Life, Popular

Who I Am… What I Am…

16 September

Full Disclosure: When I started writing this post I was PISSED. I’ll spare you the boring, now completely irrelevant and petty details, but long story short, I was blindsided by a new type of rejection a few days ago, completely unexpected and extremely cutting, and it left me absolutely seething. But to tell the truth, like the majority of times we’re forced to look in the mirror and truly register what, and who we see, it was absolutely needed. This event triggered the type of eye-opening self-awareness that prompts one to a state of utter defensiveness, or complete self-reflection. As evidenced by this post, and after several hours of the former, I chose the latter and decided to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard, if we’re being literal) to work through the real reason the petty rejection, that I really don’t even give a shit about, affected me in such a profound way.

Now to the point of all this. As I lay on the bed in the dense, sweltering late-night heat of Barbados, next to a fan on full blast because AC is most definitely a luxury here, and replay the events and interactions that led me to this frame of mind, it has become very apparent that I need to be clear about who I am and what I am, if for no other reason than to have a clear understanding, or agreement with myself, about how I’ll be moving forward in this life. And so…

I became a single mother at 18…

… and the mother of a graduate at 37…

I am not an influencer. I do not have an aesthetic, curated Instagram feed, even though I am a self-taught, and successful, graphic designer. I do not research how to get the most engagement or reach on my posts. The algorithm is relentlessly finicky, constantly shifting, never fulfilling, and an all to inaccurate measure of impact and self. And quite honestly, it can get fucked (insert shoulder shrug emoji here).

At times I’m neurotic and erratic. I can be aggressive, reactive, and passionate one minute, then completely unmoved, unbothered, and uninterested the next. And in both instances, I am being my most authentic self. I’ve come to realize, at my big age of 39, that I’ve spent way too much of my life trying to be what society told me I was supposed to be, but also trying, scraping, screaming, crying to be who I THOUGHT I wanted to be. I physically appear as if I’d fit a hundred different stereotypes, yet none have ever really held truth in my existence. I have yet to understand if that has helped or hurt me as I’ve moved through my so-called life (a little 90s reference for those who know), but time, as always, will most definitely reveal all.

…I am the mother of fur-babies…

…a bestie and auntie…

I know my intrinsic value and sense of self are not solely wrapped up in, or defined by, being a mother... I am a girl's GIRL, an ally, and I do my absolute best to never judge anyone’s hustle, story, or truth. I’ve had a gun pressed into the top of my head by the hands of someone who promised to love me...

I struggle with body dysmorphia and imposter syndrome. I am extremely loving, unwaveringly loyal, and fiercely protective of those I love, while at the same time working through an intense, and long-time fear of intimacy. I deal with chronic pain every single day because of four knee surgeries (a longstanding side effect of my toxic relationship with basketball) and a physically abusive relationship that caused enough anatomical damage to have more than one back and spine specialist ask if I’d ever been in a car accident.

I am a mother. I have been since I was eighteen, and it has obviously shaped much of my life to this point. I LOVE MY SON. Literally more than anything in this entire, topsy-turvy world, and as such I have sacrificed key parts of myself and life to create the best life for him (the jury is still out as to whether I succeeded). However, I know my intrinsic value and sense of self are not solely wrapped up in, or defined by, being a mother.

…a traveler, tourist, and vacationer…

… a preserver of memories…

I am a girl’s GIRL, an ally, and I do my absolute best to never judge anyone’s hustle, story, or truth. I’ve had a gun pressed into the top of my head by the hands of someone who promised to love me. I am the black, but very much loved, sheep of my immediate family, and as I grew up a military brat who moved to a new country every few years, I could pass most of my extended family in the street and not even know who they are. And despite all this (or maybe because of it?), I still love love, and I know how much I have oozing out of every inch of my being. And yet, at this point in my life, I have absolutely no desire to even date, let alone marry.

I am not traveling because I’m wealthy or have a lot of connections or even a lot of friends. I am traveling because the cost of decades of physical and emotional trauma, raising my son on my own since the day he was born, and believing I am better and have more to offer than the fates have allowed to this point, has landed me 200k in debt, and with mental and physical states that need to be strengthened. And quite simply, the cost of living overseas, when one is strategic, can be cheaper and more rewarding than a typical life in the States. I travel because my son is pushing 21 (and needs his own time and space from MOM to create the life of his choosing), and I don’t have any other real responsibilities that keep me tied to a single place or space, so I can uproot my life and change direction, for better or worse, as I see fit.

…a daughter to an amazing woman who always put her family before herself…

…and to a photographer (always behind the camera) and dual-service 20+ year military veteran who never seeks accolades for his service…

I communicate better in writing than I do speaking and as such, this blog has to be an accurate representation of my very messy, very chaotic, very undemure life. I am truly doing the hard, gritty, uncomfortable work needed to become the best version of myself, because if I achieve nothing else in this lifetime, I will at least finally learn to love myself and this life, wholly and truly, with each and every flaw, scar, hole, and wound that has made it so uniquely my own.

For now… I’ll put a pin in trying to define the multi-faceted dimensions of myself and my life, because like so many of us, one instance, one identity, one blog post, one life, simply cannot define us. Am I writing this blog, this post for me? Absolutely, yes. But am I also writing it for the people who have been where I’ve been, maybe even through worse, and have yet to feel safe enough to take up space or find their voice? To serve as a voyeuristic outlet for those who feel like they’re just existing? For the single parents who’ve set aside their dreams, goals, and ambitions to ensure their children never feel the pains or torments of their own experiences? Absofuckinglutley.

…sissy to my Sissy and fellow explorer 🙂 … Literally, the smartest person I know.

So, if after reading all this, you’re still down to join me on this crazy adventure, I will do my best to continue to be as open, unfiltered, and honest as possible. I’m no longer creating space in my life for things that do not serve me, or holding my tongue and hiding any piece of my authentic self, especially in my little corner of Beyonce’s glorious internet. But if this just isn’t your vibe or if you feel yourself already having waaaay too many opinions on my lived experiences and the echos they continue to have, please gather your Twitter (X) fingers and make your way to the emergency exit. Hopefully(?) the life raft will inflate as you find yourself jumping out the door. 😌🫶🏻

Until Next Time…