Enough to Be a Beginning

Lately, I’ve been learning to see myself differently.

Not as the final destination—
but as a steppingstone.

And you know what?
It feels… sacred.

Because a steppingstone still matters.
It still carries weight.
It still moves something forward.

I don’t have to do everything.
I don’t have to prove everything.
I don’t have to become everything.

Who I am right now…
is pretty frickin’ awesome.

She is enough.

What she’s done…
is enough.

And where she stands…
is worthy—
in my eyes,
and in the eyes of those who came before her.

Shout out to my ancestors—
who did the damn thing in Africa,
who did the damn thing in Haiti,
who did the damn thing in the Bahamas,
and who brought their blessed selves to Florida
and did the damn thing there.

There’s no doubt—
they are proud of who I’ve become.

And I’ll proudly report…
I’m doing the damn thing in Georgia.

For them, that is enough.

Honestly…
I’d be proud of the mere existence of an offspring.

And for me—
that is enough.

As I step out of my twenties
and into my thirty, flirty, and thriving…

I’m letting go.
Completely letting go—of the bullshit.

My life is awesome.
I have enough.
I am enough.

I am connected to Spirit,
flowing through time.

The ones I teach,
and the ones after me—
they will reach their own kind of excellence.

Not because I did it all—
but because I made space.

I’m allowing myself to rest in that.

To stop chasing a moving target.
To stop believing that “more” is the only direction.

Just like a tree—

It’s okay to have enough.
It’s okay to stay.
It’s okay to be deeply rooted…

without chasing.

Nothing Is Lost

I love moving on.

Moving on means a deed was fulfilled.
It means my role has come to an end.
It means I showed up, fully—and completed what I was called to do.

There’s peace in that.

It means the space that was created through my presence…
is strong enough to exist without me.

And I trust that.

I trust that what I built doesn’t disappear when I leave.
It expands.
It evolves.
It is carried forward—no matter what vessel holds it next.

Because space is never empty.
It is always filled.

In my current role, I created something intentional.

A space of support.
Of calmness.
Of logic.
Of respect.
Of empowerment.

A space where my purpose was simple:
to make your job feel simple.
To remove the noise.
To hold the weight so you didn’t have to carry it alone.

And I did that.

So now, as I look ahead, I don’t feel loss—
I feel completion.

Especially knowing there is someone who can step into that space,
not just maintain it,
but expand it.

That’s how I know it’s time.

Because moving on isn’t abandoning something—
it’s trusting it.

Trusting that what was built was real.
Trusting that it will continue.
Trusting that I am free to be called somewhere new.

Because no matter where I go,
I know this to be true:

I am always placed with purpose.
And that purpose will always be fulfilled—
as long as I move with something greater than myself.

I love moving on- because nothing is lost.

When It Stops Being Fun

Misery.
That’s the feeling.

Not all the time.
But enough to notice.

It comes up when I’m told to do things I don’t want to do.
Not out of resistance—
but out of misalignment.

They don’t align with who I am,
who I’m becoming,
or anything I care to be.

“Be a team player.”

I’ve been thinking about that.

At the cost of what?

Because I make winning plays.
That’s how I move through life.

And the play being called right now…
doesn’t lead to a win.

I know because I’ve seen it before.
We’ve done this before.

We push through.
We execute.
We get the result.

Dollars… and misery.

And I’m realizing—
that payout isn’t worth the cost.

My mind is analytical by nature.
I observe patterns.
I look at outcomes.

And when I analyze this,
it just doesn’t make sense
to keep choosing something
that consistently leads here.

So when I hear,
“This is what we’re doing anyway—
to prove a point,”
I pause.

Because I can feel the cost before it even arrives.

More misery.
Less joy.

More money for you.
The same dollars for me.

I’m not writing this to complain.

I’m writing this because I’m noticing.

This is not my game.

I’ve played it.
And I’ve done well.

But somewhere along the way,
it stopped being fun.

And the truth—
I don’t have to keep playing
a game that no longer feels like mine.

Exhale.

Misery loves company—
but so does clarity.

Good company reminds me
that I am a changemaker.

Good company reminds me
that I am not the problem.

Good company reminds me
that change doesn’t happen all at once—
but it does happen.

That one day,
I’ll call the shots.
I’ll be in control.

These problems aren’t mine alone.
They existed long before me
and may exist long after me.

But with the courage to change what I can,
the peace to accept what I cannot,
and the wisdom to know the difference—
I can do all things.

“Wait and see.”

I’m not sure what I’m waiting for,
or how long I’ll wait…

but something tells me—
it’s already in motion.

Mabe It Was Never Daughters

I used to say I’d have daughters.
I thought it made sense.

I didn’t have a mother.
So somewhere along the way, I told myself a story—
I’ll become what I didn’t have.

It felt noble.
It felt healing.
It felt… expected.

But if I’m honest,
it also felt like a box.

Another quiet way of deciding my life
before I ever really lived it.

Lately, I’ve been freeing myself
from the cages I didn’t realize I built.

Letting go of the idea
that there’s only one path,
one story,
one way to make meaning out of my past.

Life isn’t one assignment.
It’s choose your adventure.

And I’m realizing—
I had been choosing an adventure
that wasn’t aligned.

That discomfort I felt?
That resistance?

It wasn’t confusion.
It was truth knocking.

This morning, I sat in my backyard—
sun rising behind me,
a quiet stream reflecting,
trees holding me in place.

And it became clear.

Not forced.
Not reasoned.
Just… known.

Sons.

I will have sons.

And suddenly—
everything opened.

My future felt wide instead of narrow.
Light instead of heavy.
Aligned instead of assigned.

Because the truth is…
the thought of raising daughters felt like pressure.

But the thought of raising sons?

Feels like joy.
Feels like purpose.
Feels like me.

Maybe it’s faith.
Maybe it’s intuition.
Maybe it’s simply choosing differently.

But it’s my story.

And for the first time,
I’m not writing it from what I lacked—

I’m writing it from what I feel.

I will raise boys.
And I will raise them well.

Because I already know how to love them. My sons will wear crowns.

“Doesn’t Mean I’m Lonely When I’m Alone”

Even when I’m alone, I’ve never truly felt lonely.
Not once. Not ever.

And I can remember far back.

It’s never just been me.
There has always been presence.
Always been company.
A quiet kind of companionship—felt, not seen.

Only recently did I begin to understand it.

When I started praying aloud in my home, something shifted.
The presence I had always sensed… became known.

Seventeen years later, I spoke the words, “I miss my best friend.”
And my sister gently told me,
“She never left. Grandma has always been with you.”

And in that moment… I realized—
I’ve felt her all along.

And if my grandmother is with me,
then my mother has been with me too.
All 24 years of my life without her physical presence.

There is so much that makes me.
So much that lives within me.

As I approach 30, I’ve come to see something deeper—
my mother had me the year she turned 29.
Her mother had her at 29.

Not coincidence…
but a kind of clarity.

A reminder that life may appear patterned,
but it is also evolving—
and I am part of that evolution.

I’ve always known there was something within me.

As a child, I felt connected to Mary—
not in the way of giving birth to Jesus,
but in the knowing of being chosen as a vessel.

A vessel for something meaningful.
Something that creates lasting change.

As I write this, I’m in tears.

Because this truth has lived inside of me for so long—
and I have never spoken it out loud until now.

This… is my voice.
And my knowing is my peace.

I am not perfect.
I am not a virgin.
But I am still chosen.

I know I am.

So when others try to tell me who to be,
I can receive it with grace—
but I am guided by something deeper.
Something constant.
Something eternal.

There are parts of me that cannot be shaken.

I am royalty.
My body is phenomenal—it amazes me daily.
My spirit… my spirit is strong.

Steadfast against weakness,
yet soft.
Bold, yet calm.

She is wondrous.

She has always been.
And she will always be.

Just as the next daughter will be—
because we all wear crowns, whether we remember it or not.

Documenting What I Know So Far

There’s something about starting that always unsettles me.

Not because I don’t know what to do…but because I start thinking about everything at once.

What this should become. How it should look. Who it should reach.

And somewhere in that, I lose the simplicity of why I wanted to begin in the first place.

So I’m choosing something different.

I’m not starting as a blog expert. I’m not starting this with a perfect plan.

I’m starting this as a practice.

A place where I can document what I know, what I’m learning, and what I’m becoming- without the pressure of having it all figured out. Because the truth is… some of the most meaningful things I’ve learned did not come from certainty. They came from paying attention.

To my body. To my emotions. To the patterns in my life.

So this space will hold that.

Not perfection. Not performance. Just awareness.

Whatever grows from that… I trust it will be exactly what it needs to be. ✨