𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰 ૮꒰ྀི ୨

I think the saddest realisation of adulthood is when you finally understand that 'I don't have it as bad as others' was just a way of rationalising trauma that you didn't have the words for.

I never grew up thinking I had toxic parents, I didn't grow up thinking that my home was an unsafe place. I didn't grow up believing that the way my body reacted to conflict meant anything deeper.

But something's shifted in me. It's not a loud revelation, not an explosive moment, it's just this quiet, devastating clarity.

I have toxic parents. They're not violent, not physically abusive or stereotypically monstrous. Just...emotionally unsafe. They're unpredictable, completely lacking in boundaries, triggering, projecting and unable to see me unless I am performing productivity or misery for their appeasement.

That type of toxicity leaves bruises that no-one else can see.

My house has always been a place where everything is fine until my existence inconveniences someone, or where laughter is allowed until it becomes "too much", where too much rest is suspicious, where joy is a signal of impending doom. A place where the slightest reminder of my humanity becomes a reason to question my discipline, my future and my priorities.

I live in a house where my parents "push" me to succeed, but weaponise my failures the moment they start to feel a lack of control. The irony is almost comical. The very people who want me to become something are the same ones whose behaviour makes me want to escape so badly that I study until my eyes burn.

They're scared of me failing, but they're the ones who make me feel like my failures and shortcomings are tattooed on my skin.

I've spent years being hyperaware of their moods. I've learned to read the tone of a sigh before a word is even spoken. I've learned to predict when love will turn to interrogation. I've learned to brace myself before answering questions that should've been gentle. I've learned to swallow my emotions because expressing them only invites critique, not comfort.

I've learned that in this house, the only time I'm seen is when I'm slipping.

But the very worst part is the emotional aftershock, the way they pretend nothing happened the next morning. The way they casually talk as if my tears disappeared with the sunrise. The way I have to carry the memory of their words and implications alone.

The rage that builds when they act normal, the silent hatred, the ache in my chest when I realise that I will never receive an apology. It's the kind of pain that shapes your adulthood without consent.

Yesterday, when everything inside me cracked open, I walked down the hallway to my sister's room, the only person in this house who sees me, the only one who doesn't require performance, the only one who doesn't need me to be suffering in order to believe I'm trying.

I broke down in her arms, shaking, hyperventilating, exhausted because for the first time in the aftermath, I could fall apart without being punished or questioned.

I've always known she's the only true safe space in this house, but the second has had my heart for about six months now, my boyfriend, the one who loves me gently, consistently and quietly, one of the few people in my circle who calms my panic instead of causing it, the one who never uses my vulnerability against me. The one who listens to the worst parts of my mind and holds them with tenderness and care. The one who's love feels like what family should always have been.

This contrast hurts.

There's something hopeful about this clarity though. I feel as though for the first time, the fog is lifting. I can see my future more clearly than ever. I can see why I cling to my education so fiercely. I can see why I fight so hard to pass my modules and why leaving this house is not just a want anymore, but a necessity.

My degree is my exit strategy. My studies are my lifeline. Every note, every assignment, every class are bricks in the foundation of the life I'm building away from here.

I'm not studying to make them proud anymore, I'm studying to save myself.

I'm healing, slowly, perfectly and imperfectly, from a home that taught me how to survive...barely, but never taught me how to feel safe.

I'm healing from parents who confuse control with care, from years of emotional unpredictability, I’m healing from the silence after the damage, and from the apologies that never came. I’m healing from the expectations that I must always “move on”, even when they were the ones that broke me.

And somewhere in the mess of all this, I am realising that I am proud of myself. Not in the glossy, Instagram way, not in the ‘look how far I’ve come’ kind of way, but in the quiet, painful and private way that comes from knowing that I dragged myself out of places that I thought I would die in.

Because the truth is, I saved myself long before anyone ever realised I needed saving, long before I was rotting in my bedroom, waking up at 5pm, but from the days I had to choose not to kill myself every single day, from the days I was reckless with medicine, prayed to God over and over again to end my life for me, so I didnt’ have to deal with the guilt of doing it myself. I picked myself up from rock bottom when I could barely lift my head. I crawled out of depressive holes without a guide, without a hand, without softness. I taught myself how to keep going when my mind was begging me to stop.

And yet somehow, even now after clawing my way back to life, back into education, back into myself, my existence is still picked apart.

I still feel guilty for being depressed, guilty for being anxious, guilty for having trauma responses that I never asked for, guilty for not being able to switch off the shame and paralysis that rooted themselves in me long before adulthood began.

I am punished for who I used to be, even though I am not that girl anymore, I am not the girl who hid in fictional words because real life felt too heavy to inhabit. I’m no longer the girl who spent hours gaming just to avoid the sound of my own thoughts. I am not the girl who lived online because the girl offline was drowning quietly.

I fought to grow, I fought to stand, I fought to choose life again. I fought to choose myself, when nobody else did.

And yet somehow the punishment still lingers, as if I’m forever indebted to the version of me that didn’t know how to cope. As if healing erases the wound from their memory, but not the resentment.

What cuts deep is the expectation to carry their triggers too.

As if my anxiety is not enough, my depression, not enough. As if fighting my own darkness every single day isn’t enough labour.

My parents project every fear, every insecurity, every uncomfortable emotion onto me and expect me to hold it, absorb it, understand it, regulate it, while nobody holds me.

I am expected to perform stability for them while barely holding myself together. I am expected to soothe their worries even as mine consumes me. I am expected to reassure them that I won’t fall apart while I am quietly stitching myself together in the dark.

It’s unfair.

It’s exhausting.

It’s a burden that no child should ever carry.

And the cruelest part is coming to terms with the fact that in their minds, I will always be on the verge of failure, always one step away from disaster, always the child they’re waiting to be disappointed by.

No matter how much I grow, how much I heal, how much I try, they still look at me through the lens of who I used to be.

Their anxiety paints me as unstable, their fear paints me as unreliable, their projections paint me as a ticking time bomb.

To them, success is temporary, progress is fragile and I am a risk.

I know this because even when my mum apologised the other day, a soft emotional apology for “all the times she has ever hurt us”, it felt like a script, like a performance she knew she could give, but not something she actually intended to uphold, because the very next emotional storm came without hesitation, the very next trigger became my responsibility, the very next hurt was brushed aside as though her apology erased her capacity to cause pain.

My dad is another story entirely, he doesn’t apologise, he doesn’t reflect, he never acknowledges the emotional damage he leaves in his wake, his version of accountability is simply behaving as though the injury never happened, as though silence is resolution, as though pretending is equal to healing.

Their idea of an apology is amnesia. The idea of moving forward is rewinding the moment until only I remember it, their idea of love is control wrapped as concern.

And I’m realising, painfully and honestly, that I will never get the accountability that I crave. I will never receive the apology my inner child still aches for. I will never be seen the way I’ve fought to see myself.

I’m not saying anything here that isn’t familiar to every African child who grew up carrying the emotional weight of their entire household. This is the African child tax, being the emotional sponge, the proof of ‘good parenting’, the walking report card, the insurance policy for their reputation, the emotional caretaker for adults who refuse to do any of the work. It’s a tale as old as time, broken people raising children they were not prepared or equipped to love gently, repairing wounds they never healed from, passing down trauma like inheritance.

And yes, we understand the psychology behind it. We understand the generational wounds, we understand that they never learned the skills. But understanding it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Why is my empathy expected to stretch far enough to excuse their harm, but their empathy can’t stretch an inch to acknowledge mine? Why am I expected to understand their triggers, but they refuse to even name mine?

Why must I carry every weight they hand me, while they drop every responsibility the moment it becomes uncomfortable?

Why am I the one who must always be the bigger person in a house where I’m the smallest one emotionally?

I’m writing this because if I don’t the weight on my chest will crush me. Because every time I swallow the pain, it grows teeth. Because I need an outlet before the resentment spills out of my mouth in ways that I can’t take back.

And maybe, the ugliest truth, the one that stings the most, is that part of me really is beginning to accept that they will never change. Not because they don’t love me but because they genuinely do not have the emotional bandwidth to do better. They never learned how to apologise, how to reflect, how to take accountability, how to see a child outside of fears and expectations.

So I’m slowly learning to accept things that they cannot give. I’m learning that I won’t get healing from the people that caused the wounds. I’m learning that I don’t have to nurture a relationship that keeps harming me.

And what’s left is this quiet, almost frightening conviction: I don’t desire closeness with them anymore. I don’t want to be vulnerable with them. I don’t want to share the soft parts of my life with them. I don’t want to tiptoe, performing daughterhood like a role I literally never auditioned for.

I want…the bare minimum.

Good morning.

Good night.

Basic respect.

Functional coexistence.

Nothing more, nothing extra, nothing that requires emotional exposure.

And here’s the part that almost feels cruel to admit.

It’s funny to me the way they dream of grandkids, how they talk about them with excitement, softness, imagination, softness they have never extended to me.

They picture themselves as doting, gentle, warm. And yet, I am the one who grew up with unpredictability, chaos, like living in a minefield. I am the one who swallowed tears so they could sleep peacefully. I am the one who learnt to self-soothe because comfort wasn’t safe to ask for.

There’s a bitter irony in knowing they will hold my children with tenderness, but couldn’t hold me with the same hands when I needed it the most.

And maybe that’s the part of why I dream so fiercely of leaving. Of moving to the other side of the world. Of building a life so far away that the air itself feels different, less suffocating.

It’s not just an escape. It’s not just about healing, or simply starting over.

Part of it, the part I barely say out loud, is punishment.

Let them sit with silence, let them feel the absence of the daughter they never learned how to nurture properly. Let them taste the distance the same way I tasted emotional isolation my whole life.

Let them feel, for the first time, what it’s like when actions have consequences.

Not because I hate them, but because I’m done carrying the consequences of their actions. Because I’ve spent years holding the weight of their fears, their expectations, their projections, and maybe now it’s time they hold the weight of mine.

Because I spent my entire life being the failure-in-waiting. The disappointment in training, the ‘what if something goes wrong’ child, and now they may have to sit with the fear that they pushed me away for good.

And God knows I am not a cruel person. But I am tired. I can’t fight anymore. I can’t keep letting people in, and believing I’m safe, only to have it thrown back at me the moment they’re reminded of a time they fear. I can’t keep begging to be understood by people who have barely begun to understand themselves, or who fail to understand that toxicity can manifest in many different ways.

I’m simply withdrawing. And that withdrawal really does feel like its own kind of justice. It’s own kind of healing. It's its own kind of rebirth.

I’m not abandoning them, I’m saving myself.

14,000 babies. That’s what the UN says. Fourteen thousand. Starving, because they are unable to get the aid they need. And somehow, people still find it in themselves to defend this, to open their fucking mouths to utter the phrase “Israel has a right to defend itself after being attacked” like the occupation of Palestine hasn’t been state-sanctioned violence dressed up as geopolitics for literal decades. Like apartheid isn’t happening in plain sight. Like this isn’t a literal fucking genocide, ethnic cleansing unfolding right before our very eyes.

Meanwhile, in Sudan, entire communities are being ethnically cleansed. In Congo, children are being mutilated and enslaved for the West’s fucking lithium batteries. India and Pakistan are burning under religious fascism and border-obsessed nationalism while the world scrolls on. This isn’t a one-off. This isn’t a glitch in the system. This is the system. Built by colonialism. Fed by white supremacy. Held up by imperialism. Protected by the lie of democracy.

And the UK? Oh, the UK. A fucking third world country wearing a Gucci belt. One of the dirtiest players on the world stage. Selling arms. Funding wars. Licking the boots of empire while they distract the nation with manufactured culture wars. You want to know what fascism looks like? Look no further.

Our Supreme Court just ruled that trans women aren’t “biological women”, whatever that’s supposed to fucking mean — not based on science, not based on fact, but based on hatred. Blatant transphobia paraded around as “protecting women’s rights”, as if a man has ever needed to “pretend to be a woman” to commit violence against women. As if cis men don’t assault and kill women daily, in their own skin, no disguise needed.

Trans women are more likely to be sexually assaulted. More likely to be murdered. And now police officers, are being given the right to search people on suspicion of being trans. What does that even mean? What does that even look like? Does anyone at all even realise what kind of dystopian violence that invites? How that hurts every single woman, trans or not?

This isn’t about safety. It never was. It’s about control. It’s about fragmentation. Divide and conquer. The oldest colonial play in the book. While the poor fight the poor, the powerful keep pillaging, keep killing, keep rewriting laws to strip us of rights, dignity, identity.

And the worst part? The unbelievable part? Is how easily people eat it up. How fast they fall in line. As if they’ve never picked up a book. As if history isn’t right there, repeating itself with a darker twist. As if all this pain, all this suffering, is just background noise.

Capitalism is cannibalising the world. Fascism is not just knocking on the door — it’s in the fucking living room. Genocide is being livestreamed. And the biggest crisis is that nobody seems to care.

I feel politically disillusioned in ways I can’t even articulate anymore. It’s not just anger—it’s disgust. It’s grief. If this is what humanity is, I want out. Count me out. Remove me from the equation. Because I cannot, for the life of me, understand how anyone reads “14,000 babies” and just… continues. Defend it. Justify it.

This species is so cruel, so stupid, so committed to repeating history, they won’t even read a fucking book. I have never felt so ashamed to be part of this species. So humiliated to be human. So completely done.

***DISCLAIMER: mentions of religion, sexuality, a lil preachy and 'testimony'-ish, *forgive me guys* lmao. ***

Before I even get into it, let me be ABSOLUTELY clear—I have NEVER and will NEVER believe that a woman’s sexuality makes her more or less worthy of God’s love. I don't measure or believe in ‘body count’. A woman's choices, or the way she expresses herself as a sexual being are completely her own. I fully support a woman’s rights to own her body, her pleasure, her autonomy, her experiences—even religious women. (I mean…they *we* gotta nut too right? 👀🫣 Being a woman of faith doesn’t mean you have to suppress your desires or feel guilt for them.

It doesn’t mean your body is dirty or shameful.

This is just about ME! ‼️

The lover girl in me has always felt a deep disconnect when intimacy isn’t built on an emotional connection. It’s not about society’s judgment, not about how I’ll be perceived—it’s just who I am. I feel more pleasure, more safety, more fulfillment when I’m not just sharing my body, but my mind, my emotions, my trust. When intimacy is rooted in something deeper than just attraction. As I’m writing this, I can totally acknowledge that those belief systems that I hold close are absolutely motivated and formulated by society and what they tell us about how we should want to navigate sexual experiences but it truly does align with my spirit—regrettably. That’s where the 'guilt' I speak of comes from—from feeling like I was betraying my own values, not simply from outside judgment or fear of being slut shamed.

And that’s why the conversation that inspired, more accurately *triggered* this slightly incoherent post hit so hard.

A so called "Man of God" yep. I'll wait...tried to slut shame me into oblivion today and...we're gonna talk about it.

He sat there, self-righteous and arrogant, telling me I ‘needed to change my ways.’ Asking me how many men I’d been with. Telling me what was *too much* (anything over 5 apparently 🙄😑 okay virgin mary). And when I told him how judgmental, dehumanising and degrading that was, when I told him exactly how he made me feel—he doubled down. "I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m just trying to help."

Help with what, exactly?

Because I already know my struggles. I already know the parts of me I’m trying to heal, the parts I feel a sense of shame about, the patterns I’m trying to break. I’ve spent so much time trying to unlearn the idea that my worth is tied to how desirable or untouched I am. I think a lot of women do, it’s hard not in a society that consistently slut-shames and punishes us for presenting ourselves as sexual beings in spite of being sexualised all the time?

It was like watching the Madonna-Whore complex come to life in real time. Watching how, in some men at least, a woman’s spirituality, her character, her worth will always be reduced to how much or how little she has been desired by men and acted according to her own autonomy. Freud was definitely onto something when he concocted that dichotomy. That's all imma say.

And don’t get it twisted—this wasn’t some divine moment of correction or guidance. This was misogynistic, patriarchal arrogance disguised as spirituality and faith, and I reject it.

I haven’t been radicalised.

I still fully believe that incels exist.

God knows they do.

I haven’t suddenly started believing that men like this don’t walk around with unchecked egos, weaponising God to justify their fragile masculinity and need to control women. I haven’t lost sight of the fact that

MEN. WILL. ALWAYS MEN.

What I did do, though, was choose to use this experience to get closer to God—when my instinct, my initial reaction, was to assume that maybe God was speaking His shame into me through this clown 🤡.

And I just refuse to believe that God would come to me through shame.

I don’t know what to call this feeling, but I know it wasn’t Him. I don’t know if this was a test, a lesson, or just a random moment of life reminding me how people (incels) move, but I know that the God I’m choosing to know, the God I accept in my heart, would never come to me in this manner.

So no, I don’t believe this was some divine intervention, some sign of God’s disappointment in me. I don’t believe He sent someone to make me feel ‘disgusting’, to pull me back into the same shame I’ve been trying to heal from. I don’t believe this was His voice.

Because the God I am getting to know? The God I am slowly learning to run to?

He is love.

He is grace.

He is kindness.

This wasn’t that. This wasn’t Him.

I don’t know what it was. I just know that it tried to drag me backwards. I know that it made me want to sit in guilt I have no business feeling to spiral, to run to bad habits, to look for comfort in places that have never really given me peace.

And for a second, I almost did. I almost let this moment convince me that I wasn’t worthy of God’s love. I almost let it make me feel too dirty, too far gone, too undeserving.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I did something I’ve never done before— I took a breath, and I ran to God instead (and blocked, if you learn nothing else about me from this, know that my trigger fingers will ALWAYS block). 🚫

I don’t know what this moment was supposed to teach me, but maybe it’s this:

That the past will always try to come back.

That POINTLESS shame will always try to find a way in.

That some people will always think they have the right to determine my worth. I think the fuck not.

But I get to choose. I get to decide who I listen to. I get to fight for the version of me that I am trying to become, whether she's a sexual being who owns her body and autonomy completely or someone much more sexually reserved, that's my choice and mine alone. ❤️

And today, I chose to fight the bullshit. I choose to break the cycle. I choose to believe that my Father—my girl dad—does not play about me. 🙏🏾

So no, I will not let this conversation define me. I will not let misogynistic losers win. I will not let silly guilt formed by patriarchy and the weight of my past pull me away from the future I am building and the woman I want to be.

Because I know who I am. And more importantly, I know whose I am.

Also, let’s not forget—I’m a hot girl who gets men and I refuse to let some lanky incel—Mr. Gets No Bitches, Looks Like He Snuck Onto Earth—CLOWN slut-shame me under the guise of faith and Godliness. 😂🤭🤭

Anyway, if you made it this far, thanks for reading. I don’t usually post about this kind of stuff, but I think I needed to write this out—for me, just to get the feelings out.

And for anyone else who might be going through something similar—you’re not alone. This journey of faith, spirituality or even just *growth* is hard, confusing, and full of setbacks. But moments like this?

They strengthen your conviction.

I’m not here to preach, I’m not here to tell anyone what to do or 'spread the word' (notice the lack of scripture?) If my transparency confronts you, challenges you, or even just reminds you of your worth, then I hope it helps in some way. Even if it doesn’t lead you to God, because it’s literally not by force, this is for those who DO believe.

I saw a tiktok the other day of a woman saying she had to sacrifice her self-expression just to date men, and I have never resonated with a notion so deeply in my entire life. Because—and I say this knowing that if I ever dared utter these words outside my little Tumblr safe haven, I’d be CANCELLED—men are genuinely so boring. Like, I don’t know how else to explain it. I find them so incredibly uninteresting, so lacking in depth, and honestly? Just extremely negative.

And I’d like to use my most recent case study in: What I Do Not Want in a Man (cue entry: 𝑀𝑟 𝐶𝑜𝑑 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒).

Before I get into it, let’s establish something. I am a lover girl. Romance occupies my life in so many ways—not in a “I centre men” kind of way, because let’s be real, I absolutely do not—but just in that I love love. I love romance in every form. Romantic K-dramas? Obsessed. Disney movies with a love story? Sign me up. Romance novels, Bridgerton, Jane Austen adaptations (Persuasion had me in a chokehold), Queen Charlotte—if it has love in it, I want it. And not just romantic love, but all love. Platonic love, familial love, the love between friends, the love of a home-cooked meal, the love of a hobby that lights your soul on fire. Love is beautiful, and I have no shame in saying I want to experience it in all its forms.

**lover girls, let us gather here and cry**

Now, 𝑀𝑟 𝐶𝑜𝑑 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒—the latest guest star on On This Month's Episode of 𝑀𝑒𝑛 𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑑—for whatever reason, he really disliked this about me. I’m convinced. There was one conversation I remember so vividly where this man looked me in the eye (well, as much as you can over a screen) and said, “You know love isn’t real, right?”

Yeah.

Let’s pause here for a second. Imagine.

A man. In this economy. Telling me love isn’t real. I know, right?

Insane.

But wait—he doubled down. He followed it up with, “You never really know if people truly love you.” And then, he gave me a very personal and honestly traumatic story to support his stance.

Now, let’s be clear. I am not here to minimise what he confided in me. It was deep. It was sad. I can acknowledge that. But I also need to make my point here. Because let’s be real: the gaslighting and manipulation were top tier. Because how does one even argue against such a personal, tragic experience? You can’t. That’s the point. He laid it out like checkmate, like his trauma was supposed to be the universal law on love.

But it wasn’t that his opinion offended me. It was that he refused to accept my love of love. He was actively trying to break it down, like he wanted me to concede so badly that love isn’t real, or true, or possible. Like… why? Why was it so important for me to not believe in something that brings me joy? Why was it bothering him that I believe in love?

And the thing is, it’s not just 𝑀𝑟 𝐶𝑜𝑑 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒. This is something I’ve observed in so many men. It’s the negativity, the cynicism, the absolute lack of joy or wonder in anything. It’s like they aren’t just boring—they fundamentally lack the ability to love things properly. Not just people, but life itself. It’s like nothing they do is done with real spark, or passion, or excitement.

And honestly? I think this is why men are so bad at actually learning women. I’m convinced. Because one thing I know about women—observations, personal experience, group chat data, everything—is that when a woman truly likes someone, she wants to know everything. She wants to know your ticks, your passions, what makes you angry, what makes you soft, what drives you, what you want out of life. It’s like 101 Dalmatians but with questions, and the thing is, that curiosity is what fuels the relationship. That attention to detail is what makes love exciting.

Meanwhile, men? They think “knowing you” means memorising your Starbucks order and remembering you have a dog. Ask them what you do for work, what your dream is, what brings you joy? Crickets. Because how can boring people fathom the sheer joy women experience in the little things? How can they possibly understand the absolute euphoria of buying yourself flowers, of rereading your favourite book, of knowing your skincare is working because your face is glowing? The sheer pleasure of being in bed by 9pm, freshly showered, your room smelling like vanilla and sandalwood, ice water in your Stanley mug, your favourite pyjamas on, your show queued up, or your current read open and ready?

Men don’t get that. Because men don’t let themselves enjoy things like that. And I’m not saying they don’t have hobbies or interests, but let’s be real—women are expected to tone it down a little bit. Our joy, our passions, our excitement about life? We have to shrink it so men don’t feel like they have to do anything.

And I think that’s what’s exhausting. That’s the part that feels so unrewarding. Because it’s not even a trade-off. It’s not like, “Okay, I’ll sacrifice this, so in return, I’ll get that.” There’s no 50/50, no 70/30. It’s just women needing to dim themselves, their light, their spark, their joy, just to let men exist.

Like, let me give you another example. A man, a big 25-year-old grown man, asked me out on a date. He lives in a different city, right? And he said he wanted to drive to see me and “take me out.”

Do you know what this man’s idea of a date was?

A drive-through.

I’ll pause.

I’ll let you scream.

I’ll let you kick your feet and wonder if I’m ugly

(I promise I’m not).

But this is what I mean. The implied energy was, “I’m already driving all this way to see you, and since we aren’t close enough for me to actually treat you, let’s just keep it casual.” Because, spoiling, effort, love—that’s all reserved for later. You have to earn it first. And the worst part? Women are told to let men lead.

Girl…men will lead you straight to hell. Don’t do it.

I don’t care what society says about “femininity” or “softness.” I’m not dimming myself so a man can feel comfortable existing at his baseline. If he can’t match my energy—if he can’t love things, enjoy things, cherish things—he can go.

Because men will always start at the bare minimum and upgrade you later, like love is a subscription service where you have to unlock premium benefits. Meanwhile, women are expected to be soft and kind and understanding from the start.

I’ve been thinking about this so much lately; social media is mad. Like, it’s supposed to connect us, right? That was the whole point: bridge the gaps, bring people closer, all that lovely stuff. But honestly, does it feel like it’s done that? Because to me, it’s just made everything so loud and chaotic. There’s so much going on, so many people talking, so many people watching. It doesn’t feel like connection; it feels like noise. And in all this noise, it’s like the actual meaning of community, the stuff that’s real, has just… disappeared.

I’ve always wanted that, real connection. A community that feels genuine. A space where I can just be, where people actually care about me beyond a double tap or a “so true, bestie” comment. And yet, here we are. Everyone’s available all the time. Everyone can see you. It’s like the line between public and private doesn’t even exist anymore, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced: we’re not supposed to have this much access to each other.

Think about it. Social media gives you a front-row seat to everyone’s life but it’s not even their real life. It’s curated. Edited. A highlight reel of whatever version of themselves they want you to see. And the wild part is, behind every photo, every post, there’s a person. A whole messy, complicated person. But we don’t see that. We don’t hold space for it. Because, let’s be honest, the internet doesn’t do nuance. You make one wrong move, say one dumb thing, and suddenly, that’s who you are to everyone. Forever.

And let’s just call it what it is, social media is never going to be a place where we can exist transparently and without judgement. Like, I love it, and I hate it. I mean, I’m literally here, writing this post, because of social media. It’s given me opportunities I could’ve only dreamed of. But at what cost? Because, trust me, there is a cost. It’s the constant judgment, the pressure, the anxiety of being perceived all the time. Like, people are out here putting their whole personality through a filter, and no one’s even clocking how exhausting it is.

What’s been really hitting me recently is how social media doesn’t just make you anxious or self-conscious; it literally stunts your growth. Like, I’m trying so hard to evolve right now. I don’t love everything about who I am today. There are parts of me I’m so proud of, but there are also bits I’m actively working on,stuff I want to grow from, leave behind, and rebuild into something better. Not to become a “good person” (whatever that even means), but just… better. For me.

And then there’s social media, dragging you back to every version of yourself you’ve ever been. Group chats alone, babes, they’re a battlefield. Gossip, rumours, drama, it all starts there. Someone decides you’re a certain way, spreads it around, and suddenly, that’s your whole personality, no matter how much work you’ve done to grow. Add the internet into the mix? Whew, it’s game over. Screenshots, tweets, posts, they live forever, even if you don’t.

It’s why I’ve been shrinking my circle lately. I don’t want to be accessible. Not to everyone, not like this. I want to save my energy for the people who actually know me the real me and not some algorithm’s version of me. Because community? Real, proper connection? It’s not in follower counts or likes. It’s in the people who show up for you, consistently and unconditionally, offline and beyond the scroll.

And here’s the gag: I think one of the best things we can do is just… let social media be what it is, without letting it run our lives. I’m not saying delete your accounts and go live in a cottage in the woods (unless you want to, in which case, call me and I’m coming with you). I’m saying, don’t let it dictate who you are. Use it, enjoy it, but don’t let it use you.

At the end of the day, there’s something kind of beautiful about making your world smaller. Choosing privacy, real conversations, real friendships. Like, why chase this illusion of connection when the peace we’re all looking for isn’t even there? It’s somewhere else entirely. And maybe the whole point is just… figuring out how to find it.

You know what’s wild? For all the issues I have with social media—and trust me, the list is long, writing on platforms like Tumblr, journaling, even pouring my soul into stories on Wattpad, has been one of the most freeing, transformative things in my life. I can’t even put into words (ironic, right?) how much it means to me to have an outlet where I can just write. It’s like taking everything tangled up in my head, every thought, every feeling, every piece of anxiety sitting heavy on my chest and laying it out. Sometimes messy, sometimes perfectly crafted, but always mine. There’s such a release in that. Such freedom.

And then, there’s the magic of sharing it. Because writing isn’t just for me; it’s also this beautiful bridge to connect with other people. When someone reaches out and says, “Hey, I read what you wrote, and it hit me right in the chest,” it’s like… wow. That’s the connection we’re all craving, isn’t it? Knowing that something you felt, something you thought was just your struggle, resonated with someone else in their own little corner of the world? There’s something so healing in that, something that reminds me we’re not as alone as we think we are.

Writing feels like this gift I don’t take for granted, ever. The ability to articulate myself, to translate the mess of my mind into something legible, is something I’m so thankful for. Like, I could be drowning in overthinking, spiralling about God knows what, and the moment I sit down and start typing, it’s like the weight lifts. Journaling, drafting a random story I’ll probably never finish, or even just word-vomiting into the Tumblr post box; it’s therapy in its purest form.

And the thing is, platforms like Tumblr or Wattpad are exactly what social media gets right. They give us these spaces where we can be honest and creative, where judgment feels a little quieter. There’s an unspoken understanding in these communities: we’re all just here to share, to process, to feel seen. And honestly? That’s so beautiful to me. That’s where I think social media becomes this stunning, powerful tool, not in the curated feeds or the follower counts, but in the moments where someone’s words make you stop scrolling and just… feel.

Writing for me isn’t just a hobby, it’s survival. It’s how I process the world and, more importantly, how I process myself. It’s where I go to make sense of things that don’t always make sense, where I can sit with my emotions without judgement, even when I’m judging myself. It’s how I remind myself of who I am, even when I feel lost. And when I’m brave enough to share those pieces of myself with others? That’s when I feel the most human.

I think the beauty of writing on a public platform like this is that it’s not perfect. It’s raw. It’s personal. Sometimes it’s messy, but that’s what makes it real. And in these little pockets of the internet where judgment doesn’t feel as sharp, where people come together not to criticise but to connect, I’ve found something really special. Because writing isn’t just about the words on the page, it’s about the stories we’re living, the emotions we’re feeling, and the people we’re reaching along the way. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

Let me tell you something about inconsistency: it’s loud. It doesn’t matter how sweet his words are when he’s trying to keep you hooked, or how charming he is when he’s in the mood to entertain you. If his actions don’t match up, the inconsistency screams louder than anything he could ever say.

And babes, it’s confusing as hell. One minute, he’s all in—texting, calling, giving you attention—and the next, he’s distant, nonchalant, acting like you imagined the whole vibe. It’s like you’re stuck in this emotional limbo, trying to figure out if he’s genuinely into you or just enjoying the convenience of having you around.

Let me use my own little situation as a case study. There’s this guy—let’s call him 𝑀𝑟. 𝐶𝛰𝐷 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒 (you know the one). He’s nice, yeah, but let’s be real, it’s all very surface level. One day, he’s throwing compliments and banter, making me laugh like I’m the main character in his world. And the next? Crickets. Or worse, the barest hint of effort, like a breadcrumb trail I’m supposed to be grateful for.

I won’t lie to you—it’s been messing with my head too. 𝑀𝑟. 𝐶𝛰𝐷 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒 (we love a nickname) has truly been a case study in confusion.

We started talking not long ago, and for a moment, it felt good—like maybe this was something that could actually grow into more. He admitted he liked me, said all the right things, but before I could even settle into that feeling, it all started shifting. And now? It’s like I’m left trying to figure out what I could’ve possibly done to cause this shift when we’ve barely even started.

And that’s what makes situationships like this so debilitating—they start fast and furious, like the beginning of a rom-com, but before you can even catch your breath, you’re left wondering what went wrong. The confusion feels magnified because everything happened so quickly, and the fall-off feels both sudden and humiliating. At what point, in these brief interactions, did it fall apart? Why admit you like me only to act like this?

And let’s not even talk about the shame. Whew, the shame. You start to feel embarrassed—not just by his behaviour but by your own feelings. How could I let myself catch feelings for this? For someone so inconsistent? For someone who couldn’t even bother to nurture what we had started? You begin questioning your judgment, replaying every interaction in your mind, wondering if you somehow misread everything. Spoiler alert: you didn’t.

Because here’s the thing: his failure to pursue you the way you deserve isn’t a reflection of your worth. It’s a reflection of his inability to meet you at your level. It’s not about you being “too much” or “too demanding.” If anything, it’s about him being not enough—and I mean that in every sense of the word.

Men like this are quick to cater to your physical needs, but when it comes to the emotional work? They ghost, breadcrumb, or worse, keep you in this limbo where you’re left questioning everything. They’re good at keeping you on a leash, just enough to keep you interested, but not enough to give you what you deserve. And honestly? That’s manipulative. That’s cruel.

So let me tell you what I’m reminding myself: the right man won’t leave you questioning. He won’t leave you doubting your worth or replaying every text in your head. He’ll show up—not just in the beginning, but consistently, because he knows the only way to truly know if you’re his person is to take the time to understand you, to nurture your emotional needs, to make you feel safe. He won’t punish you with silence. He won’t make you feel like you’re asking for too much. He’ll match your energy, meet you halfway, and then some.

And if he can’t? That’s not your problem to fix. Protect your peace. Block him if you need to. Mourn what could’ve been, but don’t waste another second chasing someone who couldn’t bother to choose you properly.

I’m learning that these situationships, as irritating and exhausting as they are, are also lessons. They teach you about your boundaries, your worth, and what you absolutely will not tolerate. They show you the kind of love and partnership you don’t want, which makes the kind you do want so much clearer.

To my girlies who are in the trenches right now, I see you. I feel you. And I’m here to tell you this: something that is meant for you will never make you question your value. It will never leave you chasing crumbs or doubting yourself. You are worth so much more than inconsistency. Don’t ever let someone make you feel otherwise.

To the girlies who are still here, let’s talk about decentering men. Honestly, I count myself very fortunate because, as much as I am a wholehearted, heart-on-my-sleeve, hand-on-the-Bible lover girl, 𝑀𝑟. 𝐶𝛰𝐷 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒 came along at the perfect time. Crazy, right? The woman I was a year ago would have been sat in her room, headphones in, sad girl playlist on repeat, dissecting every moment and wondering what she’d done wrong. But the woman I am now? She knows better. She has grown, she has confidence, she has pride—and, most importantly, she respects herself far too much to let a man like that have her bent out of shape.

And the key to that?

Decentering men. Men are not, and should not be, the centre of my universe. They’re just not worth it.

Yes, I still hope and pray that one day I’ll have my white picket fence, my loving and supportive man who treasures me and lets me love him just as much and just as loudly. But until that day comes, I’ve fully shifted the energy I used to pour into romantic relationships and redirected it into myself. And chai, it has been the most surreal and healing part of my journey so far.

So, if you take nothing else from this—and honestly, it would be rude to ignore my brilliant advice and case study, but let’s say you do—take this: as women, especially in the context of dating, relationships, and marriage, we’re conditioned to believe that self-sacrifice is inherent to love. That it’s nurturing and feminine to put his needs, his goals, his feelings above our own. But let me ask you this—do you honestly think that man would sacrifice even a fraction as much as you’ve sacrificed for him?

I mean any aspect. Would he sacrifice his precious gameplay, his nights with the boys, his “money moves” for you the way you’ve sacrificed your time for him? And babes, let’s not forget—time is the most valuable thing you have. It’s finite. It’s irreplaceable. And it’s time you could be using to build yourself into a version of you that you never thought possible.

Just finished watching Megan The Stallion’s documentary and I’m left with such an unsettling and triggering range of emotions. I’d first like to thank Megan for such a beautiful, raw and transparent insight into her life and her personal story - I genuinely think it’s the first documentary of anyone in the public eye I’ve ever seen that I’ve resonated with, as painful as it is to admit. The documentary literally dives into so much, grief, loss, depression, anxiety (essentially just a range of mental health issues), identity and literally just so much more. In so many ways it was truly like looking into a mirror, one that made me painfully aware of my own trauma. I’m still trying to process it. It left me raw and exposed, like it somehow reached down and touched parts of myself that I had buried long ago. Megan’s story, shared so openly, felt like she was offering a part of herself to all of us who have gone through similar hells. She laid bare her pain, her betrayals, and the heartbreak of having to navigate a world where so much is demanded of her and yet so little is given back in understanding or respect. Watching her felt like looking into my own life,

Watching her talk about being hurt by people close to her, the pain of losing loved ones and the mental toll of navigating a world that often only sees her as “Megan The Stallion” instead of a person - took me back to some of the darkest parts of my life.

The friendship I lost wasn’t just any friendship. We shared twelve years of memories, laughter, and moments that made me think we’d be side-by-side forever. But I realise now that beneath the surface, things had been rotting for a long time. Jealousy and resentment had crept in. Maybe it was inevitable, maybe it was my fault, her fault, both our faults. I don’t know. What I do know is that we lost the ability to communicate, to really understand one another. We kept letting things fester, never speaking up, letting tiny grudges grow into something uglier.

Watching Megan open up about her own experiences with betrayal reminded me that I’m not alone in feeling that hurt. And her story gave me the space to confront another layer of my pain, one I’ve spent years trying to make sense of – my experience with sexual assault. Just as Megan’s strength in being vulnerable has made me reflect on my own, her rawness in revealing the reality of feeling unprotected hit painfully close to home. As a Black woman, I know too well the feeling of being invisible in a society that seems built to overlook us, to ignore our pain, to excuse the harm done to us. And yet, when we speak out, when we refuse to be silent, we’re either vilified or reduced to caricatures – sexualised, objectified, turned into something far removed from who we truly are. Like Megan, I feel that sense of being hyper-sexualised, of people seeing only the parts of me they want to, while completely ignoring the deeper layers of who I am. Megan’s music and persona as a sexual, liberated woman have always been empowering to me, a way to celebrate who we are as women without feeling like we have to shrink or hide. She doesn’t use her sexuality as a performance for men; it’s a celebration of herself, an assertion of autonomy that’s fiercely feminist. But society often doesn’t see that nuance. They see her confidence, her sexuality, and they twist it into something dangerous or shameful, something they feel entitled to judge or control. For women like me, who also embrace their sexuality – in my case, through my writing, through exploring themes of love and desire in the novels and stories I create – that same judgement is all too real. People assume that if we express our sexuality, we’re asking for the things that happen to us. They don’t understand that our sexuality is something we own, that we use to express ourselves and feel empowered in a world that tries to take power away from us.

I’ve spent so long feeling at fault for what happened to me, carrying the weight of that shame and blame on my shoulders. I convinced myself that I somehow deserved it because I’m “too liberal,” “too sexual,” “too much.” The assault made me feel like maybe the world was right – maybe I did ask for it by expressing myself in a way that made others uncomfortable. And when I finally allowed myself to accept what had happened, to acknowledge the pain and trauma, I was met with silence, with people who couldn’t or wouldn’t listen. It was like I had lost my voice, like any attempt to make sense of the hurt would fall on deaf ears. Megan’s story of being unprotected, of not being heard or believed, was a reflection of the same crushing feeling I carry – that as Black women, our pain doesn’t matter in the eyes of the world. It’s a harsh truth that we face every day, one that makes healing feel like an uphill battle.

Megan’s documentary reminded me that I’m not alone, that my story is one thread in a tapestry of shared pain and resilience. Her bravery in confronting her trauma gave me a sense of solidarity, a reminder that I don’t have to face this all alone. Even in our darkest moments, there’s power in knowing that someone else out there has felt what we feel, that they’ve walked through the same fire and come out stronger.

To anyone reading this who feels the same – to those who have lost friends, been betrayed by loved ones, or felt the crushing weight of being unheard or unprotected – know that you are not alone. Our stories deserve to be heard, and our pain deserves to be acknowledged. Megan’s documentary didn’t just tell her story; it reminded me of the strength that lies within each of us, the strength to keep going, to keep fighting, and to heal in our own time.

This journey toward healing isn’t a straight path, and there are days when it feels like the weight of the past will swallow me whole. But if there’s one thing I’m holding onto, it’s the knowledge that my pain, my story, my truth – they matter. Megan taught me that we deserve to be seen for who we really are, not for what the world wants to label us as. And I’m learning, slowly but surely, to be okay with being vulnerable, to let myself feel, and to know that my voice, my experiences, are worth sharing.

Thank you, Megan, from the bottom of my heart, for sharing your story so bravely. For allowing yourself to be vulnerable in a way that gave me, and so many others, the courage to confront our own pain. Your openness, your resilience, and your unwavering strength have been a reminder that healing is possible, even when it feels out of reach. You’ve given a voice to those of us who felt silenced, and I hope you know just how much your story matters. You’ve helped me begin to reclaim my own voice. Thank you for being you, unapologetically and beautifully. I love you so bad for this.

Sincerely,

I want to talk about love, again. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on what I truly want in a relationship. I’ve come to realise that, more than anything, I crave understanding.

Love, in so many ways, has always felt more accessible — something that can come quickly, often heightened by emotions or simple moments. But being understood? It feels so much deeper, so much more intimate. It’s about being truly seen for who you are, not just loved for the parts that are easy to embrace.

I think a lot about love, possibly too much. I blame Disney and k-dramas for making me such a romantic. But, as I’m growing, I’m beginning to realise that love, at least on its own is not always enough. It’s one thing to love someone; it’s another to *really* understand them. When I say understanding, I’m not just talking about talking stage topics, like favourite colours, favourite foods or what their pet peeves are. I’m talking about understanding the reasons why, the parts of me that are unspoken, the things I may not always have the words for-the things that are intertwined with my identity, history and experiences.

There just feels like such a difference between being loved and being understood. Love can be generous and so engulfing it feels like you’re being encompassed by it, but understanding brings with it a level of safety, connection and intimacy that love alone doesn’t always provide. To be understood is to feel seen in a way that doesn’t require explanation, where someone gets the nuances of who you are and holds space for all the complexities you bring, not just as a partner, but as a human being.

I think that’s what I crave most in a relationship; a love that doesn’t settle simply for affection, empty words, a love so deep with someone that seeks to know and understand me. It’s this thought that has fulled my recent questioning of what it means to be in a romantic relationship these days. The romantic ideals I formerly had on what it means to be loved were so deeply shaped by society, media and external expectations. The more I’ve found myself thinking about it, the more I now realise the values that define love to me, the values that I pray will one day be the foundation of my relationship with the love of my life only further support my belief that it’s more important to feel understood. Especially in a world that can often feel cold, superficial, insincere and occasionally isolating.

Understanding has never been about just agreeing on everything. It’s about seeing the fullness, the range and depth of a person-acknowledging both the difficult and beautiful parts of them-and still choosing to love them. It’s about knowing someone’s fears, their dreams and understanding the ways they navigate the world and the experiences that made them that way, it’s about recognising their struggles and holding space for all of it.

For me, that’s where true intimacy resides. Love can feel passionate and intense, as it should, but understanding is where you find peace. It’s where you can sit in absolute silence with someone and feel completely and totally known. The more I realise what I crave in a partner, the more I realise how much I crave it,

I want to be understood in a way that doesn’t require constant explanation. I want someone who gets the layers of my identity and my experiences, who can read my energy and know when I need space and when I require comfort. I want someone who sees all of me, every little part of me-the quirks, the eccentricities, the complexities, the parts of me that are shaped by my past and my background-and still chooses to lean in.

I’ve learned that understanding someone isn’t just about sharing similar paths. It’s about empathy, curiosity and a willingness to see the world through their eyes-something that transcends cultural or racial lines. It’s a reminder that connection, at its core, comes from a place of shared humanity, even when the paths walked to become the people we are look so different.

Hey lovelies,

I’m tired and I wanna talk about it…🤦🏾‍♀️

Podcast licenses should most definitely be a thing. Honestly, if this is the kind of content that "free speech" allows, maybe we need to rethink it altogether. Imagine the peace we'd have if people (men) needed approval before being handed a mic—because right now, it seems like anyone (men) with an internet connection and a bad opinion gets a platform. If a little censorship could keep this kind of nonsense rubbish out of our ears, it may be worth it!

Watching the recent controversy unfold with James and Fuhad from Shxts and Gigs has actually really irritated and annoyed me. James and Fuhad’s comments about Black women weren’t just offhand or "jokes." They were rooted in a long-standing pattern of dehumanising, belittling, and degrading Black women in ways that are too familiar to ignore. I saw their apology, if you can even call it that, and I was left wondering—do they really believe they did something wrong, or are they just trying to calm the storm? When Andrew joined in, laughing at their apology on his own platform, it only made it worse. This is the circle we keep going around in. Men laughing at other men for even attempting to apologise for their wrongdoing, while we, Black women, are left sitting with the pain of being torn apart by the same people we would naturally expect to come to our defence.

First and foremost, it’s absolutely nobody’s place besides Black women to tell us how we should feel about this controversy. We were the ones disrespected and degraded, and it is entirely our right to process and cope with that in whatever way we see fit. Whether that means speaking out, stepping back, or holding onto our anger for as long as we need, it’s not up to anyone else—especially not Black men or those defending these actions—to dictate how we react. We are the offended party here, and we deserve the space to feel, grieve, and respond on our own terms.

My initial thoughts were simple: we (Black women) need to stop expecting Black men with microphones, who *very clearly* do not like Black women, to run to our defense. I’ve spent too much time hoping for the men in our community to step up and recognise the harm they perpetuate, but the truth is, many of them simply won’t. They don’t have the emotional maturity, nor the desire, or mental capacity to understand the nuances of what it means to be a Black woman in this world.

But my perspective has since shifted. It’s not just about expecting them to be ‘pro-Black’ or ‘pro-Black women’. That’s too idealistic at this point. It’s about speaking up against blatant racism and disrespect, especially when it’s directed at women in their own community. This isn’t about policing preference. I truly support and encourage anyone, Black men included to love who they love, wholeheartedly. It’s literally not about who you’re attracted to. It’s about the line that gets crossed when Black women are made to feel inferior, unworthy, and less-than in the eyes of Black men who have been indoctrinated with the same anti-Blackness that white supremacy relies on. You can quite literally see it playing out in this situation, Andrew (a known misogynist, racist and white suprematist) is quite literally getting exactly what he hoped out of this situation.

We’re not even talking about accountability anymore. At this point, it’s about survival. We truly deserve better, but I personally can no longer waste my energy demanding something that feels like it's constantly being denied. I feel so defeated. It’s such a debilitating and depressing experience opening social media and seeing your community, Black women, being dragged, laughed at, bullied and degraded online. We’re only human. We keep calling out the harmful rhetoric. We keep showing how deeply it affects us. Yet, there’s always a flood of Black men defending their behavior, telling us we’re “too sensitive” or that “it’s never that serious.” They show up to silence us rather than holding their brothers accountable.

Would it have been “not that serious” if they had spent an entire podcast episode dragging Black men instead? Would Andrew have laughed and mocked an apology if the target wasn’t Black women, but someone who looked like him? There’s no question that they would have had something to say. But when it’s about us?

Crickets. 🦗

I don’t have the energy to argue anymore. We’re in 2024. If Black men haven’t unlearned their internalized racism by now, then they never will. Anti-Blackness runs rampant within our own community, and it breaks my heart. I’ve said all I can, and I know many of you feel the same—tired, heartbroken, and utterly defeated.

The truth is, we don’t need validation from these men, and we don’t need to keep begging for respect. We’ve seen time and time again that some of them just aren’t capable of giving it. But what we do need is to recognise that our hurt is valid, and it’s okay to feel disturbed by what’s happening. It’s okay to be bothered when you see these “apologies” that do nothing but laugh in the face of accountability. It’s okay to disengage, to stop pouring your energy into a well that doesn’t run deep enough to support you.

At times like these, the importance of looking to one another, to other Black women, for a sense of community is more crucial than ever. We need to uplift one another because, as painful as it is, controversies like this reveal some dark realities that come with being a Black woman. But it’s just one part of the experience—it doesn’t define us. Unionising and speaking out when disrespect like this occurs is essential, not just to raise awareness but for ourselves—to make it clear that we see what’s happening and we will not forget. But once we’ve spoken up, we also need to remind ourselves to move on from these moments of disrespect.

This ridiculousness will never define Black womanhood, because only we have the power to define who we are. Black womanhood is not aggression, manipulation, or whatever else they try to paint us as. We know better. It’s a multifaceted, beautiful experience that can never be reduced to the tired, harmful stereotypes these men keep pushing. We don’t need to rely on podcasts hosted by racists, misogynists, and anti-Black clowns to tell us who we are. Our sense of self, our strength, and our beauty is something only we can shape, and we do.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about expecting better from them anymore. It’s about demanding respect for ourselves—whether they give it to us or not. And sometimes, that means stepping back to protect your peace.

I saw this tweet earlier and honestly, I can’t not speak on it, because I think this is so dangerous. Firstly, I actually agree with the sentiments expressed in this post, I think she addresses a very important issue: the existence of violent men. However, I think it also highlights a very problematic notion especially from the perspective of women.

We need to stop normalising violence the way we normalise cheating, it is not in a man’s ‘nature’ to be violent, we shouldn’t reward men for not putting their hands on us nor should we celebrate grown men for being able to regulate their emotions enough to be slow to anger. An inability to do so is sign of an unstable individual and frankly we need to get as far away from those kinds as possible.

I feel like it goes without saying that I’m not talking about victims of domestic violence here, there are women in extremely vulnerable situations that obviously can’t escape situations where they experience violence on a day to day and their circumstances differ greatly and they will forever remain in my prayers, any women in dangerous environments, where they’re experiencing violence, I pray for their safety and liberation.

There’s no room for argument with the tweet, I completely agree, but it’s that last line, that grants “good” men awards for basic human decency that my point resides. In a world where violence against women is at such a high, it can be such a relief to experience a man that in essence shows basic human decency by being ‘slow to anger’ and not being violent towards his partner but I think it’s so crucial that we as women stop treating this as some exceptional, extraordinary quality, that may be how we feel as women today, especially if we have a history of dealing with violent and aggressive men but I think we create a dangerous precedent that rewards men for doing quite literally the bare minimum. Celebrating a man for not being violent, abusive or controlling is like celebrating the sun for shining, it’s doing what it’s *supposed* to do (I could’ve come up with a better analogy but it’s late, I’m annoyed and can’t sleep).

I think this also reinforces another particularly harmful and dangerous stereotype about men and anger, it suggests that the default stereotype of masculinity contains within it, an inability to control emotions and that the ones who can are somehow exceptional and above the others. I feel like this not only diminishes the importance of emotional intelligence but somehow perpetuates this myth that anger and violence are inherent to men. This is such a dangerous idea to propagate because you create an opportunity for men that allows them to not need to take accountability for violent behaviours, as they’re acting ‘within their nature’ which is such bullshit. See how you can’t celebrate one without creating a problem?

I think another dangerous, in a slightly less physical but more emotional and psychological aspect that this attitude can cause is for women in relationships. By placing men who don’t have violent behaviours on a pedestal, we risk normalising non-physical abusive behaviours by setting the bar so low that any deviation from physical violence is actually praiseworthy. In turn, women can begin to suffer in unhealthy relationships and tolerate subpar behaviour simply because it’s “not as bad as it could be”, a phrase many women in emotionally manipulative and narcissistic relationships I imagine are used to hearing.

In summary, I think it’s so, *so* important that while it’s okay to acknowledge and be grateful for the men that are emotionally intelligent and create non violent spaces for women in relationships, we need to be conscious that we don’t celebrate this ability to regulate anger as something exemplary or ‘out of this world’ and we especially need to be stop reinforcing the idea that violence is ‘in a man’s nature’. In doing so, it sets the bar so low that standard bare minimum behaviour suddenly becomes an incredible trait. It’s okay to be thankful for the safety you feel with your man, I think as women, we can relate to one another when we speak on how liberating and reassuring and beautiful an experience it can be to feel safe, protected, sheltered and comfortable with our partners in a world where so much of the violence women experience in this world is inflicted by men. However, we need to remember that as rare as it is, it’s standard, it’s an expectation, a bare minimum in every sense of the word. We need to raise our expectations, reminding the “good” men of the world that they are not the prize simply for the absence of violence, the presence of genuine respect, empathy and equality are also bare minimum.

As the general election comes up, I thought to write about how I've been feeling so politically disillusioned as of late. I've gained such a deep sense of apathy towards it and completely lost faith that the UK, matter fact, the entire world, will ever see better days. Absolutely no party in the government has any true desire to inflict real change and progress.

The global political landscape has one hundred percent magnified this feeling. Palestine, Sudan, and Congo are actually bleeding right now. The conflict feels never-ending, with countless innocent lives lost and a relentless cycle of violence and oppression that seems to be getting even more malicious as time goes on.

Absolutely nothing will come close to the rage and heartache that I felt hearing that innocent Palestinians were murdered by Israelis disguised as *HUMANITARIAN AID* in a place that promised refuge and safety, and yet the West continues to turn a blind eye. The international community watches, with empty words and zero meaningful action. Meanwhile, Sudan is facing catastrophic levels of starvation, a crisis that will have an impact on approximately 8.5 million people, and Keir Starmer’s biggest concern is stripping trans people of their basic human rights, protected under the Equality Act 2020? Are you taking the fucking piss?

I feel as though this all adds to my sense of political disillusionment. I genuinely don’t have anything else to say about it, my heart won’t allow me to sit back and not do what I can; donate, share, pray, write emails and letters to MP’s, *as if they give a shit* but there’s a piece of me that used to believe in humanity and hold onto the idea that activism can produce actual change that’s dying, and while I haven’t completely lost that idea, I’m holding onto it less and less, with every post I see about the genocide in Palestine and the stories of innocent people suffering in Congo, my heart aches and my rage and disgust in humanity worsens.

It’s obviously no secret that we’re part of an intricate system designed to keep the poor poorer and the rich richer, that economists rule the world, and that ‘war’ equals money, but God, I really fucking hate it here. Sometimes, I really wish God would send an asteroid and take us all out right now so humanity could stop its evils upon this world, upon each other.

In this post, I'm going to be talking about love. I don't know why, because I've got ten thousand other things to be focusing on in my life, but the lover girl in me is dying inside and I need to talk about it.

I know I'm not alone when I say that dating, relationships, talking stages are one of the worst things about navigating romantic relationships in this life, like one of the *worst* things ever, with it's infamous talking stage that seems in essence to be a contest of 'who can act like they don't care the most', or social media's standard of what constitutes the 'bare minimum' that for whatever reason we all need to abide by, I could go on, but the point is, it sucks.

It's insane to me that we have all these ways of connecting socially and digitally and yet genuine connections feel so much harder to come by. We've all become so incapable of having deep, meaningful conversations, romance appears dead, and it's all so very very frustrating. But, that's actually not what I'm here to talk about.

Today, I'm in mourning, *cue drama*, if I had one, I'd be wearing a Morticia Adams coded dress, maybe a veil for some drama and holding a bouquet of dead roses (not black roses - *dead* roses), yes - it's that deep. I'm mourning the loss of an ideal, a notion, a fairytale if you so wish. As is the nature on this blog, this sacred little corner of the internet of mine, this article represents an outpour of clogged, internal suffering, and stifled emotion from not being able to burst into tears in my family home anywhere but silently under my blanket in my tiny room, where no-one can hear me cry (I'm feeling very dramatic right now) and I've decided to share this rather painful revelation with anyone who might be reading, (I applaud anyone for being able to get this far, hats off to you.) I thought about adding a little PSA that this obviously doesn't apply to all Black men but I'm tired of feeling like I need to do that, I think that goes without saying and if you don't think it does then this isn't the place for you.

I am mourning the notion of 'Black love'. Yes, I know, it sounds insane. I'm not even sure I'm saying what I'm trying to say correctly anymore but who cares. I'm mourning Black love. I feel like I've always been taught to hold onto the ideal of Black love - that nineties kind of romance that shows like 'My Wife and Kids' and Martin + Gina' tried to sell us, where people that understood each other in a way that only someone who looks just like you truly can, that sees beauty in your skin because it's the same love they have for their own, that celebrate Blackness in all it's difficult but equally glorious forms with you.

For the longest time, this has been my dream. I've imagined my ideal relationship with a gorgeous dark-skinned man, sharing our culture, raising a beautiful Black daughter who would grow up seeing herself reflected in her parents' love and adoration. But lately, I've found myself wanting to let go of this notion-and it's not because I've decided that Black men are bad people universally, or that they deserve anything bad. It's simply because I cannot find it in myself to hold onto a dream based off nothing. When I was younger, I could dream like that because there was no experience to support it, just a little girl who loved Disney and wanted a man with the same colour skin as her to make her feel like a princess for the rest of her life, but I'm ready to let that go, because the twenty-three year old woman writing this article does have experiences, and she can't keep pretending that they haven't completely altered her desire and hope that Black love will always prevail.

I've been processing this feeling for quite a few days now, potentially even weeks and I've decided that I'm in mourning, I'm grieving, I'm laying this beautiful ideal of what I thought my idea of love should look like, to rest. The reality is that dating Black men has been filled with its own set of trials and tribulations, I've encountered men who aren't emotionally available, who don't value commitment, or who carry their own traumas so close to the surface that they haven't begun to heal and project that in their encounters with women. The experience of dating Black men has been to say, disheartening. I've held onto this ideal so tightly and so close to my heart, that the hurt is magnified. The experiences I've gone through have shattered the perception that I first entered the world of dating with, perhaps that was my first mistake, having any sort of expectation, nonetheless ones that were founded on nineties romantic comedies but how was a little girl with a love for television and romance to know what awaited her on the other side.

Letting go of the dream of Black love feels like letting go of a piece of myself. It's hard to accept the possibility that my ideal relationship may not look like what I imagined. It's hard to think about my future daughter and what lessons she'll learn about love and relationships from me, and how I may not be able to pass onto her the same beautiful notion that I once believed Black love to be. Growing up, movies and television provided such a beautiful comfort in this world with Black love, it was portrayed as this amazing, unbreakable bond, it felt like such a given, after all, as the daughter of a Black man and woman, and niece, granddaughter and cousin of so many others, what reason did I have to believe that Black love could be anything other than...easy, something I could rely on. But now, as I reflect on my experiences, it's difficult to ignore that most of the disrespect, pain and rejection I've endured in this world has come from Black men. It's even harder to hold onto this beautiful ideal when I'm constantly surrounded by so much on social media showing Black men not respecting, protecting or advocating for Black woman in the way I was shown in movies and television when I was younger. Seeing this reality day in and day out chips away at the hope and optimism that I once had for Black love.

Admitting this is painful, writing this is painful, I really do feel like I'm mourning a part of my identity, even now, I can feel a slither of hope, a refusal to accept my own words as I write them, as my mind begins to bring every beautiful Black couple I can name from the internet to the forefront of my mind, an ideal I'd cherished for so long, even manifested in my stories, in pinterest boards, in my social media following. I struggle with feelings of self-worth, questioning whether I'm asking for too much or if my standards are too high. But I know I deserve a love that is respectful, protective, peaceful and unwavering.

The rampant internalised self-hatred within Black communities, especially amongst Black men adds fuel to the fire in my heart. This self-hate stemming from societal perceptions, feels manifested in the experiences myself and other Black women have had with Black men. In my own experience, I've found that this inability to love themselves and their skin colour translates into how I've been treated emotionally. I once knew a Black guy that told me he dates both Black women and White women. He admitted that White women didn't have to be a ten out of then-they could be mid or basic looking, they had that permission. However, if he dated Black women, they had to be perfect, ten out of ten, all the time, looking good, body set good, just everything. This comparison highlights a painful reality: Black women have to work twice as hard to be considered beautiful to some Black men and that's just an insane concept to me that I'm so *so* done being told to accept.

Why is this such a common theme with Black men? It often feels like we're being punished for being Black women. This societal conditioning that places White/Eurocentric beauty on a pedestal seeps deep into our communities, affecting how Black men perceive and value Black women. It's disheartening and exhausting to always feel like we have to be the best of the best to be valued.

Thoughts of my future daughter add another layer to this conflict. How much harder will it be to explain racism, discrimination and prejudice to my her when she may not even have a foundation of Black love in her own home? It's a tough and conflicting thought, one that raises so many questions in my head of how interracial families actually navigate these conversations. I've always wanted my daughter to see and experience the beauty of Black love in the same way that I had growing up, but more than that, I want her to understand her worth and not settle for less than what she deserves, even if it means stepping outside the boundaries of what I once thought was essential.

Maybe letting go is necessary, maybe it's time to broaden my horizons and be open to love in whatever form it comes. it's a tough pill to swallow but perhaps it's the only way to find genuine, fulfilling love in this complicated dating landscape.

This isn’t some article begging Black men to love Black women as they are. This is about us, Black women, living boldly and beautifully, being comfortable with who we are. This isn’t about forcing an agenda or trying to 'bring back' Black love. If anything, it’s the opposite. This is me laying to rest an ideal that I’ve long since held onto but desperately need to let go of.

Black women, myself included, are beautiful and perfect just as we are. Letting go of the notion of Black love is me letting go of the idea of struggle love. I can't continue to exhaust myself for an ideal of love that lacks evidence or support.

I want Black men who love non-Black women to do so wholeheartedly, and for those who already do, to continue doing so. This isn’t about holding onto something that isn’t working. It’s about recognizing our worth, our beauty, and letting go of the struggle. It’s about moving forward, finding genuine love, and being open to whatever form it takes.

Let’s continue to live our truths, embrace our worth, and find love that respects and cherishes us for who we are.

RIP Black love—you will be missed, but I’m moving on. To all my sisters out there, let's keep living our truths, embracing our worth, and finding love that truly respects and cherishes us for who we are.

Date of Death - 25/06/2024

At twenty-three years old, I’m realising that I actually cannot recall a single time that I expressed my feelings to someone, whether it be a family member, a friend, a partner or even a colleague without somehow being reminded that I am a ‘Strong Black Woman’ and I am officially tired.

For hundreds of years Black women have been commended and saluted for their resilience and how ‘strong’ we are, how easily we combat the situations we’re faced with and how there’s not a single trial or tribulation that could possibly destroy us. It’s like this mask, this persona that we’ve been forced to put on our entire lives despite how unfair, unrealistic and damaging it truly is, especially for our mental health and frankly it needs to die; not end, it needs to die. 

It’s not a compliment anymore, honestly, it never was. What’s more outrageous and trifling about this ‘Strong Black Woman’ trope is that it’s honestly just not true, not like it was when it first came to fruition. I’m sure decades before the Civil Rights Movement, Black women were called strong of course, but it was during this period of racial discrimination and constant prejudice that the ‘Strong Black Woman’ narrative was magnified but newsflash, we’re not living in this world anymore, yes - racial prejudice is alive and well as we know all too well but we are no longer fighting segregation and apartheid every single day and yet the ‘strong Black woman’ narrative lives on?

Why? 

Because, the ‘Strong Black Woman’ schema is an archetype an, identity that most Black women assume unconsciously, it’s passed from generation to generation and we’re encouraged to wear that identity like a badge of honour; much like the ‘work twice as hard as everyone else to succeed’ notion. It’s simply another part of 'Black Womanhood'.

This narrative has three main components; emotional restraint, independence, and worst, worst, worst of all self sacrifice - where we as Black women are encouraged to put everyone else’s needs before our own, partners, children, friends even employers, we’re celebrated for putting everything and everyone else first and ourselves, last. 

Admittedly, when I was younger, maybe ten or eleven years old, I used to love being called a ‘strong Black woman’. It made me feel like a superhero, I felt like Wonder Woman, it was a beautiful title to me, with beautiful connotations,  it made me feel indestructible and powerful; like whatever the world threw at me, I’d be able to survive it and it made me feel somehow much more bonded to all the incredible Black woman in my life, I felt such a profound sense of sisterhood and community. It was only as I got older, in my early teens that I began to question it and question how it made me feel, I would watch the Black women in my life experience hardships and simply keep moving, despite the fact that I could see their suffering, I remained in awe, my admiration and love for Black women continued as did my pride in them for remaining ‘strong’ even when I knew how difficult things were for them. In all of this pride and admiration I had for the Black women around me, I also remember feeling such a huge sense of disappoint and shame in myself for how short I seemed to fall from this title, this ‘badge of honour’ I started to feel so undeserving, like the pain and sadness that I felt somehow made me weak, that I was somehow failing at being a Black woman.

The turning point for me has been quite recent, and I’ve realised that it’s coming from a place of frustration, sadness and anger. It feels as though everywhere I look, particularly on social media but even in movies and television this hugely detrimental stereotype is still being perpetuated. It  promotes this rather dangerous ideology that the very nature of Black womanhood is to remain ‘strong’ and ‘capable’ through everything, all trauma, all pain, physical and emotional. These micro-aggressions are harmful in so many ways; they minimise the severity of Black women’s issues, and this idea that we are better at ‘managing’ and ‘coping’ discourages Black girls and women from speaking up when they need to seek help from support services. 

Having been diagnosed with depression and anxiety at multiple stages of my adult life left me with feelings that I absolutely shouldn’t have had because of this archetype. I felt like a failure, as though the state of my mental health somehow made me less of a Black woman because we’re inherently resilient. I’m expected to have my ‘little moment’, cry it out, scream, and then go back to being this monolith, and to maintain this strong maternal, nurturing, confident persona once again because I am ‘strong’. When in reality, all I want is to be validated, to be reassured that it’s okay not to be strong all the time and that I don’t need to have it together every moment of every day and to be told I’m not going absolutely mad (typically after a series anxiety attacks and sleepless nights.) 

If that’s not enough - cue the depression! That long period that feels like an eternity in your mind where you’re feeling at your lowest because by simply feeling just a little bit of human emotion, for not existing as this monolith and figurehead of strength and determination, you’re falling short of what society demands you to be. It’s guilt, shame, embarrassment, loneliness and isolation all mixed together and hitting you all at once. You start to blame yourself because it’s your brain. You start to wonder, why am I not strong enough to just ‘snap out of it’? Maybe I’m just weak, a snowflake. Imagine every possible self deprecating thought a human being could possibly have and it’s all because we’re feeling more than society tells us we should. 

This stereotype puts tremendous and completely unrealistic expectations on Black women, and little girls from very early on. How can anyone expect a Black woman to be constantly nurturing and maternal but to not lose her identity, to be sensual, but still not a whore, to be strong but still maintain a sense of cuteness and femininity, to be independent, self-sufficient but still submissive and ready to be led, confident but still shy in a hyper feminine way that makes men feel 'manly'. It’s virtually impossible to be a woman in general but women of colour carry this burden on a much more damaging scale because we’re not given the room to be weak, to experience vulnerability without consequently being a failure, unable to live up to her expectation as a ‘Strong Black Woman’. 

I know I speak for a number of Black women when I say that what we need is to be listened to, to be heard but ultimately and most importantly, we need others to be strong for us, for once. Truthfully, in my experience, it is the most draining experience in the world feeling you need to exist as a ‘Strong Black Woman’, one that reaps absolutely no rewards.