Six Ten AM

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...

I understand the system we live in—the one that weaponizes beauty, commodifies youth, and stigmatizes aging, especially in women. The beauty industrial complex is powerful, insidious, and often invisible in its violence. It feeds us the lie that to age is to become less visible, less desirable, less worthy of admiration or attention. And I get it—how hard it is to unlearn that conditioning. I’m not here to police what people do with their bodies. Autonomy is sacred. If you want Botox, fillers, lasers—do it. That’s your business. But what concerns me is the cultural undercurrent—especially among millennials and older—where youthful appearance becomes a badge of superiority. This urge to say “I look younger than I am,” or worse, to weaponize that against actual young people with “I look younger than you”—what purpose does that serve? Why are we so afraid of looking our age? I’ve always been fascinated by aging. There was a time I couldn’t imagine myself beyond youth, as if time would som...

Guys, I’ve been on a streak of bad luck lately. My phone fell from my daughter’s cot and quite literally decided it’s done with life. Normally, I’d respect that decision—except it’s my phone, and I need it. It’s got everything on there. Maybe I should start a series called Keeping Up with Ntswaki (or Tess—take your pick. I write as Ntswaki, but otherwise, I’m Tess). I could keep you all updated on my chaotic life instead of starting blogs like this. What do you think? Right, let’s get into it, shall we? And yes, read that in a British accent, please. So, I’ve been sitting with this thought for a while, debating whether I even wanted to say it out loud. Mainly because I’ve realized some people—whether it’s from my blogs, statuses, or random musings—like to make shoes fit when they were never even in the store. People have reached a level of internalizing generalizations that’s honestly wild. Let me make this clear: I am...  not thinking about you like that. At least, not to the p...

Before I found out I was having a daughter, I felt overwhelmed at the prospect of raising a child, regardless of gender. With a boy, I worried about the immense responsibility of ensuring I wouldn’t raise the kind of men we see far too often in today’s society. With a girl, I was terrified of my inability to protect her from the vulnerabilities that come with being a girl. One way or another, as a woman, she could become a statistic. Once I got the confirmation that I was having a daughter, the anxiety hit me even harder. Whether it was my own internalized misogyny or the world’s inherent misogyny, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that I didn’t have the answers for how I would nurture, guide, and teach my daughter to be more than I am, more than the world would want her to be. The reality is that girls face sexualization and misogyny from the moment they are born. It begins with inappropriate comments about their appearance and only worsens as they grow older. Society sexualizes girls f...

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...

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...