Six Ten AM

I have been going through a lot. Not in the casual, everyday sense, but in the full-on mental breakdown sense—the ugly crying in the middle of the night to my partner, the friend nursing me back to health, the “cannot be left alone” kind of going through a lot. In the midst of that, I jokingly made a comment: that my current life experiences are almost enough to make me revert to organized religion. But even as I said it, I knew that comment itself contained the very reason I have problems with organized religion. So many people turn to their belief systems in times of hardship only. And yet, that reliance has always felt conditional, inconsistent—like a crutch pulled out only when the world feels unbearable. I grew up Roman Catholic, as did most of my family. Catholicism is a world of its own, but when we moved to South Africa and entered a “church hopping” phase, I quickly became confused and unimpressed. Who exactly were we praising here? Something always felt off about what I was w...

I hope this is the last time I’ll be this candid. I tell myself that each time — that I’ll keep my thoughts locked in a private journal. But this isn’t that. This is for the moments when silence feels heavier than the truth, and when the truth is met with the world’s strange discomfort with the word  victim. I put the word in quotes because somewhere along the way, society decided it’s unseemly for us to claim it.  Survivor  is the softer, braver term. It’s supposed to shake off the pity in people’s eyes, to make us sound like we’ve climbed out of the wreckage and dusted ourselves off. I understand why some prefer it. But maybe it’s the literalist in me — I don’t understand why naming what happened to me is considered self-pity. I was wronged. I was harmed. I am the victim of a crime. That acknowledgment doesn’t mean I carry it as a badge or romanticize it. It’s just the truth. After putting my thoughts on trial I realized that it’s easier for me to think of things that h...

Over the course of my internship, I kept thinking about how much I hate how limiting my personality is. Being reserved has worked out for the most part because I’m usually in the orbit of someone who heavily leans into their extroverted nature. There’s always some sort of balance that allows me to not exhaust myself socially or mentally.  Unfortunately, socializing is really hard for me—and I wish it was in this cute and quirky way, but it’s not. I’ve mentioned it before, but it’s more of a  resting bitch face , social anxiety-perceived-as-pompous-arrogance kind of way. I used to get angry and offended when people said they thought I was some kind of monster (a bitch) before talking to me, because the reality is… I’m always practicing what to say if someone approaches me in the wild (i.e., social gatherings or public spaces). I can’t make small talk—it’s awkward—so I end up staying quiet and reading a book on my phone, because in that moment, the ground cannot swallow me up. I...

Dear Reader, I’d appreciate it if you read this blog post in the same cadence of Phaedra Parks checking Kenya Moore. It’s more fun. Or maybe Superman  talking to Lex Luthor?  Anyway. Here I come with another think piece that I keep hearing about, and I’m so tired, exhausted, and incredibly fatigued of hearing about it. You see, there’s a subspecies of human beings that wholeheartedly believe that logic and emotion might as well be oil and water.  Mind you, basing your argument on simply sounding like the Terminator doesn’t really change anything. You’re just robotic and wrong, possibly even a weirdo. I remember back in my first year of university, our group chat was on fire. Someone had the audacity to say, “This is why women don’t belong in the noble profession; they’re too emotional to argue with logic.” I had a laugh. As I’m having one now. The way men think sometimes—it’s so obtuse and primitive, like evolution took a lunch break and forgot to clock back in. And ...

There’s something particularly devastating about the realization that you weren’t loved—you were hunted. That a man can act like you’re his whole world, just to later reveal that you were nothing more than prey. That behind all the sweet nothings and princess treatment was calculation. A performance. A mask worn with intention. And when the mask slips, when the damage is done, suddenly it’s  your  fault for not seeing the cracks.  I need to say this clearly:  when the dust settles, I don’t want to hear a single person blame her for what that creature did. Not a single word about what signs she missed.  Not a whisper about how long she stayed.  Not a breath wasted on what she “should’ve known.” The emotional labor Black women— especially darker-skinned Black women —are forced to carry is unrelenting. The world turns us into mules and then calls it our burden to bear. We are expected to discern who is dangerous, even when that danger comes dressed in tears, s...