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.

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.

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.

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.

But here’s the thing I want to be real about. I own my responsibility in this too. I should have cut them off long ago. I should have protected myself better. But I didn’t. Why? Because I lacked love for myself. Because my self-worth was so low, I thought I deserved the pain or that maybe, just maybe, they would change. It takes two to tango, and I sure did tango. I danced with that devil. I stayed in a toxic rhythm that only brought me harm.

For a long time now, I didn’t give a fuck. And I still don’t. I’m just finally putting it into words. I’ve always felt the weird energy. The side-eyes. The fake laughs. The shift in the room when I show up and don’t fold. I clock it all. And I used to try to understand it, to decode it, to make sense of why people act funny around me when I’ve done nothing but exist. The truth is, bitches are weird. And I get it, but at the same time, I really don’t.

I watched the women in my family center their entire lives around men, men who were emotionally unavailable, abusive, manipulative, or just not capable of loving them the way they deserved. I saw them give everything and still be left empty. I saw them abandon their own needs to try and hold a relationship together. And I decided that wouldn’t be me.

The lyrics call her a wild flower. Not because she’s reckless, but because she’s resilient. She didn’t grow in a garden. She grew in the wild. In chaos. In grief. In silence. And yet, she still became something beautiful.

I had a moment where I said no. A firm, honest no. And immediately, I felt that gut-level fear rush in. My body tensed up like something bad was going to happen just because I chose myself. That’s when it hit me I have a history of feeling unsafe when I try to protect myself. Especially with family. Especially with people I care about.

One thing I’ve been hearing a lot lately is people saying, “Being nice got me nowhere,” or “Being a loving person only got me hurt.” And listen, I get it. That kind of pain cuts deep. But let’s be real. Being nice isn’t what got you hurt. What got you hurt was your lack of boundaries.

Because for so long, “yes” was survival. “Yes” kept the peace. “Yes” made other people comfortable. “Yes” gave me a role to play: helper, strong friend, dependable daughter, the one who always comes through. But now I’m learning that every “yes” I didn’t mean was a little betrayal of myself.

Okay, so… not even just lately. My whole life I’ve been obsessed with old school soul and R&B music. I mean real singers. Not to throw shade on today’s music (I do enjoy some of it), but I’m an old school girl to my core. There’s just something about that era of music that feels so pure, so authentic. It speaks to something deep in me.

I was talking to a friend today about my business, about my purpose, my vision, and the direction I’m moving in. I was excited, passionate, and full of fire. And their response?

“Oh my gosh… not another entrepreneur.”

Being stuck in your own tornado is hell. It’s not romantic. It’s not powerful. It’s exhausting. You lose yourself. You forget your voice.

I’m so tired of the “strong Black woman” narrative being romanticized through pain. Why do we only get softness after we’ve endured? Why do we have to earn gentle love through surviving hell?

And I had to let them know, you can’t just come to Becoming Herrss. This ain’t no walk-in-the-door type of space. I prayed over this brand. I asked God to align Becoming Herrss with the right people, the ones who are ready. Ready to heal. Ready to unlearn

Lately, I feel like God been throwing tests back to back like, “Oh you healed? Bet. Let’s see how you handle this.” I’ve been pushed to the edge, tempted to snap, to beat a bitch up, to fall back into old habits. But I’ve changed… and that old version of me don’t live here no more. Still, I’m human. I feel it. The shift. The fear. The unknown. And I’m praying what’s coming is something good ‘cause I can’t take no more loss.