Visiting My Nana: The Sweetest Thing I Saw This Month

I was scouring my Confessions of a Purse Carrier Blogspot archives and realized, I have never written a piece solely about my grandmother, who I affectionately call Nana. Strange, right? I’ve written long birthday posts on social media and reflections when we’ve traveled together, but nothing on Confessions. My Nana is 96 (or 97) years old. I put the parenthesis because when my mom became her primary caregiver in 2015, she was able to obtain Nana’s birth certificate and discovered that it didn’t match the age Nana had always been told. But in true Nana fashion, she stood on business: “I’m staying the age I was told I was.” And baby, when you’ve made it this far, you deserve to pick your joys, including your age. I also want to dive into the historical treatment of Black women giving birth during that time, many didn’t even receive birth certificates because of the racism and classism baked into America’s systems. But that’s a whole essay for another day.

Quick backstory: My mom moved to be her primary caregiver in 2015. Nana was diagnosed with dementia. Over the years, my mom and her sisters gave what they could, time, money, energy to make sure Nana’s health, wellness, finances, and social life were cared for. Eventually, professional care became necessary, and Nana transitioned into assisted living. She’s lived in a few places and most recently set up shop at a new residence. My mom visits often, and I’ve had the privilege of tagging along a couple times. On the last visit, I started writing about the experience, and here we are. Watching my mom uproot her life to pour into her mother’s life has been both beautiful and heavy. A rewarding but weighty purse to carry.

Now, let me be honest: I don’t like Nana’s new place. She’s clean, well fed, her room spotless, she has “friends,” and she’s generally content, which is the priority. But taste-wise? Not my vibe. Every time I’m there I catch myself daydreaming about how I’d run a senior residence, what it would look like, how the residents would live, the activities they’d be doing, the whole vibe. But let’s be clear, am I ever actually going to open said imaginative senior residence? “Hell naw to the naw naw naw.” So, I keep my little imaginary improvements to myself and let my mom and her sisters go back and forth about whatever they got going on for their mama.

On this particular visit, and honestly every visit, when you walk in, most residents are in the common area. The TV is on, a handful are watching, others are asleep, others are somewhere in another galaxy far, far away from ghetto earth. Staff are around giving meds, helping with bathroom trips, or, in the case of one staffer, consistently snacking. Chips. Always chips.

I scanned the room and spotted Nana, regal as ever: tiny, hunched over, inspecting her nails. I walked up. She smiled. “It’s so good to see you,” she said. That line still hits, because I used to be terrified she’d forget me. Once, at her first residence, she spotted me and proudly yelled to her table, “That’s my granddaughter!” Cue waterworks. Since then, her recognition has wavered, but so has my fear. I don’t need her to remember me, I just want her happy. On this visit, she looked at me as “familiar” and, about an hour in, called me “Cyn-Cyn,” like always. My mom she knows instantly by name, by heart. Witnessing that recognition is a gift.

We sat in the common area. Nana launched into her usual loop: wanting her hair and nails done, asking about her sister (who passed away), asking about my dad (also gone), reminiscing about Pittsburgh, mentioning “the kids going back to school.” On repeat. The new stuff? Gossip. She had notes on her fellow residents: who she liked, who she didn’t, who talked too much, and who she was ready to fight. Some she simply referred to as “Negros,” cussing as she recounted their antics.
“Why are you cussing, Mommy?” my mom asked.
“Because I will beat her ass,” Nana said flatly. I chuckled. She never mentions the man I saw on our last visit, the one letting a fellow resident hug up on him and kiss him because she thought he was her brother. This time he was rocking Omega Psi Phi paraphernalia, which instantly clicked for me. No wonder he was smirking during all that kissing last time. Ahh, the Bruhz.

The activity coordinator came in with a movie suggestion. She played a trailer and asked if they wanted to watch. Folks hollered out, “Whaaaat she say?”—most were either half-asleep or just plain confused. The few who caught on watched the trailer and emphatically said nope. So she asked, “Well, do any of you have a movie suggestion?” From what I’ve observed, the boss resident of the group hollered, “My Fair Lady!” Immediately another groaned, “Again? That movie is too long!” She even tried to make a dramatic walker-exit until boss lady shut her down with, “Oh, sit down, where you even going?” And down she sat. So, yes, My Fair Lady, all 2 hours and 50 minutes of it, was the afternoon screening. Thirty minutes in, somebody yelled, “All they do is sing in here?” Yes, sis. Yes. But when I tell you, watching residents chant, “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plane,” or tear up singing, “I Could Have Danced All Night,” was the sweetest thing I’ve seen in months.

Of course, mid-movie, my mom decided to scroll social media. Aretha Franklin’s Respect blasted from her phone, louder than the TV. Ma’am, read the room we are in full Rodgers & Hammerstein mode. Meanwhile, Nana started expressing how hungry she was, snacking is her favorite pastime. A staffer handed her some goodies, and later the activity coordinator gave her apple muffins from a group baking activity. My mom asked if she helped bake. “No! I told her I wasn’t doing that,” Nana declared. But she sure ate two muffins. I tried one they tasted exactly like the environment: endearing yet somber.

As the visit wrapped, Nana grew restless: “I want to put on my pajamas and lay down.” My mom, like clockwork: “Not before dinner.” Back and forth for an hour until finally, a kitchen staffer yelled, “First seating, dinner time to eat!” Why they gotta holler like that? Jarring every time.

And that’s Nana a regal, sharp-tongued, always ready for snacks beauty. Even in this season of life, she’s teaching me what resilience looks like, what love looks like, and yes, what shade looks like.

I’ll report back after the next visit.

Ladybug & God Mommy: Holding Agape Love While Chasing Dreams

There was no rule book, biblical or otherwise, to help us navigate this chapter of our lives. Why would I put my life on hold to help raise a child that wasn’t mine? The answer to the Why? Agape love.

Last year I had the privilege of writing a piece, Reimagining Love: How Raising My Goddaughter Taught Me the Importance of Agape Love, for the February 2024 issue of Carefree Magazine. In the piece, I shared how I became the godmother of my oldest goddaughter, Jordyn Sierra, and how she didn’t just change my understanding of love, she changed my life. I am extremely close to her, especially during her younger years. It got to the point where if I showed up to a function alone, people would ask, “Where’s Jordyn?” We were indeed joined at the hip.

A part of the story I didn’t share in that piece was that around the time Jordyn entered middle school, I began prioritizing some of my career goals. I had been teaching for over a decade while simultaneously running my own production company, SoulFLY Theatre Society. I wanted to figure out how to step out of the classroom and fully focus on my company, to forge ahead in my artistic career path. I spent the bulk of quarantine taking online workshops, streamlining my résumé, and joining a “leaving the classroom” community for support. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is for teachers to transition out of the classroom, it’s insane. The strong programmatic leadership, organizational management, strategic vision, adept-ability, financial acumen, emotional intelligence, effective communication, social, and wellness skills teachers master daily deserve far more acknowledgment in corporate America. We have trained every CEO, so I don’t understand the dilemma here.

Anyway, post-quarantine, I started applying for grants, jobs, and fellowships, anything that might move me toward the next chapter. In 2022, I was awarded a prestigious producing fellowship in NYC. At first, I didn’t fully understand the scope of what it entailed, so I didn’t immediately tell Jordyn. In my mind, it wasn’t that big of a deal, I’d be conducting business as usual, just with an added layer of education to strengthen my producing practice. It was indeed a big deal. Once I was accepted, the program director asked, “When will you be moving here?” Wait, what? He explained that the best way to fully experience the fellowship was to actually live in New York.

I toiled with the decision. My mom assured me that the risk was worth taking, reminding me that people of privilege take these kinds of opportunities all the time. Even though I didn’t have the privilege of not worrying about lodging or income, I knew I couldn’t pass up something that might be the stepping stone toward manifesting my dreams. My family and closest friends were supportive, so I sent in my resignation and began packing for a new city. The hardest part? Telling Jordyn, the one person I wished I could take with me.

I remember the conversation vividly. I was driving down Brentwood Parkway, Jordyn in the passenger seat, controlling the music. We’d been arguing about how depressing Rod Wave is. “Jordyn, please, I don’t want to be depressed. Can you play something else? If not, I’m choosing.” “He’s not depressing, God Mommy!” she sighed, before switching to Elle Varner’s Refill. Her music taste has always swung between “sad teenager” vibes and early 2000s love songs, I’ll always prefer the latter. I think we were headed to Trader Joe’s, scavenger-hunting in TJs had become our thing. She loved trying new foods but never left without her staples: chili and lime rolled tortilla chips, seaweed snacks, pancake bread, and green power juice. My broke best friend. As Elle Varner hiccup-sang her way through Refill, I turned the music down. “Ladybug”, my nickname for her, “I was awarded this fellowship and have to move to NYC for a while.” Silence. I glanced over, she was looking out the window, her brows furrowed. “At first I didn’t even know I’d have to move. But it’s a really good opportunity to help me reach my goals.” More silence. Then sniffles. She was crying.

“You okay, Ladybug?”

“You’re leaving?” she said, before crying harder. And then I cried too. I hadn’t expected her to be so emotional. Later, when I told my best friend, she said, “Why were you shocked? You guys are intertwined. Of course she’d be affected.”

I assured Jordyn I’d only be a phone call away, and for the first year, I made sure I was home on Fridays to pick her up from school. Throughout the three-year fellowship, I did the God Mommy thing from a distance surprising her with visits, dropping everything to come home when she needed me, while also committing fully to the fellowship. I wanted to quit so many times, but I pushed through and finished strong.

At the end of my final year, the producing office I worked with had a show, MEXODUS, opening Off-Broadway with Audible. I was so proud of the show and the work I had done as the culmination of my fellowship years. When my boss told me I had two tickets to opening night, I immediately knew I wanted Jordyn there. She’d visited me in NYC before, but this was different. I wanted her to celebrate the “final hooray” of the three years I had sacrificed with me.

We showed up to her first “Broadway” opening night in our 90’s Hip Hop chic fits. She rocked silver bamboo earrings, a Black Girl Magic graphic tee, a leather cargo skirt, and bow-embellished tights with matching shoes. I was in my Peace, Love, Hip Hop graphic tee, gold bamboo earrings, shades, leather pants and Jordan 1s. “Flyer than the rest of ’em,” in my Wale voice. Ladybug loved the show, snapped pictures at the theater and with the cast, and turned into full-on Social Susie at the afterparty. I never want her to forget the example of choosing yourself, even when it’s hard, even when you’re a giver and take care of others around you, which she is.

So here’s to the lessons, the risks, and the quest of dream manifestation. Here’s to agape love. Here’s to Jordyn Sierra! I still dream of loving bicoastally, and as I take the necessary steps to reach my goals, I want Ladybug to come with me, while also keeping my heart open to supporting her as she chooses her own path.

15 Years, Countless Confessions, One New Chapter

Gilliams Writers Group

On April 6, 2010, I started my blog Confessions of a Purse Carrier on Blogger. In my very first post I wrote:

So...I have this theory of sorts. There are several women walking around earth (or some other strange place) suffering from "The Purse Carrying Syndrome." Let me explain: In every group of girlfriends there is always at least one girl hit with the line: "Hey girl, can you hold my purse?" This occurs mostly in social settings (i.e. clubs, lounges, and bars).

"Hi, my name is Cyn and I suffer from Purse Carrier Syndrome." I am her and she is me. I guess this started back in high school at the dances. I had a crush on Kwasi (aaaah, memories), but my girls were always one step ahead of me and one lip gloss shade prettier (or so I thought). I’ve carried my friends’ purses for over 13 years. Big purses, little purses, medium purses. Gucci, Louis, and Fendi (all knockoffs, of course). I’ve carried the "I’m pregnant but can’t tell my mom" purse, the "I’m cheating on my boyfriend" purse, the "My baby daddy ain’t shit but I still love him" purse, and the "I’m going to commit suicide" purse. But here’s the thing: I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I love my friends, but I want to live with them, not through them. This blog will document my journey toward success, love, and an amazing life. Letting go of my friends’ baggage so I can start to deal with my own. Welcome to Confessions of a Purse Carrier. Enjoy!

And enjoy I did.

For 15 years, I’ve written everything from short stories to bold societal critiques to vulnerable self-reflections. Some months I posted like a machine and other months I disappeared into the ether. But this space was mine, and I leaned on it when I needed it most. Along the way, people told me a post spoke to them deeply, laughed at my sometimes crass yet loopy banter, and one time, a publisher even reached out encouraging me to write a book. It’s been a wild, beautiful ride.

Now, I’ve decided to spread Confessions of a Purse Carrier over to Substack. I love reading over there and engaging with other creatives, so it feels like a natural next step. Don’t worry, Blogger isn’t going anywhere, I’ll be publishing on both. As soon as I figure out auto-crossposting, you ain’t gonna be able to tell me nothin’, baby! For now, it’s a good old copy-paste situation. Me, Blogger, and Substack in a nice little poly relationship. 

If you’re reading this on Blogger, come follow me on Substack.

If you’re reading this on Substack, take a stroll through my Blogger archives for the full, eclectic portfolio.

Ok, that’s it. Love y’all…stay tuned.

Social Anxiety Chronicles: The Black Daria Morgendorffer

I admit it, I haven’t gotten over my social anxiety. I've been working on it and it's gotten a lot better. But even now, after any social engagement, I spiral into a familiar mental loop: 

Did I talk too much? 

Not enough? 

Did I represent myself well? 

These thoughts stick with me for days…sometimes weeks.

I've expressed in previous blog posts my disdain for small talk, but I’m learning to go with it. I accept that most people are more comfortable with surface-level small talk, capped with the obligatory “Let’s get drinks and catch up!” which, let’s be real, is often more performance than promise. All of which is ok, do you boo boo.

Recently, I had to attend an event, and I mentally geared up for it like it was game day. On the way there, I hit the pen, lightly, okay? Just enough to calm my nerves, nothin’ too crazy. Upon arrival, I surveyed the room for the perfect introvert cozy corner: near the waiter’s entrance (to grab hors d’oeuvres and drinks), the bathroom (for emergency pep talks), and ideally with a clear view of the exit. I know a corner seat hates to see me coming! I found my spot, settled in and people-watched for a bit, honestly my favorite part. I love seeing people happy and having fun. Folks came over to chat, and I engaged. I really did! But after I left, the post-event panic set in: 

Oh God, did I have diarrhea of the mouth again? 

Y’all, I was saying things like: 

When I walk into the room as a dark-skinned fat Black woman, my experience is totally different from those who don’t look like me. Just because we are Black our experiences are not the same.

I don’t feel like fighting for anything anymore especially not a seat at this raggedy table. If they don’t want me in the room I will gladly exit stage left. 

Like, baby, who hurt me?! Even now I have the urge to answer that question but aht aht ssssh, silencio por favor.

I am generally a very chill person. Those closest to me are always talking about how funny I am, and I cherish the joyful moments in my life which I have many. So why do I result to sharing my thoughts from, "The Weight of the World" file in my brain? Girl, people not trying to hear all that over dry ass Cabernet and saltless chips and guac. Especially on a Friday night! I'm told the older you become the more unfiltered you are and Lord, I'm begging you, please be a filter Jesus! 

I've become the socially awkward character we laugh at on TV and in movies. The Black Daria Morgendorffer. But the thoughts are real. The feelings are honest. The mouth may runneth over, but at least it speaks the truth. 

Pray for me ya’ll, the struggle is real.

Fourth Quarter: God's Playbook > My Plan

It’s the 4th quarter, and like any 4th quarter, anticipation and expectation have linked arms and are doing the most.

Quick heads up: I’ve decided to sprinkle varying sports references throughout this post for my own personal writing enjoyment, even though I am not, in any real way, into sports beyond the last leg of my relationship with a basketball player.

A quick replay for those just tuning in: back in 2022, I was in the 4th quarter of a different game when I was awarded a “prestigious” producing fellowship in NYC. At first, I was like, how am I gonna afford to quit my job and do this fellowship? And my Mom, the MVP of my life, said, “You’re going to do it! White people send their kids off to do fellowships and gap years all the time. Black kids should be able to do it too. We’ll figure the money thing out.” God, continue to protect, bless, and cover my mother because she really is THAT girl.

So, I went. This “prestigious” fellowship is typically a year long, but I was awarded an additional two years of support. Fast forward to today, April 2025, and here we are: the 4th quarter of my final year.

Now, I know people are curious. 

What’s the experience been like? 

What are you working on? 

Calm your small talk nerves Baby Bop. Trust me, I can’t wait to spill. I've been writing a full reflection from trying to find housing to getting scammed on LinkedIn. (Yes, LinkedIn. The struggle is alive and well and runs deeply like a pantyhose snag. But we still yet holdin’ on, standing firm, persevering.) I'll be back soon with the full, fleshed-out play-by-play.

This right here? This is just a quick 4th quarter check-in.

When the clock hits zero, what’s next? Where will I land in a world where commercial producing has historically been a rich white man's sport? (And still is.) But let me tell you the real highlight reel has been seeing the producers of color out here grinding, breaking barriers, and shifting the game. It's empowering, inspiring, beautiful and flavorful. It’s giving full-on Lawry’s-Goya-Badia-NuSpice realness, and bay-bee, I am absolutely here for it!

When I started my company in DC 17 years ago, my goal was simple: to create opportunities for women of color, to tell our stories, and to share them with the DC community. That foundation hasn't changed. I’m just a little wiser (and older) now. My vision's expanded, but the heart remains the same. I don’t know exactly what’s gonna happen at the end of this 4th quarter. But if history tells me anything, it’s that I’m that quiet player, you know, the one you don't see coming who somehow scores the final touchdown. I’d love to be cocky enough and say it’s all part of some brilliant master plan. But lying at this age seems moronic and my mama ain't raise no fool. Honestly? I can’t even take the credit. It’s my Coach. He positions me, he pushes me, he calls the plays. All I have to do is trust Him, follow the plays, stay out of my own way (especially when self-doubt and comparison start creeping), and keep moving. And shoutout to my handful of courtside supporters (And yes, I switched sports. And what about it?) because every player needs a real one in the stands. My Mom, my brother, my auntie, and my three closest friends have been cheering me on through these last three years, and I can’t even say thank you enough.

The game ain’t over yet. I’m still pushing through. Soaking up all I am meant to learn. Remembering to document my life and celebrate every win, big or small, as they come. I’ll be back with the full replay soon. Until then no matter what quarter you're in be well!

The best is yet to come.

 

Lumumba, Leadership, Legacy and the Long Arc of Justice

Painting by: Peter Tujibikile

"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." -MLK

My best friend sent me an Instagram post about Patrice Lumumba recently, and I immediately started thinking about leadership and what it truly means for humans to lead other humans.

For those who don’t know, Lumumba was a Congolese Pan-Africanist who served as the first democratically elected Prime Minister of the Congo. Before taking office, he was heavily involved in the Congolese National Movement, in association with an African nationalist party dedicated to the independence of Congo from the colonial chokehold of Belgium. And you know with any uprising, there’s drama. Not just from the opposition, but often within the movement itself. No, we can’t all just get along, especially when the fight involves control, which usually involves money. Anyway, Lumumba was elected by the people and then murdered by the very forces that feared his power. The coup that took his life was sanctioned by Eisenhower’s CIA, ignited by Belgium, and carried out by those with political agendas that clashed with Lumumba’s. His body was dismembered, dissolved in acid and Belgium kept his tooth as a trophy. Lumumba’s story isn’t unique. I’m sure we can all name too many leaders, at home and abroad, who step into roles of liberation, only to be cut down before their work is done. I can’t help but think about the Biblical story of Jesus, his life, crucifixion, and resurrection. I’ve been hyper-fixated on fallen leader stories like Lumumba's since I was a child. And here I am, in my grown age, still wondering: Why does a difference in belief so often result in violence or death? Why are basic human and civil rights still up for debate by humans, no less? And what about the leaders who seek power but don’t like people? The ones who lead with malice and hate and seem to walk through life unscathed?

I remember one day when I was little, riding in the car with my mommy. A lot of our deepest talks (and arguments) happened while she was behind the wheel. I was confused about how certain people could do awful things, steal, lie, harm others, and still carry themselves like nothing happened. We’re taught at a young age that there are consequences for our actions, so I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t faced any. My mom paused and said, “You know, I really believe God is giving them space and opportunity to repent and seek forgiveness. God is a God of second and third chances. I really believe He’s just waiting for them to take Him up on his offer hoping they’ll make things right.” 

That stuck with me.

We’ve all experienced leadership that’s left us scarred or inspired. There are strengths and flaws in all of us. I’ve seen both in my personal and professional life. Some leaders have broken my spirit, and some have reignited my purpose. But when one considers the weight of true leadership not just titles or optics, but the call to care for and carry others it becomes clear: the greatest leaders often risk the most. And maybe the reason their stories linger as legacy in our hearts is because they remind us that leadership without integrity is a title without substance. A performance. And even though GOD waits for this sort of leader to do the right thing, with every performance there is a closing number. 

Why this post now?

Lumumba’s legacy is still being uplifted and passed around Al Gore’s internet 64 years later while here in the U.S., some leaders are working overtime to erase stories like his from classrooms and consciousness. At the same time, I’m watching leaders who’ve left scars are falling. One by one. Sometimes, we have to release our human craving for immediate justice. Sometimes, we must trust that accountability moves on a divine clock. This is a word of encouragement because we all need it. There are consequences for every action, but the most powerful ones unfold beyond our reach. Be still. Heal. Keep living your life the best way you know how. And let God handle the rest…because He will. 

Ephesians, Exchanges, & Excellent Headphones

Dearest Gentle Reader (in my best Lady Whistledown voice),

Ok so, hear me out...

I’ve been thinking a lot about Ephesians 6:12 lately. Now, I know not everyone identifies as Christian, and I respect everyone’s path, whether you’re practicing a religion or just striving to be a good human being. I see the Bible as a storybook full of beautiful reference points, kind of like how Charlotte’s Web gave me my blueprint for friendship. Charlotte’s love and appreciation for Wilbur? That’s how I choose to love my people.

Now back to Ephesians. The scripture reads:

“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

Whew. That one stays rent free in my head, especially lately. Whether it’s the chaos in our government or things happening in my personal orbit, I find myself coming back to that verse as I try to make peace with the madness. And after seeing Sinners which, listen, that’s a whole other blog post I need to write once I emotionally recover, I realized just how deeply this verse is threaded through history. It’s been passed down, absorbed, and is still very much active today. We think we’re fighting with each other, but this verse reminds us that it’s bigger than us. The real battle is against “spiritual wickedness in high places.” And when that wickedness gets into your mind it can take hold of your entire being.  Am I sounding like Dr. Umar? LORD, I hope not. I promise I’m speaking from a grounded place. I’m not out here trying to be a pseudo-Hotep telling lies masked as Black Consciousness. 

But I digress.

These past few weeks, I’ve been... mal-tempered. Annoyed. Frustrated. Disappointed. Not just by random folks, but by people I expect more from. And I had to check myself. I know who I am. I know what I want. I’m walking in purpose with faith as my GPS. So why am I allowing people to get under my skin. “Get it together, Cyn,” I told myself one afternoon, feeling like I was imploding internally. I took a walk. Landed at a restaurant. Ordered gumbo. Put on my headphones, queued up my audiobook, and started playing Tetris (yes, it's a thing). I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. A woman pointed to her ears. I slid off my headphones.

“Excuse me sis, what kind of headphones are those?”
“Umm… PIC? P-I-C, I think? Uh...I got ’em on Amazon.”

“Are they good?”

“Yeah, I love them.”

She nodded, headed to the bathroom, then came back. 

“Do you have an Amazon storefront?”
I told her no.

“You should. Sign up for the influencer program and add the headphones to your storefront. I want to buy them, but you should get paid. We in a recession, honey.”

I laughed. “Girl, it’s fine. They’re only like $16.”

“Can you text me the link?”

I handed her my phone to type her number in. 

I texted her the link shortly after.

That tiny interaction reminded me that yes, there are frustrating exchanges that leave you feeling unseen and undervalued. But there are also those little glimmers of grace. Conversations that feel human and pure and warm and affirming. And while they might not happen every day, they do happen. So gather those moments. Store them in that sacred place where you keep all your joys. They’re the antidote to your frustrations.

And let me go ahead drop some of the gems Ephesians 6 offers to prep us for the attacks on our spirit:

• Children, obey and honor your parents.

• Parents, don’t exasperate your children. (I cackled typing this.)

• Serve with your whole heart.

• Be strong in the Lord.

• Put on the full armor of God.

• Stand in truth.

• Stand in righteousness.

• Stand in faith.

• Stand in the Word.

• PRAY.

• Pray not just for yourself, but for others, too.

And in all this… comes peace.

Now listen, Ephesians also slides in some words for the slave and the master and, Apostle Paul, baby, we’re gonna leave that right there in your little letter where you left it boo. I don't feel like unpacking colonized theology. 2025 is already doing too much. No thank you, sir. Again, I’m only here to take what speaks life and leave what doesn’t serve.

I’m taking with me the clarity to know what I’m truly up against, the wisdom to choose my battles with intention, and the audacity to protect myself, my family, and my friends by bowing my head in prayer like it’s a luxury, because it is.

Spiritual warfare is real. But so is the power of joy. So is the softness in authentic human connection. So is the strength of knowing who you are and whose you are. So, suit up. Pray hard if that your thing. Affirm if that's your thing. Laugh loudly. Love your people deeply. And when the darkness tries it (because it will), remember your why and stand boldly.

Yours Truly,

Lady in Her Headphones, Playing Tetris, and Minding Her Business