Where The 2026 Moses (and Aaron) at?

A Little Exodus Energy For The Exhausted 92% 

The 11th Hour: Moses Parting the Red Sea by Edwin Lester

I recently joined a Read the Bible in 90 days program. I signed up hype and ready for the challenge. I hate to admit it, but we’re like 2 weeks in, and I’m already behind. Whew. I hate being behind! I have a Type A personality when it comes to completing tasks so this has my anxiety spinning like Uncle Clifford on the pole during the Pynk reopening in Season 2 of P-Valley.

The challenge is 15 chapters a day. Majority of the class is currently the book of Numbers. I’m still back in Exodus, humming “Mutt” by Leon Thomas, right after the part where God tells Moses about His plan for a livestock plague. And it got me thinking…

God used Moses to get the Israelites out of Egypt. He had to go toe to toe with King Pharaoh and his whole army. So, I started asking myself, where our 2026 Moses at? Who is going to part the Rio Grande and demand that those displaced from their families and deported from what they’ve called home deserve safety, dignity, and reunion? Who is the Lord going to use to chin check Pale Orange Diaper Demon his army of slum lords who continue to implement systems of cruelty on humanity?

And the Lord said, Cyn, go head and write about it.

So, I closed the Bible app and started voice dictating this blog post. Because even when it feels like we stranded on no man’s island, especially the exhausted 92% watching what feels like a plague on humanity, I realized we do have some Moses lineage circulating this nation. And they are not letting up.

Now Moses was 80 when God pulled up on him with the assignment. 80!!!! And Moses was like, bruh, I’m 80. I ain’t got it. You want me to go back and forth with Pharaoh? You want me to convince the Israelites to follow me? I have no power and I’m not even that eloquent.

And God, being God, said I can show you better than I can tell you.

“Then the Lord said to him, ‘What is that in your hand?’ ‘A staff,’ he replied. The Lord said, ‘Throw it on the ground.’ Moses threw it on the ground, and it became a snake, and he ran from it.” Exodus 4:2 NIV

You know who not letting up with their cane in hand? Congressman Alexander “Al” Green. They done tried to throw him out and he keeps coming back. Sign (in hand), sealed, delivered. He is “not settling for the okie doke” as my Mama would say.

Moses was also worried about how he spoke. Like Lord, I’m not polished or educated. I’m not giving TED Talk energy. I’m on my colloquialism-ish for real for real.

So, God said fine. What about your brother Aaron?

“Then the Lord’s anger burned against Moses and he said, ‘What about your brother, Aaron the Levite? I know he can speak well…You shall speak to him and put words in his mouth; I will help both of you speak and will teach you what to do.” Exodus 4:14–15 NIV

This made me think about the 2026 Moses and Aaron energy I see in Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett. Congresswoman Crockett is not going to stop speaking about what’s happening in this country no matter the criticism. We also find 2026 Moses and Aaron energy in Lynae Vanee @lynaevanee, George Lee Jr. @theconciouslee, and Victor Kwesi Mensa (Vic Mensa) @vicmensa. They all are speaking truth to power in parking lots, in front of informational green screens, and while peeling oranges in the backyard. Style does not cancel substance. Colloquialism doesn’t deter merit. The message lands for those willing to receive it.

Aaron was Moses’s older brother. He was 83. Let that sink in. The Bible is full of stories where God uses all kinds of people regardless of age, background, education, gender, or zip code. And this particular story in itself is suggested to have happened in the 1400s B.C. The Moses lineage has never had limitations, and it surely does not in 2026.

Now, the Bible doesn’t explicitly say how long Moses and Aaron had to go back and forth with Pharaoh, as instructed by God, to negotiate on behalf of the Israelites. I asked Google, and sis said it seems it took about a year. So Pharaoh was out there playing in their face for about a year. Y’all like to throw the word narcissism around? Here you go! Pharaoh is a biblical example of a narcissist.

During this time, Egypt was going through 10 plagues. 10!!!! I’m talking the firstborn in every Egyptian household died, darkness covered the land like Niger told France, God said, lights out! The Nile River turned into blood, so they didn’t have no clean water. The frogs came ribbiting through the land like, it’s our land now, bih. Gnats and lice said we got next and were biting up people and animals. Livestock became diseased and died, no more wagyu beef. Folks broke out in boils, no more keeping STDs a secret. It was “written all over your face, you don’t have to say a word,” and this was before any doctor-patient confidentiality law. It started hailing and thundering, which ruined crops, and the remaining crops were eaten up by locusts. All of this had to happen before Pharaoh allowed the Israelites to go with Moses.

I can’t help but think about us enduring two terms of the Tangerine Nightmare. We are going through plagues, beloved! A global pandemic, inflation, loss of jobs, immigration and violent border policies, erosion of democratic practices, drastic public health changes, cutting off Social Security, Medicaid, and Medicare, cutting the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, destroying the education system, chaos in international relationships, dismantling of foreign aid, environmental disasters like fires and the government not sending help based on the political views of that particular state, ICE killing unarmed civilians, police killing unarmed civilians, attempt at the erasure of history, cutting the federal workforce, assaults and attacks against the media and shared information, attacks on voting rights, policing and silencing voices who differ from those in leadership, targeting the rights of the LGBTQ+ community, racing with the racism. Need I go on? The years ain’t stopping for us here in this not so United States and no matter how exhausted we are, we all gotta tap into our inner Moses and grab our brother or sister like Aaron, gather the folks, and get to moving.

Pharaoh, just like Sweet Potato Hitler, was playing all sorts of games with people’s lives for his own benefit. Even after he told Moses that they could go on about their business, he changed his mind, and called his men to meet them at the Red Sea.

“When the king of Egypt was told that the people had fled, Pharaoh and his officials changed their minds about them and said, “What have we done? We have let the Israelites go and have lost their services! He took six hundred of the best chariots, along with all the other chariots of Egypt, with officers over all of them.” Exodus 14:5-7 NIV

It’s giving civil war vibes. And whether we want to admit it or not, we are living in a civil war in 2026. It’s infuriating, frustrating, and honestly scary.

But Moses said:

“Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again.” The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” Exodus 14:14-15 NIV

Is that a promise, Mo-Mo? ‘Cause I definitely don’t wanna see these heauxs ever again in office, on the train, or at the bodega in a hoodie and sunglasses trying to get a chopped cheese, nowhere! Not them or that Convicted Dictator Diarrhea.

But if you know the story, you know that God told Moses to use that staff, hit it to the ground, and the Red Sea parted. All of the Israelites went across on dry land. But when Pharaoh and his army tried to go across, the waters closed and they drowned. I mean, tell me we need a drowning without telling me we need a drowning in 2026. Allegedly. 😉

Another part of the story that I love is how music takes up most of the 15th chapter of Exodus. Moses and the Israelites started singing bops to the Lord.

You know who drops bops every day, like Moses calling out the imbeciles perpetuating the plague in this nation? Cameron McCloud, @cureofparanoia. Teaching the babies by day and amplifying social justice through music for the masses.

Here is what I know, the Moses lineage is alive and well. It is 80 years old and 18 years young. And y’all don’t give enough credit to the grade level kiddos because they be hip too! It is polished and it is hood. It has a staff in its hand, even if it does not yet realize what that staff can become. I know you’re exhausted but tap into your inner Moses. Grab your Aaron. Speak anyway. March anyway. Organize anyway. Sing anyway. We may have a sea in front of us and an army of evilness chasing us, but we are built for the crossing. And neither water or evilness will get the last word.

If you know a Moses, tag them, text them, tell them while they’re still here, thank you. Add their names so we can call the roll and honor the lineage out loud.

Stand firm. Stay bold. Keep your staff in your hand and your eyes on liberation. Not just for you but for everyone.

Asé.

Cyn's Thoughts: Netflix's Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model

 Engineered Pain Porn, Lack of Accountability, and A Stained Legacy. Let Gen Z go off!

So let me start by saying, Netflix is killing it with the documentaries. As someone who loves documentaries, especially the ones that unpack true crime, I am grateful I can hop on Netflix and find exactly what I’m looking for. Even though that monthly subscription fee keeps inching up to astronomical, I am generally a pleased paying customer. Keep giving us great content and pissing off the current administration, Netflix!

The other day I watched Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model. It doesn’t fall into the true crime category, but it damn sure could. America’s Next Top Model premiered in May 2003. I was trying to remember what I was even doing in 2003. Probably somewhere gallivanting in my youth. I love the word gallivanting, by the way, if you haven’t noticed. When people say, go touch grass, I think of gallivanting and skipping through the forest. That was probably me in 2003.

I had completely forgotten about the show, the cast, models in general, and how aesthetically vital they were in sustaining the fashion industry. Tyra Banks was a touchpoint for many Black and brown girls. She made history as the first African-American woman on covers like GQ and Sports Illustrated. Not only did she take up space in fashion, she explored film and television too, appearing on shows little Black girls were watching like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and starring in the Disney film Life-Size as a Barbie-esq doll. She was also a CoverGirl, and we were all obsessed with singing “easy, breezy, beautiful, CoverGirl.” She gave us a glimpse of our likeness in an industry that didn’t like us. We witnessed her building a legacy in real time. So when Top Model came on the scene with Tyra at the helm, a whole lot of us were locked in. We believed in her. We were rooting for her! No shade, but shade. We believed when she said she wanted to shift and change the industry, to give young women who did not fit the beauty industry’s narrow-minded standards a chance. Baby, I love a dismantling of inhumane systems that plague the world, so I was tapped in too. But I quickly realized, even in season one, that this was not it. I can’t remember exactly when I stopped watching. I want to say when Toccara got eliminated, because Toccara was plus-sized like me and deserved better treatment. I checked out.

Apparently in 2020, when everybody was bored in quarantine, folks started revisiting Top Model. Some rewatched it. A lot of Gen Z watched it for the first time, seventeen years later. And you know Gen Z does not play. They are going to call a spade a spade every single time. They dragged Tyra and the show through the mud, rightfully so. Many of us geriatric millennials feel a little indifferent because we lived through it, but we are also like, go off with the truth, Gen Z kings and queens.

I won’t tell too much of the documentary in case you haven’t watched it, though clips and op-eds are circulating everywhere. A couple of things stood out to me.

Tyra’s Disposition and Lack of Accountability
A content creator I follow said, “Tyra is insufferable and a narcissist.” I’ve been thinking about that ever since. I struggle with the word narcissist, especially in 2026, because people throw it around like Nick Cannon at a fertility clinic. “You get a sperm, you get a sperm, you ALL get a sperm!” Too much? Ok. Ok. I am also hyper-protective of Black women, so I think carefully before speaking about them publicly.

Tyra’s disposition, lack of accountability, blaming executives, refusing to answer questions directly, not fully mending the trauma inflicted under her leadership, and not checking on a so-called friend who had a stroke eight years prior to the documentary airing—all of that felt problematic and disheartening. She even blamed her viewers, saying, “I knew I went too far. It was very, very intense. But you guys were demanding it, so we kept pushing more and more and more.” Enter Kanye shrug with a smug pierced-lip energy. Girl, what? Stop it.

Legacy will air you out if you are not careful. I think about Jesse Jackson. I am grateful for his work through Rainbow PUSH Coalition, but when the announcement came that he passed, that wasn’t the first thing I thought about. I will never forget the hot mic moment when he was talking about then-Senator and Presidential candidate Barack Obama, saying, “See, Barack’s been talking down to Black people… I want to cut his nuts out.” We all make mistakes. It is when you project that you do not care about the mistake that stains your legacy. Tyra’s legacy is not stained simply by what happened on the show, but by how she is responding now. How we react when someone expresses harm matters, whether we agree with them or not. There are human beings who experienced trauma under a show you had creative control over. If you cannot see the humanity in that and respond humanely, that is a problem.

Watching her responses made me reflect on my own reality check. I do not ever want to be that person, and I need to make sure I am not.

Society’s Obsession With Reality TV
I am a fan of quite a few reality TV shows: The Real Housewives, Married to Medicine, Love Is Blind, Ready to Love. I love them. But none of it is real reality. There is often a lack of care in exchange for viewership numbers, and that was evident in Top Model’s format. They pulled structure ideas from shows like The Real World and Survivor, sacrificing young women as guinea pigs. From body shaming, to filming oral surgery, to exposing someone’s sexuality on camera, to recording someone being sexually assaulted, to yelling at a girl you claimed you wanted to help so badly that lawyers had to step in. That is not just on Tyra. That is on the entire production team and network. And it is not OK. I don’t care how long ago it happened; it happened and it was not OK, period. Society’s weird fascination with watching people on camera disrespected, fighting, suffering, and sacrificing themselves for the sake of a storyline curated and edited by someone other than themselves is not reality. It’s manufactured drama. Engineered pain porn. It is consumed and then spills over into how people treat one another in real life. Hint: the many phone video captures of fights, the “two girls one cup” trend, and the Tide Pod Challenge. It birthed the Love & Hip Hop and Baddies shows. It’s out of hand and has got to be stopped. At one point Tyra Lynne Banks looks at the camera and says: “You have no idea what we have planned for Cycle 25, but I want you guys to be just as open as I am now about getting called on my s* for when somebody calls you out on yours. Because that day will come and continue to evolve.” Again, Tyra, girl, stop it. Please salvage what’s left of the legacy you started, retreat to Australia, and serve that hot ice cream in peace. We don’t need to be spoon-fed any more mess via a Cycle 20-anything. Good night, beloved.

Friendship and Business
This documentary made me think about friendship, true friendship, and what happens when friends become collaborators and business partners. When I was younger, I started my production company with my best friend. That was a learning curve. I realized early on that you have to care more about the friendship than the business. You have to understand one another’s working styles and meet in the middle. You have to communicate, even when it’s tough. You have to listen to understand and move as a collective. Obtain a your success is our success mantra. You have to trust each other. Often people start caring more about the business and their individual opinions, and that is when friendships begin to crumble.

Tyra and Jay Manuel seemingly had a really close relationship outside the show. I remember seeing them together quite a bit on media outlets. Hearing how that relationship fractured because of the show makes it clear that, at some point, the machine became more important than the human being. I believe you should be able to build with your friends. That is a dream of mine. But business exposes insecurities and idiosyncrasies. If you are not careful and care for each other, it gets messy. It leaves people thinking it’s not worth mixing friendship and business at all.

This documentary comes from the brilliance of Mor Loushy and Daniel Sivan, the same folks behind American Manhunt: Osama bin Laden on Netflix. I’m obsessed with them, and the documentary filmmaker in me would love to pick their brains. They create layered, thorough work that allows viewers to form informed opinions. The facts, the raw footage, the interviews, everything is compelling.

Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model is worth the watch. I watched it simultaneously with one of my best friends, she’s on the West Coast, I’m on the East Coast, and we texted back and forth while watching. I highly recommend this by the way. It is a great way to connect because we love each other down, baby, but can’t always be together. My best friend and I are both Geminis, but we had different opinions about the documentary as a whole, which made it even better. It takes a myriad of people to make up a world, to diversify your friendships. And you know I’m always down for a good debate and friendly banter. Using this documentary as a conversation starter at your next social gathering is perfect to see where folks’ heads are at.

Shout out to Gen Z. I know folks get tired of y’all, but many of you are on this unfiltered journey and I am low-key feeling it. You are not always right, Baby Bop, but you are unapologetically you, and I respect that.

Let me know if or when you watch it and how you feel. I would love to hear your thoughts.

Asé

I Apologize, But My Light Will Continue to Shine

 On Giftedness, Grace, and the Rooms That Cannot Hold You

“Butterfly Girl” by Imo Nse Imeh

You ever say something so profound or birth an idea that feels way beyond the scope of what you thought you were capable of? Write something that, at least in your opinion, is worthy of mass distribution on a Pulitzer scale? Then you stop, look at what you’ve written or created or said, and you shock your own damn self. And in that millisecond you reflect on what you just said or did or created, and something in you whispers, damn, that’s why. That’s why they hate you.

Just me? It can’t be. There are so many prolific people out here in the world. Even though we are drowning by the inept these days, there are still prolific folks navigating this planet. Sometimes you don’t even know why you are gifted in a particular area. You just are. And somehow that can breed negative commentary, reaction, jealousy, envy, and disdain from people you engage with and those you do not. No matter how much you try to suppress it so others might shine, you cannot help it. You don’t have the power to dim your light. It will shine even when you don’t mean for it to. I also believe it’s on loan and will fade if you don’t use it and study it so it can grow.

I have experienced this quite a bit throughout my life. I’ve never really been a cocky person. If anything, I have gotten to a point where I am pretty silent in most rooms because I would rather listen than talk. Listen to understand. Listen to empathize. Listen to find resolve. Listen to decide how to proceed. Listen to plan. Listen to organize. Listen to be better and wiser and forward thinking about what is going to come out of my mouth next. You don’t always have to speak for your light to shine. Those meant to see it will see it. And if receptive, seeing the light in others helps to activate your own. I find that when I do choose to speak, after all that listening, what I say or write or create or share is often wonderful. Prolific ideation. Noteworthy thoughts. Empowering best practices. And as a result, I have upset some people.

It is hard to be an empath and have folks upset with you. Especially when you’re committed to remaining humble, yet still make people uncomfortable because your light will not dim no matter how hard you try to mask it. Yes, I know all the speeches about walking into the room with confidence, having a seat at the table, not succumbing to imposter syndrome, not dimming your light. I can hear the speeches coming through right now as I write. Calm down beloved, keep reading, the light bulb climax is coming. I’ve heard it all and I respect it. I also think it is important to listen and read the room. Sometimes these rooms you are in and these tables you are sitting at do not deserve to benefit from your light. But there is definitely a reason you are there. Taking the time to reflect on why God placed you in certain spaces matters. Why this stop on your journey is even a stop at all. I love when I figure that out. I love when God speaks to me and says, Cyn, you are here for this reason in this moment so you can get better at this specific thing and be prepared for the next stop. It feels like a full body experience when that happens. I can’t even fully explain it.

I do have the strong sense to apologize though. Why am I apologizing? I don’t know, but I want to. I apologize if I have ever made anyone feel like I was purposefully blocking their light from shining because I chose to shine mine. I apologize if me being acknowledged triggers you, causes you to roll your eyes, or makes you sick to your stomach. It actually makes me sad.

But it will not deter me from actively seeking ways to reach my goals and contributing to dialogue and projects and the bigger picture discussion from a bird’s eye view. Because the reality is, no matter how quiet I try to be, when the itch itches, I am going to scratch it. I am going to say the thing. I am going to share. I am going to organize. I am going to plan. I am going to execute and implement every single time. That is who I am. It is in my DNA to follow through and complete what I started.

So yes, I apologize if you feel like I am in your way. If you feel like you should have gotten it and I should not have. I apologize if you feel like I am not worthy. If anything about me disturbs who you are, I apologize. I do not want anyone to feel that way when they mention me or discuss me or think about me. I would hope folks say, she is kind. She is a bit moody because she is a Gemini, but sis is kind and empathetic, a hard worker, talented AF with a brilliant mind who cares about people and follows through.

I'm always like, dang Cyn Cyn, where did that come from? Where did these gifts come from? I attribute it to God speaking through me most times. To seeing it in my dreams before speaking it into power. I attribute it to Carrie and Randy Dorsey. To late night swims and journaling. To sitting in my car until the sun sets and it gets so dark outside. To the colors I see when I listen to the crackling music from a vinyl record. To the stories rumbling in my mind that have yet to find land and valley space, but I leave room for them all. To my commitment to inner peace so I can bleed peace externally. Honestly.

I attribute it to belting Belle loudly when I'd put on the VHS tape of Beauty and the Beast. “There must be more than this provincial life!” I attribute it to that car notebook my mama put together when we were little, full of Black History facts, short stories, scripture references, songs, and poems. I love Eloise Greenfield, Honey, I Love. Because I do, I love a lot of things. A whole lot of things. A whole lot of things. To learning every word of Lift Every Voice and Sing so when folks sing it wrong, I correct it in my mind. I attribute it to my AP English teacher accusing me of plagiarizing my senior paper and failing me, until I sat in a dark room at school and rewrote another one on the spot. I attribute it to his apology. I attribute it to my students, colleagues, and their families who nominated me for an Excellence in Theatre Education Tony Award®. To teacher burnout inflicted by adults not children. I attribute it to seeing my writing in popular lifestyle blogs and dissertations and read aloud on stages and screens. I attribute it to the rejection and the “you are overqualified” emails, to the “we cannot give you feedback on your application.” To Obama’s Senate Office and Obama For America. To slate boards with Director: Cynthia L. Dorsey written across the top. To my face in Playbill. To creating opportunities for myself by myself and for women like me.

I attribute it to the People to People Student Ambassador program. To traveling to South Africa in the sixth grade and falling in love with a boy from Flint, Michigan who I never saw again. Speaking of boys, I attribute it to what I thought was my first love, Said. He died. I went to the funeral. He was Muslim. There were so many of us crying, so many girls all my age, the ones who thought they loved him too. I attribute it to the speaker who said Said would come back as a tree, and how I spent a year trying to figure out which tree was him. To “nights like this I-I wish rain drops would fa-a-a-a-aalll.” To scraping my inner thigh trying to climb over bathroom stalls, seeing the white meat in my leg for the first time, and bleeding profusely. To my third grade teacher, Ms. Tracy Wallace. Thank you. Where are you? To the late 90s. To three way phone calls on 0893. To the basement of my childhood home that kept my secrets and stored my dreams. To Daddy’s living room chair and indigo blue water cup. To Mommy’s jewelry box. To Andrew’s love of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I attribute it to hustling Girl Scout cookies out of the trunk of my mama’s car after church on Sundays. To the Black Baptist church and that burgundy hymnal that felt like braille under my fingers. To theology’s finest: Reverend Dr. H. Joseph Franklin, Sr., Reverend Jeremiah Wright, Reverend Dr. Frederick D. Haynes, III, Reverend H. Beecher Hicks, Reverend John K. Jenkins, Sr., Reverend E. Dewey Smith, Reverend Michael A. Walrond, Jr. and Reverend Howard-John Wesley. To oratorical contests and standing ovation speeches. TED Talking before TED even came on the scene. To the power of ministry as consumption and contribution. To liturgical dance ministry.To church heartbreak. To the antidepressants for the anxiety. To Dr. McGinty suggesting medical marijuana instead. To my godmother’s chicken and rice and my grandmother’s collard greens. To being cast as a sumo wrestler freshman year of high school to kick off my “too fat girl” acting career. To DC who raised me. To Chicago who nurtured me. To Paris Noir who affirmed me. To thinking I lost my virginity to a Kaiser Permanente after my first Pap smear. To the handwritten love letters with Lil Wayne lyrics as prose. To matching tatts.

I attribute it to being traumatized by the Trayvon Martin case. Haunted by the Sandra Bland case. Retraumatized by Laquan McDonald, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and Breonna Taylor. Breonna Taylor. Breonna Taylor. To having to stop watching the body cam footage of Black and Brown bodies being used for target practice and Jui-Jistu mastering. Feeling guilty for not watching George Floyd, like watching was some form of having his back. Like watching could’ve saved him. I attribute it to the arts activist in me birthed out of necessity. Paranoid that I could be next, or a family member, or a friend. To my childhood best friend who showed me the pain of friendships ending. To my adult friends who do not play ‘bout me and who I love whole. To witnessing so many of my friends be great parents. To My Ladybug, who one day I will tell how she saved my life. To holding hands with my grandmother on beaches across the world. To being a daddy’s girl who lost her daddy but found refuge at his camping safe place. To New Orleans. To Louisiana gumbo with a roux as dark as me. To the Tree of Life. To Urania.

I attribute it to the SAC of DST. Marcella and Miranda specifically. To the Delta who followed me in her car when I was walking in the rain. To the “Soror, you okay?”To legacy. I attribute it to being Black. Blackity Black, Black. Black and so unbelievably proud. I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams, so I have a responsibility. I attribute it to everlasting love. 1 Corinthians 13. To agape love. I attribute it to this magical and unimaginable life I am living. To God giving me everything I need and not giving me what I thought I wanted. To living in my calling no matter how hard it can be.

All of this and more has made who I am today and continues to make room for who I will be.

And I apologize if you cannot see the blessings in your life because you are too irritated by mine. My excellence efforts are not an attack on you. I don’t desire to compete with you.

You deserve to bask in life’s joys and share your light too.

Asé.

A Debate with Mommy: God, Please Clear Up the Saints’ Sinuses

A Daughter’s Reflection on Faith, Healing, and Not Losing Yourself

“Smoke and Mirrors” by Danielle Joy Mckinney

Recently, my mother and I got into one of our debates. She’s been letting me debate her since I was a child, back when I argued that Versace was spelled Versawchee and Virginia was spelled Vagina. I clearly struggled with V words. Instead of silencing me like some parents and teachers do when raising an opinionated girl child, she indulged me, probably enjoying every second of the “this little girl thinks she knows everything” show. God truly blessed me with a great mother. I’ve been lucky enough to find that same joy and cackling spirit when my goddaughter wants to spar over whatever her 15 year old brain can conjure up.

With age and a little life under my belt, our debates have moved from surface level spats about spelling to deeper conversations about human behavior and morals.

The Debate

Me: It’s not fair for a man to enter into a relationship broken, with addiction, or carrying unresolved trauma and then dump it all in a woman’s lap to carry. I wish they’d stop doing that. Women should not have to fix a man and traumatize themselves in the process. It’s not fair.

Mommy: A man needs a woman as his helpmate. It says so in the Bible. Men are weak and women help them become men. You’ve never been married. This is how it works.

She sends me every time with that line. When she starts a sentence with “you’ve never…” I know we’re right back to “this little girl thinks she knows everything” territory. And for anyone who grew up in church with Bible-toting parents, don’t they wear you out with a scripture reference for everything under the sun? I know it’s not just me. Can we have one simple conversation without a KJV reference sliding in? I’m not saying all the time, just sometimes. No? Can we at least come up out of 1611 and sprinkle in a little NIV? Not happening? You’re probably right. Alright then, let’s press on.

The Reflection

God, please forgive me, but can you Mucinex these human interpretations of the Bible that give poor behavior, inflicted suffering, or flat out abuse a free pass? Clear the saints’ sinuses so they can breathe in a little common sense and empathy.

I never again want to be in a relationship that leaves me traumatized because my partner entered it broken with no personal attempt at repair before or during the relationship. And I don’t want anyone else, friend or foe, to have to go through that either. The way the world heaps responsibility and blame on women is beyond strange. Is y’all ok? Is y’all cool?

I will never forget how people blamed Megan for being shot by a man she was intimate with. They were up in arms that the state pressed charges and that she had to testify in her own case. Called her a liar. Because she didn’t disclose who she was sleeping with? Since when does anyone owe the public a copy of their roster? Not to mention she was protecting him, like most women do, until she could not. And the passes some folks want to hand out to Robert Kelly and Sean Combs are ignorance at its finest. Tell me you hate women without telling me you hate women.

Now, I do believe that in relationships and marriages, women and men are called to support their partners. I just don’t believe that being a helpmate requires suffering as a prerequisite.

That debate made me think about who I was before I entered a relationship with someone who came in broken. I was in my early-ish twenties, and I loved that girl. She was kind, fun, social, fearless. She wasn’t closed off or apprehensive. She wasn’t even looking for love. She was flirting on BlackPlanet, catfishing on AOL Instant Messenger, gallivanting around Syracuse University like graduate school was undergrad all over again. She met a basketball player at a random party, didn’t think much of it, and six months later it was “will you be my girl?” in the Facebook DMs.

Somewhere along the way, that girl dwindled. She sank. She hid. She became a shell of herself. The relationship dragged her mentally and drained her spirit.

When the relationship ended, it took years to get back to level ground mentally. And no one should have to lose themselves for the sake of love or some twisted interpretation of biblical alignment. Help yourself by doing the work before you enter someone else’s life. Understand that you are not the only person in the relationship. How you move, what you say, how you treat someone, it all matters. People underestimate how fragile the mind can be. The strongest and most confident people did not get there by accident. They got there because they protect their peace like it’s gold.

It is not another person’s responsibility to fix you or unpack your trauma if they are not licensed to do so. They can support you while you do the work, but you have to choose healing for yourself. Prayer is powerful. Scripture can be grounding. But therapy is not a lack of faith. The same way you see a doctor for your body and still whisper a prayer in the waiting room, you can sit with a licensed professional and ask God to guide the conversation. Both can coexist.

Years have passed since that relationship. I have become fiercely protective of my mental space now. Maybe the saints would say I blocked my blessing once or twice. Maybe. But if I sense even a flicker of chaos or unhealed wounds being placed at my feet, I will not entertain it. I did not guard that early twenties version of myself well enough. I owe her better.

I’ve made a commitment to myself that I will not prioritize someone else’s healing over my own ever again. I can love you, support you, and pray for you, but I will not lose myself trying to save you. They say that’s why some of us geriatric millennials are single now. OH WELL!

These days, I actively seek the joy of peace and wholeness in all my relationships both romantic and platonic. And I choose these relationships with an open heart and eyes and with my head on a swivel.

I want the joy of peace and wholeness for you too, friend. You deserve.

Asé.

Why You Ain’t Kiss Me on My Volar, Bruh: A Call to Action

 From Page to Screen to Real Life: Let’s Make Every Kiss Legendary

I love a good romantic kiss written in literature, captured cinematically, and of course experienced personally. Channel your inner Erykah Badu with me:

“I want somebody to walk up behind me and kiss me…
ON MY NECK…
and breeeeaaaaattthhheee…
ON MY NECK…”

In recent years, I’ve felt this urge to write romantic love with kisses and heightened intimacy in some of my short stories. I’ve been reading more Black romance novels too because ain’t nothing like a good steamy love scene. Authors who can make love scenes amplify off the page flawlessly without visual assistance? Real MVPs. Some of these written romantic scenes lack cajun seasoning.

I live for when a closed-off Justice melts into her first kiss with Lucky in Poetic Justice (1993) and won’t ever forget it. And I vow one day to kiss in the desert with a USPS truck in the background, okay? Kisses wrapped in prose like Nina and Darius had in Love Jones (1997). Baby, remember when Nina took a stab at nibbling Darius’s ear? I yearn for a Chi-Town love full of smoke, an Old Fashioned, open mic nights, and poems directed at me. Minus the sprinkle of toxicity, of course.

I believe kisses get better with time, right? No more slobbery, stale breath first kisses like I had in middle school. Yes, in a sauna at a house party. All the 13-year-olds crowded in there taking turns. Baby, at my age now, I want an angel kiss, the eyelid kiss like that iconic moment between Amanda and Graham in The Holiday (2006). Kiss my eyelids gently, my love, without wiping off my soft glam.

One of my favorite cinematic kisses is the volar, inner arm, kiss. When I started this new season of Bridgerton and saw Benedict Bridgerton kiss Lady Silver’s inner arm I screamed. I was instantly reminded of all those inner arm kiss moments like: Kaz kissing Noni’s inner arm in Beyond the Lights (2014), Darius kissing Nina’s inner arm in Love Jones (1997), and Michael kissing Mae’s inner arm in The Photograph (2020). I immediately called my ex, we’re still really good friends, and said, “Why you ain’t kiss me on my volar, bruh?” To which I got, “Your what? Cynthia, please.”

And kissing while crying? Quincy and Monica’s complicated, messy, beautiful crying kiss in Love & Basketball (2000) hits different. Honestly, I could go on and on about iconic kisses in cinema for days. Black cinema specifically has had some top tier moments.

Though random at the onset, I feel like this post is a call to action. Authors, I need more expansive kisses in literature and screenplays. Directors, I need you to direct these kissing scenes like your life depends on it. I want goosebumps. I want to weep like Jesus reading and watching the character’s love story unfold. Valentine’s Day is coming up, and I’m calling for everyone to lean in for a unique and passionate kiss so full of love, so full of intimacy, so full of I am here and I ain’t going nowhere, and so soul-stirring that no cinematic capture could ever do it justice. Forget the roses and the candy. Let’s get some real, “devour me”, heart-chakra-exhilaration kissing going on this Valentine’s Day 2026.

Huddle up. Hands in. “Kiss me like ya mean it on three.”
“ONE… TWO… THREE… KISS ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT!” Let’s go!

Happy Black History Month!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Let me know how it all goes.

Asé.

Seek 2026 Ah-Ha Moments: No Formalities, Just Conversation

 Unlearning Formal Prayer and Building an Honest Relationship With God

The Conversation by Romare Bearden

It’s Day 15 of fasting. The halfway mark. 15 days behind me and 15 days in front of me.

To all my fellow theater lovers: this is my Act II. In general, you know how this goes. After intermission, you walk back into the theater after enduring the long bathroom line, grabbing a refill in that 16 oz souvenir cup you paid almost $50 for. If the show is good, you can’t wait to see how the characters overcome whatever obstacles they’re facing. If it’s bad, you’ve just finished talking yourself out of leaving early and are now hoping you don’t fall asleep and get caught snoring by the person sitting next to you. Act II is generally shorter and moves a bit faster than Act I because it’s time to wrap this thang up. My Act I of fasting has been really good. Hard but good. I’ve been taking my time with myself, discerning which thoughts no longer serve me, and growing more confident in my relationship and communication with God. Confident enough to have candid conversations with Him.

Being raised in church by a father who was a deacon and a mother who was the church secretary and director of youth programs, church was my life. Literally. Any day, any time, you could find me there doing a myriad of things. The formalities of prayer are ingrained in me. My mother did not play about teaching my brother and me how to pray or how to speak in front of a congregation. Those formalities worked not just at our church, but at any Black church. I was great at it. Became a wonderful little orator. I’d pray, speak at churches, compete in oratorical contests, and win. Church folk would say I was the next Barbara Jordan. I was programmed to pray in the acceptable way. It’s been indoctrinated in me, even today. “First, giving honor to God…” If you know, you know.

When my mother dropped me off for my freshman year of college, she left me a letter. I saved it but can’t find it now, and I really wish I could. In it, she wrote: talk to God daily. When you’re walking to class, down the street, or on the train, talk to God.

Huh?

I was so confused. How exactly was I supposed to talk to God while walking down the street or across campus without seeming schizophrenic? I couldn’t ask her what she meant because when I woke up, the letter was there and she was already at the airport heading back to DC.

I learned quickly that it was time to build my own relationship with God and understand that what I’d been taught didn’t define that relationship. My parents gave me a glimpse into their relationship with God, it was now my choice to forge my own. I decided to do that, I needed to let go of the formalities. I wanted a relationship where I could go to God about anything and have an open and honest conversation the same way I do with the women I call my best friends. I also wanted a relationship where, when I had questions or was upset with God, I could just tell Him how I feel and know it would be heard and acknowledged. That is not easy. Unlearning what’s ingrained never is, and I still struggle with it. But this style of communication has made me a better communicator in all my relationships.

I’m always confused by why people don’t attempt to talk through issues with friends or loved ones, especially when they say they love them. I’m not saying every relationship deserves continuation, but many times folks are quick to reprieve without even attempting to salvage what is salvageable. We’re living in the cut people off generation, and honestly, that’s weird to me because true love ain’t that easy to toss away. Now, I haven’t always been this way. I used to be over it when relationships needed repair. But I attribute the very personal relationship I’ve built with God as the template for the communication style I want with the people I love.

During this fasting season, I’ve been actively listening to what God is saying back to me. In human relationships, dialogue is often instantly reciprocal. With God, I find I have to be still, silence the outside noise, silence my inner monologue, listen, and discern, and that takes time and quiet space. I’ve adopted this listen more than you talk mentality in my everyday life, too. Sometimes we talk too much and don’t really hear one another. We are quick with replies and rebuttals but miss the understanding and growth that come from active listening, with ears, mind, and heart engaged. I’ve learned so much over the last three years by being quiet and listening. So much. It does make people uncomfortable, though. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, “Why are you so quiet?” Because I value understanding and intentional speaking, and you can’t truly have either without a moment of silence, reflection, alignment, and then response. Society celebrates fast talking and talking about nothing. In my silence, especially in the entertainment industry, I’ve learned that if you use flowery language and make people feel good, you can sell water to a whale. But when you really listen, you realize many folks aren’t saying anything of substance or anything beneficial to the task at hand. I’ve found this style of communication, instant reaction without reflection, is the onset of discord every single time. I’ve witnessed it firsthand in countless scenarios. I want a lasting and fruitful relationship with God and lasting and fruitful relationships with my friends and family. So I’m intentionally strengthening my communication with God, trusting that He’ll help me navigate life and relationships with others.

On Day 14, the devotional focused on the fruit of the Spirit.
Galatians 5:22–24 (NKJV) says:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Against such there is no law.”

The journaling prompt asked: What is a fruit of the Spirit that doesn’t come naturally to you? What are some changes you can make in your daily routine to spend more time with God?

Now listen. If you, like me, saw long-suffering and immediately gave a bombastic side eye, I feel you. We are a work in progress, boo. It doesn’t help that some folks believe suffering is the primary way to get to God, as if it’s a rite of passage. I did a little research so you don’t have to. Biblically, long-suffering, makrothymia in Greek, means having patient endurance and self-restraint in the face of hardship, provocation, or offense, mirroring God’s own patience. Oxford clarifies, having or showing patience in spite of troubles, especially those caused by other people.

So baby, those grudges my mama says I hold?
She ain’t lying.
And they are not the fruit of the Spirit.
Again boo, I am a work in progress. 😂

Seriously though, I strongly believe to truly bear the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control you have to have healthy communication. Open and honest communication with God, myself, and my people is important to me. Its as essential as that breathing I’m struggling with. 😂

Here’s to the journey of prioritizing effective communication and active listening for all of us as we navigate this thing called life.

Talk to y’all on Day 30.
Hoping you and your family are safe and warm.

Asé.

SEEK 2026 Ah-Ha Moments: I am NOT Breathing!

It’s Day 8 of fasting for me. I’ve joined Alfred Street Baptist Church on their 2026 30-Day Seek Fast.

A part of the fast includes daily devotionals and journaling as we stay in communication with GOD, and I wanted to periodically drop some ah-ha moments here on Blogspot and Substack. Staying consistent with my prayer life and my writing life, in tandem with one another, is very important to me.

Something I’ve realized during my daily prayer and journaling is that I am not breathing. I am constantly holding my breath, and then I get to a place where holding it becomes too much and I find myself gasping for air. We gotta breathe to live, so what in the world is going on here?

I know a doctor would point to my weight as an obstruction of breath. Doctors equate weight with everything. Health issues caused by obesity are real and should be taken seriously; however, society’s hatred of a bigger body is unwarranted, and the bias is very real. Trust me, I’ve been a plush doll since I was a child, and I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone to the doctor for a routine visit and walked out mentally drained, feeling like a fat failure. My body and lungs, in their current state, are generally healthy. So I should be able to breathe freely while doing common tasks. No strenuous activity is happening. Yet during my prayer and journaling time over these past eight days, I’ve realized I’ve been holding my breath while praying. Why? Even writing this blog entry, I’ve periodically held my breath, realized it, and told myself to breathe—to start the engine again.

I first realized I do this a few years ago when I visited First Corinthian Baptist Church in NYC. I was living in Washington Heights, took the bus to Harlem, and walked into a church full of warmth and community. When I sat down, the service began with one of the preachers saying, “Let’s breathe together,” and they led us in guided communal breathing. I burst out crying because I don’t think I had been breathing correctly my entire trek from Washington Heights to Harlem to my pew seat. My lungs were craving full expansion and air intake.

I realized my mind is sometimes so crowded that it doesn’t make room for my lungs to have permission, for their moment of stillness, to expand in the vastness of the earth and feed on the sustenance they get from the air. Just like my mind needs peace and stillness, so do all the other organs of my body. And when the mind is in overdrive with anxiety, grief, deadlines, thoughts of lack, ridicule, grudges, worry, overconsumption, fear, opinions, judgment, preconceived notions, trauma, triggers, negative self-talk, agitation, and anger it can’t tell the rest of their organ and muscle homies (that we have the luxury of housing and caring for) to do their thing either.

Realizing I’m not breathing even during prayer or writing, two practices that bring me the peace I crave has proven how hyper-fixated I am on completing the task or perfecting the task, instead of finding joy and peace in the process. It’s okay to take time to breathe. It’s okay to relax. Perfection is not necessary when doing some of your favorite things. I am always gently reminding myself that perfection is the perpetuation of white supremacy that is innately ingrained in us. And baby, I’m not trying to perpetuate white supremacy on myself or anyone else for that matter, ever.

When I visit my Nana, who is 96 and living with Alzheimer’s disease, she talks about making things right. “I ask God to correct me. Did I do something wrong? Because I want to make it right,” she said recently. I don’t know what a 96-year bird’s-eye view of a life looks like…yet. I pray for that blessing over my life one day. What I do know, in my shorter years, is that I too have made mistakes. And even though I can’t go back and correct them, I can move forward in alignment with the lessons that came from those mistakes and commit to not allowing their history to repeat itself.

One of the biggest mistakes I’ve made thus far is overcrowding my purse. Which is why I started this blog, Confessions of a Purse Carrier, on Tuesday, April 6, 2010 on Blogspot. At the time I habitually found myself carrying my burdens and everyone else’s, and I needed to figure out a way not to do that anymore. Unleashing it through writing was the best first step for me. Sixteen years later, I am older, wiser, and stronger. I'm aware of my assignment and the stagnancy of bearing burdens is not one of them. One of my favorite preachers and friends, Rev. Hazel M. Cherry, said in her sermon, “You’ve got to know your assignment, beloved. Now some of you might be mad at me when I say this, but you don’t know your assignment. Trump is not your assignment.” I know my assignment in these recent years yet still hyper-focused on being and doing my best at everything, to the point that I shut off necessities like breathing just to complete tasks or reach goals.

Confession: I need this fast not just because, in this season, I am asking God for so much not just for me, but for my family, my friends, and this nation. I also needed this fast to turn down all the internal noise that comes with living. Not just to strengthen my communication with GOD, but to listen to Him speak to me and through me. To treat this moment not as a task I check off on my long daily schedule, but to make it a ritualistic part of my day-to-day. To not be so consumed by finishing that I forget to breathe and allow myself to take my time.

This race against the clock, a timeframe no one created but me, has become self-accountability on steroids. And I need to chill. And be okay with chilling. Because no one really cares but me. And I want to truly place my relationship with God and myself as the priority not my goals and dreams.

That’s it. That’s all.

I’m here ya’ll. Praying, journaling, fasting, and reminding myself to breathe. I’ll be back to share the next ah-ha moment at the halfway mark.

Hoping that your 2026 is off to a great start. Sending all my love.

Asé.