Never forget when they had a choice, and it was "f#ck you." It doesn't matter if they said those words or not, that intention is there. Yeah, you bent over backwards, time after time. Hell, they needed you more than you need them. Yet, when you needed them, they conveniently forgot... or got busy ...or whatever. Until they need something else from you again. What's that line Akira keeps throwing at us, "stop bending over backwards for people that won't even stand up for yo

Every time my mind wanders to the stack of utility bills that look like mortgage, or the kids ask me for yet another thing, including dinner... I find myself asking the hard questions. Questions like: Why did I let guidance counselors ruin my life? Back in 1999, high school teachers hammered a singular, soul-crushing narrative into my brain: go to college, get a degree, secure a steady 9-5, and climb the corporate ladder. I followed the rules. I bought ALL the sensible blazer

Let’s start with a quick confession: I am writing this while sipping a venti Strawberry Acai Refresher from Starbucks that my current bank balance had absolute zero business approving. Mathematically, logically, and fiscally, buying said refresher or even a venti Caramel Ribbon Crunch (line the cup with caramel, please) when your bank account is holding on by a single paperclip is a direct act of financial sabotage. I know the math. I’ve read the personal finance articles wri

Look, in the immortal, sacred, unfiltered words of Ms. Erykah Badu: I’m sensitive about my shit! And I mean deeply sensitive...like cuss you clean OUT... type of sensitive. Because every single time I hit publish on these think pieces, I am not just putting words on a screen—I am opening up my spirit, packaging up my thoughts, and serving y’all a whole gourmet, five-course meal of my mind. This is my art. This is my soul. This is literally me giving y’all a piece of ME! EA

Stop trading explanation for reality. I am so over scrolling down my timeline watching folks literally do backflips trying to make sense of something that is actually very simple. How you let a mufuka come up with a reason WHY he cheated on you in attempts to salvage a relationship?! Yall really be out here talking about I'm mean... but fuck all that. I would rather be mean than sitting around somewhere being a paid actor for the FBI, digging through their childhood, their

There is a precise, desperate kind of grief known only to those who have tasted perfection on its absolute last day of availability. Last year, on a total whim, I tried the Biscoff Bundt Cake. It was warm, spiced, perfectly moist, and layered with that signature caramelized cookie butter richness. It was love at first bite. Naturally, I returned the very next morning, fully prepared to start a daily habit—only to be met with a cold, devastating truth: season's over. They were

Resentment hits different when you're cornered by it. It’s sharp as rusted razor wire, refusing to soften into disappointment or fade into some haze of grief. What makes it uniquely isolating is the invisibility of it. You are standing right there, internally holding back a tidal wave caused by someone else's negligence or selfishness, while they are completely oblivious, casually living their lives because they don't have to deal with the fallout of their mess. That contrast

Where did the time even go? One second I'm frantically slathering SPF 50 on the faces of my 10-year-old and her besties as they rejoice that "black don't burn" and paying $18 for a watered-down lemonade on the sidelines of a soccer pitch, and the next, the calendar is screaming September and I'm staring at a receipt for $400 worth of school supplies that I will never see again. People act like a summer solstice is some mystical Gandalf-level wizardry, but let’s be honest: it’

Call me bitter... this going to be me! The screen at Walmart didn’t just flash my total; I swear that mofo hissed like RJ after he's been cornered. I stared at the total—$412.38 to be exact— and felt a hot, metallic rage pool in the back of my throat. I tried to reassess really quick at what was necessary and what could wait... because that was supposed to be the electricity money. After putting back three binders of wide-ruled paper, six packs of glue sticks, those damn Tri

For as long as I can remember, as black women with sons we’ve handed our boys a script we thought would save them: Work hard. Get that degree. Climb the ladder. Move into the good neighborhoods, get into the right schools, and give them the world. We raised them to believe that if they just worked twice as hard, if they fit in, if they played by the rules, success would somehow act as armor. We trusted the script. Lately, though? My hands are shaking just typing this, because

My knees is dead. So are yours! It's time we file the class action lawsuit we all deserve: 2000s Club Trauma!! Let’s get one thing straight: back in 1999, I wasn't just cute. I was that THANG. If you walked into the club and didn't lose your breath admiring me, this face card, my outfit or this ass... you're the problem. I was carrying the weight of a whole generation's sex appeal on a size-ten frame and a pair of platform pair of Manolos. So, believe me when I tell you tha

I hate for a mofo to ask me am I dating? Or where your man at? Even, what's wrong with you? Do you at least have a friend with benefits? Hell no! Believe it or not, there is a quiet, radical kind of luxury in looking at your phone, realizing you haven't received a single text that requires emotional labor. My freedom comes in feeling an overwhelming wave of relief instead of loneliness. For a long time, I moved through the world with a low-grade hum of urgency in the backg

Let me give you the backstory of how I got dragged into this multi-car pileup of a show. I hadn’t heard a single peep about The Polygamist until my best friend called me out of the blue, hyperventilating into the phone: "Girl, you HAVE to watch this. Start right now. I’m calling you back in two hours!" Now, you know I love me some drama, but I wasn't prepared. The beginning of the show hooked me. When Joyce paraded her ass into that funeral in all white, walked right up and l

You ever sit and think "who tf are you playing with?" Yeah... then this is for you. Look, we live in a world full of people who think they got you all mapped out. Based on where you work, how you dress, or whatever old tea they got on you. They already wrote a whole script for your life. They expect you to play your part, stay in your little lane, and let them run the whole show. The crazy part? Most people actually do it. They start shrinking up when someone tries to bully

Listen, if you had told my 25-year-old self that one day my definition of "turning up" would involve a high-powered ceiling fan, wine in a Stanley cup and compression socks, I would have laughed you right out of the room. Back in the day!? It was all about the Hot Girl Summer. We were out here glistening, glowing, and body-rolling until 2:00 AM without a single ache or pain. My midsection was tight, my stamina was infinite, and that summer breeze felt like a music video backd

There is a unique, quiet kind of grief that comes with getting wiser. It’s something I truly wish someone had warned me about when I first started waking up to my own life. We’re taught to view personal growth like it’s some cute little additive process—like we’re just stacking new achievements, better habits, and deeper relationships onto the person we already are. Let me be real with you: the realest, most brutal growth I have ever experienced wasn't about adding a damn thi

I should've known better. It is a heavy thing to carry the contrast of what I know a father should be against what my children are actually getting. I grew up with a dad who was the definition of safety, reliability, and consistency. That blueprint is permanently etched into my mind. I know firsthand how profound a good father’s impact is, watching my ex fail to provide that same foundation feels like my own personal failure. Sometimes, I look back at the beginning of our sto

In a world that constantly demands you optimize your workflow, monetize your hobbies, and wake up at 4:00 AM to drink swamp-green smoothies, there is a quiet, radical act of rebellion waiting for you. It’s called doing absolutely nothing. Not "nothing" as in scrolling past terrible vacation photos on social media. Not "nothing" as in watching a documentary while guilt-tripping yourself about the laundry. We are talking about pure, unadulterated, glorious, zero-percent-product

Happy May! Or as your dopamine receptors call it: The Busy Season. In 2026, we've automated out cars and put AI in our refrigerators, but the quest for the "Perfect O" remains as manual and chaotic as a 19th century gold rush. Whether you're a seasoned pro or a casual hobbyist, let's dive into the glorious, messy, and occasionally absurd reality of getting it done solo. The Quest for Content First, you have to set the mood. This usually involves the infinite scroll of in

I need you to take a deep breath, the kind that actually reaches the bottom of your lungs, because I know you’ve been breathing shallow for years just trying to keep the air still around you. I’ve been where you are. I spent years trying to be the "perfect rib." I thought if I just supported him a little harder, held the house together a little tighter, and anticipated every storm before it hit us, he’d eventually notice the sacrifice and start shielding me, too. But here’s t