Six Ten AM

There’s something both daunting and necessary about embracing life beyond youth. George Bernard Shaw once said, “youth is wasted on the young,” and he may have been right. We spend so much time wishing for things we’d change about ourselves or dreaming of what we could become. The irony is, we’re often so eager to grow up that we don’t realize we’re living in a time we’ll later long for. I don’t know if you can relate, Reader, but being in your 20s has to be one of the most bizarre phases of life. It feels like those transitional years between 8 and 13, when you’re trying to make sense of everything.  Except now, it’s not just about crushes, first kisses, makeup, and boybands… or is it ?  It feels like an amalgamation of childhood and adolescence merging with the confusion of young adulthood. So many of us are experiencing real love, devastating heartbreak, new interests, school, work, marriage, babies—the pandemonium is both overwhelming and exhilarating. Sometimes, it tickle...

This post discusses the sensitive topic SA A few years ago, I bought myself a pair of vintage Tommy Hilfiger jeans. If you’ve seen them, you know how cool they are. They were also my first new pair of jeans in over five years. Don’t judge; the texture of denim isn’t my favorite.   About a year later, they served as a painful reminder of a terrifying night sitting at the back of my closet. And since then, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve worn them.  When you’ve been in any kind of danger where a man is the perpetrator, the warning bells never change, at least in my experience, and you just always know. I was given a ride from my sister’s friend’s house after an already uncomfortable evening by a family friend of theirs. Well, at least I think he was.  I felt my hackles raising and alarm peeking through my eyes, setting me tense from introductions alone. I think it was his smile. Very slimy and very familiar. Very reminiscent of the first man that ever vio...

 By Sharon C. Cooper  Summary: Morgan Redford, known for her privileged and carefree lifestyle, wants to make a meaningful difference by helping young adults aging out of foster care. She sets her sights on a property perfect for this cause, only to find her competition is ex-boyfriend Drake Faulkner, a Los Angeles real estate developer. Both are determined to win, but the eccentric owner insists they compete in a series of challenges. As tensions rise and past emotions resurface, Morgan and Drake must decide if they can stay focused on the prize or if their rekindled attraction will get in the way. My thoughts: In this book, the insertion of TikTok and reality elements feels jarring, detracting from the overall narrative. I’m not a fan of real life things in novels. I want to escape reality, not face it in literature too. The characters’ tendency to (literally) stumble through situations rivals that of Bella Swan, which is meant to be charming but often falls flat. While my d...

I’m in a bookclub with 5 lovely intellectuals, we have a bookclub called ‘On the Same Page’ and as someone with poor memory (brain fog and baby brain…I know, double homicide) and anxiety, I resorted to putting down my thoughts and feelings on our read of the month in my notes app. So I’ll be sharing my notes with you guys, perhaps you’ve read the books too and want to share your thoughts :) 

This post discusses sensitive topics including sexual abuse, victim blaming, and manipulation. Unless you’re Patrick Star, you’ve probably seen what’s been all over social media lately about Diddy— or whatever he goes by now. The man’s got fifty’leven names. First of all, let me state this: one thing about me is that I keep up with pop culture. I’m also… chronically online. There are some recurring takes that I just can’t seem to get behind, mainly because they defy common sense. Also… let’s not start throwing words like “defamation” around. Everything is public record and in court documents, so there’s no need for ‘allegedly.’ The proof was in the baby oil— I mean, pudding. Let’s talk about the Black man’s legacy first. And before anyone gets defensive, hear me out. The first example that comes to mind: R. Kelly. When he was finally found guilty, the outcry about freeing him and the claims that his conviction was part of some agenda to destroy the Black man’s legacy were deafening. It...

Motherhood is a spectrum, especially with the wide range of emotions you can experience in an hour alone. With all that in mind, there’s nothing quite like the ‘mommy police.’ Unsolicited advice is universal in parenthood, particularly in a society that infantilizes young adults while expecting them to be fully grown. It’s annoying, predictable, and utterly exhausting. What frustrates me most is the assumption that because I’m young, I don’t know what I’m doing. I welcome advice when I ask for it, but the assumption that I’m clueless simply due to my age is infuriating. I research, I prepare, and when I knew I was having a baby, I absorbed everything I could to avoid starting from zero. So, when people discredit the effort I’ve made, believing their way is better, it gets under my skin. Having children or having been where I am doesn’t mean much to me. Your experience doesn’t have to be my reality. You may have been a parent, but that doesn’t automatically mean you did it well or that ...

Recently, I asked my close friends how they’ve been healing their inner teenager. I thought I’d already begun that process when I was in therapy, but honestly, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Now, I’m left stumped, trying to figure it all out. I’ve ‘mellowed’ out a lot, though (that was a recent description of me that tickled me a bit. I’ve never thought of myself as mellow). I’m not as angry as I used to be—it takes too much energy, and I just don’t have the time to focus on people who probably never cared about my feelings in the first place. It’s a strange kind of clarity that comes when you realize you no longer need to hold space for people who’ve contributed to your misery.  For so long, I tried to be the bigger person, to maintain relationships with people who actively chose to align themselves with my bullies. People who made me feel small when all I ever did was defend them. But I’m done with that. I don’t owe anyone who has caused me pain any more of my niceness or sympa...

I want to start by saying that you don’t have to—and probably shouldn’t—center anything or anyone outside of yourself. That said, romantic relationships are a part of life. For many people in their 20s, these relationships may be their first serious ones. Also, there’s no need to apply heteronormative expectations to your relationships. Societal norms are just that—expectations, not rules. They’re a state of mind, and you have the freedom to define your relationships on your own terms. So maybe… just maybe , consider not asking people you barely know for relationship advice. As my friends and I get older, we can’t help but notice how bizarre it is that our elders warned us about everything except adult relationships. If you’ve watched Bridgerton, then you might recall the scene where Daphne confronts her mother, Violet, for not properly informing her about marriage and intimacy. That scene sums up a frustration we’ve all felt at some point. We weren’t properly prepared. And clearly, ma...

(Hello, Reader. I know that I’ve been sharing a lot of emotionally sensitive stories about my life. It can be a lot to get through. That being said, if you ever need to disengage, please do. This post, and others, will always be here when you're ready. All the love, N.)  Something I’m glad more people are finally talking about is the importance of choosing the right person to have a child with. No matter where life takes you and your co-parent, that person will be who your child calls “Dad” for the rest of their life—if they’re lucky enough to even have one. As I’ve always believed, there’s a difference between being called Mom or Dad and being a true mother or father. Sadly, not all fathers and mothers are moms and dads. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my relationships with maternal figures, and in doing so— and totally unrelated—I found myself thinking about how much I miss my dad. Not my biological father, but the man who raised me, the one I’ve known my entire life and who is m...

Dear Reader, I’d like to preface this by saying that my experience is my own. Let it be just that. If you’re like me, you’ve probably heard that c-sections are “the easy way out.” Let me debunk that myth: it’s simply not true. I know some people still believe it, but no, cesareans are not easy. Whew, chile, they are not ! As a refresher to my birth story, I had to receive spinal anesthesia not once, but twice, because my body just wouldn’t go numb. Under normal circumstances, I was supposed to be walking within hours, but of course, with my luck, I remained completely numb and passed out from being drugged up. The pain afterward was overwhelming, and everything became a struggle—standing up, sitting down. And don’t even get me started on my first trip to the bathroom post-catheter removal. The entire thing felt almost surreal, like an out-of-body experience. Fast forward four months… not much has changed. I’m still healing, and I can confidently tell you the famous “six weeks” recovery...

This bedtime brew is filling and wonderfully soothing—it feels like a warm hug in a mug. I can’t wait to make it for my babies one day! Ingredients : - 1 cup of your preferred milk - A dash or two of cinnamon - Sweetener of your choice, to taste - A dollop of whipped crème fraîche (optional) Instructions: 1. Set your stove to medium heat. In a saucepan, combine the milk, cinnamon, and sweetener. 2. Gently bring the mixture to a boil, giving it a mix and taking care not to burn the milk. Medium heat ensures the ingredients meld together evenly before the milk begins to bubble. 3. Once ready, pour your bedtime brew into your favorite mug. If you so choose, top it with a dollop of whipped crème fraîche and an extra sprinkle of cinnamon. 4. Sip, relax, and enjoy the peaceful sleep that’s sure to follow.

 Trigger warning: Brief mentions of domestic violence and suicide. Also, this post is quite long. I was scrolling through comments on one of my posts, finally figuring out how to reply to them—it took me long enough. One comment, in particular, stuck with me. “ I keep saying, and I'll keep on saying, children deserve moms who'll love them intentionally, which is what you're doing for your baby.” - N In a nutshell, it reminded me of something my English teacher once said: “You become what you hate.” That line has lived in my mind rent-free for over a decade. For years, I made it a point not to be a hater. My go-to phrase was, “I don’t hate anyone; I just intensely dislike them.” Now, older me rolls her eyes at younger me for that pretentious attitude. I can laugh at myself for being haunted by that one phrase, especially because, honestly, I’m probably the biggest hater I know. But I’m not miserable about it—at all. The reason I was so afraid to admit this was that I didn’t ...

Something I’ve failed to understand is the way people perceive me because it always becomes my burden. I was scrolling through TikTok the other day, as one does, and came across a video of a conversation between the creator and her sister in the midst of conflict resolution. One thing this creator kept stressing was how she’s always perceived as angry and annoyed, and it really resonated with me and thousands of other women who liked her video. This again presented itself in clips from Love Island USA, when the men were really trying to vilify Serena for having a reaction to Kordell’s actions, saying things like “Is that what you want in a wife?” and cornering her. Insert a long and deep ancestrally charged sigh. I had a conversation with a friend not too long ago where I asked whether she was a woman first or Black first, and we both reached the conclusion that for Black women specifically, there’s no separating the two. However, where we differ is that, as a dark-skinned Black woman,...

Dear Reader, when I was a little girl, I had long, relaxed hair—or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. Thanks to CPTSD and chronic migraines, my memory is notoriously unreliable. But when I moved in with my “adoptive family”, the decision was made that maintaining my hair wasn’t practical. My grandma-who’s-not-my-grandma was devastated. To this day, she still laments how beautiful my hair was, as if it were some relic lost to time. At school, prepubescent me—with a bald head—was often mistaken for a boy. That had a lasting effect on me. As I grew older, I tried to reclaim that narrative by convincing myself I wasn’t just unfeminine but rather an androgynous gothic tomboy. My beauty was so closely tied to my hair, and yet my young, impressionable self had no say in the matter. If you’ve read my previous posts, you know that my looks have been a lifelong struggle, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that my hair played a significant role in this internal conflict. When I moved to New Yo...