Learning to love myself

Finding My Way Back to Me: One Week at a Time Have you ever looked at your life and realized that somewhere along the way, you stopped making time for yourself? You spend so much time being there for other people, handling responsibilities, and trying to get through whatever life throws at you that you forget about the person who needs your attention the most: YOU. I've been there. Life has a way of changing us. Sometimes we experience losses that leave us trying to figure out who we are all over again. Sometimes we spend so much time being strong for everyone else that we forget we're allowed to have difficult days, too. I've been on a journey of healing, learning, and trying to understand myself better. It's not always easy, and I certainly don't have all the answers. But I'm learning that I don't have to have everything figured out to take the next step. That's part of why I started this blog. I wanted a place where I could be honest about life...

Just Say No: Why I Don’t Borrow (or Lend) Money — Even to Family Let me say it plain: no. You should never borrow money — especially from family. That might sound harsh, but it’s coming from someone who’s learned the hard way that money and blood don’t mix . I don’t borrow money from anyone. Not from family. Not from friends. Not even in an emergency. If I’m down bad, I deal with it . If I’m hungry, I skip a meal or two. Hell, I’m fat — I can afford to miss a plate or two. It’s not about pride. It’s about peace. See, when you borrow money, you invite expectations, guilt, and judgment into your life. Suddenly, every family gathering has tension hanging in the air. Every phone call feels like a debt collector in disguise . If I choose to give money, that’s one thing. I can do that with a clean heart because I already know who I’m dealing with — the ones who always have their hand out, never bring anything to the table, and somehow always have a story to tell. I accept them for w...

  No More Favors Can you do me a favor? That sentence should come with a warning label. Hell, it should be illegal to ask someone that, especially when the favor is “free,” but somehow ends up costing me forty dollars. And not just in money, but in time, peace, and self-respect. I’ve said this before, but this time I mean it: No. More. Favors. If you lead with “Can you do me a favor?” I will hang up the phone. Immediately. Because here’s the truth—those favors never get returned. They’re taken, expected, drained out of me like I’m some endless well, when I barely have enough to give myself. The people I keep helping? They never offer a hand when I’m the one in need. If I’m hungry, I go without. If I need a ride, I call Lyft. If I’m short on money, I figure it out. Alone. Not because I want to be, but because I’ve learned—asking gets me nothing but disappointment. Why? Because my family is self-serving. A collection of users. And it’s taken me too long to finally accept that truth. ...

What I Wish I Knew Before Gastric Bypass Surgery Lying in that hospital bed, pain tearing through me, I regretted every life choice that brought me there. Every single one. It wasn’t just the surgery. It was the first time I ever turned to food for comfort . The nights I stuffed my emotions down with whatever I could find in the fridge. The years I spent hating my body, and the years I spent ignoring it. One step after another—each decision, each moment of silence, each time I didn’t ask for help—led me here. And then came the depression . Nobody talks about how after the surgery, when your body is healing and your old coping mechanisms are gone, the sadness creeps in. Loud and unrelenting. You can’t eat your way through it anymore, and sometimes it feels like there's nothing left to hold onto. I wish someone had told me that it’s not just a physical transformation . It’s an emotional unraveling . A reckoning . And still… I’m here. Regret and all. Healing, one painful t...

When Love Is Served: Navigating Acts of Service in My Family My love language has always been acts of service. I’ve grown up showing love through caring actions—whether it was babysitting my younger siblings or helping out at every family gathering. Yet, over the years, I’ve also felt that my caring nature has sometimes been taken for granted. A Childhood of Service At around 12 years old, I became the family’s unofficial babysitter. I wasn’t in it for the pay—it wasn’t much anyway. I did it because it felt natural to help out, to be there for my family. It was my way of expressing love, even if that sometimes meant putting others’ needs before my own. An Easter to Remember One particular memory still sticks with me. When I was about 15 or 16, my grandmother and aunt put together to buy outfits for all my siblings for Easter. Beforehand, my grandmother told me there wouldn’t be anything for me. She asked if I was okay with that, and I told her I was because my heart was full just...

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood. Losing my sister has brought back so many memories—some good, some bad, all unforgettable. We were some crazy-ass kids, always up to something. We loved picking on people and then taking off running like we were untouchable. And let me tell you, we got creative. We used to take a crib mattress and slide down the stairs on it like it was the best ride ever. When I was a kid, I used to rush home from school just to watch Jem and the Holograms . If you know, you know. One time, Chenelle went into the bathroom and set a fire in the trash can. But guess who got in trouble? Me. My grandmother hit me with the “You’re the oldest, you should have been looking out” speech. The irony still makes me laugh because come on—we were only 11 months apart! How responsible could I have really been? We discovered boys together too. I’ll never forget crying to her when my first crush got a girlfriend. And then there was that summer when we ended up ...

Dear Younger Me, I see you. I see the little girl who had to grow up too fast, who carried burdens far too heavy for her small shoulders. I see the way you tried to hold everything together when it was never your job to. I know you felt invisible, unheard, and unprotected. I wish I could sit beside you and tell you that none of it was your fault. I wish you knew that you were never meant to be the fixer . Your mother’s addiction was not yours to heal, and her choices were never a reflection of your worth. You were just a child who deserved safety, love, and care. I’m sorry you didn’t get that in the way you should have. But hear me when I say—you were always enough. You didn’t need to prove anything to be loved. I wish you knew that forgiveness isn’t about excusing the pain—it’s about setting yourself free . The past will try to keep its grip on you, whispering that you are broken, that you are stuck in the story written for you. But you are not. You have the power to write your ow...