Stop Asking Me About a Man

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 background. A relentless ticking clock telling me I needed to find him, lock down a partner, build a life with someone, and check off that relationship box to feel legitimate. (You see where that got me!) I used to strive for a relationship the way you chase oxygen when you're underwater. I poured hours into social scenes, sat through awkward first dates where I tried to shrink my personality, and ignored glaring red flags just because the thought of being single felt like a public failure. I was willing to share my peace with strangers just to avoid an empty apartment.

But let's be entirely honest with ourselves: I just don't have the energy anymore.

While they are skinning and grinning with a booger, who don't even an extra towel or washcloth. Or preening to parade themselves around men who going home to their wives before the sun rises. Meanwhile, I ain't smiling at no damn man extra hard hoping to be chose, raising my voice an octave, or acting like I don't cuss like a sailor's sailor. I'm good.

The thought of opening up my life, explaining my trauma, managing someone else's emotional regulation, or watering a plant that might just turn out to be a plastic weed? Exhausting. (If they care to even know) I simply refuse to clock in for it. The tank is empty of patience for inconsistent communication, potential-project partners, or men who want the soft landing of a Black woman's care without doing the work to deserve her vulnerability.

And yet, as a complex, feeling creature—because healing doesn't mean turning into a stone statue—there is a softer, secret truth I keep close to my chest.

Of course, I silently still pray love finds me.

I’m not cynical. I still believe in romance, in deep, soul-stirring partnership, in a love that feels like a safe harbor instead of a battlefield. Sometimes, when the sun is setting just right or I hear a song that hits my spirit, I whisper a little prayer into the universe: “Lord, if you’ve got a good one out there for me, someone who matches my healing, someone who protects my peace the way I protect it myself… bring him through.”

I haven't locked the door on love. I've just stopped standing outside waiting in the freezing cold for someone who doesn't know how to knock.

There is a massive, life-altering difference between being lonely and being at peace with your own company. Loneliness is a hunger. Solitude is a feast. And right now? I am sitting at a table I set entirely for myself, by myself.. and the food is too good!

If love shows up tomorrow, he’s going to have to meet me at my elevation. He’s going to have to match the tranquility I’ve fought tooth and nail to build. He won't get to disrupt my peace; he'll have to add to it.

And if love takes its sweet time? If it doesn't show up for years, or at all?

I am still going to be okay. More than okay. I am learning to deeply, fiercely love the woman who lives inside these walls. I don’t need a plus-one to validate my night out, I don’t need a man to feel complete, and I sure as hell don’t need anyone's drama to keep me warm. (I do like to read about yours so keep up the good fight!)

I’m chilling. I’m thriving. I'm reading some books and elevating. And for the last time... No, I'm not dating or fucking anybody.

YET...