🌻 I Am 27, But I Was Once 17
🌻 At 27, I look back at the girl I was at 17 and I wish she knew she was already enough. She thought strength meant holding everything in, but she could have been soft, she could have cried, she could have given herself grace.
The rain never lasts forever. The light always returns. And even in her darkest moments, she was brave, she was smart, she was strong, and she was enough.
The End of a Chapter: Learning to Open My Heart Again
For the last five years I have been single. Not just single in the sense of not having a partner, but single in a much deeper way. I have been unavailable. Guarded. Careful. I kept my heart on lock, and for a long time I convinced myself that was safety
🌻 Wildflower to Wildflower: What’s Keeping You Stuck?
🌻 Wildflower to Wildflower: What’s Keeping You Stuck?
Life has a way of being weird and hectic all at once. And if I am honest, lately I have been in my own way more times than I can count.
I have noticed something about myself. The way I shrink when it is time to shine. The way I second guess when it is time to believe. The way I imagine the life I want, but then quietly convince myself it is too much for me. Too big. Too beautiful. Too good to be mine.
That realization hit me. This is what has been keeping me stuck.
An End To Something Great
An End To Something Great
I can feel it. The quiet shift. The slow untying of a knot I didn’t know I was still holding.
This job has been one of the greatest chapters of my life. It sits at the top of my gratitude list every single time. I am grateful for the security it has given me. I am grateful for the structure, the routine, the chance to show up and be counted on. I am grateful for the ways it made me grow.
The spirit of a wildflower
In the garden of Becoming Herrss, the wildflower is more than a symbol. She is memory, prayer, and proof of every Black woman who bloomed when no one watered her. She grows in places she was never meant to survive, cracks in concrete, soil that forgot her name, and still, she rises. This movement was born from that kind of becoming. From the ache of women who carried too much in silence. From the softness we were told was weakness. From the wisdom that lives in our wounds.
Don't Forget Me, Just Remember Me
Hey you… do you remember me? I’m the little girl beneath the armor the one who held you when no one else did. I was your arms before you ever learned to fly, your voice before you knew you had one. I kept you safe in the silence,
From Wild Flower To Another
Becoming Herrss is for Black women. For our healing. Our joy. Our voices. This space is rooted in my experience as a Black woman, and I won’t water that down. I can’t speak for what I haven’t lived. But if something here speaks to you, even if you’re not Black, I hope you sit with it. Healing isn’t limited by race or background. Healing is spirit work, and spirit work reaches beyond what the eyes can see.
From 17 to 77: Laying the Foundation Brick by Brick
When I first revamped my YouTube channel a few months ago, I had maybe 12… maybe 17 subscribers. A small number, but even then, I knew it wasn’t about the numbers. It was about alignment.
Grieving the Old Me While Holding the Vision
Tonight, I’ve been thinking. It’s one of those emotional nights where everything bubbles up at once. Sometimes, it’s just hard to believe in yourself. Hard to see yourself somewhere big when all you’ve known is survival. For most of my life, I’ve been in that mode: survive, survive, survive. And now that I’m trying to dream bigger, to build something more, I’m realizing how much grief comes with it.
I Don’t Know What it Feels Like to be Safe.
My wounds go deep. I wish I was joking, but I’m not. This is my reality. And while I know I’m healing, I also know I’ll need a partner one day who doesn’t just tolerate my scars but holds them gently. Someone who wraps me in emotional safety and reminds me that I don’t have to perform to be loved. That I don’t have to be in survival mode anymore. Someone who reminds me that softness is safe. That I am safe.
You Don’t Owe Them Shit
I used to wrestle with not saying anything. I felt like silence made me look bitter. Like if I was really healed, I would sit down and “have the talk.” But sometimes silence is sacred. Sometimes no contact is the most honest form of love, for yourself. Sometimes not saying anything is your closure. I owe myself more than I owe them. I owe myself peace, not people-pleasing. I owe myself clarity, not confusion. I owe myself safety, not more trauma wrapped in guilt. I owe myself growth, not recycling pain with people who refuse to change.
🌑 The Girl That Kissed the Moon 🌑
One night she whispered, “I’m ready to feel,” tired of pretending, tired of the steel. She kissed the moon like a prayer in the dark, and it lit up the sky with the flame in her heart. It didn’t ask her to be polite or be still it welcomed her wounds and honored her will. In that sacred kiss, generations were freed pain unraveling like forgotten seed. Her ancestors wept in the quietest tune, because she did what they couldn’t she kissed the moon.