“Sometimes you have to slow down.”

I know that sounds like a quaint quote during a time when life is dropkicking you hard, but it is still true. Slowing down is about making space for your life and all the parts that make you…you. This includes giving yourself room for memories, joy, sadness, movement, and any hobby that makes you feel alive.

Slow down.

Memories are one of the most important things that make you a human being. The memories you share, the ones that grow from emotion, and the ones that help you decide how you are going to navigate an ever-changing world; those things matter. And you’re probably wondering why I reiterated the word important. It’s because so often we name things as important that simply…aren’t.

They may be necessary, but they are not always important.

It is our job as human beings to figure out what is a valued memory for ourselves, not just what someone else tells us should matter.

A fast life can make you efficient, but it can also make you forget what you are living for. Not the money, not the prestige, but what matters most to you.

So, I’m telling you to slow down. Don’t always be in constant motion if you do not have to be. Savor each day, each breath, each moment, because you never get that moment back.

Set your own pace and do not allow anyone else to do it for you. This does not mean being stagnant or afraid. It means refusing to let yourself be taken advantage of by establishments that forget that you are human.

Your humanity is the most unique thing about you, and it is a beautiful part of what you give to the world.

Today, take a moment and build a memory that impacts someone that you love in the best way. Slow down. Take a breath. Live.

~J

On the first day of Summer, I sat in front of my mother and asked her to cut my hair. I wanted to shed layers: grief, tiredness, weight, length, and obligation. Some of my friends tried to talk me out of it, but I’ve had short hair before, so it didn’t bother me. As the scissors closed and cut away the last few years, soft music playing in the background, I felt…free. Light. Happy. And that was something I had thought would take many months, if not years, to feel.

My father passed away three years ago. I’ve been grieving in several ways ever since, personal and not performative. When my hair was cut away, I felt some of that grief lighten. It will probably never go away, but it feels manageable now. I think the holidays surrounding him are the hardest for me to navigate: his birthday, the day he passed, Father’s Day, and Memorial Day (iykyk).

This weekend was also Juneteenth and the Summer Solstice: a day to celebrate the end of enslavement in Texas and the longest day of the year, a day of light. Both carry symbolism for the joy and hope they bring, and for the memories they hold.

For me, it felt good to start anew this weekend, to finally give myself a moment to breathe. To move with music that reminds me of my people, my circle of friends and family, and to sing as if I was born of air (again, iykyk). So now I am taking each day forward smiling with the memories, living slowly but authentically, and creating like I used to. That is the greatest honor I can give to the lives of those who contributed to making me.

And while today’s reflection is shorter than usual, it is no less important to talk about how memory carries on inside of us and what we do to make it brighter.

~J

Today feels like a heavy one. As the storms roll into Houston I think of a simple yet profound reflection: Every house has a door.

A door is not just an architectural feature. It is a decision. It marks the difference between welcome and privacy, between public and personal, between what the world may approach and what the world may not consume. I have been thinking lately about access — who gets it, who demands it, who is denied it, and what it costs to keep giving it when your spirit is already tired, or when your body starts to rebel because of it. I have always thought that different types of access matter. People deserve access to education, safety, food, opportunity, care, public space, and community. But access becomes a prison when it is demanded without respect for consent, boundaries, capacity, or the sacredness of another person’s peace. This reflection is rooted very much in the idea that people need to respect the word “no.”

“No” is a full sentence. It is declarative, exclamatory, a boundary, and a statement rolled up into one. But some people have a problem with “no,” they feel personally attacked by it when in reality it has nothing to do with them. They are so used to having access to you, to your attention, to your kindness, that they start taking advantage of it. So, when you say “no” they feel as if you are attacking them. And I use attack because that is how they act. A “no” is a line drawn in the sand and a way to protect the inner sanctum of your life. Because so many have been inundated with imagery and reality shows they think that your life is for their consumption. This is not sustainable for any one human being, and it shouldn’t be.

Toni Morrison once posited that, “There is a conflict between public and private life, and it’s a conflict that I think ought to remain a conflict. Not a problem, just a conflict. Because they are two modes of life that exist to exclude and annihilate each other. It’s a conflict that should be maintained now more than ever because the social machinery of this country at this time doesn’t permit harmony in a life that has both aspects” (397). Access to the inner life of a person is a privilege, not a right. That person has the right to say “no” and have it respected but oftentimes people who rely too heavily upon their “yes” have a tendency to do one of two things: push or leave. It is very rare for them to just accept. Those that leave think that they are hurting you, that you will crawl back to them and they are shocked when you don’t.

Erica Mason’s song “Reflection” speaks loudly and clearly to the process of loving and choosing oneself. She gives language to a feeling that a lot of people can’t name clearly. What it feels like to always be there for someone and them never being there for you, how it feels to be free after they leave:

“Ppl always circle back when / You come to the Acceptance that / You don’t need them / People say you change when you get a taste of freedom”

These same people often believe that you need them in some life-sustaining way. They mistake their presence for oxygen. They imagine that if they leave, you will collapse, crawl back, apologize, and reopen the door they spent years walking through without care. But sometimes their leaving is not a loss. Sometimes it is deliverance.

Once you decide to love yourself, love your peace, and protect the house of your own life, the people who benefited from your lack of boundaries often return looking for the same access they once had. They come back expecting the old doorway, the old key, the old version of you who would answer every call, explain every silence, absorb every mood, and make room even when there was no room left. And when they discover that the lock has changed, they call it betrayal.

That is parasitic behavior. It feeds on access and then resents the person who finally stops being consumed. It is also narcissistic behavior, not necessarily in the clinical sense, but in the everyday relational sense: the belief that someone else’s life should continue organizing itself around your wants, your wounds, your comfort, and your need to be centered.

And this is why “no” matters.

“No” interrupts the repetitive feeding cycle. “No” restores the boundary that should not have been crossed. “No” reminds the person at the door that the house was never theirs to enter without permission and their access can be revoked at any time.

“It’s funny how the tables turn / From people pleasing to watching all of these bridges burn / I let the tears just water all of my lessons learned /And never let the way somebody treat me determine my worth?”

I am not writing this to be polite. I am writing this because there comes a point when polite language protects the people doing harm more than it protects the people being drained. So, I am asking you some simple things: Who benefits from you being drained? Who feeds off of your energy when you allow them access? Who only hypes you up or supports your dreams when they can benefit directly from them? And most importantly, who becomes a fair-weather friend that would not stand by you in a storm? Who stands by you through thick and thin? Who deserves access to your “house”?

The answers may shock you when you realize that a small circle is better than being constantly surrounded by people who do not really have your best interest at heart, no matter who they are to you.

“Some people only show support when it’s beneficial / But I’ve been moving in this space like it’s residential / You don’t need validation when you choose yourself / You can’t build with everybody / Learn to choose your help”

A house needs doors and some people need to be on the other side of them.

Song Credit: Mason, Erica. “Reflection.” Reflection, Seek Life Creative, 2022.

Citation: Morrison, Toni. “Rootedness: The Ancestor as Foundation (1984).” I Am Because We Are: Readings in Africana Philosophy. Ed. Fred Lee Hord, Mzee Lasana Okpara and Jonathan Scott Lee. University of Massachusetts Press, 2016. Digital Article.

Life oftentimes becomes so complicated by the tedium and rat race of over-productivity that we lose ourselves just to survive. We end up abandoning our creative expressions, our joy in living, or in just earning a living instead of actually living. The song “Everything is Everything” came on as I was changing the water and seemed to encapsulate what I had been feeling for the last two and a half years. It wasn’t the doctorate or job alone that was pulling me in multiple directions, it was worry. Worrying about my parents, about my students, about my colleagues, and about my community that started speeding the process of burnout.

“Everything is everything/What is meant to be will be/After winter must come spring/Change, it comes eventually.”

What most people don’t realize about burnout is that it doesn’t happen in one day, it’s a process that has been pushing down on a body, a soul, a spirit, on a personality for years. I just noticed it two and a half years ago, but I had been in the spiral for a long time. I kept going, kept teaching, kept studying, kept producing, kept being there for people, kept trying to make a better world for those I loved, and I was slowly losing myself. I felt as if I couldn’t talk to anyone about what was really going on with me. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I knew that there were people in this world who loved me and wanted the best for me, but I didn’t feel like I could “talk” to them. Mostly, because I didn’t want to worry them.

So, I held it in. I went to work, stepped up for my students, and colleagues as needed. I grieved in silence when my father passed and choked back tears when I felt like I was going to break. I hid health scares from my mothers—we’ll get back into that later—and I just kept going. I stopped writing, stopped singing, stopped drawing, stopped being…me. I stopped feeling joy. And, that scared me more than anything in the world because I always knew that I could rely on being myself.

My doctorate was another job on top of my already overloaded workload, but it was a dream that my family supported me in. It’s a seed to what I want to do in the future, and I felt that I was going too slowly to achieve it. I had a conversation with my dissertation chair and the reassurance helped immensely.

“Sometimes it seems/We’ll touch that dreams/But dreams come slow or not at all.”

I consider myself to have a strong circle of women who I consider mothers to me: my birth mom, my stepmother, and my mentor. Three strong women who I look up to for different reasons but at the core I know that they love me for me and worry about me. I have aunts, cousins, sister-friends, and a wide spread of family that I admire. But those three mothers helped me in ways that people aren’t always lucky to have. One stayed with me at night even as her aging bones hurt. She watched over me as I slept because she was afraid that I would stop breathing in the middle of the night the same way that I had at nine and my tonsils were taken out. That was caused by anaphylaxis which worried her every time she’s heard me gasp for breath. One called and checked in on me on days that I just wanted silence. She forced conversations to make sure that I remembered how to use my voice. She’s kind and shares a love of movies that are similar to mine. She reminded me that simple loves are sometimes the best. One watched over me at work, always checked in when I was two seconds from just hiding in my office because the overwhelm became too much. She calls me daughter to this day.

I realized that I needed more time for myself. Breathing room. Metaphorical gardening. Planting ► watering ► sprouting ► reaching for the sun. I have spent years tending everyone else’s garden and neglecting my own.

“Let’s love ourselves and we can’t fail/To make a better situation/Tomorrow, our seeds will grow/All we need is dedication.”

Is everything fine now? No. There are still responsibilities, worries, deadlines, and uncertainties. There are still days when I feel stretched too thin and days when I have to remind myself to slow down. But I have seen what quiet joy and dedication to myself can open up. My health is starting to come back, my chest is loosening and my breathing is becoming easier each day. I have felt my spark begin to return, slowly and deliberately, much like the sprouts growing in my kitchen garden. They do not appear overnight. They require water, patience, light, and care. So, do I.

Perhaps that is the lesson I needed to learn. Not how to become someone new, but how to come back to myself. Planting. Watering. Sprouting. Reaching for the sun.

~J

Song Credit: Hill, Lauryn. “Everything is Everything.” The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, Ruffhouse Records / Columbia Records, 1998.

As I sit here sipping my iced tea, I realize that my life has changed in a significant way. I’m on the last leg of my journey to becoming Dr. J—pun and reference for a certain age required—and a few things have come to mind for me: 1. I have been in academia in some way, shape, fashion, or form since 1996; 2. I’ve been a book nerd for my entire life; 3. I believe that music tells stories that can unite people; 4. I never want to depend on anyone for my livelihood; and 5. I have stories to tell.

I know that last one seems to be innocuous but it’s true. I have stories to tell, simple as that. I have over 14 manuscripts in various stages of completion for stories that I’ve always wanted to share in multiple genres. What has stopped me from finishing them, you might ask. Work. School. Family obligations. Life in general. So, today I start putting back into myself by writing. Academic writing. Creative writing. Journaling. Music. All of the things that I’ve loved since I could remember.

And that’s when the sound of thunder rung in my ears. I was free to come back to myself in all of my messy creative glory and love for literature.

Yes, I still have the daunting task of finishing my dissertation (Literature Major), but I also am strangely joyful about it. I love the literary texts that I’ve chosen. My committee members are pretty solid human beings. I get the support that I need but now I also have the time to finish.

Which brings me to what else I want in this life: a publishing house and a bookstore. Some people complain and say that these things are going out of business, or the big houses squeeze the smaller ones into imprints. Here’s the truth of the matter. I am an avid reader; I have been since I was six. I have my own personal library of books that I’ve collected since I was ten. I write like I breathe and I read like it is oxygen. There are many people in this world who do the same thing. So, why should I beg anyone to publish my work or the work of others that have been ignored? Why not create the opportunity for them and myself? What made it impossible? Only time, which I now have.

So, today is a new day. A new chapter. A returning to myself. I know that this can work, I believe in the dream and the legacy.

~J