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.

2025: A Year in Review, Edited

Bearer of Abundance by Alex Mensah

I had every intention of writing about my 2025 from a venting lens. I, per usual, planned to confess some of the purses I carried this year and how difficult the trek to the end had been for me. Using my writing as reflection and release, I planned to lay it all in the lap of the digital space and step into the new year praying for more ease and momentum to reach my goals.

I started writing this year’s reflection in mid-December because I knew the end of the month would be busy for me. I wrote about completing a three year fellowship that shifted my life, traveling, friendship heartbreak, and praying for my best friend as she navigates grief. I shared moments when I felt uncared for and disregarded, often tracing it back to the skin I’m in and its role in the never ending cycle of societal abuse. And on and on and on.

On Monday, December 29, 2025 I caught a flight to New Orleans. I’ve been doing freelance creative producing work for a nonprofit for a couple of years now and was assigned as a producer to a playwright writing a new musical. If you’ve been around for a while, you know how much I love New Orleans. And though this trip required a different part of me than when I usually set foot in the Crescent City, I was grateful that the end of 2025 gifted me a few days in my favorite city, all expenses paid.

On Tuesday, December 30, 2025, I stepped into Selah. I talked about my first experience there in 2021 and the owner, Urania, whom I adore, sending me to sit under the Tree of Life in Audubon Park to talk to my dad, who passed away when I was a senior in high school. I had been grieving his death from a place of anger and didn’t want to talk to him or even believe I could, because he was dead and I was living.

Without going into the details of that experience, which you can check out more here, I will say that moment began my intentional lean into healing what I had been toiling with internally for years so that I could be a better human externally. I have remained committed to that work ever since. So when I walked into Selah, having only spoken to Urania in DMs since my last visit, and saw her light, heard “Cyn!!!,” and hugged her at length, I wanted to cry. I held it together because I wanted the moment to belong to the playwright who was seeking expert insight not only to inform her writing. I knew Urania was the perfect person to help, and she was. By asking the playwright the right questions and offering gentle redirection toward deeper thought and inquiry, Urania created space for her to leave Selah more aligned with who she is and what she is called to do, especially in the writing of this body of work. This moment was a new play development dream come true for a producer.

Urania & Cyn at Selah NOLA

As I walked around and sat in Selah, I thought about this year in review I was writing and its purpose. I questioned whether it would be helpful in any way to me or the reader. What was I hoping for by sharing the details of such a challenging year? God reminded me that our challenges aren’t our destiny. They are our training ground for what we are praying for. One thing that never stopped in 2025 was my conversation with God. I have a lot to say, always. My prayers and dreams are plentiful, and I want to be fully prepared to receive them as they come, and boy are they coming. 

Urania come over to speak with me one on one and shared with me the very prayer I have been praying. She encouraged me to think abundance instead of lacking or limitation. I can get so wrapped up in the challenges that I forget to leave room for celebrating the lessons preparing me to walk boldly in my purpose. So, this is the edited version of my 2025 recap. And those of you who know what it’s like to get your notes back from an editor understand how that can shake things up to high levels of irritation. I planned on rereading 2025, its occurrences, and some of the key players to filth, but for what? It does not serve me, you, or the bigger picture in any way. 

2025 was both challenging and rewarding. Heartbreaking yet comforting. Uncomfortable but reaffirming. In 2026, I am looking forward through the lens of abundance and the realization of my big dreams, traveling, creating, reading, loving, learning, and leading with a grateful heart. May your 2026, too, bring you the desires of your heart.

 

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.