Random Things I Learned Too Late.

I am sleepy. I need to working right now, but I knew if I didn’t take the time to do this post right now, I’d forget. And I’m trying to make this a daily and automated habit, so… Here’s a random list of things I’ve learned, but learned too late.

1. You can call almost any company you pay money to and get them to reduce your bill if you ask nicely enough and don’t give up. It might take a while, but it always works.

2. If the pizza box has grease stains on it, it’s not recyclable.

3. Cats can have anal gland problems just like dogs do.

4. Most people respect folks who don’t relinquish their power and stand firmly in their principles. They may not like you or agree with you. But they’ll respect you.

5. You cannot make someone love you just by being nice or hanging around or doing kind things for them or loving them first. You also cannot make someone love you the way you want to loved. They have to do it themselves, or you have to keep it pushin’.

6. If you need help, you have to ask for it.

7. You’re supposed to fill up your car tires with air routinely. (I do not, but you’re supposed to.) You don’t have to pay to do it at the gas station — they just want you to.

8. Most advice we receive about dieting, nutrition, and healthy eating is not only wrong — it further damages our metabolisms and abilities to eat healthy.

9. Most things in life that make us better, happier, healthier, kinder, more responsible, and more whole are really fucking hard. Growing up is really fucking hard. Healing is really fucking hard. Taking ownership of your life is really fucking hard. Choosing yourself is really fucking hard. Following your dreams is really fucking hard. Admitting when you’re wrong is really fucking hard. Backing your shit up with actions is really fucking hard. Staying engaged and conscientious with the world and communities around you is really fucking hard.

10. The key to healthy, clear skin is MOISTURIZER. Not exfoliant. Not cleanser. Keep yo’ shit moisturized.

That is all for now.

I Now Lack Patience for…

This odyssey of 2020 has been an impeccable even if brutal teacher. Everyday, I learn something new: about myself, about the world, about the people I know and love — and often, about a lot of shit that completely unknown to me. While I am not grateful for the pain, loss, suffering, and uncertainty this year has shat on all of our doorsteps, I am grateful for the moments that I have been allowed to journey deep within.

Like many of us, something broke open for me in the wake of George Floyd’s death. It wasn’t just the national uprising here in the U.S. or the global protests or the conversations we were all having. It wasn’t just the heartbreak or the rage or the weariness. It honestly felt like the clock had run out.

For the past couple of years, I had believed that there would be time to fight and to labor and to tear down and to rebuild after — after I had gotten staffed, after I had lost weight, after I had paid off my student loan bills. After surviving a depression that in some ways nearly killed me, I had adopted one of Audre Lorde’s best and most provocative ideas: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

I had confused political disengagement with self-preservation. I had convinced myself that somehow the immediate threat of Black death and Black destruction and Black dehumanization was out there somewhere. That it would not show up at my feet. That it would not take me or the ones I loved. That it could tamed as we all tried to survive a global pandemic.

I was wrong.

Suddenly, there was no more after. Black people were being murdered through state-sanctioned and extrajudicial violence during a pandemic. Businesses and schools and stores were shut down. And Black people were still being murdered (while also being disproportionately infected and affected by this virus).

And so, I started fighting again. I joined direct actions. I donated to organizations that were doing the work I could not on my own. I amplified voices and ideas and solutions. It was not only an urgent response, but it was also life-preserving. Because the thing that white people still do not get about the lived experiences of “othered”/”colored” folks — and yes, particularly Black and Indigenous folks — is that it is not only the noose or the bullet or the chokehold that kills us. It’s the very design of white supremacy that seeks to eradicate us.

There’s not an aspect of systemic racism that does not make it harder for me to live and thrive in this country and in this world. And there’s no aspect of this world and the way we live our lives that isn’t touched — or better yet, infiltrated by and infused with — systemic racism.

And now that I have fully come to accept that, I have lost my patience for most white people’s learning curve in this moment. I know it’s messy and problematic and controversial to say that, but it’s true. Every time I have to explain myself or my experiences or my pain to a white person, it literally feels like they are taking up time and energy — precious and futile — that could lent to some other endeavor or purpose. Every time I have to explain the experiences or pain of people who are not me, but who I feel a kinship to and responsibility for because they are also “othered” or marginalized — it feels the same.

Toni Morrison said it better than I ever could or ever will: “The very serious function of racism … is distraction. It keeps you from doing your work. It keeps you explaining, over and over again, your reason for being. Somebody says you have no language and so you spend 20 years proving that you do. Somebody says your head isn’t shaped properly so you have scientists working on the fact that it is. Somebody says that you have no art so you dredge that up. Somebody says that you have no kingdoms and so you dredge that up. None of that is necessary.”

I am working on my ability to still extend grace and empathy and patience to white people. Not because they are owed that from me as a Black person, especially in this moment. But because my humanity and theirs depends on it.

But damn, it’s hard.

I Chose Not to Tell You.

One of the things to come out of pandemic was my decision to tell a friend whether or not I’ve had feelings for them for a while. I spent months and months going over this decision. I asked for advice from most of my closest friends. I talked about it with my therapist ad nauseam.

I don’t like holding things in. I have a lot of feelings. They are often very big and very deep. So when I feel something, it’s hard for me to let it go unexpressed. Because then I have to carry around this very heavy, very big feeling that digs all into my insides and takes up too much space. It’s uncomfortable.

But telling someone, “Hey, maybe I love you a little bit and maybe I always have,” is like, one of the biggest feelings. It can be a life-altering feeling. It can be a relationship-defining feeling. For better or for worse. Or a little bit of both. And so, that’s why I worked this decision to death.

Every time I decided that the benefits outweighed the consequences, I would have a change of mind. And then I’d feel like, “Well, if I still can’t make up my mind, then I should take a little more time.” And then finally, I decided, “Yes, one day I will tell them, but not now.” Now seems like a bad time for many reasons. (I could name them all here, but I’m not. Because I’m not brave enough.)

But just because I’ve come up with some very good reasons not to tell this person how I feel doesn’t mean I still don’t want them to know. Because I am so grateful for what these feelings have taught me. And I’m grateful for what their friendship has offered me.

So today, I want them to know:

You helped me learn a piece of myself more intimately. You’ve taught me what it means to be the smartest, kindest person in any place. I think the world of you. And though you’re probably not my person, you have set the bar incredibly high for who I hope to end up with one day.

Y’all, if you can tell someone you love them today and you don’t have to worry about it blowing things up, please do.

I Forgot to Post Today.

Today’s One True Thing is that I totally forgot to post today.

Sundays have historically been my “self-care” and restoration day. When I graduated from NYU and started my first full-time job, I was shocked by how exhausting a 40-hour work week could be. I’ll never forget complaining to my dad about it and being like, “I can’t believe you chose to have kids on top of this.” LOL. Since 2012, I usually try not to schedule anything work or social life related on Sundays.

Pre-COVID, I would work out with my sistafriend and personal trainer, Eden, on Sunday mornings. Then I’d come home, nap, and chill for the rest of the day — maybe cook myself a big, nice dinner so I could have leftovers for the week. It was a nice ritual I started right before I celebrated my 30th birthday. Working out energized me for the week, but the hardcore chilling also allowed me to feel more rested. Like most of us, Mondays are hard for me, so having the whole day before to get my mind, body, and spirit right for the upcoming week helped me be more of a grown-up.

Then COVID hit and Sunday pretty much blended into all the other lockdown days. Plus, it feels like I’ve spent a majority of 2020 on episode (which I am NOT complaining about), so Sundays have also had to turn into a work day most weeks out of necessity. (Hiiii, I’m a procrastinator.)

But for the past month or so, I’ve been working on something very exciting with Eden’s brother, Miles. Though I love him and I love the project we’re collaborating on, so it doesn’t exactly feel like work. In many ways, it feels like just another extension of my self-care practice. But it’s also something I often have to rush and get ready for, because I have poor time management skills. That’s indeed what I was doing this morning — I woke up late and needed to get ready for our work session quickly. It was a joy. Then I came home and ate ramen. Then I took a nap. I woke up maybe an hour, an hour and a half ago…

OK, so essentially my Sundays are still the same. I’ve just swapped working out with Eden for working with her brother. (But you still my main squeeze, E!)

Now it’s 11:30pm and I’m like, “Oh, fuck, don’t lapse on the blog, bitch.” But because I took a VERY late nap today, I’ll probably be up for a few hours, which I don’t mind. I know all you sleep cops out there are gonna be like, “You shouldn’t take naps so late…” But listen, I was tired. Plus, I enjoy writing late into the night for some reason. There’s something about the darkness and the quietness and no one asking me for shit, it helps me lock myself into that rare yet sacred space where the ideas flow and I’m not getting hung up on the usual shit that keeps me from being a productive writer. It started in grad school. USC had a 24-hour library and when I really just needed to get writing done, I’d buy a bunch of snacks and coffee and hole up there until 3 or 4am. I miss it.

So those are my truths for the day: On Sundays, I’m lazy. But I tried hard not be too lazy to write this blog.

Happy Monday, y’all.

Therapy Works.

I just got out of a session with my therapist.

I’ve been seeing her for two years. I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was 11. That was the year my parents separated, and I would miss a lot of school. So my mom thought it would be helpful for me to see someone. To this day, it’s one of the kindest and most loving things anyone could have ever done for me. Because it meant that I always knew that was an option.

Previous to my most recent journey with therapy, I saw a therapist in high school for about a year. Then during the last two years of college. After undergrad, I had a life coach for about two years who was more or less a therapist, but our work was more spiritual. And then another therapist in grad school.

I have struggled with depression, anxiety, and self-esteem issues since puberty. When I feel like I’m unable to cope and manage on my own, I go back to therapy. Two years ago, I was burnt out and depressed, which is a dangerous combination. I had begun lashing out at people I loved. Like, literally screaming at people in public. I’m a crazy bitch, but it was scary. I knew something was wrong.

In our first session, I knew I had found the right therapist. Because she asked me questions that made me sob so hard, I felt like something had broken inside. In a good way. Since then, I’ve done a lot of healing and growing. She was the first therapist to ever help me understand that so many of my mental and emotional health issues also stem from PTSD. Like all of us, I have survived trauma. But the way I’ve learned to cope is unique to my special brand of weirdness and sensitivity.

The past two months have been especially difficult. I’ve taken on a lot. I’m working through a lot. I’ve been dealing with some personal shit. And also, the world feels like a very chaotic and negative and dark and heavy place most days. It’s been difficult to maintain a sense of joy or hope or positivity.

And yet, I am fine. Part of this is my privilege and good fortune. I will never hide that. But a lot of it is because of the work I’ve done in therapy over the last two years. I am stronger. I am more resilient. I’m more confident in my ability to cope and care for myself. I’m still not great at it, but two years ago, the last two months would’ve knocked me on my ass. Just truly and deeply would’ve fucked my shit up.

Instead, I have done such a good job at being OK — centering myself, caring for myself, holding myself accountable, recovering from setbacks — that I somehow convinced her that I’m ready to go back to sessions every other week.

I’m fixed! J/K. Not at all. (And also, that’s not the point of therapy.) But still, I am proud of the healing I’ve done.

(P.S. If you are sad or numb or lost or mad or confused or tired or going through some shit and you have questions about therapy, feel free to reach out to me.)