passing‑off

the

early‑release

the

shadow‑kept

story

no—

she

lifted

my

name

into the open

air

as if

it were

light

learning

how

to stay

II.

from 1962

he

did

what

single men

do;

in the soft blur of women already named Easy

and beds became doors he kept walking through

leaving small unfinished echoes behind

children who decades later found a name that didn’t turn toward them

and I—

closing a door never open to me

simply let it close

-me

The Echo of What I Never Heard

When I was a boy, no one ever told me I was cute. As I got older, no one ever told me I was handsome. I didn’t realize how much that mattered because I was busy trying to be reliable—helping my mom raise my sister and, in many ways, raising myself.

I focused on being good, being useful, being steady. It took me decades to understand that I also needed encouragement, compliments, and someone telling me it was okay to try again when I failed.

For a long time, I believed that if I was kind and funny, it wouldn’t matter whether I was attractive. Life taught me otherwise. I’ve spent most of my life avoiding mirrors, and now I’m older and still hesitant to explain why I’m single—why I’ve always been single.

People don’t ask anymore. Maybe they wonder about me, maybe they don’t. But this is the truth: I grew up never being told I was enough, and I’m still learning how to believe it for myself.

My barber told me he's going to be a dad, and he asked me for words of advice. First thing that popped in my head was to tell him to be the biggest cheerleader for this child. Compliment hin/her regularly and make sure that whatever they are passionate about, make sure that you will have their back 100%. Tell them they're cute, they're pretty, they're handsome, they're smart. Tell them they can do anything, and that they're just as good as any body else. Everything my sister and I never heard.

The Road I Didn’t Take

 For more than forty years, I have been driving a road that does not feel like mine.

It is a good road.

It is paved.

It is sensible.

It has brought me shelter, food, competence, a kind of dignity.

But it is not the road I first saw when I closed my eyes at seventeen.

When I was young, I loved angles the way some girls love poetry. Geometry felt like prayer. Lines met where they were meant to meet. Equations resolved. If you respected the rules, the answer revealed itself. There was comfort in that certainty. I earned A’s without effort, as if numbers recognized me.

I asked about trigonometry because I knew I would need it. I could already see buildings in my mind — not just structures, but intentions. Space shaped by thought. Beauty made livable.

Then one afternoon, in a beige office that smelled faintly of paper and old carpet, someone older than me decided my limits.

“You’ll fail,” she said.

Not maybe. Not we’ll find a way.

Just certainty.

Failure spoken over a child has a particular sound. It does not shout. It settles. It rearranges the room. It moves into the bloodstream.

I nodded. I remember nodding.

And then I turned.

I chose the safe courses. Business. Practical. Marketable. Words that sound like protection. Words that can also mean surrender.

The years passed the way highways pass under tires — unnoticed until you look up and realize the landscape has changed.

I built a career. I became capable. Reliable. The kind of woman who understands policies and numbers and outcomes. The kind of woman people trust with their risks.

But sometimes, when I see a skyline at dusk, something inside me tightens.

It isn’t envy.

It’s recognition.

There is a version of me who understands load-bearing walls the way I understand loss tables. A version who stands in hard hats and sunlight, pointing upward. A version who did not nod in that beige office.

I carry her like a twin who chose differently.

Age has a way of sharpening certain truths. Youth believes time is endless. Age knows it is not. Regret feels different when the horizon no longer stretches infinitely ahead. It becomes less dramatic, more intimate. A quiet visitor who sits beside you at night.

But here is what I am beginning to understand:

Regret is not the same as defeat.

Regret is memory insisting on its own importance.

The dream did not die that day. It went underground. It waited.

I may never hold the title. I may never draft blueprints for towers. But architecture was never only about buildings. It was about vision. Structure. Intention.

And I am still here.

I can still design the shape of my days.

I can still build meaning into the years that remain.

I can still choose where the next road bends.

Perhaps the road I didn’t take has not vanished.

Perhaps it has been walking beside me all along, waiting for me to look left instead of straight ahead.

And perhaps the passenger seat has not been empty.

Perhaps it has been occupied by the woman I almost became — patient, unaccusing, waiting for me to invite her to drive.

currently listening to Sometimes It Snows in April, by Prince 

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