I’m not going to lie - I enjoy falling in love again and again. My heart has proven countless times that it will keep beating despite the unforeseen endings. But, man, this love shit ain’t for the weak and heartbreak is one hell of an experience. The kind of experience that’ll leave me crying and throwing up. This recent heartbreak has me in shambles, but this time feels different. I’m not questioning whether I’ll bounce back, because I know I will. I always do. Although I’m saddened by the loss of a lover, I know that relationships aren’t forever. Some relationships complete when their purpose has been fulfilled, even if it feels like a tough loss. I’ve realized the difference this time around is that I’m no longer tying this loss to my worth, instead there’s more acceptance that this was a necessary completion. Completion of a 32, almost 33, year long cycle of desperately trying to cling on to love that doesn’t serve me.

I was recently listening to Sade’s Cherish the Day and the lyrics seemed to hit me harder than usual. I’ve always heard the song as an ode to a lover, a beautiful display of romantic devotion and admiration of living in the present moment. But this listen almost moved me to tears because it sounds like something I’ve begun working on giving to myself.

It’s no secret I struggle with the desire to be chosen by others, and this need used to feel so heavy on me. I understood this desire was coming from a place of lack, and it used to control how I moved in my relationships. I’d attach myself to friends or lovers, and parts of my identity would be altered by the outcome of these relationships. I’d miss the obvious signs that things weren’t working out, just increasing my desperation with useless efforts. I made a promise to myself at the start of the year to no longer search for proof of my worth in others, but instead show myself the proof. Quietly, imperfectly, but consistently. We’re often told to seek it from ourselves and I can admit that it’s much easier said than done. As a therapist, I’ve always known the language but rarely would apply it to my own life.

Subscribe now

Hearing Sade repeatedly croon “you show me how deep love can be,” reminded me of my promise. Since January, I can proudly say I’ve been showing up and putting the work in. It isn’t always grand or cinematic, but the small and steady ways are still quite meaningful.

I’ve been choosing myself.

In the moments I reframe my thoughts when I’m feeling low.
In the softness I give myself when I’ve made a mistake.
In the boundaries I set for myself, even when others don’t understand.

If there’s a desire to be chosen, I realized I don’t have to keep waiting for someone else to fulfill it. I can fill it myself. I can choose me over and over again.

Not in the cheesy and trite “love yourself” kind of way, even though nothing is wrong with such advice. But in a way that feels real. Choosing myself has been looking like giving myself the love I desperately begged others for, and not questioning whether I deserve it. It looks like showing up for myself and believing I am loveable without the need for validation from anyone else but me.

This doesn’t mean I always like the woman looking back at me in the mirror. Some days, I have the most awful thoughts about myself. And sometimes I still struggle with old beliefs that I don’t deserve the love I want or that the relationships I have only exist because of what others can get from me, rather than provide. But for the last few months I’ve been working harder to meet these struggles with kindness. I’m realizing when the negativity comes around, it’s usually my brain’s way of signaling my need for softness and that’s a need I try my best to meet every time.

Sade was singing, “I won’t go astray / I won’t be afraid / You won’t catch me running” and it just felt like confirmation of my self-devotion. I don’t want to lose myself behind a lover, friend or family member. I’m not abandoning myself anymore just to feel close to someone. I think of my inner child and teenage selves, and it becomes easier to reassure myself that I’ll always be here. Those younger versions of me only ever wanted someone to hug them and make space for their emotions. I can give them that now.

For so long, I’ve been running from my fear of being alone or abandoned. But I know what it’s like to be held by those who love me, those who make up my community. My heart has swelled with joy at the loving community I’ve built for myself over the years. It’s not picture perfect, but it’s been perfect for me. They’ve carried me through it all, and I’m learning to stand on my own too. I know I don’t have to do it all by myself, but I no longer feel fear at the thought of being alone. In fact, I’ve been embracing my alone time more.

In my time alone is when I’ve felt most free. I would always say my intention for relationships is companionship, but I never thought of the company I give myself. When I’m in my own company, I’m letting my hair free in all its nappy glory, my titties know no bounds, and masking is out the window. I talk out loud as if a studio audience is present at all times and I constantly pause movies and shows to share my rendition of how particular scenes should’ve gone. I sing and dance while I’m cooking up a new recipe, and every now and then I let my dog in the kitchen for a quick taste. Dishes are always left in the sink and washed when I feel like it. Sometimes, I leave a dish (or two) on the table because I know I’m not going to nag myself. My dog and cats sleep in the bed with me, and pet hair is a part of the decor at this point.

And I’ve been loving it here.

I love myself here.

Just like Sade, I want to be shown how deep love can be. But I’ve given up on the idea of someone else showing me. I’m showing myself instead, and I’m willing to bet that kind of love would be endless.

I highlighted Love & Basketball as an example in that essay, but I wasn’t able to explore my thoughts deeper. So, consider this the long-overdue reflection.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this film is a classic for a reason. Love & Basketball is truly an entertaining film, with phenomenal performances by Sanaa Lathan (Monica Wright) and Omar Epps (Quincy Jones), and with equally amazing storytelling by Gina Prince-Bythewood and production by Spike Lee. For many Black millennials, Love & Basketball helped create an ideal romance. I remember loving this movie as a teen, kicking my feet and giggling at their cute banter, passionate scenes, and ‘happily ever after’ ending. Everything about the film feels familiar and cozy, making it one of those feel good classics for sure.

Shown in four quarters, similar to that of a basketball game, the movie allows us to witness the self-discovery of two people navigating life challenges all the while trying to give their love a chance. Love & Basketball does an amazing job at highlighting elements of Black culture and family dynamics, exploring the pressure and duality of masculinity and femininity, while challenging gender disparities in sports. However, when it comes to the romance, the first three quarters of the film are dominated by conflict – reinforcing the struggle love narrative. The main conflict of the relationship occurs when Monica is unable to prioritize Quincy’s needs after he discovers the truth about his father, who he idolized his entire life. Although there are several instances where Quincy places his basketball dreams and stardom over Monica and their relationship (i.e. blatantly flirting with fans, relishing in his handouts as a child of an NBA star, dropping out of school to go pro, etc.), he turns around and punishes her - choosing every opportunity to remind her that she did not center him. Ultimately, all that pride, passive-aggressiveness and disrespect ends their relationship. Even after they reconnect 5 years later and Monica begs Quincy for his heart over a late night 1:1 game, he dominates the game before finally giving in with the infamous line “Hey…double or nothing.”

I still can’t listen to Me’Shell NdegéOcell’s ‘Fool of Me’ without cringing at the memory of Quincy passionately dunking on Monica with his bum knee. This scene really drives home the emotional climax of the film, but I can’t help but wonder why Monica had to prove her love through competition and humiliation? Why is it that Quincy’s heart was the prize to be won?

The character development of the film was clear with Monica pushing relentlessly to make her dream a reality, becoming one of the first players in the newly formed WNBA. We even see development with Monica and her mother, having an intense heart to heart acknowledging, and accepting, their differences in their femininity. However, it’s difficult to identify Quincy’s development at all. Throughout the film, he embodies entitlement and fragile masculinity. I can even take it a step further and argue that there was some resentment (maybe jealousy?) towards Monica’s ambition, in which he felt he had to show that he was the better player in their final game. The conflict with his father remains unresolved, despite many years of distance. Can’t forget the fact that he was engaged to be married when he agreed to a late-night game with his ex. These were great character arcs to explore, but the film barely scratched the surface addressing them. The way I see it, Quincy remained the same throughout the 13 years of the story.

The recent discourse suggesting that criticism of Love & Basketball is just a fad or groupthink phenomenon feels like a reach. The thing is, two things can be true at once. The movie is a great, Black classic film, but the love story has not been able to withstand the test of time. When we compare Love & Basketball with a similar story, like Brown Sugar (another classic Black romance with Sanaa Lathan as the main female protagonist), where we watch two kids grow together in their love of hip-hop and eventually realize their romantic love for one another in adulthood, we can see the obvious difference in how the love is tended to throughout the film. Dre and Sidney’s love is watered through their actual friendship that isn’t intentionally centered on their romance but is clear to everyone else that it is romantic. Neither of them are careless with one another’s heart, in fact they are so careful of not ruining their friendship that they don’t even take the chance to deepen that love into something more until after they’ve both grown respectively. Conflict arises but it does not consume the love; if anything, the love grows more.

There are other classic Black romance films that are just as great as a whole due to our cultural attachment, but have not been able to properly depict healthy romance that we can actually aspire to. Just off the top of my head, I’m thinking of a few movies and their themes such as:

• Jason’s Lyric - love emerging from trauma

• Baby Boy - emotional immaturity and toxic masculinity

• Poetic Justice - chaotic emotional armor turned into intimacy

• Waiting to Exhale - strong friendship bonding over heartbreak and betrayal

• The Best Man - love amidst infidelity and betrayal

Many of these films center love stories that are inseparable from trauma, instability, or emotional imbalance, and I’m sure you can think of a few more. There’s also a shared theme of women settling for mediocre versions of love they think they deserve, but that may just be a discussion for another day.

I don’t want the struggle love. I don’t want to go through hell and back for love. I don’t want to fight for love. I don’t want to prove myself worthy for love.

Love may not always come easy, but it shouldn’t have to be so hard.

More recent films like The Photograph, Really Love, Sylvie’s Love, Nappily Ever After, or Rye Lane give me hope that Black love can be shown in all its glory without the need for struggle or toxicity. These films show a softer transition into love, emotional safety and mutual willingness to deeply explore connections. We deserve to see the beauty of Black joy in love, and be challenged to love as boldly and passionately as we can. Love & Basketball, in my opinion, doesn’t promote such a challenge but that does not discredit the film’s greatness. It is, and always will be, one of our classic enemies-to-lovers films.

As filmmaker Stella Meghie, who created The Photograph, once said: “We deserve romances where Blackness is context, not conflict.” Black culture oozes throughout many of our classic films, validating our experiences with love in all its messy twists and turns. The authenticity does what it needs to do, but it’s okay to move away from reality and into a more whimsy and fairytale.

I wonder what our understanding of romance might look like if we started showing less of the mess and a lot more of the love.

Oh, I know. We’re all just so full of pride and can’t even imagine dropping ourselves to our knees for anything. Aside from sexually, the idea of being submissive makes most of us sick to the stomach. But I urge you to consider the value of admitting how deeply you want to be loved. Because it’s true…

…we are in desperate need for love.

Or is it just me?

Almost every form of media has shown the power of begging - music, books, TV and film. Hell, even newspapers back in the day used to have wanted ads for dates and romance. No one wants to beg anymore, and THAT’S why romance is as dead as it is. We’re too cool to be seen as actual loving beings.

When I say bring back the begging, I’m not talking about the kind where you’re abandoning yourself for someone who doesn’t want you or making yourself small for someone who treats you mean. I’m talking about the boldness and courage to express how much someone actually matters to you. To say, “this is important to me. You are important to me.”

Begging doesn’t only have to be when there’s been wrongdoing either. It can simply be to express your desire to dive deeper into an intimate connection, especially when the other party is afraid to give it a chance. We’ve coined the term “pick-me” to shun women from pouring out their hearts and being desperate for love, and honestly? That might’ve been begging’s knife to the heart. What do we lose by asking someone to open their eyes and do right by love?

In Grey’s Anatomy, Meredith Grey famously asked McDreamy to “pick me, choose me, love me.” The polarity of this scene alone shows how some people really do think begging is cringe, but others noted the power of that raw vulnerability. If you think you lose your dignity by taking a chance on love, it’s valid given the fact that we’ve been conditioned to recognize self-preservation as the ultimate method of survival. With that came the birth of hookup culture and situationships, the ambiguous middle ground where no one commits but everyone pretends not to care. When did it become uncool to be a lover? Begging provides us the opportunity to get over the fear of being seen as caring too much and care anyway. Extreme vulnerability and desperation expresses the urgency and dire importance of the connection shared between lovers. It takes far more strength to kneel for love than to pretend you never needed it.

Understand that when we choose to move with pride, we are only trying to protect the ego. Ever heard the joke about the man and his pride? He dies alone. That’s it, that’s the joke. All that nonchalant energy and detachment only gets you a one-way ticket to loneliness. If that’s the goal then, by all means, continue on. But if the goal is to love and be loved in return, prepare to open your heart and pour out your soul to that person that came to mind while reading this essay.

Relationships are hard but we’re human, so there’s understanding that we’re not going to get it right all the time. Instead of sticking to transactional dynamics and watching good things get away, find that boombox and play some love tunes outside their window. Find them in the pouring rain and tell them how much you love them. Damn it, write a letter to them every day for 365 days letting them know they’re the one for you and that you’re sorry. Beg to keep the love between you strong!

When it comes to the matter of the heart, the rule is: there are no rules. Lay it all on the table. Take a leap of faith. In the words of Nat King Cole, “the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” Even if there’s an undesired outcome, you’re all the better for it because you know you’re capable of great love and vulnerability.

Pride kills intimacy and the chance at love.

Take the emotional risk and beg for the love you deserve.

Why must I let go of something I love? I’ve always thought if I love something, I am to cherish it and hold on for as long as I can. But I can admit, holding on to things I love hasn’t done me the best of service. Instead, it hurt more than benefited me. Mostly because the things (or people) I loved simply did not love me back.

Not just in the sense of inanimate objects; though those, of course, cannot love or emote. However, when I think back to relationships I’ve had and a few of the ones I still have, I can see where I went wrong in trying to hold on to what had already run its course. I do not think back on loves I’ve had and question whether they were real because what was real for me must’ve been real for them, otherwise the connection wouldn’t have been what it was. I just don’t believe real connections can be fabricated in the ways I’ve experienced.

But not all loves are meant to last. Some connections merely exist to provide something we need in the moment. I like to think that the great loves I’ve had taught me more about myself and the capability I have to love the way I do. I’ve also learned about the different kinds of love I have to offer and am willing to partake in.

I find myself longing for the kind of memory in which my parents, particularly my mother, taught me things about romance and love so I could’ve prevented most of the heartbreak I’ve endured. The reality is that my mother could not be bothered by such talk, although I watched her give so much of herself to her marriages to my father and stepfather throughout my entire life. Naturally, I learned to do the same with relationships I’ve had.

Why is there a universal lesson to tolerate one another for companionship or out of obligation?

The more I talk about love, the more I realize people tend to conflate the concept with tolerance. I’d often hear remarks along the lines of “to love someone is to put up with them.” Behaviors that are often quirky or annoying, I’d understand tolerance. However, character flaws or incompatibility are often the things we try to tolerate but, in time, we learn that we simply cannot without the inevitable consequences.

I do not think of tolerating love. If I love you, I do not want to tolerate you. I want to love you. Does that mean everything about you is perfect? Absolutely not, but that’s the point. I love your imperfections and quirks, even if they annoy me or make me shake my head fiftyleven times. Because without these things, you wouldn’t be who you are - the person I love. I can tolerate the odd behaviors, because I love you as a whole. However, my love is not tolerance.

When exploring the realms of tolerance, one must also think about love that is unconditional. The way I see it, love truly does transcend conditions. Which is probably why victims can love their abusers, despite the horrendous behaviors that may occur. Because love is just a word. Both a noun and a verb. A spiritual energy that connects us to one another and the world we live in. And although love can feel, and sometimes be, unconditional, that does not mean we are shackled to the relationship.

Especially when the relationship no longer, or has never, served us.

In the words of Tracee Ellis Ross, “I would love a relationship that makes my life better than it is. I have no interest in just being in a relationship to be in a relationship.” Relationships should be fulfilling, and purposeful - serving all parties involved. Not just with romance, but with all forms of connections. When the purpose no longer exists or has faltered to the wayside, it may just be time to revisit intentions.

Maybe I’m rambling, or maybe I’m on to something. All I know is that this year feels very different, a year of elevation. I’ve made some tough decisions to leave people in my past, walking away from those who never saw a future in tending a love with me. Friends and family, alike. As hard as those decisions were, I’ve felt a weight lifted from my shoulders because I feel free. Free from the burden of trying to make things work that were never meant to work beyond its initial purpose.

I’m learning to appreciate the love that existed for what it was, and mourn the love it never got to be.

I do not want to be tolerated. I do not want to prove my worth. I do not want to hold on for the sake of time shared. Because all it will ever be is just time shared and tolerance, not the kind of love I’m proud to experience.

Which means no more Tumblr Man (for real this time), or dynamics that leave me wanting more. It means leaving one-sided friendships that leave me drained and improperly replenished. It means leaving dead end jobs that never saw my value.

Most importantly, it means having the courage to walk away from my parents, whose love never lasted long enough for me to be seen as worthy, just as I am.

I need meaningful connections to survive, and I must learn to let go of the loves that slowly kill me. I believe it’s the only way I will be able to thrive in true love.

I’ve learned that I need meaningful connections to survive. Not just best friends and romantic partners. I need community.

In 2022, shit hit the fan with my mental health and, although I always craved community, I realized that I had no one to call on in my time of need. It’s not that I knew no one, but I simply did not invest meaningful time within the relationships I had to feel comfortable being completely vulnerable with my struggles. If I wanted to go out for drinks or check out some fun events, I surely had friends for that. But when my mental health took a toll, I couldn’t think of a single person to call for support.

Yes, I was seeing a therapist. I worked with a life coach. I had a toolbox of coping skills and activities. I had the resources, but it just wasn’t enough. Life was hard (still is, if I’m being honest), and I simply couldn’t find the will to live anymore. Then, surprisingly, some of the “fun time” friends I had showed up in my darkness and pulled me out. People in my neighborhood I didn’t even think knew my name provided care and warmth. Apparently, I had a community who genuinely cared about me. I was stunned.

That was my wake up call. I knew I didn’t want to die, but something had to change. It wasn’t enough to identify the problems and my desires, I needed to do the work.

I finally saw a psychiatrist, was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, and began taking medications to regulate my symptoms. I stopped smoking, reduced my drinking, and prioritized health and wellness in order to maintain stability. I’m not going to lie, I struggled accepting my diagnosis and, after 6 months, I stopped my medications and focused on maintaining a low-stress lifestyle.

Almost 3 years later, this is the most stable I’ve felt all of my life. However, it’s not to say I do not struggle with the highs and lows. When things get too challenging, I reach out to my clinical team of providers and regulate with therapy and/or medications. I’ve only recently come to accept that my diagnosis is very real, and my mental health is severely impacted by high stress situations, environments, and relationships.

I’ve also learned that I am not a typical girl in how my mind and body experience the world around me. I don’t like drinking ice cold water because I can feel it in my veins. Too many sounds overstimulate me and make it hard for me to think or talk clearly. I have a specific order of how my sandwiches must be because I can’t take it if it’s any other way. Don’t even get me started about things I will hyper-fixate on over the course of days, weeks or months. These things may sound quirky, but they significantly affect my way of living. With the rise of people self-diagnosing ADHD and Autism, it’s clear that neurodivergence is more common than we’ve ever known. Simply put, neurodivergence challenges the idea that there is only one “right” way of thinking, feeling, learning, or behaving. Although I haven’t been formally diagnosed with any neurodivergent condition, I’ve come to understand that my neurodivergence influences every aspect of my living in a neurotypical world, which then impacts my mental health.

Having this knowledge helps me better understand who I am as a whole. For the most part, I have great days where I am stable and all is well with my life. And every now and then, I have not-so-great or bad days where I may not be as high-functioning as I usually am. Either way, this is all me. The good, the bad, the ugly; it’s all me.

So, when I say I need meaningful connections to survive, I do not say that lightly. I need to know I am safe with those in my community - not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. In order to have such meaningful relationships, I must be able to share parts of myself that aren’t always fun and put together, and to trust that those around me will support me. And vice versa - I want to be able to support my community as well, however they need.

As a neurodivergent person with mental health struggles, I thrive in relationships that provide depth, safety, respect and love. It’s the only way I know to survive.

*If you need support, you’re not alone—help is available (call or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline).

On the drive home, I was left wondering about my own ability to host something similar. It must have been a month or so ago when I came across a video of a woman ( on TikTok) hosting a dinner party with a few friends. I remember watching in awe and filled with a yearning desire for a community that felt the way that gathering looked, mimicking the way I felt at the game night. She went on to create an additional video discussing how to create this kind of event, giving a gentle yet powerful reminder: “if you want a village, you have to be a villager.”

What does that mean, though?

Building community takes work. You must show up for others, and not just in the cool, Instagram-able way, but in the meaningful, mundane and inconvenient ways. I’m willing to bet that you do just that and you have people around you that are already part of your community. Sometimes, I believe we have an ideal vision of what we want our community to look like but we’re waiting for someone else to execute the vision. I can admit that I fall into this kind of bystander paralysis as well, often choosing to be an attendee rather than the one bringing people together. Hell, some people think community only consists of partying and social media posts. But solid communities are built through intention and if we’re not actively sewing into the relationships we already have, we won’t reap the benefits of the community we want. We simply cannot wait for the perfect community, we must foster safety and trust by showing up for others - especially when it’s difficult.

Gatherings like the one I mentioned earlier, along with many others, are made possible by the relationships we build in the day-to-day. With the friends I have, I make it a point to check in, set aside time to catch up, extend support for current/upcoming challenges, or even assist with rides to the airport or packing for a move or finding a therapist. This kind of showing up is not limited to just my close friends, but to anyone who I view as part of my intimate circle. Showing up this way for my people and vice versa has wired my brain to view community building as necessary for survival, but it also helped to pique my interest in creating safe spaces for us to come together.

I’ve recently started reading Priya Parker’s ‘The Art of Gathering: How We Meet and Why It Matters’ with the hopes of transforming into someone who not only attends events but also hosts them. I’ve always wanted to bring my friends together, but the thought of doing so is often overwhelming. What if it doesn’t live up to the vision I have in my head? I often worry if bringing my friends together would even work, but mostly I worry if I can put together an enjoyable gathering that feels fulfilling and meaningful. My circle has never been, and more than likely never will be, large. Most of my close friends live in different states, and the local friends I have are from various spaces/communities which makes them so different from one another.

Parker starts The Art of Gathering identifying the importance of gatherings and how much these events “help determine the kind of world we live in, in both our intimate and public realms.” There are plenty of traditional ways we already gather in our lives like work meetings, conferences, dinner/birthday parties, weddings, funerals, and many more. However, as Parker notes, most of these gatherings “fail to capture us, change us in any way, or connect us to one another.” It almost seems like we get together in such typical ways because it’s expected of us, not necessarily because we look forward to the experience itself or the connections formed.

Thinking back to the game night I attended, I was captivated by the energy in the room. There was a lighthearted curiosity in the room mixed with tipsy playfulness. Mostly everyone was actively engaged with one another, exchanging quick introductions before diving into entertaining conversations and debates. The host did such a great job, working the room and ensuring everyone’s comfort. The games brought out even more of an intimate energy, with infectious laughter filling the air followed by the competitive bug as we split into teams at one point. The night felt effortless, and it was clear that everyone in the room was craving this kind of intimate connection with others.

But hosting, as I’ve learned, is far from effortless. I’ve had the pleasure of hosting two group trips with amazing women and, although the trips went smoothly and were a lot of fun, it took much work to put together. Aside from the logistics of the traveling in itself, everything was intentional and purposeful which, I believe, led to the success of the trips. Thinking back, I realized there were various strategies on my end that helped to make things work well such as having a clear purpose for the trip and being intentional with the emotional and psychological aspects such as who to invite, prioritizing comfort, managing expectations, etc. The groups consisted of women I knew from high school, college and previous jobs who I was able to maintain healthy friendships with over the years, and I was overjoyed when they all meshed well together and kept in contact long after the trips.

I’ve discussed my mother’s influence on my worldview of community building in my essay allow me to be inconvenienced by you, and, of course, she comes to mind as I write this piece. I grew up watching her put together gatherings of close friends and family. These events were always a good time filled with great food, continuous conversations, intense domino/card games, and plenty of Kompa. As I grew older, I appreciated these parties more and more because of the effort it took to put together and the effort from everyone else to attend. By the end of these parties, it was evident everyone felt connected and welcomed into our home. Now, we’re all witnessing my older brother follow in my mother’s footsteps by creating and managing our annual family field day to continue the tradition of keeping us connected.

With the desire to bring together my communities growing more and more each day, I want to devote the time, energy and effort to making this happen. I don’t want to have ritualized gatherings, following a typical template or formula that’s outplayed and mundane. Instead, I want to host gatherings that facilitate valuable engagement, transformative connection and personal and communal growth.

Ultimately, I just want to facilitate spaces where people can feel a sense of belonging and are reminded that they are a part of my community and, hopefully, I’m a part of theirs too.

As my understanding of relationship dynamics evolved, I began approaching dating and community-building differently. I rarely date with the intention of marriage or being a wife or mother. Instead, my intention for relationships is the same across the board – companionship: the simple act of experiencing closeness with another person.

Companionship provides an opportunity to create a relationship dynamic that is true to me and comfortable for all parties. For me, this intention highlights the value I want all of my relationships to have: closeness and emotional fulfillment. This wasn’t rooted in the idea of what another person can do for me or what they can provide, and it certainly doesn’t have anything to do with societal expectations. Seeking companionship allows me to experience a person for who they are and what we are; that’s what matters most to me.

This intention isn’t solely related to romance, but can also be applied to other relationships. It’s interesting how platonic love is typically valued less than romantic love, even though most of us have, or have had, a number of long-lasting friendships. These relationships, in my opinion, are more fulfilling, unconditional, and accepting. I may not have a lot of close friends, but the ones I do have fill my cup in ways romantic relationships consistently fail to do. If anything, I can argue that my friendships are more romantic because of the way we show up for each other through intentional quality time, emotional and physical support, and just the concept of being inconvenienced by one another. Maybe we should treat our friends more like lovers and our lovers like friends.

Subscribe now

This broader understanding of companionship began to influence how I approached romantic and sexual relationships as well, leading me to naturally gravitate toward ethical non-monogamy and polyamory. Initially, I believed this was because of my desperation to have a relationship of any kind with whoever. When those experiences crashed and burned, I lost faith in what I believed I could achieve with non-monogamy. But the more I explored and dived deeper into my desires, the more I understood how non-monogamy could allow me to experience different forms of relationships without the crushing weight of fitting them into a specific category.

I’ve previously discussed the hold Tumblr Man has had on me for some time. It’s a dynamic I enjoy, for the experience itself. It’s intimate, warm, and stable. However, without fail, we always reach a point where I begin to wonder what value does this dynamic hold for him? What value does it hold for me? The more I wonder, the less secure I feel in what we have. All of which is valid, but I can’t help but feel that I’m looking at it all wrong.

If my intention is companionship, and that is what I’m getting, what more do I want?

The connection with Tumblr Man is similar to that of a committed and exclusive relationship, but the commitment and exclusivity aren’t present. Conversations about the affair are often difficult to navigate. Does this mean that this dynamic, or any other form of a non-exclusive connection, lacks value? I don’t believe that to be true. There is value in companionship and intimacy, even if the goal is not to marry, have kids, or end up together forever. The experience, alone, is fulfilling, and I can attest to that. I believe the difficulty in having these conversations has more to do with external pressures and expectations rather than inability or intentional ignorance.

When I talk about relationships, I often think of Robert Sternberg’s Triangular Theory of Love. Sternberg proposed that love consists of three key components – intimacy, commitment, and passion, which later research supported as measures of relational satisfaction. What I love about this theory is how it maps eight types of relationships based on the presence or absence of these components; “non-love” being the absence of all three and “consummate love” being the presence of them all. The remaining types include liking, infatuation, empty love, romantic love, companionate love, and fatuous love.

Based on this theory, Tumblr Man and I have intimacy and passion but lack commitment, which places our connection in Sternberg’s category of romantic love. Does the absence of commitment devalue this love? I don’t believe so, but I’d be lying if I say it doesn’t affect my trust and sense of security. On the other hand, commitment and intimacy are very much present in my friendships and broader community which reinforces my belief that these relationships can hold even deeper meaning than romance.

With the freedom to create the kinds of relationships I want, I’m learning to release the notion of putting all of my eggs in one basket. No single person or relationship can meet every need I have, and that’s okay. Instead, I can meet my needs through multiple connections, each offering something unique: emotional fulfillment, passion, security, trust, respect, and, most importantly, love.

My love cannot be contained and molded to fit a particular look and/or feel. I love because I am love, and I aim to love as much and as freely as I can. Doing so isn’t just how I connect with others; it’s how I continue to connect with myself.

I love Black romance movies. Love Jones, The Best Man, How Stella Got Her Groove Back, Love & Basketball (even though I could argue that this movie is, in fact, a horror film but I’ll add this to the growing laundry list of essay ideas I want to write one day). One of my Top 3 Black romances is Brown Sugar. In this beautiful film, Sidney Shaw (played by Sanna Lathan) is a big time Hip Hop journalist and she interviews all the hottest rappers in the game. She starts all her interviews with the question, When did you fall in love with Hip-Hop? You can just see everyone’s excitement with the question before strolling down memory lane. Throughout the movie, Sidney poetically narrates her love story with Hip Hop and it made me think of my love for writing. So, I thought I’d asked myself:

When did you fall in love with writing?

I can remember the exact day I fell in love with writing. My mom had just bought me my first journal. It was a furry pink booklet that came with a lock and key. Looking back, I wonder if my mom knew I needed an outlet for my big feelings. I didn’t know much about writing, other than what we were being taught in grade school. Little did I know how much writing would become such a huge part of my life.

As I grew up, I always kept a journal to help me sort out my thoughts and emotions. This might be showing my age but all the girls had colorful Lisa Frank journals with fluffy gel pens, and I sure was one of them. Journaling was the best way for me to regulate my emotions instead of unleashing my childish anger on everyone. Though I still slipped and let people have it from time to time, writing kept me somewhat tame. My writing was where I could be my most vulnerable, most authentic. Writing was how I’d discover my hopes and dreams, unload all my baggage, and reveal my deepest secrets.

I never had to pretend with writing. Writing was my first real love, the first to understand and accept me.

Just like any relationship, my love for writing grew and changed over the years. The more I fell in love with writing, the more I read other writings that were similar to mine. I began imagining my life as a writer, someone who was able to carefully craft relatable experiences through the use of creative words. I got lost in books, increasing my vocabulary so I could perfectly describe the inner workings of my mind. I often got in trouble at school because I kept my nose in books I preferred to read rather than those of our curriculum. I was often told by my parents and teachers that being a writer wasn’t a feasible career choice. I didn’t know it then but those comments planted the first seeds of doubt in my mind about my relationship with writing.

By the time I got to college, I completed my first novel. A monumental accomplishment. I set out to get it published but was met with rejection after rejection after rejection. I could feel the love I once felt for writing withering away, losing hope in my ultimate coping tool and hobby. To combat this decline, I immersed myself in creative writing classes; surrounding myself with other talented young writers. I’m not going to lie, though, I would find myself feeling intimidated by their creativity. When it came time to advance to upper level writing courses, my application was denied. Twice.

Although I loved writing with all my being, I couldn’t help but wonder: am I not good enough?

Discouraged and confused, I walked away from writing creatively and focused on building a more realistic career as a mental health therapist. Gone were the days of reading for leisure and creating new worlds on paper. My mind constantly raced with ideas and thoughts desperately looking for an escape, but the drive was gone. I put writing on the shelf and let it collect dust for years.

It wasn’t until life dragged me through the mud that I’d return to writing, like a sinner on her knees praying to be heard, to be seen, to be restored. My writing would get the worst parts of me, tears staining the words on pages I’d hoped to free me. Soon, writing became a ritual - ending my days with my journal, documenting the mundane details of daily experiences. With each stroke of my pen, each delicate word chosen, the love reemerged like it never left.

I returned to writing with ease, watching my tough exterior shed like snake skin. My emotions were regulated, thoughts tamed. The chaos of my life died down and I was able to breathe again. The unconditional love I experienced through my writing could not be duplicated, no matter how hard I searched in the eyes of previous lovers. Writing accepted all parts of me, holding my hands through the worst of times and holding a mirror for me to see myself in the best of times.

As much as I enjoyed writing’s ability to immortalize me and all my experiences, I kept my writing to myself out of fear of being rejected again. My intimate thoughts hid in the pages of journals that were kept in my nightstand, far away from scrutinizing eyes. My anxiety kept me from sharing this relationship with others, knowing they wouldn’t understand.

Then I came across a popular quote by Toni Morrison - 'If you are free, you need to free somebody else. If you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else.'

The relationship I had and rediscovered with writing freed me in ways I never knew possible. Was I the best writer? No. But does writing empower me to be me? Yes.

If I could find freedom in my relationship with writing, it’s only right I share it with others. Now, this didn’t look like trying to publish my writing or receive validation from people who didn’t matter. Instead, it looked like me boldly stepping out and declaring to the world how much writing has saved me, loved me, accepted me. The moment I fell in love with writing was the moment I learned my voice mattered.

So, to writing – I used to love you. I still do. And I always will.

Somehow I’ve convinced myself that I haven’t told you enough of how much you mean to me. I need you to know. In a few hours, you’ll wake and we’ll talk like we usually do throughout the day. But it’s something about the wee hours of the night and the beating of my aching heart that urges me to reach out.

Nights without you in my bed are the worst. Stretching my arm to the cold and empty side of my bed hurts me in ways you’ll never know. Why aren’t you here, again? I’ve grown used to your large frame behind me, delicious body heat warming me throughout the night and loud snoring filling the air. But the silence in my room right now is somehow louder than your obnoxious snores in my ear. It’s deafening, and I can’t stand it.

I thought I knew how to breathe before you, but since you’ve come into my life, it’s like I’ve taken my first real breath. I’ve realized how shallow my breathing is when you’re not around, almost like I’m holding it in waiting for you to bless me with your presence. And when you do, you steal my breath away, your beauty is just unreal. It’s not just physically, even though I can’t take my eyes off of you when you’re around. But your whole being is beautiful, enough to make me stop breathing just to savor each moment.

My favorite thing to do is watch you while you sleep. I’ve thought about taking a picture so it would last longer but, to be honest, I don’t think it would capture it the way I see it in real time. Your innocence shines, and all I can think of is wanting to protect you from the evils of the world. I hate how much this world and your experiences have left you to guard yourself in such impenetrable armor. But somehow you let me in, and when you’re sound asleep in my arms, it’s as though I’m witnessing the softest part of your soul. And for that, I’m honored to see the part you keep from everyone else.

You came into my life at just the right time. Although I wasn’t ready to open my heart, the connection between us has slowly unfolded like a delicate flower. With each layer added to the mix – patience, kindness, respect – you’ve gained my trust, and I yours. The sweetness in every touch and kiss leaves me yearning for more, and I look forward to the way we’ll continue to grow. Even if our paths grow in different directions, I will cherish the time I have with you because it only adds to who I am. Knowing you has allowed me to learn the green flags necessary for me to love wholly and fully.

I hope you know that you mean so much to me, and I’m forever grateful to experience loving you. Because I do – I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I pray this message finds you well rested.

I’ve somehow found myself entangled in the very lover I walked away from this time last year. Remember Tumblr Man? Yeah…

At the time, I felt determined to walk in the direction of the love I deserve. I remember the intention I had to put myself out there and only pursue connections that felt serious, refusing to settle for less. That lasted a few months before the thoughts of this lover began to creep into the corners of my mind.

Slowly, but surely, I’d find myself absentmindedly lost in memories of past encounters with him. Remembering his warm smile when he’d show up at my doorstep late in the night. My fingers lazily trying to mimic his soft caresses. Late nights filled with stifled moans and battery-powered fun.

So when this lover found his way back into my orbit, I eagerly welcomed him with open arms. This has become our norm over the years - the back and forth, the in and out, the up and down. He isn’t a bad person, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with the dynamic. But every time we start back up again, I’m hit with the intense reminder that I want more.

The other day, while laying in his arms, I noted that I’m typically hesitant to kiss him. Sure, we’ve kissed plenty of times, but each kiss felt more like a question mark rather than an ellipsis signaling for more. I want to kiss him with fierce certainty, or hold him without doubt, but we just don’t have that kind of connection.

And that’s the thing: I’m not sure what kind of connection we have.

If it were purely sexual, I think I’d have more clarity. Our goal would just be to share our bodies and the other intimate things would be nonexistent. But that doesn’t fit. I’m not even sure I can call the dynamic romantic, either, though it feels romantic in nature. The dates, longing stares, tight embraces, breakfast in bed, lingering goodbyes. All the things I desire, but it’s not quite right. It just exists, as is.

Sometimes, when I’m alone, I feel shame about my difficulty in leaving this lover for good. I’m often reminded through social media and conversations with girlfriends that I should want more for myself, or I should have impossibly high standards for myself. So many people will lead you to believe that engaging in these kinds of ambiguous dynamics means you lack self-worth or standards. I pray for the strength to walk away and choose myself. And then I remember: I am human. I’m allowed to give myself grace.

Because the truth is, I love this lover. That much is clear, from my actions, from my continued involvement. And maybe that love doesn’t need to fit neatly into a specific category to be valid.

Is it such a bad thing to allow myself to bask in this experience?

I want to enjoy it for what it is, not overthink what it should be. When I’m with him, I feel good. It’s not the love of my dreams, but it’s a love I enjoy filled with pleasurable intimacy, stimulating conversations and comfortable companionship. And for now, I think that’s enough.

I don’t want to run away again, out of fear of the intense feelings I have for him or out of frustration that the dynamic doesn’t look the way I imagined it would. I also don’t want to keep waiting to feel chosen by him.

Even though I am still determined to walk in the direction of the love I deserve, this, right now, is a form of choosing - me choosing to love, choosing to stay present, and choosing to let myself enjoy something imperfect without guilt, fear, or shame.

Subscribe now

Have you ever fallen in love at first dance?

Dim lighting. Packed dance floor. Loud music thumping through the air. Hips swaying to the beat. Sweaty bodies pressed against each other - some grinding without shame, others just passing through. The perfect scene for letting loose, opening up to the possibility of passion. Desire. Love.

I’ve fallen in love countless times in those crowded spaces, tipsy and holding onto someone who knew where to place their hands, how to lock eyes, when to eagerly fall into a state of erotic bliss. There’s something freeing about letting yourself waltz into the emotional abyss of dancing. Not the typical two-step against walls, shimmy of the shoulders, or trance setting twerking. Those can be a good time, for sure. But nothing beats the slow whining of hips, the intimacy of arms holding you close, the thrill of being face to face.

The mood has to be set just right, and that depends on the DJ. Too often, DJs will put on the songs you can rap/sing along to or perform trendy Tiktok dances to. If you’re in the south like me, you may even hear a couple of line dancing songs – and I know we’re tired of hearing the flapping of them damn fans. My theory is that club culture lost its allure and ability to create the space to fall in love with a dance when they strayed away from catering to women. There once was a time where ladies got in free with free drinks all night (or from a set time frame), and men had to pay a cover to even be in their presence. Now, we’re all being charged the same amount and dance floors have shrunken in size to accommodate sections where men flash their money to impress other men. But, I digress. This point may just have to be a conversation for another day.

What ever happened to the slow jams? When you’d hear the DJ call out, “we’re about to slow things down” and the energy tangibly shifts with the sultry sounds of R&B or Neo-Soul filling the air. Eyes darting around for the right kind of partner. Goosebumps rising at the right kind of touch. That’s when you’d find the real lovers, those who understand that love can be fleeting and bask in its presence for as long as it exists.

I’ll never forget my first time.

I was visiting a friend in Tallahassee who was connected with her school’s Club Creole, and the weekend was full of Haitian events gearing up for their upcoming Gala. It was a group of us attending the events, and one in particular caught my eye – tall, dark and handsome. We harmlessly flirted with one another, but the real magic happened when we all made our way to a Kompa party.

Haitian parties are not for the weak. If you don’t know what a gouyad is, imagine this: bodies glued together, hips wining in unison, foreheads touching and arms holding you tightly in place. Haitians are inherently sensual, and they know how to set a vibe – moving you from immense joy, to unapologetic Haitian pride, to the brink of baby-making all in the matter of minutes. After a well-executed gouyad, it’s hard not to question, so… what are we?

And that’s exactly the position we found ourselves in that night. With the help of a little liquid courage and the sultry melodies of Kompa, our bodies naturally swayed into one another. It was easy to follow his lead, as he slowly moved his hips against mine and held me close. Our eyes never left one another, our lips slowly curving upwards in the quiet understanding of what was unfolding. I remember his breath was warm against my face, the pull between us intense, and our kiss, tentative at first, grew increasingly passionate as the music flowed through us.

The rest of the weekend was wrapped in that blissful energy, even though it never became anything more.

Since then, I’ve fallen in love with strangers on the dance floor more times than I can count. It’s one of my favorite pastimes. The shared intimacy and short-lived desire for something more, coming to our senses when the lights come on. Sweetly releasing each other like doves in the wind.

For me, dancing into love feels freeing and passionate and sweet. The idea that love, or something close to it, can exist without expectation. It’s not just a dance; it’s a conversation in its own right, a silent exchange of connection, energy, and sometimes desire. It rarely ever lasts, much like love at first sight, but those brief connections leave a lasting impression. Because the magic lives in the moment itself.

And I, for one, will continue to fall in love through dance over, and over, and over again…

Subscribe now

There once was a time where love moved slow.

Long before the scrolling, the swiping, the chasing, the ghosting. There was never a need to rush, diving headfirst into impulsive passion and dead-end situationships. Before we got lost in spark-chasing, romance had a much longer runway, allowing love to simmer and unfold in the form of a slow burn.

You see, slow burns have lost their allure somewhere along the way. Once we began to treat love as a formula to rinse and repeat over and over again, the magic of love fizzled out. Even in TV shows and movies, romance arcs nowadays are often sped up as a way to give the audience instant gratification, then kept alive by ridiculous amounts of sex or traumatic conflict. But a true slow burn? That takes time. Think of Janine Teagues and Gregory Eddie from the hit sitcom Abbott Elementary. From the very first episode, there’s a subtle connection between the two that beautifully blossoms over the course of three seasons—literally, 49 episodes. Unlike the running gag in The Parkers, where Nikki Parker obsessively pines over Professor Stanley Oglevee for all of 5 seasons, only for him to finally realizes he loves her when she’s happily engaged with someone else (I just may write a piece about how popular Black media from the 90s and early 00s shoved such an unhealthy amount of relational toxicity down our throats and tried to make it seem cute - e.g., the horror of Love & Basketball. Yeah, I said it.).

Slow burns aren’t flashy or impulsive. They don’t depend on instant attraction or overwhelming chemistry. And they certainly aren’t synonymous with settling. They happen when you meet someone who doesn’t necessarily fit your "type," but there’s something about them you can’t quite put your finger on. It grows quietly, steadily, in the space between long conversations and stolen glances. You don’t always notice it happening—until, one day, it’s undeniable: something real has taken root.

This is the kind of love we used to make room for. The kind of love we would patiently watch blossom. It wasn’t built on performance or perfection. It was built on intentional presence and natural effort. Paying attention to small details. Letting yourself be seen: gradually, imperfectly, fully.

Patience has become a lost virtue in modern romance where swiping left or right has grown into the norm for dating, or asking for social media accounts instead of phone numbers. We want fireworks the moment we lay eyes on someone, or else it’s not “real.” If they’re not instantly obsessed with us, we’re ready to move on. We chase the high of an immediate spark, but are disappointed when it fizzles out just as fast. We want lasting relationships without the inevitable work that comes with them. Chemistry without compatibility is like a match in the wind – catching fire but easily blowing out too soon. A slow burn, though? That’s a fire you can build a home around, basking in its enduring warmth.

What I love about slow burns is how they teach us to value the journey of walking into love, not falling. Falling in love implies that love just happens to us, like some uncontrollable force. But walking into love? That’s a choice. A decision to keep showing up. To build trust. To look beyond caution and follow curiosity. To see beyond the surface attraction and lean into the slow and incredible experience of building real connection.

Now, this isn’t a knock on instant connections. Some people just know, and that’s beautiful. But the danger lies in thinking love should always look like that. I remember watching Love Jones, desperate for a love like Nina and Darius. When Darius confesses, “I love you. That’s urgent like a motherfucker," he had me in the meanest of choke-holds (still does, to be honest). But, for the longest time, this line had me convinced that urgency meant authenticity. And, in my big adult age, I’ve realized this mindset robbed me of so many potential loves that simply needed more time to bloom.

Slow burns offer something we’re all searching for but rarely admit: stability. A deep emotional gravity that pulls you close, not from lust or desperation, but from layering trust, respect, and mutual desire over time. The very ingredients long-term love is made of.

It’s time we bring back the slow burn. Romanticize effort instead of instant gratification. Normalize connection that grows with time. Believe that love doesn’t have to be eruptive to be meaningful. Knowing that it can rise, quietly, steadily, like the morning sun.

Because in a world where we rush to make love happen, there’s something radical, revolutionary even, about love that simply takes its time.

Subscribe now

It’s one thing to have some friends here and there, or even a group of friends that you see regularly. But it’s another thing entirely to have people who are there for you. Not just people you socialize with, exchanging quick updates about your life before slipping back into separate lives. I’m talking about the people you can ask for a ride to/from the airport at 5am. The people you can talk to about being low on rent/groceries and they help you to cover the rest. The people who show up at your door with prepped meals for the week because they know you’re in a depressive funk.

I’m talking about COMMUNITY.

When I was younger, I’d watch my Haitian mother, in awe, tend to her community like a gardener watering and taking care of their plants. She’d randomly call to check in on her people throughout the day, send me or my siblings to bring soup to a sick family friend, or take someone in who needed a place to stay. She would even take care of our elderly neighbors down the street, sitting on their porch providing company or making sure they were okay if she hadn’t heard from them. And in turn, those same neighbors would provide free childcare when she needed someone to watch my younger sister if we were all out.

There once was a time we were guests at a party and she stayed behind to help them clean up while I irritably thought, “nobody even asked you to do that.” We argued about it the next day, where I selfishly told her she doesn’t always have to go out of her way to help. But looking back on it, I’m glad she did. I feel honored to know that’s the kind of mother I have – one who doesn’t need to be asked; she genuinely wants to help you because you are a part of her community.

And when my mom needs help? Man, the way her community shows up for her never ceases to amaze me. She’s throwing a party, there’s someone offering to bring chairs or other equipment. If something was wrong with our cars, she’s already on the phone with a friend who’s telling her to bring it in so they can look at it. My little sister’s traveling to Japan for two whole months and a family friend that lives there has offered to take care of her for free.

The saying, “inconvenience is the price of community” has been floating around the internet, and there’s truth to it. There’s a reason people, like myself, are struggling with loneliness: no one wants to be inconvenienced. For the sake of keeping peace and maintaining boundaries, people have therapized themselves to a point of isolation and hyper-independence. Need a ride? Book an overpriced ride-share service. In need of a dog sitter? Pay someone. Want company while you tend to some errands? Listen to a podcast. These solutions aren’t inherently wrong, but they dismiss the importance of a solid community where we can allow others to be there for us. No one bats an eyelash when it comes time to being inconvenienced for romantic relationships. It’s considered normal, or even expected, to be with your partner multiple times a week, consistently communicating throughout the day, rearranging schedules for dates, or being actively present and engaged with them. However, these same efforts aren’t afforded to platonic or communal relationships.

I’ve witnessed firsthand the benefits of building a village of people who are more than HAPPY to be inconvenienced to be there for you. My mom may not be the type to cry on your shoulders or ask for emotional support, but she has built such a strong community of people that she would know exactly who to call if she did need that shoulder.

But trying to replicate that kind of community in my own life? Pfffttt. It seems impossible.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I just don't know how my mother, or anyone else for that matter, does it. Or maybe community building has just become a lost art in a society that over-emphasizes individualism while encouraging connection but rarely fostering commitment.

I don’t know, maybe I’ll never know. What I do know is that when I am struggling, and I mean really struggling, I often feel terribly alone. Aside from family, I rarely know who to call if I need immediate support. Even trying to schedule time to meet-up with friends has become a spectacle of figuring out availability, desperately trying to break through DNDs, or trying to be low maintenance in efforts to avoid burdening others. The same friends will often fall into the habit of saying, “I’m here for you” with good intentions, even if it’s often an empty claim.

It’s exhausting and discouraging. I don’t want to just orbit your life — I want to feel like I belong in it.

Is that too much to ask?

Subscribe now

“I see you.”

The moon’s voice drifted into the quiet of my bedroom, her light shining through the window, illuminating the dark space where I so often hide. Her sweet voice felt like a gentle caress against my face, waking me from the anxious thundering of thoughts in my head. I wasn’t sure if she meant to, but it felt as if she just shared a secret with me. A secret I didn’t know how to hold.

I wonder what she sees.

Maybe she’d seen the nights I’d cry myself to sleep from loneliness so intense, I feared this would be my life forever. Or if she’d see how hard I clung to my pillow, desperately willing it to mimic the warmth of a lover’s body entwined with mine. Imagining the care and adoration of someone in my arms, as I whisper sweet nothing in their ear. Or maybe she saw the quiet rituals I’d perform under the covers, hands roaming familiar curves. Not of lust, but yearning. A way to silence the aching desire, soothing my body to deep sleep.

I imagine she’d watch me unravel at the end of my days, stripping off the familiar armor I wear in the world. The sense of relief as I unhook my bra and allow my shoulders to slump for the first time in a while. Releasing my braids from under the tight wig that had been clipped to my head. She’d see me, with my lips pressed tight, eyes low, slipping under my covers and staring at the ceiling for hours. She’d see a version of me no one else sees. A version of me often hidden from myself. She’d see my vulnerability.

Is this acceptance?

The thought left a heaviness in my chest. Maybe I’m not too much. Maybe I’m just enough. As is. Her admission didn’t promise anything but her voice wrapped around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.

She sat high in the clear and dark sky, beaming her light through my window like a hand held out in the dark. I don’t move or reach out for her, but I let her cool light hold me, finally willing to be seen.

Subscribe now

When I was young, I made finding love a priority - looking to make every partner the one. The love of my life. With each partner came disappointment when the relationship would die or fizzle out. I would question whether it was me or them, maybe I overlooked something or had become desperate. At one point, I did become desperate, claiming myself polyamorous thinking it would increase my chance at having something. When my last relationship blew up in my face, I retreated from dating altogether.

Trying to find a lasting partner consumed me. It was all I thought about, or talked about with friends or whoever cared to listen. Endlessly scrolling through dating apps, hoping to find someone I could fill my time with. It was exhausting. I, then, came across this book called This Is Me Letting You Go by Heidi Priebe. In one chapter, she asked me to imagine myself looking into a fortune ball and discovering that I’d never meet the love of my life. Then she asked, what would I do with my life instead. This stopped me dead in my tracks. I’d never given much thought to never meeting the partner I’ve been desperately searching for.

Ever since I was a young girl, I was in love with love. The beautiful love stories I read as a kid to the romantic movies I watched as a teen and young adult. The societal conditioning was real. All the signs led me to believe that I would find my dream partner. But dating had been hard and finding a dream partner was much harder than the fictional stories led me to believe. I mean, I just watched a TikTok of a woman willingly admitting she paid a dating coach $10k to help her find a man - is this what finding love has come to? There had to be more than this. So, I found myself thinking about Heidi Priebe’s question more and more: what would I do with my life if I no longer worried about finding my destined love?

The answer seemed simple – I’d live. I’d focus on my growth, the people in my life who I love, filling my life with experiences that leave me feeling whole.

One person that comes to mind who seems to live a beautiful life without a partner is Tracee Ellis Ross. Every time I see her in an interview or one of her Instagram posts, she’s glowing. Of course, she’s a celebrity and I do not know this woman’s life, but she’s been pretty vocal about being unmarried and child-free and how it’s allowed her to be “a good friend, a solid daughter, a hard worker…” I think of my life now as a single Black woman and relish in the simple pleasures I’ve taken for granted. Living alone and having things the way I like it. Spreading wide in my bed and hogging up all the covers. Using up all the hot water. Getting off work and having girl dinner instead of thinking about what I’m cooking for a partner or kids.

I can admit that the majority of the times I found myself on a dating app or giving my number out to random people, I was honestly trying to run away from feelings of loneliness. It was easier cuddling up in the arms of someone who wasn’t right for me than to admit to my friends that I wanted to spend more time with them. I feared being seen as needy or clingy. Why is it that asking to see your friends more often feels so cringe? I want to change that. I love my friends, and I believe they love me. So what was holding me back? I never had the problem of calling or texting a lover to come over for company. I longed for the kind of community of unannounced home visits, watching cute movies or making dinner while drinking way too much wine. This is where I'd shift most of my focus to if I knew I’d never find that partner I’ve been so desperate for. My community of friends and family has always been my true loves.

Knowing I’d never have the love I longed for doesn’t mean I have to give up dating, though. I think this would remove the pressure of seeing everything as having a specific end or needing heavy commitment. I believe this would allow me to date in a casual manner that would make experiencing another person more meaningful. Fostering a safe space for feelings to rest easy in the intimacy we share. I enjoy the idea of dating casually, and respectfully, honoring the short-term nature of the relationship with full presence. Walking away when the time comes, and still holding love in my heart for them. As Tracee Ellis Ross said to Kevin Hart, “I could have a wheel of lovers…I take what I like and I leave the rest. I’ll say, ‘thank you and goodbye.’”

I can honestly write about a laundry list of things I’d do with my life if finding a soulmate was no longer a priority. It all boils down to me owning my life, existing fully without the need to find a “better half.” Accepting the fact that I am whole and complete as just me. If I find someone to spend the rest of my life with, I’d gladly accept - but I’m no longer prioritizing the search for this great love. Instead, I’m prioritizing myself and living the life that matters to me.

Subscribe now

The question had been thrown at me so many times it might as well have been stitched across my chest like a name tag. And yet, every time, my mouth went dry, the words curling at the back of my throat, hesitant to emerge. The truth was, I didn’t have an answer beyond the simplest one: because I wanted to.

My brother asked me this over the phone during one of our usual deep dives into relationships. His voice was even, a mix of curiosity and judgment. He was married with two kids—one from his wife’s previous relationship, one they had together. Stability wrapped him like a second skin, something I had never quite managed to slip into.

The relationship in question was with Tumblr Man. We met in the fall of 2022 on a site everyone assumed had died. But Tumblr, like the past, never really disappeared. It lingered. We had both just clawed our way out of breakups, both claiming we were “just friends.” He had a sharp wit, a laugh that rumbled like distant thunder, and music taste that echoed mine so precisely it felt fated.

He was 6’4”, broad shoulders, thick arms—a man who moved through the world as if gravity barely touched him. I, on the other hand, was 5’4” with curves that settled into themselves like an old house. Next to him, I felt small, but never invisible.

At first, it was easy. Conversations stretched into late nights, messages punctuated by songs we swore were written for us. Then, the shift—subtle, yet undeniable. His hand resting a second too long on my thigh, the slow drag of his gaze across my face. When he finally asked me on a date, I walked into it with a certainty I rarely afforded myself.

The night was perfect, effortless. So when I suggested we take things more seriously, I expected him to meet me halfway. Instead, he pulled back.

“I have a lot I’m focused on right now. I wouldn’t be able to commit to dating.”

The words were careful, practiced. Honorable, even. But they landed in my chest with the weight of something unspoken. I heard what he didn’t say: I just want some casual sex while I wait for the person I truly want to be with.

He denied it, of course. But my gut knew. And still, I stayed.

Sex with Tumblr Man was intoxicating. He was attentive, always checking in before, during, after. At first, the routine was mechanical—arrival, pleasure, departure. It kept things clean, clear. But soon, the lines blurred. He lingered. Traced his fingers down my spine. Pulled me into his chest, his breath warm against my skin as he whispered secrets into the dark. The deeper we waded into each other, the harder it became to pretend I wasn’t drowning.

“Why do you give all this energy to casual relationships rather than being in a serious one?”

This time, the question came through FaceTime. My best friend, perched on her couch, a baby bottle on one side, a toddler clinging to her leg. Stability, again, staring back at me.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I watched Tumblr Man as he slept, his arm draped over my waist, his lips parted in the soft surrender of sleep. In the morning, he would pull me close, kiss me slow, make love to me like we weren’t pretending. And for a while, that was enough. Enough to silence the questions, to ignore the truth gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

But casual had never really been casual. Boundaries were vague, conversations about us avoided like potholes on a familiar street. When I finally worked up the courage to ask, “What’s the difference between what we’re doing and what I initially asked about dating?” his response was a masterpiece of evasion.

“I’m just not emotionally available for a relationship right now.”

Not available, yet here we were, entangled in something indistinguishable from one.

Still, I didn’t walk away. Because maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t emotionally available either. Maybe I only wanted what I knew I couldn’t have.

So I proposed an expiration date: one month. Sweet August, I called it, inspired by the movie Sweet November. One month of giving it our all before we walked away. To my surprise, not only had he seen the movie, he agreed without hesitation.

No protest. No reluctance. Just a quiet nod.

That night, as I swallowed the lump in my throat, the answer finally came. I clung to casual relationships because they felt safer than the ache of not being chosen. They let me believe I held power, when really, I was just shielding myself from the inevitable rejection I had come to expect—not just from lovers, but from family, from the world that never quite knew what to do with me.

August was different. More calls, more dates, more of him than I’d ever had before. But beneath it all, I sensed the truth: he was only trying to convince me to stay.

During sex, he’d murmur, “When’s our last day?” His fingers traced idle patterns against my skin. “We can extend it, right?”

I never answered.

The final weekend came, and instead of making time for me, he was busy “handling things.” I saw it for what it was—a preemptive pulling away, a way to lessen the impact of goodbye.

I reached out one last time. He came over late, eyes searching mine for something he couldn’t name. We undressed in silence, bodies finding each other with the desperation of people who knew this was the end. That night, we whispered, “I’ll miss you,” as if saying it could rewrite the inevitable.

In the morning, we made love one last time. Then, with quiet resignation, we let go.

The ache that followed surprised me. I hadn’t expected grief from something that had never been officially real. But loss doesn’t wait for labels. It simply arrives, takes what it wants, and leaves you to pick up the pieces.

I would miss him. But I knew this: walking away wasn’t just about leaving him. It was about stepping toward the kind of love I had convinced myself I didn’t deserve.

And this time, I wouldn’t settle for less.

Subscribe now

He was patient and understanding, soft and kind. We fostered trust, pouring into the dynamic with ease. He made it clear: he wanted me and he was willing to wait. When the time came to share our bodies, it was nothing like the relationship we’d been building. It was quick, painful, and clouded by the haze of liquid distractions. Shortly after, he began entertaining someone else.

I was left wondering if I had done something wrong or if this was the pattern women often spoke about with men lovers. But I couldn’t get him off my mind, even after I had taken up another lover. Time had gone by before we bumped into each other on campus. Again, there was an immediate pull of attraction—but this time was different. I was different.

When we reconnected, I let go of the idea of forming a relationship or anything more. It was strictly physical. He sensed the shift, eagerly engaging in the passion of it all. The only trust present was the trust that we would both take care of our own pleasure, but he surprised me and talked me through mine. He recognized his power and leaned further into it, commanding me to let loose. I released the thoughts of perfection and allowed myself to fully submit to the sensations.

Our affair lasted several years, exploring new sensual heights each time. Even long after things ended, I still feel his burning influence every time I move towards pleasure. I still hear his voice, guiding me. Directing me. Owning me.

My first lover was my favorite lover.

Then I met my sweetest lover.

She was beautiful, from the first moment I laid eyes on her. Starter locs, soft curves, inviting lips. I don’t think she noticed me noticing her. We met at a gathering through a mutual friend. She was artistic and witty and laughed like no one was watching. But I was watching. And I wanted to know more about her.

Months after we met, we followed each other on social media where we’d playfully flirt with one another. I confidently expressed my interest, but she was taken by another. This only made me want her more. When we ran into each other at a party, both of us were tipsy, forgetting the boundaries we tried to enforce. Our bodies harmlessly swayed to the beat of the music, hands respectfully to our sides. But as the music became more sensual, so did we.

We were hot and needy at first, pressing against each other with fierce determination. We let out intense releases and laughed at the awkwardness of it all. She left her partner, and we formed a loving relationship. She was sweet and caring, taking her time to worship every inch of my body. Her hands held me like she knew how delicate I really was. When she kissed me, all I felt was love.

We spent our early adulthood with one another, growing in a way that was beyond our years. At some point, our love became stagnant, and we grew apart. She remains the sweetest lover I’ve ever had. I still long to be loved as sweetly as she loved me—tender, patient, and without hesitation.

I know my mother loves me. She loves me in the way she knows how. There’s value in my existence because I come from her, a walking reminder of one of her greatest accomplishments - being a mother. Though, she makes it clear that this love only goes so far. Her love is conditional, and I must tread lightly. Or I’ll lose it. Like I’ve lost it before.

I’ve never walked on a tightrope before but I can imagine the tension and fear. The tightrope of my mother’s love taught me to hold my breath, avoid the misstep, brace myself for the potential fall. One wrong move, and the love I desperately wished to experience is withheld. Punishment so severe I wonder if love ever existed in the first place.

In efforts to feel connection and warmth, I’d attempt to engage my mother in conversations about love and community. Curious about how love was witnessed during her childhood, what healthy relationships looked like in her home, when did she feel most loved. There’d be exasperated sighs, rushed answers, even a roll of the eye. She couldn’t be bothered with such talk.

“Do you ask your father these questions?” She knew I’d never ask him such personal questions. I never had that kind of relationship with him. I guess I never really had that kind of relationship with her either.

Subscribe now

There was a longing I felt to belong somewhere. Anywhere. I wanted, more than anything, to feel wanted, accepted and seen by my mother. I believed she’d loved me in my younger years, but my memories can’t be trusted. I can recall moments where my emotions were too much for my mother, and I’d be left to learn to regulate them on my own. At the same time, I can recall times where she’d take me to get our hair done and we’d talk and giggle under the dryers. I often wondered if I imagined those experiences. Either way, I wish those moments lasted forever.

Sweet and loving moments were far and few between, the love fleeing away like a colorful butterfly in the wind. When my mom discovered my love for women, she pulled away from me and disappeared. She’s pulled away from me many times before, but this time hit different. She was disgusted with me. I was left alone to regulate my emotions, again - confusion, hurt, rejection, anger, grief. Her silence lasted for years. I grew disgusted with myself. Toxic relationships soon became my reality as I naturally gravitated towards abuse. All my life, I had to earn love and abusive relationships seemed to mimic that upbringing. I could no longer recognize myself and I hated it. I began molding myself into the daughter she could love, the one who fit the conditions she deemed acceptable. Though it’s been several years and we’ve somewhat mended the relationship, there’s still a growing fear that it’s only a matter of time before I lose her again. Our relationship now consists of daily check-ins and surface level conversations, but true healing has been absent. I fear the stability of this relationship will be tested again when the truth of my sexuality pokes its head around once more.

Where do I belong? In search of my mother’s love, I learned to master detachment while secretly craving connection. I’m constantly at war with the belief that I’m not wanted anywhere. I struggle maintaining close relationships, I spend most of my days alone. I desperately want community, but my anxiety has led me to believe no one cares about me enough to fully accept me. To a point I seek validation of this core belief whenever I’m rejected for a lunch date or my messages to friends go unanswered.

Eventually, I lost sight of my worth. If my own mother can’t love me wholly, why would I think I’m deserving of love? As much as I want to live and experience life, I can’t help but wonder what’s the purpose if I have no one to share life with. What is my purpose on this Earth, if not for love? My mother’s love, or lack thereof, does not define me. But I’d be lying if I didn’t recognize how much her love would help me maintain my self-esteem. As much as I worked on self-love, I knew that I also needed the love of community to fuel my will to live.

bell hooks once said, “Self love can sustain us, but to thrive in community, which is how we live, we need to receive love from others.” I cannot force my mother to accept and love all parts of me. That, I know. Instead, I can allow myself to proclaim my need for love in order to attract the kind of members needed in my community. For so long, I kept my mouth shut about my needs and quietly suffered in the dark while others thought I was doing well. I’m often viewed as this strong and resilient woman, but truth be told, I’m sensitive and delicate and in need of love. I need the kind of community that can understand this truth and act accordingly.

Although the search for my mother’s love did not yield the results I longed for, my search allowed me to view my mother outside of the title I’ve grown to know of her. Like me, she is just a girl. A girl navigating this world in the best way she knows how. I don’t know much of her history or story, but I know she tries her best with what she’s been given. The anger and hurt I once had towards her has been replaced with soft understanding. Understanding that she isn’t going to get it right all the time. Hell, she probably isn’t going to get it right half of the time. But in my search for my mother’s love, I found the strength to love her for all of who she is.

Even if it cannot be reciprocated.

When it first presented itself, I wasn’t sure what to call it. I was intricately aware of the feeling – warm, pleasant, demanding.

It came primarily in the late of the night, beneath the light weight of Barbie covered sheets, when the still of the home would be loud enough to keep me awake. My body would become energized, goosebumps rising against my skin and the feeling would be too much to ignore. Shame never appeared, not at first. I followed the curiosity with a gentle press of fingers or a rub against pillows, slowly discovering a powerful sensation coursing through my body. It was mine, this feeling, blooming like something forbidden yet natural, like coming up for air after being underwater for too long.

Desire, in its earliest form, was innocent. A whisper in the wind, a staggered pulse, an incessant need to know more.

By the time I was a teen, the innocence was soon replaced by a keen awareness that my desire was something to be kept to myself. There was no room to discuss such a discovery of pleasure, especially a girl’s pleasure. Even the mere mention of something that made me feel good was swatted away with scorn from elders. I begin to question whether what I discovered was sinful but how was I to ignore what had already planted itself deep inside of me? I chased it in every stolen moment I could get, in the sacred time of showers, beneath sheets that hid my lack of sleep, and even in the dark of a closet.

Desire found its voice in adulthood. Confident, assuring, proud. It was no longer something I only felt in the dark – it was in the way my breath caught at the lingering gaze of a stranger, in the way my back arched to a lover’s hands, in the way that I accepted that my pleasure was natural and belonged to me. Gone were the days where I hid my relationship with desire in dark rooms or under covers. I loudly announced my pleasure for whoever cared to hear and loved the raspy sounds that found a way to escape my lips.

The first time I fell in love with desire, I wasn’t sure what it was. But now? I know it’s mine.