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 ...

My daddy issues are endless, aren’t they? The lore is quite simple: my mother and my bio father had me extremely young. She was an impressionable 16-year-old. I won’t even speak on him, but he’s a sore subject in our household—and understandably so. Because when she finally told me their story, as a woman, having any contact with him made me feel uncomfortable, I suppose. And the fact that I may or may not have a sister somewhere in this city—4 months younger than me? That’s a whole other thing to unpack. Anyway, we bumped into each other earlier this year, and he messaged me on Facebook. I never use that app, so I only saw the text last month, I think. We got to talking about stuff, and he asked to see pictures of my daughter. He had even wanted to meet up, but we missed each other. And honestly? I’m grateful, because I never know what to say around him. In person, that is. My silence is so loud I’d win Beyoncé’s mute challenge. But then the man disappeared. I sent him a te...

After a certain point, some things just become too boring to entertain—especially what people think of you. I’m acknowledging that I’m mentally not in a good space. I don’t have the energy for much at the moment, and I keep getting unfounded, unsolicited opinions thrown at me, which is actually pissing me off. “Why are you letting this get to you?” Because of  who  is making these opinions. I cannot stand people who claim to know me because I barely know myself. I’m aware that I don’t give everyone the same version of me. Sure, there are consistencies in my character, but so much of who I am is influenced by the day-to-day life I live. There’s a lot I keep to myself because I know exactly what certain people judge others for. Maybe that’s a defense mechanism—I don’t know. These people say things that completely miss the mark, and it infuriates me because they genuinely believe they’ve got me all figured out. I’m not a puzzle to be solved. What I am, though, is someone who cons...

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...

I come back! I disappeared for a few reasons. First, I’ve been having the worst migraine episodes. This time of year isn’t great for me, and it’s only about to get worse. Can you imagine? Second, anxiety has been kicking my ass! I don’t really know why, but a few days ago, I hit a low point—I literally couldn’t get out of bed because of an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Today, I had an anxiety attack over something I needed to do, and I ended up crying on my way home. So yeah, things haven’t been looking good for me in the mental health or physical health department. But I’m momentarily back to give my two cents on a longstanding internet debate that has never made sense to me. Earlier today, I came across a video of a woman responding to the common  phrase,  “After a long day, I can’t imagine coming home to children.” She said it was odd for people to comment on a life they’re not living. She explained that after a long day, she can’t wait to get home to her kids. Som...