Six Ten AM

I had a version of this piece sitting in my drafts—a more charged version that addressed the negative attention I received during my pregnancy. That was written by a different version of me, fueled by none other than postpartum rage. I know and recognize when I write, think, or speak from a place of anger. While I’ll never suppress my anger (it has its purpose), I’ve learned to feel it, let it go, and move forward. Anger often serves as a clue to the real issue: Am I hurt? Embarrassed? You know, the usual suspects. Today, I write from a more lighthearted perspective because I stumbled upon a quote. I don’t remember it word for word, but it went something like: “We give people way too much credit for having malicious intent.” And it’s true. People say all kinds of things for all kinds of reasons. Of course, intention doesn’t erase impact—that’s not what I’m saying. I’m not justifying ignorance, insensitivity, or outright dumbbitchery (mine included). But sometimes, it’s better to laug...

I have to laugh. I love a bit of irony—it’s good for one’s morale. This was sitting in my drafts, but at this point, I have nothing to lose. It was a few days before Christmas when my mom arrived with my brothers in tow. The following day, I inserted myself into their plans to go to the mall because my own plans got canceled. At home, my cousin was presumed asleep. By the time I thought to ask if he wanted to tag along, everyone was already outside, and the Indrive was here. Did I feel a little bad? Yeah, a little. But it didn’t seem that serious because when I asked earlier if he had any plans, he replied with an “I don’t know.” As soon as we got to the mall, I received a phone call from my adoptive mother. She asked where we were, and when I told her, she got to the real purpose of her call: “Why did you leave my son behind?” She started going in on me about how we should’ve invited him, how we could leave him behind when we were all out as a family. And that’s when I said, “How man...

Happy New Year, everyone! This year, I’m kicking off the blog on a positive note—no festive chaos, just pure gratitude and reflection. Let’s dive in. When I was pregnant, some people thought it was funny to tease me with the idea that my daughter would be my “mini-me karma.” You know the drill: “Your daughter is going to be just like you—good luck!” It’s a trope that many women with daughters face, this idea that we’re doomed to relive our mischief or shortcomings through them. Because of who I am, those folks were convinced my daughter would be my reckoning. Well, guess what? The joke’s on them. Maybe I’ve said this before (forgive me if I’m repeating myself—terrible memory here), but my girl is an absolute wonder. I adore her infant personality, her confident curiosity, and her sheer joy in exploring the world. And it’s not just love—I like her. I genuinely enjoy spending time with her. Watching my little quirks pop up in her makes me laugh, and no, she doesn’t feel like ...